Mr Samaddar had told us he’d give us a call the following Wednesday. However, he rang us a day earlier, on Tuesday, at 7 a.m. I answered the phone. When I told him to hold on while I went to get Feluda, he said, ‘No, there’s no need to do that. Just tell your cousin I’m going over to your house straightaway. Something urgent’s cropped up.’ He arrived in fifteen minutes. ‘Abani Sen rang from Bamungachhi. Someone broke into my uncle’s room last night,’ he said. ‘Does anyone else know how to operate that German lock?’ Feluda asked at once. ‘Dharani used to know. I’m not sure about Abani Babu—no, I don’t think he knows. But whoever broke in didn’t use that door at all. He went in through the small outer door to the bathroom. You know, the one meant for cleaners.’ ‘But that door was bolted from inside. I saw that myself.’ ‘Maybe someone opened it after we left. Anyway, the good news is that he couldn’t take anything. Anukul came to know almost as soon as he got into the house, and raised an alarm. Look, are you free now? Do you think you could go back to the house with me?’ ‘Yes, certainly. But tell me something. If you now saw Radharaman’s grandson, Dharani, do you think you could recognize him?’ Mr Samaddar frowned. ‘Well, I haven’t seen him for years, but . . . yes, I think I could.’ Feluda went off to fetch the photo of Sanjay Lahiri. When he handed it over to Mr Samaddar, I saw that he had drawn a long moustache on Sanjay’s face, and added a pair of glasses with a heavy frame. Mr Samaddar gave a start. ‘Why,’ he exclaimed, ‘this looks like—!’ ‘Surajit Dasgupta?’ ‘Yes! But perhaps the nose is not quite the same. Anyway, there is a resemblance,’ ‘The photo is of your cousin Muralidhar’s son. I only added a couple of things just to make it more interesting.’ ‘It’s amazing. Actually, I did find it strange, when Dasgupta walked in yesterday. In fact, I wanted to ring you last night and tell you, but I got delayed at the press. We were working overtime, you see. But then, I wasn’t absolutely sure. I hadn’t seen Dharani for fifteen years, not even on the stage. I’m not interested in the theatre at all. If what you’re suggesting is true . . .’ Feluda interrupted him, ‘If what I’m suggesting is true, we have to prove two things. One—that Surajit Dasgupta doesn’t exist in real life at all; and two—that Sanjay Lahiri left his group and returned to Calcutta a few days before your uncle’s death. Topshe, get the number of Minerva Hotel, please.’ The hotel informed us that a Surajit Dasgupta had indeed been staying there, but had checked

out the day before. There was no point in calling the Modern Opera, for they had already told us Sanjay Lahiri was out of town. On reaching