‘I have certainly heard of you,’ said Umanath Ghoshal. Feluda smiled as modestly as he could. Umanath Babu was a mart in his forties. His complexion was as fair as that of his son, and he had light hazel eyes. He now turned these on us and asked, ‘Er . . . these are . . . ?’ ‘My cousin, Tapesh,’ said Feluda quickly, ‘and this is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli. He writes stories of adventure under the pseudonym of Jatayu.’ ‘Jatayu?’ Umanath Ghoshal raised an eyebrow. ‘I seem to have heard the name. I think Ruku has a number of your books. Isn’t that so, Vikas?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said Vikas Sinha. ‘I think so.’ ‘You should know! You are the one who buys all those books for him.’ ‘I have to, sir. He doesn’t read anything other than adventure and mystery stories.’ ‘That’s natural,’ Jatayu piped up, ‘especially at his age.’ I was glad to note that Lalmohan Babu had perked up a little. He had been looking decidedly morose ever since our encounter with Captain Spark. Akrur Nandi was clearly a popular writer and liable to cause Jatayu pangs of envy. Feluda said, ‘We were going to call on you anyway. You see, we met your son this morning. I don’t know what his real name is, but I’ve learnt the name of the character he was playing.’ ‘He does that all the time. In fact, he even gets others to join him. Aren’t you playing a special character for him, Vikas? He calls you by a different name, doesn’t he?’ ‘It isn’t just a single name or a single role, sir. I am quite versatile!’ Vikas Sinha laughed. ‘Anyway, where did you meet my son?’ Feluda told him as briefly as he could. Umanath Babu nearly fell off his chair. ‘I don’t believe this! My God, he might have been killed! Vikas, ask Ruku to come here at once!’ Mr Sinha left the room. ‘What is Ruku’s real name?’ asked Feluda. ‘Rukmini Kumar. He’s my only child. So you can imagine how upset I’m feeling. I knew he was naughty, but this—!’ I looked around while we waited for Ruku to turn up. From one corner of the living room I could see a portion of the veranda where artists were working on an idol of Durga. Puja was only a few days away. A bearer came in with a tray. We were handed cups of tea and plates of sweets. ‘You went to see Machchli Baba, I believe,’ said Mr Ghoshal. ‘What did you think of him?’ ‘We didn’t stay very long. You, too, were supposed to go, weren’t you?’ ‘Well, I have been to see him once. I have no wish to go back. If only I hadn’t gone out that evening, we might have been spared the disaster.’

‘Disaster?’ ‘Yes,’ Mr Ghoshal sighed. ‘Last Wednesday, when I went to visit Machchli Baba, an extremely valuable object was stolen from my father’s room. If you can get it back for me, Mr Mitter, I shall be eternally grateful. And, of course, I will pay you adequately.’ A familiar race began in my heart. ‘May I ask what it was?’ said Feluda. ‘Ganesh. It was a small figure of Ganesh,’ Mr Ghoshal spread his fingers slightly to indicate its size, ‘made of gold and studded with precious stones. It was only about two-and-a-half inches high.’ ‘How did you get it?’ ‘I’ll tell you. It might sound like a fairy tale, but I can assure you it’s true.’ He lit a cigarette and began. ‘My great-grandfather, Someshwar Ghoshal, was a great traveller. He travelled all over the country, using whatever mode of transport he could get, ranging from bullock carts to trains. When he could get nothing, he simply walked. Once, when he was in south India, he happened to be going through a heavily wooded area near Madurai in a bullock cart. It was dark, and the path was a narrow one. Three robbers attacked him. But Someshwar was exceptionally strong. He used a heavy bamboo rod, and managed to knock one of his attackers unconscious. The other two ran away, leaving behind a bag that contained, among other things, this little figure of Ganapati. He returned home with the statuette, and things changed dramatically in our family. Don’t think I am old-fashioned and superstitious, but I have heard it said that the Ganesh brought us good luck. Two years after its arrival, there was a devastating flood. Our house was quite close to the river, but was miraculously saved. There are other instances, too, which I needn’t go into. My main concern is that we had had the Ganesh for a hundred years. Now it has been taken from us. Puja will start in a few days, the house is full of guests, but no one can relax and enjoy themselves. You do see my predicament, don’t you?’ Mr Ghoshal leant back, sighing wearily. ‘When did you visit Machchli Baba?’ Peluda asked. ‘Three days ago, on Wednesday. We arrived from Calcutta about: ten days ago. My wife was very keen to see the Baba, so I took her and Ruku that evening.’ ‘Did your son really want to go?’ ‘Yes, I guess he was intrigued by the name. He told me he had read about a man who had swum seventy miles through a shark-infested sea. But when he actually saw the Baba, he didn’t seem too impressed. He began to fidget and, only about ten minutes later, we left. We returned to find the Ganesh missing.’ ‘This little figure of Ganesh was kept in a chest, I presume? In your father’s room, did you say?’ ‘Yes, but I have the key. Normally, it stays with my wife. That evening, since she was coming with me, I took it from her and put it in a drawer in my father’s room. It was a foolish thing to do, of course, for my father is an