‘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