Mr Mallik was undoubtedly a most hospitable man. The number of dishes on the table bore evidence of that. I had no idea there could be so many different types of fish curry. Feluda seldom ate a lot during meals, but Lalmohan Babu—a gourmet—enjoyed his meal with obvious relish. But then, he had an additional reason to feel pleased. Mr Mallik kept asking him about his writing, which gave him the chance to brag about himself. ‘Allow me now to show you a part of my collection,’ said Mr Mallik after lunch. We went back to the first floor, turning left instead of right this time. Mr Mallik’s bedroom, study and museum were all on this side of the building. We were shown a wide range of curios. Each of them, we were told, had once belonged to a famous character in history. The diamond-studded naagra was the first object we saw, followed by Tipu Sultan’s snuff box, Robert Clive’s pocket watch, Siraj-ud-daula’s handkerchief and Rani Rashmoni’s paan box. All of us made the right admiring noises, but I couldn’t help feeling somewhat sceptical. How could anyone be sure that each item had really belonged to all those well-known people? After all, it wasn’t as if their names were written on anything. As we were returning to our rooms after thanking our host, Prof Haldar muttered under his breath: ‘What did you make of it, Mr Mitter?’ ‘Not very convincing, was it?’ ‘Convincing? Not a single thing was genuine. That naagra had a distinct smell of new leather!’ We had about three hours left before the reception. A bearer came to call us at a quarter to six. We were all dressed by this time. Feluda had donned a traditional dhoti and kurta (in which he looked quite handsome, I had to admit); and Lalmohan Babu was wearing a beautifully embroidered Kashmiri shawl, which he said had once belonged to his grandfather. It was dark by the time we reached the place where the function was going to be held, but we found an abundance of lights, ranging from powerful spotlights to tiny coloured bulbs. The actual presentation of the citations came at the very end. It was preceded by songs and dances and reading of poetry. Every performer was clearly doing his utmost to impress Feluda. Feluda responded by clapping with great enthusiasm as they left the stage. The citations were read out eventually before being handed to the two recipients. Whoever had written them out had a beautiful handwriting. A few reporters surrounded Feluda afterwards. In answer to their questions, Feluda said he was not working on a case at the moment, and was enjoying a break. Prof Haldar went back home with Mr Mallik after the function ended, but we stayed on as Feluda’s friend, Someshwar Saha, had invited us to dinner. He arrived as the crowd began to disperse. ‘Can you recognize me?’ he asked with a smile. ‘Easily,’ Feluda replied. ‘You’ve got a moustache now, but otherwise you haven’t changed.’

‘And I might say the same about you, except that your eyes seem sharper and you look a lot smarter. How many cases have you handled so far?’ ‘No idea,’ Feluda laughed. ‘I’ve lost track.’ ‘Look, here’s someone very keen to meet you,’ Mr Saha gently pushed forward a gentleman who was standing behind him. ‘Meet Jaichand Boral. He lives here, and it was he who designed that citation.’ ‘Really? Very pleased to meet you, sir. We were all admiring your handwriting.’ Mr Boral smiled shyly. ‘Thank you, Mr Mitter, thank you very much. I never thought I’d hear praise from you. I am one of your ardent fans.’ ‘Mr Boral is going to join us for dinner,’ said Mr Saha. ‘Come on, let’s go. My house is only ten minutes from here.’ Mr Saha’s house turned out to be small and compact. His wife and ten-year-old son greeted us. ‘Dinner will soon be ready,’ Mrs Saha said, offering us drinks. When we were all seated, Mr Saha pointed at Mr Boral. ‘He has something to tell you. I think you’re going to find it interesting.’ ‘Oh? What is it, Mr Boral?’ Mr Boral smiled again. ‘Nothing much, Mr Mitter. It’s just something related to my family.’ ‘Oh, do tell us!’ Lalmohan Babu leant forward in his chair. Even the hint of a story always made him excited. Mr Boral put his glass down on a table. ‘I work here now as a simple schoolteacher,’ he began, ‘but we were originally a family of jewellers. In fact, even now we own a small shop in Calcutta. An uncle of mine looks after it. My great great grandfather had started this business. He used to sail round the coast to buy and sell precious gems. He found something near Madras, which has survived till this day. I would like to show it to you.’ ‘Have you got it with you now?’ ‘Yes.’ Mr Boral took out a brown handkerchief from his pocket. It was knotted around a small object. As he untied it, a tiny red velvet box slipped out. He opened it and held it forward. In it lay a pearl. ‘Good heavens, it’s a pink pearl!’ Feluda exclaimed. ‘Yes, sir. It is pink, but I don’t know if that makes it special in any way.’ ‘What! You come from a family of jewellers and you don’t know?’ Feluda sounded unusually agitated. ‘Out of all the pearls that are available in India, a pink pearl is the most rare and, therefore, the most expensive.’ ‘Hey, I didn’t even know a pearl could be anything but white!’ Lalmohan Babu remarked. ‘Pearls come in many hues—white, red, black, yellow, blue, pink. Look, Mr Boral, you must not go about carrying such a precious object in your pocket. If you have a safe in your house, keep it there.’ ‘Yes, Mr Mitter, it always stays in a chest. I hardly ever take it out. But tonight, I wanted