vintage cars must be absolutely loaded. Just think about it!’

Three We had made an appointment with Bhabesh Bhattacharya, so it was relatively easy to meet him. He might have been a school teacher—wearing thick glasses, a loose shirt, a cotton chadar draped over his shoulders. He was sitting very straight before a small desk, on top of which lay a few finely sharpened pencils and a fat, bound ledger. ‘Lalmohan Gangopadhyaya?’ he asked, glancing at the postcard Lalmohan Babu had sent him. ‘Yes.’ ‘Age?’ Lalmohan Babu told him. ‘Date of birth?’ ‘Sixteenth August.’ ‘Hm. Leo. All right, what can I do for you?’ ‘Well . . . I am a writer, you see. I have thought of three names for my next novel, but I can’t decide which would be the best.’ ‘What are these names?’ ‘Hullabaloo in Honolulu, Hell in Honolulu, and The Honolulu Holocaust.’ ‘Hm. Please wait.’ Mr Bhattacharya wrote the names down in his ledger and began making some calculations. Then he said, ‘Your name adds up to twenty-one. Your date of birth and the month you were born in gives us six. Both can be divided by three. I suggest you use the third title. When is your book coming out?’ ‘The first of January.’ ‘No, make it the third. Anything to do with the book must be divisible by three.’ ‘I see. And . . . er . . . how will it . . . I mean . . . ?’ ‘Don’t worry. It’ll sell well.’ Lalmohan Babu smiled, paid a hundred rupees and came out with us. ‘A bit expensive, wasn’t he?’ I asked. ‘Maybe. But I don’t mind. I’m positive this book’s going to be a hit. Oh, I can’t tell you how relieved I feel!’ ‘Does that mean you’ll come back to Mecheda every time you write a book?’ ‘Why not? It would only mean two visits every year. When there is a guarantee of success . . .’ I said nothing more. We got into the car once more and set off for Baikunthapur. It took us twenty minutes to reach the home of the Niyogis. ‘Niyogi Palace’, said a marble slab at the gate. That the house was old was easy enough to see. One portion of it looked as though it had recently been repaired and restored. Perhaps that was where the family lived. A long drive lined with palms ended in a large portico. Nobo Kumar came out, beaming.

‘Welcome!’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you came. I was afraid you might change your mind. Do come in. This way—’ We were taken to the first floor. ‘I’ve told my father about you. He’ll be very pleased to meet you,’ Nobo Kumar informed us. ‘Who else lives in this house?’ Feluda asked idly. ‘Only my parents. My mother suffers from asthma, you see. The country air suits her much better. Then there is Bankim Babu. He used to be Baba’s secretary. Now he’s become a kind