As it turned out, no one with a name starting with ‘G’ had checked in at the Park on 6 March. But the Grand offered some good news. Feluda happened to know one of its Bengali receptionists called Dasgupta. He showed us their visitors’ book. Only one Indian had checked in on the 6th. He did arrive from Simla and his name was G. C. Dhameeja.

‘Is he still here?’

‘No, sir. He checked out yesterday.’

The little flicker of hope in my mind was snuffed out immediately. Feluda, too, was frowning. But he didn’t stop asking questions.

‘Which room was he in?’

‘Room 216.’

‘Is it empty now?’

‘Yes. We’re expecting a guest this evening, but right now it’s vacant.’

‘Can I speak to the room boy?’

‘Certainly. I’ll get someone to show you the way.’

We took the lift up to the second floor. A walk down a long corridor finally brought us to room 216. The room boy appeared at this point. We went into the room with him. Feluda began pacing.

‘Can you remember the man who left yesterday? He was staying in this room.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now try to remember carefully. What luggage did he have?’

‘A large suitcase, and a smaller one.’

‘Was it blue?’

‘Yes. When I came back to the room after filling his flask, I found him taking things out of the blue case. He seemed to be looking for something.’

‘Very good. Can you remember if this man had a few apples—perhaps in a paper bag?’.

‘Yes. There were three apples. He took them out and kept them on a plate.’

‘What did this man look like?’

But the description the room boy gave did not help. At least a hundred thousand men in Calcutta would have fitted that description.

However, there was reason to feel pleased. We now had the name and address of the man whose attaché case had got exchanged with Mr Lahiri’s. Mr Dasgupta gave us a piece of paper as we went out. I glanced over Feluda’s shoulder and saw what was written on it:

G. C. Dhameeja

‘The Nook’

Wild Flower Hall

Simla

Chapter 3

‘Kaka has gone out. He’ll return around seven,’ we were told.

So this was Dinanath Babu’s nephew. We had come straight from the Grand Hotel to Dinanath Babu’s house to report our progress, stopping on our way only to buy some meetha paan from a shop outside the New Empire.

Lined on one side of the gate of Mr Lahiri’s house were four garages. Three of these were empty. The fourth contained an old, strange looking car. ‘Italian,’ said Feluda. ‘It’s a Lagonda.’