Feluda wrapped the watch in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Then he took a step towards the telephone, but before he could get to it, someone rattled the knocker on our door.

I opened it to find Girin Biswas standing outside. He had dropped a hint the day before, but I had not really expected him to turn up—and so soon, at that. He was dressed to go to work, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase in his hand.

‘Please don’t mind my barging in like this,’ he said, ‘I tried calling your number, but just couldn’t get through. I must have spent at least ten minutes dialling!’ Mr Biswas sounded a bit nervous and agitated.

‘No, why should I mind? It’s a miracle if a telephone works, isn’t it? What brings you here?’

Mr Biswas sat on a chair. Lalmohan Babu and I went back to the divan, and Feluda took the settee.

‘I couldn’t decide who to turn to,’ Mr Biswas remarked, wiping his damp forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I haven’t got a lot of faith in the police, frankly speaking. Since you happened to visit us ...’

‘What is the problem?’

Mr Biswas cleared his throat. Then he said, ‘My brother was not hit by a tree.’

The next few moments passed in silence. Feluda finally broke it by saying, ‘No? What exactly happened?’

‘He was struck deliberately. That blow to his head was an attempt to kill him.’

Calmly, Feluda took out his packet of Charminar and offered it to Mr Biswas, who declined politely. Feluda then took one out for himself, and said, ‘But your brother seems convinced that it was a tree.’

‘That’s because he would rather die than name his son.’

‘His own son?’

‘Prashanta. His elder son. The younger one is in England.’

‘What does Prashanta do?’

‘It would be easier to tell you what he does not do. He’s involved in every possible illegal activity. He changed over the last three or four years. My sister-in-law—Prashanta’s mother, that is—died in 1970. About a month ago, my brother got fed up with Prashanta’s behaviour and threatened to cut him out of his will. He said he’d leave all his property to his other son, Sushanta.’

‘I see. Prashanta lives in the same house as you, I take it?’

‘He could—certainly he has the right to live with us, and there’s even a room meant for his use. But he doesn’t. It’s difficult to tell where he does live. He’s part of a gang. Low-down criminals, each one of them. I think he would have killed his father that day if that terrible storm hadn’t started.’

‘What does your brother have to say about all this?’