agic was among the many things that Feluda knew a lot about. Even now, occasionally, I caught him standing before a mirror, with a pack of cards, practising sleight of hand. It was for this reason that when we heard that a magician called Surya Kumar had arrived in Calcutta, the three of us decided to go to his show one day. The third person, naturally, was our friend, Lalmohan Ganguli (alias Jatayu), the writer of popular crime thrillers. The organizers of the show were well known to Feluda, so we only had to ask before we were given three tickets for seats in the front row. When we arrived, about thirty percent of the auditorium was empty. The show started. The items presented were not bad, but there was something lacking in the personality of the magician. He had a goatee, and was wearing a silk turban studded with sequins. But his voice was thin, and that was where the problem lay because a magician’s job is to talk incessantly. He has to have a good voice. One of the things that happened as a result of our sitting in the front row was that the magician called Jatayu to the stage to hypnotize him. Hypnotism, it turned out, was something the man knew well. He handed a pencil to Jatayu and said, ‘This is a bar of chocolate. Take a bite. How do you like it?’ Lalmohan Babu bit the pencil in his hypnotized state and answered, ‘Lovely. Delicious chocolate!’ He remained on the stage for five minutes. In that time, the magician made a complete fool of him, which the audience enjoyed hugely. Even after he came to his senses, it seemed as if the sound of applause would never die down. The next day was a Sunday. Lalmohan Babu arrived from his house in Gorpar, as usual, in his green Ambassador, on the dot of nine o’clock. We continued to talk about the magic show. ‘That man,’ said Feluda, ‘hasn’t quite made it yet, has he? So many seats were empty yesterday. Did you notice?’ ‘Yes, but he certainly knows hypnotism,’ Lalmohan Babu observed. ‘You must give him full credit for making me do all those weird things. My God, I chewed a pencil and thought it was a chocolate. Then he had me bite a stone and declare it was a sandesh. Just imagine!’ Srinath came in with the tea, and with his arrival, came the sound of a car stopping outside our house. This was followed quickly by a knock on the front door. We were not expecting anyone. I opened the door to find a man of about thirty. ‘Is this Pradosh Mitter’s house?’ ‘That’s right,’ Feluda said. ‘Please come in.’ The gentleman stepped in. He was slim, fair and wore glasses. He looked quite smart. ‘I tried quite hard to get you on the phone,’ he said, sitting in one corner of our sofa, ‘but I just couldn’t get through. So I