Read The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II Online
Authors: Satyajit Ray
We left as scheduled the next day. By the time we reached Chhindwara, it was almost 6 p.m. A Mr Nagpal was waiting for us at the station in an old Chevrolet. He greeted us with a warm smile. We left immediately, and by a quarter to seven, we were in Bhagwangarh.
‘I will show you to your rooms,’ said Mr Nagpal. ‘The Rajah will meet you at 7.30. I’ll come and pick you up.’
Our rooms turned out to be as large and luxurious as any in a five-star hotel. ‘Good heavens!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘My room here is five times the size of my bedroom back home. It’s a pity we haven’t got the time, or I’d have had a good, long soak in the bathtub.’
Mr Nagpal arrived exactly on time and took us to meet our host. Bhudev Singh was seated on a cane chair in a covered veranda. He had a quiet dignity about him, and looked younger than his age.
Feluda introduced us. Bhudev Singh smiled and invited us to sit
down. I could smell Hasnuhana as I took a chair, which meant that there was a garden behind the veranda, but I could see nothing in the dark.
The conversation that followed turned out to be most interesting. True to his word, Lalmohan Babu did his best to make a contribution. It went thus:
| Bhudev: | How did you find my article? |
| Feluda: | Very informative. Chandrasekhar would have remained unknown to us if it hadn’t been for you. |
| Bhudev: | The thing is, you see, we don’t often give our artists the credit they deserve. So I thought I’d try and do something worthwhile before I died—after all, I am nearly eighty—and let people know what a very gifted artist Chandra was. I sent my son to Baikunthapur, and he got me a photo of his self-portrait. |
| Feluda: | When did you first meet him? |
| Bhudev: | Here, it’s all noted in this diary. Let me see . . . yes, he came here to do my portrait on 5 December 1942. I had heard of him from the Nawab of Bhopal. Chandra had already done his portrait. He really had a wonderful skill. |
| Lalmohan: | Oh, wonderful! |
| Feluda: | Your article said he married an Italian woman. Do you know anything about her? |
| Lalmohan: | Anything? |
| Bhudev: | Chandra joined the Academy of Fine Arts in Rome. That was where he met Carla Cassini. She came from an aristocratic family. Her father was Count Alberto Cassini. Chandra and Carla fell in love, and she introduced him to her father. What many people didn’t know was that Chandra had a fairly good knowledge of ayurvedic medicine, and he had carried a number of special herbs from here. As it turned out, Carla’s father suffered from gout. Chandra’s medicines worked on him like magic. It was not difficult after this for him to marry her. They got married in 1917. The Count’s wedding gift to them was a painting. |
| Feluda: | That famous painting of Jesus? |
| Lalmohan: | Renaissance? |
| Bhudev: | Yes, but how much do you know about it? |
| Feluda: | Nothing at all. We’ve seen it, that’s all. We think it was painted by a Renaissance artist. |
| Lalmohan: | (muttering under his breath) Bottici . . . Davincelli . . . |
| Bhudev: | Yes, you’re right. But it was no ordinary artist. It was probably the best known artist in the last phase of the Renaissance—Tintoretto. |
| Lalmohan: | Ooooooh!! |
| Feluda: | Tintoretto? But isn’t it true that there aren’t too many paintings done wholly by Tintoretto? |
| Bhudev: | Yes. Most known paintings were begun by him, and finished by others who worked in his studio or workshop. Many artists of those times worked like that. But this particular painting bears every evidence of Tintoretto’s style. Chandra showed it to me. It had been with the Cassini family since the sixteenth century. |
| Feluda: | That would make it totally invaluable, wouldn’t it? |
| Bhudev: | That’s right. If the Niyogis decided to sell it, it’s difficult to say how much they might get. Twenty-five lakhs, perhaps. May be even more. |
| Lalmohan: | (drawing his breath in sharply) Aaaaaahh!! |
| Bhudev: | That is why I didn’t mention the painter’s name in my article. |
| Feluda: | Even so, someone went to Baikunthapur to make enquiries. |
| Bhudev: | Who? Was it Krikorian? |
| Feluda: | Why, no! Nobody by that name. |
| Bhudev: | He is an Armenian. He had come to me. Walter Krikorian. Stinking rich. Has a business in Hong Kong and is a collector of paintings. Said he had an original Rembrandt as well as originals by Turner and Fragonard. He had heard of a Bosch that I happen to have, bought by my grandfather. He wanted to buy it from me. I didn’t sell, of course. Then he said he had read my article. He was bragging so much that when he began to ask me about the painting in Baikunthapur, I couldn’t resist showing off . So I told him the painter’s name. He nearly fell off his chair. I said to him, ‘Sorry, Mister, but you cannot buy that picture, either. Indians value their pride of possession far more than money. The Niyogis are fairly wealthy, anyway. You couldn’t tempt them.’ He then said he would get hold of that painting by hook or by crook. ‘I’ll go there myself,’ he said. So I thought . . . but perhaps he had to go back to Hong Kong on business. He has an agent— |
| Feluda: | Hiralal Somani? |
| Bhudev: | Yes, yes. |
| Feluda: | He’s the one who went to Mr Niyogi’s house. |
| Bhudev: | He’s a very cunning man. They must handle him with care. |
| Feluda: | But that painting now belongs to Chandrasekhar’s son. He’s in Baikunthapur at this moment. |
| Bhudev: | What! Chandra’s son has come back to India? I didn’t know this! |
| Feluda: | We saw him. |
| Bhudev: | I see. Well, he can, of course, claim his father’s property. But I don’t like the idea, Mr Mitter. |
| Feluda: | Why? |
| Bhudev: | I know about Chandra’s son, and how much pain he caused his father. Chandra never mentioned it to his family, but he told me. His son had become a follower of Mussolini. He was at the height of his power then. Most Italians worshipped him. But certain intellectuals—writers, artists and musicians—fiercely opposed his ideas. Chandra was one of them. When his own son went and joined Mussolini’s party, he was deeply distressed. Carla had died of cancer only a year earlier. After a while, he just could not take it any more and came back home. He refused to stay in touch with his son. And now the same son is in his house! What is he like? He should be around sixty. |
| Feluda: | Yes, he’s sixty-two. He seems quite strong and agile. Doesn’t talk much. |
| Bhudev: | Possibly because he’s too ashamed to speak of himself. Perhaps he’s realized how disappointed his father was with him—so much so that, in the end, he left his home, his career, everything. We used to have arguments about this. I kept telling Chandra he mustn’t give up and turn his back on life, his talent was far too great to be wasted. But he did not listen to me. |
| Feluda: | Did he stay in touch? |
| Bhudev: | Yes, he used to write to me occasionally. But I haven’t heard from him for a long time now. |
| Feluda: | Do you remember when he last wrote to you? |
| Bhudev: | Wait, I should have it somewhere . . . ah, here it is. A postcard from Hrishikesh, written in September 1977. |
| Feluda: | Nineteen seventy-seven? That’s only five years ago! That means—legally speaking—he’s still alive! |
| Bhudev: | Yes, of course. I say, that had never occurred to me! |
| Feluda: | Rudrasekhar, therefore, cannot claim his father’s property. At least, not yet. |
The next day, Bhudev Singh showed us everything worth seeing in Bhagwangarh—the Bhawani temple, Laxmi Narayan Gardens, ruins of the old city, and even a herd of deer in a forest.
In the evening, he arranged to have us driven straight to Nagpur. Mr Nagpal turned up as we were leaving, and handed a piece of paper to Feluda. It bore the Armenian’s name and address.
Bhudev Singh brushed aside our thanks for his wonderful hospitality. ‘Mr Mitter,’ he said, laying a hand on Feluda’s shoulder, ‘please see that the Tintoretto does not fall into the wrong hands.’
We reached home at around 11 a.m. the next day. The phone rang almost immediately as we stepped in. It was Nobo Kumar calling from Baikunthapur.
‘Come here at once,’ he said urgently, ‘we’ve got problems.’
We left in half an hour.
‘Do you think that painting’s been stolen?’ Lalmohan Babu enquired.
‘Yes, that is what I am afraid of.’
‘I wasn’t really all that interested in the painting before. But now, having read that book and talked to the Rajah, I feel sort of personally involved with Tontiretto.’
Feluda was frowning, so deep in thought that he didn’t even try to correct Lalmohan Babu.
This time, Lalmohan Babu’s driver drove faster and we reached Baikunthapur in a couple of hours.
A few new people had arrived in the Niyogi household—Nobo Kumar’s wife and two children.
But two people were missing. One of them was Rudrasekhar, who had left for Calcutta very early that morning.
The other was Bankim Babu.
He had been murdered.
Someone had struck him on his head with a heavy object. Death must have been instantaneous. His body was found by a servant in the studio. The police surgeon had placed the time of death between 3 and 5 a.m.
‘I rang you first,’ said Nobo Kumar, ‘but you appeared to be out. So I had to inform the police.’
‘You did right,’ Feluda said. ‘But tell me, is the picture still here?’
‘That’s what’s so strange. Mind you, it’s easy enough to see who the killer might be. I had found his behaviour extremely suspicious right from the start. He was clearly in need of money, but to go through the legal system would have taken at least six months, so I guess . . .’
‘No. It would have taken much longer. I learnt from Bhudev Singh he had heard from Chandrasekhar only five years ago.’
‘Really? Well, in that case, his son has no legal rights at all.’
‘That wouldn’t stop him from stealing, would it?’
‘But that’s the whole point! He didn’t steal the picture. It’s still hanging in the same spot.’
‘That is most peculiar,’ Feluda had to admit. ‘What do the police say?’
‘They are still asking questions. The main thing now is to catch our departed guest. Last night, I was here with my family, my parents, Robin Babu and our servants. I didn’t see Rudrasekhar at dinner.’
‘I am curious about Robin Babu.’
‘He seems all right. He normally works in his room until two in the morning. Our bearer brings him his morning tea at eight. Rudrasekhar used to get up at the same time. But today, while Robin Babu was still in his room, Rudrasekhar had gone. He left at six-thirty, apparently. With him went his artist.’
‘What artist?’
‘An artist arrived the day you left, at Rudrasekhar’s invitation, to
assess the value of everything in the studio. I suspect he wanted to sell the whole lot.’
‘I assume he didn’t speak to you before he left?’
‘No, not a word to me or anyone else. Our chowkidar saw him leave. At first I thought he had just gone up to speak to his lawyers. But now I’m sure he’s not going to come back.’
‘May I see his room?’
‘Certainly. It’s through here.’
We were sitting in a room on the ground floor. A door on our right opened into a room that had been given to Rudrasekhar. It looked like something straight out of a film, set in the nineteenth century. The bed and the stands for hanging a mosquito net, the writing desk and the dressing table were all old, the likes of which would be difficult to find nowadays.
‘This room was originally my grandfather, Suryasekhar Niyogi’s,’ Nobo Kumar informed us. ‘In his old age, he couldn’t climb stairs at all. So he stayed on the ground floor permanently.’
‘The bed hasn’t been made yet,’ Feluda observed.
‘The morning’s been so chaotic! I bet the maid who usually makes beds simply forgot her duties.’
‘I wouldn’t blame her. Who’s got the next room?’
‘That is . . . was . . . Bankim Babu’s.’
There was a communicating door between the two rooms, but it appeared to be locked. We trooped out and entered the other room through another door. This room looked much more lived in. Clothes hung from a rack, under which were some shoes and chappals. A table stood in a corner, piled high with books, papers, writing material and a Remington typewriter. A few framed photos hung on the wall. No one had bothered to make the bed in this room, either.
Feluda suddenly strode forward and stood by the bed. Then he slipped his hand under the mosquito net and lifted the pillow. A small blue travelling alarm clock lay under it.
‘Hey, I used to do this when I was in school,’ Lalmohan Babu said casually. ‘I used to set the alarm very early in the morning, particularly before my exams, and place it under my pillow, so it didn’t wake others.’
‘Hm,’ said Feluda, looking at the clock. ‘Bankim Babu set the alarm at 3.30 a.m.’
‘Half-past three? That early?’ Nobo Kumar sounded amazed.
‘Yes, and that was when he probably went to the studio. I believe he was suspicious of something. He tried to tell me about it the last time I was here, but then seemed to change his mind.’
Nobo Kumar offered to take us to the studio where the murder had taken place. Before we could move, however, his children burst into the room and grabbed Lalmohan Babu’s hands. ‘Are you the famous Jatayu? Hey, we’ve read all your books!’ they exclaimed. ‘Come on, tell us a story!’
They dragged him back to the front room. Lalmohan Babu couldn’t help feeling flattered. He smiled and beamed, forgetting for the moment the rather sombre atmosphere in the house. But, as it turned out, he wasn’t quite as good at telling stories as he was at writing them. We left him there, struggling to get a few sentences together before the children interrupted with, ‘No, no, no! That’s from
The Sahara Shivers
!’ or, ‘We know that one. It’s in
The Vampire of Vancouver
!’
Nobo Kumar took Feluda and me to the studio on the second floor.
Feluda stepped in, but stopped short, staring at a small table kept in the centre of the room.
‘Wasn’t there a bronze statue on this one?’ he asked. ‘The figure of a man on horseback?’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ Inspector Mondol took it away to check it for fingerprints. He seemed to think that was what had been used to kill Bankim Babu.’
‘I see.’
The three of us walked slowly towards the painting of Jesus. It seemed to have a special glow today. Had it been cleaned?
Feluda strode right up to the picture and peered at it closely for a few moments. Then he asked a totally absurd question.
‘Did they have green flies in Italy during the Renaissance?’
‘Green flies in Italy? What on earth do you mean?’
‘Yes, the little green flies that buzz around lamps, especially after heavy rain. That’s what I mean, Mr Niyogi. Did they exist in Venice in the sixteenth century?’
‘I wouldn’t know about Venice. But we’ve certainly had them here in Baikunthapur. Why, even yesterday—’
‘In that case, two questions come to mind. How come two little
insects are stuck in the totally dry paint of an ancient painting, and second, why did they get into a room which was supposed to be in total darkness all through the night? I mean every night?’
‘Oh my God! What are you saying, Mr Mitter?’
‘This is not the original painting. In the original, the face of Jesus did not have two small flies stuck on it; nor were the colours so bright. This painting is a copy; very cleverly done, no doubt, but a copy, nevertheless. It must have been painted at night, by candlelight, which explains why the insects came in and got stuck in the wet paint.’
Nobo Kumar’s face went white.
‘Where is the original?’ he whispered.
‘It’s been removed. Possibly only this morning. And it’s not difficult to guess who took it, is it?’