What I found most amazing was that the second painting sold to Krikorian also turned out to be a fake. But Feluda did not comment on it at all. Lalmohan Babu raised a different point. ‘Felu Babu,’ he said, ‘how can you be so sure that green flies did not exist in Italy in the sixteenth century? Why, I have heard water hyacinth did not originate in our own country. It was brought by a lady from Europe!’ Feluda gave his lopsided grin, but said nothing. Mr Pal came to the airport the next day to see us off. Feluda had bought him a beautiful silk tie as a token of thanks. Mr Pal laughed. ‘I have never had so much excitement in a single day!’ he told us. ‘But it’s a pity I couldn’t take you to Kowloon to try fried snake. You must visit me again, and stay a little while longer.’ To tell the truth, I didn’t want to leave Hong Kong so soon, but knew that Feluda’s ruling principle in life was ‘duty first’. He would never allow himself to be lured by the bright lights of Hong Kong before he had solved the mystery of the fake painting, the murder of Bankim Babu and the poisoned dog in Baikunthapur. We left Hong Kong on Wednesday night, and reached Calcutta the next morning. ‘Today is going to be a day of rest,’ Feluda said to Lalmohan Babu. ‘Tomorrow, Topshe and I will arrive at your house around eight o’clock. Then we’ll all go to Baikunthapur. All right?’ ‘OK, sir. No problem.’ On our way back, Feluda stopped at the Park Street post office, saying he had to send an urgent telegram. He did not reveal who it would go to. After this, he sank into complete silence. I knew this mood well. It was like the lull before a storm, though I had no idea when the storm would break. I tried to work things out for myself, but nothing made sense. In any case, our experience in Hong Kong had thrown me into total confusion. Everytime I closed my eyes, I could only see the long Chinese signboards hanging over my head. It was impossible to think straight. The next day, by the time we reached Mr Niyogi’s house, it was nearly 11 a.m. Nobo Kumar was waiting for us. He began to ask anxious questions about our visit to Hong Kong, but Feluda shook his head. ‘No, our mission wasn’t entirely successful, I’m afraid. We couldn’t get the original painting,’ he said, adding, ‘The one we did find turned out to be another case of forgery.’ ‘What! How is that possible, Mr Mitter? Two copies of the same painting? Well then, where did the original go?’ ‘Let’s go into your living room upstairs. We can talk more comfortably there.’ ‘Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry.’

We walked into the living room, to find Inspector Mondol sitting on a sofa, sipping a glass of lemonade. ‘Well, well!’ he grinned. ‘Had any luck in Hong Kong, Mr Mitter?’ ‘If you’re referring to the stolen painting, the answer is no. We didn’t find it. But in other respects, yes, we got a few things straightened out.’ ‘I see. What about the murderer?’ ‘He may give himself up.’ ‘Really?’ Feluda did not sit down. Glasses of lemonade arrived for us. He picked one up and took a sip. Then he brought out his blue notebook. The rest of us sat on sofas and chairs, facing him. ‘Allow me to begin at the beginning,’ Feluda said, ‘On Tuesday, 28 September, two events occurred in Baikunthapur. Someone poisoned Mr Niyogi’s fox terrier, Thumri; and Chandrasekhar’s son Rudrasekhar arrived here. This made me wonder if there was a connection between the two. Who would kill an old dog, and why, I asked myself. When I thought about it, I found two possible explanations. In fact, Topshe mentioned the first one. Anyone with the intention of burgling the house would have a motive for killing the dog. But nothing was stolen immediately. The theft of the painting took place long after Thumri was killed. Therefore, I had to consider the second option. If someone known to the family—and the dog—wanted to return incognito, in disguise, not wanting to be recognized, he would certainly wish to remove the dog before he arrived because if the dog showed signs of recognition, it would arouse suspicion at once. ‘This led me to wonder if the new arrival—Rudrasekhar—wasn’t someone known to you. His behaviour was certainly odd. He hardly ever opened his mouth, wore tinted glasses, and spent most of his time either outside the house or in his room. Who was he? He was supposed to have arrived straight from Italy, and yet on his feet were shoes from Bata. Yes, he had presented his passport to your father, but he is old and his eyesight weak. In any case, he was too embarrassed to scrutinize it closely or call someone else for help. It was, therefore, not too difficult to get by with a false passport. ‘However, if the passport was not genuine, then how did he hope to get Rudrasekhar’s share of the property? I mean, lawyers and other people who deal with such matters aren’t fools, and they would most certainly have made extensive enquiries. The chances of deceiving them were really pretty dim. ‘Why, then, was this man here? There could be only one reason. He wanted to lay his hands on the most valuable painting in this house. Thanks to Bhudev Singh’s article, hundreds of people now knew about it. ‘What this man didn’t know, and what we learnt only recently from an old press cutting, was that the real Rudrasekhar died in Rome twenty-six years ago.’ ‘What!’ Nobo Kumar shrieked. ‘Yes, Mr Niyogi. I am very grateful to Robin Babu for pointing this out to me.’ ‘Then . . . then who was that man who came here?’ Feluda