vintage cars must be absolutely loaded. Just think about it!’

Three We had made an appointment with Bhabesh Bhattacharya, so it was relatively easy to meet him. He might have been a school teacher—wearing thick glasses, a loose shirt, a cotton chadar draped over his shoulders. He was sitting very straight before a small desk, on top of which lay a few finely sharpened pencils and a fat, bound ledger. ‘Lalmohan Gangopadhyaya?’ he asked, glancing at the postcard Lalmohan Babu had sent him. ‘Yes.’ ‘Age?’ Lalmohan Babu told him. ‘Date of birth?’ ‘Sixteenth August.’ ‘Hm. Leo. All right, what can I do for you?’ ‘Well . . . I am a writer, you see. I have thought of three names for my next novel, but I can’t decide which would be the best.’ ‘What are these names?’ ‘Hullabaloo in Honolulu, Hell in Honolulu, and The Honolulu Holocaust.’ ‘Hm. Please wait.’ Mr Bhattacharya wrote the names down in his ledger and began making some calculations. Then he said, ‘Your name adds up to twenty-one. Your date of birth and the month you were born in gives us six. Both can be divided by three. I suggest you use the third title. When is your book coming out?’ ‘The first of January.’ ‘No, make it the third. Anything to do with the book must be divisible by three.’ ‘I see. And . . . er . . . how will it . . . I mean . . . ?’ ‘Don’t worry. It’ll sell well.’ Lalmohan Babu smiled, paid a hundred rupees and came out with us. ‘A bit expensive, wasn’t he?’ I asked. ‘Maybe. But I don’t mind. I’m positive this book’s going to be a hit. Oh, I can’t tell you how relieved I feel!’ ‘Does that mean you’ll come back to Mecheda every time you write a book?’ ‘Why not? It would only mean two visits every year. When there is a guarantee of success . . .’ I said nothing more. We got into the car once more and set off for Baikunthapur. It took us twenty minutes to reach the home of the Niyogis. ‘Niyogi Palace’, said a marble slab at the gate. That the house was old was easy enough to see. One portion of it looked as though it had recently been repaired and restored. Perhaps that was where the family lived. A long drive lined with palms ended in a large portico. Nobo Kumar came out, beaming.

‘Welcome!’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you came. I was afraid you might change your mind. Do come in. This way—’ We were taken to the first floor. ‘I’ve told my father about you. He’ll be very pleased to meet you,’ Nobo Kumar informed us. ‘Who else lives in this house?’ Feluda asked idly. ‘Only my parents. My mother suffers from asthma, you see. The country air suits her much better. Then there is Bankim Babu. He used to be Baba’s secretary. Now he’s become a kind of manager. Besides these people, there are a few servants, that’s all. I visit occasionally. I was going to come with my family a few days later, for Puja. But a guest arrived, so I came earlier than the others. My uncle from Rome—Chandrasekhar’s son—is visiting, you see. I thought Baba might need my help.’ ‘Were you in touch with your uncle all these years? I mean, after Chandrasekhar left home?’ ‘No. This is his first visit. I think he’s here to sort out his share in our property.’ ‘Did Chandrasekhar die?’ ‘We don’t know. We haven’t heard from him—or of him—for years and years. So I assume the law would regard him as dead.’ ‘Did he live here when he returned from Rome?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Why didn’t he live in Calcutta?’ ‘That would not have made any difference. He had to travel a lot. His clients were spread all over the country. It didn’t really matter where he lived.’ ‘Do you remember having seen him?’ ‘I was six when he left. All I can remember is his affection for me.’ We were ushered into the living room. A beautiful, huge chandelier hung from the ceiling. I had never seen anything like it before. On one of the walls was a life-size portrait of a bearded man. He wore an achkan; a sword hung at his waist; on his head was a turban from which glittered pearls and rubies. The portrait dominated the whole room. ‘My great-grandfather, Anant Nath Niyogi,’ explained Nobo Kumar. ‘Chandrasekhar painted it soon after he got back from Italy. By that time Anant Nath had forgiven him for having left the country and married an Italian woman.’ ‘Why,’ I had to ask, ‘does it say “S. Niyogi” at the bottom? His name was Chandrasekhar, wasn’t it?’ ‘Yes. But people in Italy called him Sandro. So he used “S” in his signature.’ There were other smaller paintings by S. Niyogi in the room. Each bore evidence of the painter’s skill. He had undoubtedly been blessed with a rare gift. A bearer came in with glasses of sherbet. Feluda picked one up, and said, ‘That article said something rather interesting about your great-uncle’s private collection of paintings. Apparently, he had a painting by a world famous artist, but he had told Bhudev Singh, the writer, not to mention it to anyone since no one would believe him if he did. Do you happen to know anything about it?’ ‘There is a painting, yes. Everyone in our family knows about it. It’s a painting of Jesus Christ. But I couldn’t tell you if the artist was world famous or not. You can see it for yourself when you go to the studio. That is where it has always hung.’

‘Bhudev Singh himself must know whose work it is.’ ‘Yes, I’m sure he does. He and Chandrasekhar were very close friends.’ ‘Doesn’t your uncle know anything about it? After all, he’s Chandrasekhar’s son, isn’t he?’ Nobo Kumar shook his head. ‘He