The next morning, Feluda said nothing about the previous night’s experience. All he asked Nobo Kumar over breakfast was, ‘Doesn’t the studio stay locked?’ ‘Yes, normally it does. But we’ve had to keep it unlocked lately. Robin Babu works in there. Rudrasekhar, too, visits the studio occasionally. So we don’t bother with locking it any more. Baba has got the key.’ He took us to the studio after breakfast. It was on the second floor. The wall facing north was made almost entirely of glass, since the light from that end was supposed to be the best for an artist to paint by. There were stacks of paintings on the floor. Stretched white canvases were scattered in a corner, together with paints, brushes and palettes. An easel stood by the window. It looked as though the artist had stepped out only for a minute. ‘Everything he used appears to have been brought from abroad,’ Feluda remarked, testing some of the paints and a bottle of linseed oil, ‘and they are still in reasonably good condition. Rudrasekhar could make a lot of money simply by selling these. Any Indian artist would jump at the chance to buy such good quality stuff.’ A number of portraits hung at the far end. Nobo Kumar pointed at one of these and said, ‘That’s Chandrasekhar’s self-portrait.’ A handsome man with sharp features stared from the canvas, dressed in western clothes. Long, black hair rippled down to his shoulders. He had a beard and a moustache, very neatly trimmed. ‘Yes, that is the picture that was published with the article,’ said Feluda. ‘You may be right,’ Nobo Kumar replied. ‘Baba told me Bhudev Singh’s son had come down for a day to take pictures for his father’s article.’ ‘Where is that famous painting?’ ‘This way.’ Nobo Kumar took us to the far corner. The painting of Jesus hung from a golden frame. There was a crown of thorns on his head. His eyes held a faraway look. One hand was placed across his chest. A halo encircled his head and, beyond it, were trees and hills and a river. The sky could be glimpsed behind the hills. It appeared to be overcast and held a hint of lightning. The whole effect was most impressive. We stared at the painting for a whole minute. None of us knew anything about it—not even the artist’s name—and yet, it seemed to have a mysterious captivating power. ‘Do you think you could give us a copy of your family tree?’ Feluda asked as we came out of the studio and made our way downstairs. ‘Starting with Anant Nath Niyogi,’ he added, ‘and preferably with all important dates related to Chandrasekhar.’

‘That’s easy. I’ll tell Bankim Babu. He’s a most efficient man. He’ll get it ready in ten minutes.’ This struck me as a very good idea. I was getting quite confused trying to remember how the various Niyogis were related to one another. A family tree was the best answer. ‘And . . . one more thing,’ Feluda said. ‘Could Bankim Babu also give me Mr Somani’s address, if he’s got it?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ Bankim Babu turned out to be a middle-aged man, jovial and intelligent. A family tree was no problem, he said, for he had already had one made for Robin Babu. He produced a copy immediately, together with the business card Mr Somani had left. It said: ‘Hiralal Somani, 23 Lotus Towers, Amir Ali Avenue, Calcutta’. Bankim Babu handed it over to Feluda, and stood silently. I saw him open his mouth to speak, then he shut it again. ‘What is on your mind, Bankim Babu?’ Feluda smiled. ‘I have heard about you. Er . . . you are an investigator, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Will you come back here again?’ ‘Certainly, if need be. Why do you ask?’ ‘No, nothing. I mean, that’s fine. There was a . . . never mind, I’ll talk to you later.’ He moved away. ‘I wonder what that was all about,’ I said, somewhat mystified. Feluda grinned. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘Bankim Babu wanted my autograph, but felt too embarrassed to ask.’ It was now time to leave. ‘Thank you very much for everything,’ Feluda said to Nobo Kumar as we got into our car, ‘What I’ve seen in your house is really most interesting. You wouldn’t mind, would you, if I made a few enquiries elsewhere?’ ‘No, no, not at all.’ ‘I’d like to meet Bhudev Singh of Bhagwangarh. He should be able to tell us how much that Jesus is worth.’ ‘All right, go ahead and see Bhudev Singh, anytime you want. I have no objection whatsoever.’ ‘Thank you. And, Mr Niyogi, your father, I think, is quite right. Do not ignore the matter of your dog’s death. I can smell the most complex mystery in the whole case.’ ‘You’re right, I found it incredibly cruel.’ Nobo Kumar and Feluda exchanged cards. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, waving from the front door, ‘give me a ring, if you like, or come over any time. And please let me know what Bhudev Singh tells you!’ ‘I didn’t even know there was a place called Bhagwangarh,’ said Lalmohan Babu on our way back to Calcutta. ‘I believe it’s in Madhya Pradesh, but I’m not sure,’ Feluda replied. ‘I’ll have to check with Pushpak Travels.’ ‘I haven’t seen much of MP,’ Lalmohan Babu observed. ‘I don’t think you’ll get to see much this time. All I intend doing is meeting Bhudev Singh and getting a few facts straight. We mustn’t neglect Baikunthapur for long.’ ‘Why? What’s so special about Baikunthapur?’ ‘Did you look at Rudrasekhar’s feet?’

‘Why, no!’ ‘Did you notice the way Robin Babu ate?’ ‘No, of course not. Why should—?’ ‘Besides, I’d like to know what the man was doing in the studio at 2 a.m., what was it that Bankim Babu really wanted to say, why did their dog get killed . . . there are a lot of questions