Bhagwangarh did indeed turn out to be in Madhya Pradesh. ‘You will have to go to Nagpur,’ said our travel agent, ‘and take a meter gauge train to Chhindwara. Bhagwangarh is 45 km to the west of Chhindwara.’ Feluda promptly sent a telegram to Rajah Bhudev Singh, explaining why he wanted to meet him. The Rajah’s reply arrived the next day. We were most welcome, he said. If we could let him know the date and time of our arrival, he would send a car to meet us at Chhindwara. Feluda rang the travel agent again. ‘If you’re in a hurry to get there,’ said Mr Chakravarty of Pushpak Travels, ‘there is a flight to Nagpur tomorrow morning. It leaves at 6.30 a.m. and reaches Nagpur at 8.15. You could catch a train to Chhindwara at 10.30, and get there by 5 p.m.’ ‘That sounds fine, but how do we get back?’ ‘Well, you could spend the whole day in Bhagwangarh the day after tomorrow, and catch an overnight train from Chhindwara. It will bring you to Nagpur at 5 a.m. the following morning. The Nagpur-Calcutta flight is at 8 a.m. You could be back in Calcutta by half-past ten.’ Feluda told Mr Chakravarty to go ahead with the bookings and sent another telegram to Bhudev Singh. ‘Since we are free all day today,’ he said, ‘let’s go and meet Mr Somani.’ Somani was available, as it turned out, and willing to meet us in the evening at 5.30 p.m. We turned up on the dot at his flat in Lotus Towers, Amir Ali Avenue. A bearer showed us into his living room. A quick look around told us the man liked collecting a variety of things, many of which were obviously expensive. But there was no discernible order in the way they were displayed. Each object seemed to have been dumped anyhow. We were kept waiting for ten minutes. Then Mr Somani wafted into the room, which was filled immediately with the smell of cologne. He had clearly been in the shower when we arrived. He was dressed in white trousers and a white kurta. Light Kolhapuri chappals were on his feet. There were touches of grey in his carefully brushed hair, though the thin moustache he sported was completely black. He offered cigarettes to Lalmohan Babu and Feluda, then lit one himself and said, ‘Yes, gentlemen, how can I help you?’ ‘We need some information,’ Feluda began. ‘Yes?’ ‘You went to Baikunthapur recently, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes, I did.’ ‘To buy a painting?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But the owner refused to sell, is that right?’

‘Yes.’ ‘Could you tell me how you got to know about the painting?’ Mr Somani seemed to stiffen at this question. He gave Feluda a look that simply said, ‘That’s none of your business’. But he replied civilly enough. ‘I did not get to know about it at all. Someone else did. I went at his request.’ ‘I see.’ ‘Why, can you get that painting for me? But it must be genuine. If it turns out to be a piece of forgery, you won’t get a paisa.’ ‘How would you tell if it’s genuine or not?’ ‘The buyer would know. He has been buying paintings for the last thirty-five years. He knows his business, believe me.’ ‘Is he a foreigner?’ Mr Somani continued to stare steadily at Feluda through a haze of smoke. His jaw set at the last question but, a second later, he gave a slight smile and said, ‘Why should I divulge this information, tell me? Do you really take me to be a fool?’ ‘All right.’ Feluda was about to rise, but Mr Somani went on speaking. ‘If you can get me that painting, I’ll give you a commission.’ ‘I’m glad to hear that.’ ‘Ten thousand in cash.’ ‘And then you’ll sell it for ten lakhs?’ This time, Mr Somani did not reply. But his gaze did not waver. ‘Why should I come to you, Mr Somani, if I could lay my hands on that painting? I’d go straight to the buyer!’ said Feluda. ‘Yes, certainly; but only if you knew where to go.’ ‘I’d find my way, if I had to . . . Well, Mr Somani, thank you for your time. We shall now leave you in peace.’ All of us got to our feet and began moving towards the front door. ‘Goodbye, Mr Pradosh Mitter!’ hissed Mr Somani, his tone implying that he was quite familiar with both Feluda’s name and profession. ‘Isn’t there a certain carnivorous plant,’ Lalmohan Babu asked when we were outside, ‘that looks rather harmless and attractive, but swallows all insects that go near it?’ ‘Yes, there certainly is.’ ‘This man was a bit like that, wasn’t he?’ Feluda rang Baikunthapur as soon as we got home. But Nobo Kumar said all was well, there had been no new development. Why was Feluda so anxious? I didn’t get a chance to ask since Lalmohan Babu had, by this time, happily settled down on a settee in our living room, and brought out a book from his bag. He placed it on the centre table with a loud thump. History of All Western Art, said its title. ‘What is that, Lalmohan Babu?’ Feluda asked with a smile. ‘A very useful book, I tell you! I decided not to let myself feel left out, you see. When you start talking to Bhudev Singh about art and artists, now I’ll be able to take part in the conversation.’

‘I see. Well, you needn’t read the whole book. Just read the chapter on the Renaissance.’ ‘Renaissance . . . yes, here it is. Er . . . what does it mean exactly?’ ‘The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Nearly two hundred years of rebirth and reawakening in Italy. That’s what the word means.’ ‘Why rebirth?’ ‘Because during this time there was a return to the ideology of the ancient culture of Greece and Rome. This had been suppressed in the