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