‘Good afternoon, Mr Niyogi.’ ‘Good afternoon.’ Rudrasekhar came forward and took a chair opposite Mr Somani. A large, modern office desk lay between them. The room was air-conditioned, blocking out all noise from outside. An electronic clock on a shelf showed the time mutely. Hiralal Somani spoke again. ‘Have you got the painting?’ Instead of giving him a straight answer, Rudrasekhar asked another question. ‘You wish to buy it for someone else, don’t you?’ Hiralal did not reply. Rudrasekhar continued, ‘I have come to collect the name and address of the actual buyer.’ Hiralal’s eyes remained fixed on Rudrasekhar’s face. ‘I shall ask you once more, Mr Niyogi,’ he said coldly. ‘Have you got the painting?’ ‘I am not obliged to tell you that.’ ‘Then I am not obliged, either, to give you the information you want.’ ‘Think again, Mr Somani!’ Rudrasekhar leapt to his feet. In his hand was a revolver, aimed at Somani. ‘Tell me, Mr Somani,’ his breath came in short gasps, ‘I need to know. I want to contact the buyer. Today.’ Somani quickly leant forward, pressing with his right knee a white button fixed under the desk. A door behind Rudrasekhar opened immediately and two men slipped in. Before he knew it, one of them had grabbed Rudrasekhar’s right arm and taken the revolver from him. The other caught his left hand and twisted it behind his back. ‘It’s no use, Mr Niyogi. You know you can’t escape. These two men will go with you and bring the painting from your hotel. I hope you won’t be foolish enough to resist.’ Twenty minutes later, a taxi drew up outside a hotel on Sadar Street. Rudrasekhar, accompanied by the two men, emerged from it and walked in. It seemed as though he was merely taking a couple of friends to his room. One of them had his hand in his pocket, but no one could have guessed he was clutching a revolver. They went into Room 19. The gun came out. Rudrasekhar realized there was absolutely nothing he could do. With a sigh, he opened a suitcase lying on the bed, and brought out a thin, flat board wrapped in a newspaper. The man whose hands were free snatched it from him and unwrapped it quickly. The tranquil face of Jesus gazed at him. The man wrapped the painting again. Then, with calm deliberate movements, he took out a silk handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around Rudrasekhar’s mouth. A second later, Rudrasekhar was lying flat on the floor, knocked unconscious. The two men tied him up with a nylon rope and left. All of this took less than five minutes.

It took them another fifteen minutes to get the packet to Somani. He glanced briefly at the painting, and handed it back to one of the men. ‘Pack this properly,’ he said. Then he turned to the other. ‘I have to send an urgent cable. Go to the Park Street post office immediately and send it now,’ he instructed, quickly writing on a sheet of paper. It said: Mr Walter Krikorian Krikorian Enterprises 14 Hennessey Street Hong Kong ARRIVING SATURDAY NINTH OCT. —SOMANI