The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (22 page)

Sandro Niyogi’s studio was above our room, Nobo Kumar had said. Was someone in there?

‘You two wait here,’ Feluda whispered, ‘I’ll be right back.’ He went out, barefoot. Lalmohan Babu and I sat on the bed, holding our breath until he came back in five minutes. It felt like five hours. Somewhere, a clock struck two.

‘Did you see anyone?’ asked Lalmohan Babu. ‘Yes. I saw him come down the stairs.’

‘Who was it?’

‘The journalist. Robin Babu.’

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 that need to be answered, Lalmohan Babu.’

‘If one has a good watchdog,’ I ventured to say, ‘burglars might wish to get rid of it before breaking into a house.’

‘Good point. But the dog was killed on 28 September, and today is
5 October. There has been no burglary in all this time. Besides, I don’t think an eleven-year-old fox terrier could be all that good as a watchdog.’

‘I have only one regret,’ Lalmohan Babu sighed.

‘What is that?’

‘I know so little about art.’

‘Don’t let that worry you. All you need to know at the present moment is that if an unknown painting by a famous artist from the past was put up for sale, it could quite easily fetch a couple of lakhs, or much more.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘You mean the Niyogis have had something so valuable for years and years, and no one is aware of it?’

‘Yes, that is exactly what I am saying; and that is why we need to go to Bhagwangarh.’

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 Middle Ages. That is why it’s called rebirth. It began in Italy, but soon spread to other parts of Europe; and it wasn’t confined just to art and painting. A great many famous writers, musicians, scientists and politicians lived during this period—Copernicus, Galileo, Shakespeare, Da Vinci, Raphael, Michelangelo. A lot of new discoveries and innovations were made, including the printing press, which made education and communication a lot simpler.’

‘Do you think that painting of Jesus was done by a Renaissance artist?’

‘Yes, that’s quite likely. It was certainly not painted before that period. If you look at paintings done in the Middle Ages, you’ll see that all figures and objects have a stiff, lifeless quality about them. Later, in the Renaissance period, they become much more natural and lifelike.’

‘This book mentions . . . my God, such a lot of names! . . . Botticelli . . . Giotto . . . Mantegna . . .’

‘Yes, and you’ll find at least thirty other names in Italy alone!’

‘And to think a painting by one of these is hanging on a wall in Mr Niyogi’s house! Just imagine!’

After dinner that night, Feluda took out the Niyogi family tree, and began studying it carefully. I peered over his shoulder. It looked like this:

There was another piece of paper. It said:

Chandrasekhar Niyogi

Born in Baikunthapur 1890

Graduation from Presidency College 1912

Travelled to Rome to study art in the Academy of Fine Arts 1914

Married Carla Cassini 1917

Birth of son, Rudrasekhar 1920

Carla died 1937

Returned to India 1938

Left home 1955

Present whereabouts unknown.