‘Dad had retired for the night, and his wheelchair had been plugged in for charging. I was in bed, reading. Phillip was in the room you are now staying in, Mr Athreya. All the doors and windows were locked–both Murugan and I had checked them just fifteen minutes previously. And, after the break-in, we checked each door and window again–none of them had been forced open.
‘So you see what I am getting at? The mongrel couldn’t have got in … unless someone let him in!’
‘Jesus!’ Sebastian exclaimed. ‘Murugan and I were in the storeroom when we heard the gunshot. We had begun our stocktaking immediately after locking up the main house.’
‘Second question,’ Manu went on. ‘Who took the dagger from the drawer in the hall? Where did it go? Did Phillip take it? Did he return it to the mongrel?’
‘Third question!’ Sebastian cut in, his face intense with anger. ‘You remember the time when Mr Fernandez went to Coonoor, and the car’s brakes failed after we had visited the bank?’
‘What about it?’ Bhaskar growled.
‘Phillip had come with us on the outbound journey, but had decided to stay back and return later. He had no friends in Coonoor, and didn’t even bank there. All his purchases were made by others. Why then did he opt to stay back?’
‘Sebastian,’ Bhaskar said slowly. ‘Do you remember where you had parked the car that day in Coonoor? Some by lane, wasn’t it? Because you couldn’t get parking near the bank.’
‘Yes! You had to wait for five minutes for me to bring the car. It was three or four streets away on a side road.’
‘An ideal opportunity to tamper with the brakes!’ Manu finished. ‘Where was Phillip during that half hour we were at the bank?’
‘We don’t know. We didn’t know what he did or where he went.’
‘What do you think, Mr Athreya?’ Manu asked, his face shining. ‘Could Phillip have been behind at least some of the attempts on Dad’s life?’
‘Possible, Manu,’ Varadan interjected before Athreya could respond. ‘But we must keep in mind that all this is circumstantial evidence.’
‘Mr Varadan is right,’ Athreya said. ‘I would therefore not jump to conclusions without further consideration.’ He turned to Bhaskar and asked, ‘You and Phillip talked a lot about paintings, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. That was possibly the only topic he was keen to talk about.’
‘Did he ever talk about stolen paintings?’
‘Stolen paintings!’ Manu cried. ‘What on earth?’
Athreya didn’t answer him, and kept his gaze on Bhaskar. The older man’s face had frozen. He seemed to be thinking, mentally going back in time. At length, he lifted his gaze and nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said haltingly. ‘When I talked about crime and read out some escapades to him from my books in the library, he asked if I had any stories–true or fictional–about crime in art. About stolen paintings. He wanted to know how easy or difficult it was to sell stolen art. I had a few books that I lent him. I also recommended a couple of stories in which priceless stolen paintings were concealed by painting over them with paint that was easily removable.
‘This was done in real life too during the Second World War–to hide precious art from the Nazis. The idea was to fool the Nazis into thinking that certain paintings were ordinary, so they wouldn’t steal or destroy them. Once the Nazi threat had receded, the top layer of paint would be removed to reveal the original painting.
‘There were also cases where a precious painting would be hidden behind the canvas of an ordinary painting. The two canvases would be mounted together such that the precious canvas was hidden behind the ordinary canvas. The only way to discover this was to weigh the mounted paintings or to use a curved outside caliper to measure the thickness of the canvas. If there were two canvases instead of one, it would show up on an outside caliper.’
‘Dad!’ Manu cried. ‘An outside caliper … Is it an instrument with two curved arms joined together at a pivot? The arms are like the curved claws of a crab?’
‘Yes. And it has a knob and a scale at the pivot for measurement.’
‘Dad … Dad,’ said Manu, choking. He coughed a few times and recovered. ‘Dad … I’ve seen one with Phillip,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘I saw him measuring the thickness of some of the larger paintings in the gallery here. Even as recently as last week.’
‘The paintings he sold you, Mr Fernandez,’ Athreya asked sharply. ‘Did he sell them to you as canvases or as mounted paintings?’
‘Mounted paintings,’ Bhaskar whispered. ‘Always mounted. He was very good at mounting them. He even mounted some of my other paintings.’
‘If Dad had died that day,’ Manu hissed fiercely, ‘the entire painting collection would have gone to Phillip. The undeserving betrayer!’
17
As they moved towards the drawing room after dinner, Bhaskar drew Athreya aside into the library. The discovery of Phillip’s treachery had shaken him, as it had affected the rest of the family. They had discussed their nasty discovery over dinner repeatedly, and had grown increasingly convinced of Phillip’s betrayal.
Three times could not have been a coincidence. And the first occasion–when the mongrel had been let in by somebody–brooked no other explanation. That Bhaskar had been kind to him, and had financially supported him by buying his paintings, only made it more difficult for them to accept the revelation.
‘The mongrel has made an offer to me,’ Bhaskar said softly once they were alone in the library. ‘Varadan had been to town and had seen him at the police lock-up. The mongrel had asked to speak to my representative privately, which Muthu had allowed for five minutes. As you know, the mongrel’s conviction may well hinge
