‘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 calliper to measure the thickness of the canvas. If there were two canvases instead of one, it would show up.’
‘Dad!’ Manu cried. ‘An outside calliper…is that an instrument with two curved arms joined together at a pivot? 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!’
Chapter 17
As they adjourned the drawing room after dinner, Bhaskar drew Athreya 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 me an offer,’ 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 on my identifying him as the intruder who had broken into my house and tried to kill me.
‘The mongrel’s offer is simple. If I agree to not identify him, he will tell me who commissioned him.’
‘Cunning,’ Athreya said. ‘He may look an ordinary ruffian, but he is no fool. I take it that Muthu got no whiff of this offer?’
‘None. He is playing it by the book. He insists that I should identify the mongrel only in a line-up, as mandated by law. That way, the identification will be watertight. He could easily have brought the mongrel here for me to identify, at least informally. But that might play into the hands of a smart defence lawyer.’
‘Muthu is playing his hand well. I wonder how convinced he is that the mongrel killed Phillip.’
‘You don’t think he did?’ Bhaskar countered, studying
Athreya’s face.
‘He might have, but that would only be a part of the answer. It throws no light on the other major question.’
‘Which is?’
‘What was Phillip doing in your wheelchair in the chapel in the middle of a murky night?’
‘It doesn’t, I agree,’ said Bhaskar, nodding. ‘Coming back to the mongrel’s proposition, what do you think?’
‘Don’t you already know who commissioned him, Mr. Fernandez?’
Bhaskar let out a tired sigh. ‘Perhaps I do, Mr Athreya…perhaps I do. The heart is more willing to accept one part of what the brain says. But there is another part that I wish wasn’t true.’
‘Murthy?’ Athreya asked. Bhaskar nodded pitiably.
‘Imagine what that would do to Michelle, Mr Athreya. She will be broken.’
‘It may also be for the best,’ Athreya said softly. ‘I think the scales are falling from her eyes.’
‘She lied about the time of death to protect him,’ Bhaskar retorted. ‘That was a mere thirty-six hours ago.’
‘Much has happened since, and the events have left Michelle emotionally wrung out. There is a possibility that she may follow your advice.’
Bhaskar stared hard at him, but didn’t ask how Athreya knew about his advice to Michelle.
‘So,’ he said, returning to the original question, ‘should I accept the offer?’
‘How do you know he will keep his word? Once you examine the line-up and say that you don’t recognize anyone, there is no going back.’
‘True. What do you suggest I do?’
‘Postpone the decision. Let matters play out.’
‘One more question…you spoke about Phillip being in Austria. What name did he go by there?’
‘Philipose. At least, that’s how he signed his paintings. If he had another name too, I don’t know it yet.’
‘Jacob,’ Bhaskar said in an undertone. ‘Does the name Jacob Lopez ring a bell?’
‘No. But I’ll see what
