Amulakh Bose's search was over. He kept his suitcase below the lower berth and closed the first-class compartment door. He was aboard the NS Express, from Delhi to a hamlet called Amaranjeri. By pulling out a rug and conquer over the small table by his typewriter and ashtray, it might seem to the people that this man doesn't needs any company - a quite nice way to be alone. Let's have something about him now before the inevitable occurs.
Some might say his age is fifty, which is a pretty nice guess, though he's less than that. His knack of working overnight has given him the abhorrent wrinkles in some pathetic places on his faces, giving him a rusted look. If we were to delve into his physical appearance, "suitably fit" will be the popular verdict. His hair was brown, grey hairs making their debut. He has a fondness for beards, which erupted from his idol Stanley Kubrick. He kept an unkempt beard, white in some places. His mouth is a bit loose, giving him a look of a paralyzed person.
He was wearing a blue shirt, sleeves folded up to his forearm, showing off his watch - a gift from his professor during his college days. He has this look of a self-sufficient and prosperous Indian, but from a dimension he's like a self-indulgent member of the Indian upper middle-class, and that is what he is colloquially.
His life? What do you think of him? A business man? A merchant or to a possible extent, a bank employee. You might think you're not wrong, but you are fatefully.
I should've informed of you this in the beginning, but he's Amulakh Bose, the famed crime bestseller. You know you've done a good job and you are successful when your books's advertisements are plastered all over the bookstall from where you bought the newspapers for the train journey. His writing style has been deemed one of the best in the contemporary age, and the thrillers he has produced still creeps many people all over the world. He has sold millions of books, so many that the first edition copies of his books cost a favorable sum to secure.
Now that you would've realized you know him very well, It seems there's no need to go on more. He's on his way to Amaranjeri, to work on the new draft in the nice and cozy bungalow he's got on the banks of the Pitambari River.
The train has started, and Bose's carriage is still empty save for himself. He sighs with relief, picks up an automobile magazine from the predominant rack. He shuffled the pages, and yawned.
Amulakh Bose's silent and somewhat isolated conscience was interrupted. He suddenly had this feeling of someone watching him. He glance up and saw the figure of a man who was standing in the corridor, with his vision fixed upon him, with a curious air of conjunction. Bose stared back, trying to look as much unsolicited as possible, to ward that man off. It would be really bad luck, he felt, if someone were to invade his compartment now.
The man, after a moment more of staring, slid the door and came in, flinging down his bag under Bose's seat, adjacent to his suitcase and pulled out a rug and a pillow from the bag. He seemed to have no other luggage. Bose coughed, got up and pulled himself to the corner of the compartment, towards the window. The stranger began to loosen himself, unstrapping the rug from a belt and other things. He stretched his legs, and kept the pillow above the compartment cushion. He rested his head on the pillow and pulled the rug up to his neck and closed his eyes. The only thing which worried Bose now was the doubtful fact that will he snore?
As the intruder is now delving into the deep abyss of sleep, we shall take a look on him too, we'll need that too after the inevitable occurs. He is a scroungy little man, he has probably crossed sixty-five, with a head almost bad saving a few strands, and a grey beard of considerable measure. His height is a bit more than five foot seven, and his body seems to be somewhat fragile. There seems to be a difference of sky and earth between Bose's physique and his.
His dressing can be amounted to eccentricity by any commoner. It was nicely made, but for the physique it was all baggy. He was wearing a purple shirt with a large overcoat, pockets bulged. His whitish tie was tied haphazardly, as if done due to shortage of time. His black shoes looks brown now, the soles coming off at some places.
Despite these fl'awful' appearances, the intruder is undoubtedly a gentleman, and as I've said before, his trait may be accounted for eccentricity, not poverty. He can be a roadside drunkard - inclined towards singing about his lowlife in the abundant tunnels of the city, or he can be a minded professor, though he is not any of those. Amulakh Bose wasn't able to deduce who is the intruder.
Silence crept in the compartment as the NS Express was flailing through the Central Plains now. Bose's intruder didn't snore - to his relief. His eyes were closed whenever Bose shot him a glance, yet the writer had a very uneasy feeling of being stared at. He nodded in disagreement to himself, and indulged in a Sci-Fi story, the feeling ridiculing his quaint conscience.
Suddenly, when the train took off from Itarsi, the intruder spoke in an unmistakable South Indian accent being thrust upon his native accent, with a positive voice, the voice used by the dominants over the repressed.
"Butchery... Homicide" he spoke, "you don't have any right to be so merely careless about it."
"Excuse me?" said Bose, so surprised that his book almost dropped to the floor.
"I shall repeat. You have no right to be so negligent." repeated the old man.
Bose kept the book beside him, and looked at his companion with amusement. He coughed and said, "I feel that we were talking about murders, or about any topic for the mere fact."
"Aha!" feebly exclaimed the old man, "You did hear what I said in the first place. What I was coming to say was that if you expect acute entities to read your fables, you can at least work to make them believable?"
Bose subdued the answer he was going to give, considering the fact that it would be very rude. He began to relent upon the circulation of his books amidst such belligerent fools. He answered, "I don't think that you may find a conversation with me more competent than my creations."
"Not likely," said the stranger, "I've begun to think that success has beguiled you. The first stories of yours were the best - original, cold and classy. Nowadays, your stature is stooping too low."
The mention of his beginner stories may have made Amulakh Bose embark upon a conversation with this old man. But nowadays, no one seems to be interested in his beginner stories. Only his close friends have the copies, making him doubt how did this man had his reach on to it. He too agreed that those stories were more fresh and better than his present ones.
"They were showered with qualitative approach," the other was saying, "you were not blinded by royalty then, which might be the prime reason of your professional downfall."
"Do you realize that you're being excessively impertinent?" asked Bose.
"Yeah," said the stranger, "I should add that am a very critical person. Brutal and honest. It is a much necessary quality in the present bout of humanity. I should also say that you have crossed the limit in your last book."
"Which one, may I ask?" asked Bose.
"The Saffron River. Remember?" asked back the stranger sardonically.
"Oh that one." answered Bose.
"Now in that story of yours," the stranger continued, "you call the female protagonist Lata and Abhinaya on different pages. You cannot make out that was her surname Chowdhury or Chaudhary. You have killed the corpse again in one place on Wednesday and in another on Thursday afternoon. That corpse was discovered thirteen hours after the homicide, still submerged in a pool of blood. The coroner has committed no fewer than 13 mistakes in conducting the probe; and finally you have unleashed three gangs onto the protagonist: an abhorrent Irishman, a venom which doesn't show itself in the post-mortem, and a secret cult of murderers specially ridden with carnal desires with high power in the ministerial sphere."
The old man threw up his hand and looked at the roof as he ended his critical concerto.
"Hmm..." Bose continued, "Any more left?"
"Er.. yes," said the other, "Your book has a sackful of misprints, thirty-three harsh inconsistencies, three cases of ignorance, and enough grammar mistakes to stretch from Kutch to Arunachal."
This time Bose laughed heartily, "You seem to be a very solemn reader of my works," he said.
The stranger picked up his rug and kept it on his side, neatly folding it. He pulled down the pillow and kept that above his rug. He moved across and sat opposite to Bose, and took out a gold cigarette case from his overcoat pocket. He selected a cigarette, kept the case in the pocket, found a matchstick, lighted up and started smoking. He drew out the case again and offered it to Bose, "Two Triangles," he said, "I recognize it as your favorite brand."
Pragmatically, Bose never smoked Two Triangles; for a handsome sum he allowed his face to their advertisements, with a quirky testimonial. He took the offered cigarette, and the stranger gave him a matchbox. Bose smoked. Well, they are good - better than he expected, through very heavy.
"Now, as I see it," started the stranger, "the root of a good murder is the presence of clarity. All of your books - or all books in the genre in this case, have a generally manic odds and ends. A really proficient murderer would have no need of equipment, and absolutely no need of training or preparations. Otherwise, he would have borne a good amount of risk of leaving things behind. Why, Mr Bose, Why don't you write a fable on those lines?"
Again Bose sought to laugh it off. He was quite used to laugh off the people who dissed him off. "You do know it wouldn't be much of a story when there's nothing left behind." he retorted.
"I must disagree with you on that, Mr Bose," said the other. "The only thing necessary is a clean and clear murder, followed by a clean and clear answer, so clear that only an adept mind can see it in midst of the veiled mind of the murderer."
"I despise those psychological thrillers" Bose said. "You'd better go and read Kyril Bonfiglioli, or those who'd give out a kidney for an eighth of the money I've earned."
"Oh no, you're quite misunderstanding me. That's not what am saying. There would be no psychological content in the story I have in my mind. It would be more like a Tagore poetry." the other said.
"Hysterical, you mean?" asked Bose.
"Crystal clear," replied the other, "I think it might help you if I illustrate my stand. Shall I disclose with you the murder I have in my mind?"
"If you consider me potently safe for that," chuckled Bose, who found himself suddenly somewhat sleepy.
"I shall cloak this compartment then..." the other said, pulling down the shutters on the windows.
"That's good," he moaned, "We shan't be distracted now. Now think that there are two men in a railway compartment like this one. One of them doesn't care for the other one like in our case... You on me, Mr Bose?"
"Yeah yeah I am... go on." said Bose with eyes drooping. It was his unattended chance to delve into sleep.
"And think, any one of them brought something with him some sort of equipment, what any normal traveler would bring... a belt, rug and a pillow" said the stranger.
"Uhh? Did you say... a belt?" asked Bose, sleep conquering over him, making him unable to mend out things.
"There might be an exception in his equipment... An adulterated cigarette, having a content of Benzodiazepine. Little, not fatal." went on the other.
"What the hec..." muttered Bose, trying his best to be erect and to vanquish his drowsiness.
"So the murderer has a clean field to do things now, doesn't he?" said the old man, rising as he said, throwing the looped belt over Bose's head. "Now, quarter the way?" he said, as he pulled the loop back, keeping Bose's body away by pushing his back by his leg. He fastened the belt. Bose mouth opened like a wide vault, his tongue coming out, his eyes looking up, gurgling very horrifically.
"Then," said the stranger, "the pillow which he brought might be useful now?" He pulled Bose down to the floor and kept the pillow on his face. "Let's add a heavy spice now, what you say Mr Bose?" Bose was still struggling. "What?" said the stranger, his ear near the pillow, "Oh all right then Mr Bose, as you say." He pulled out Bose's suitcase from under the seat and pulled it over his face, and sat upon it, grinning with utmost satisfaction. The struggle was slowly moving out.
"The blanket" said the stranger-now-murderer, "is just redundant, Mr Bose, like you. I should say that murder is much easier than I thought. And what's more amazing is the fact that I'm doing a great service for the retaining of the literary fabric of this world; good riddance."
Bose didn't reply, he was lifeless.
The stranger sat on the suitcase for some time, chuckling lightly. Then he stood up, pushed back the suitcase below the corpse's seat and removed the pillow from his face. His face was very red, blood trickling out from one of the nostrils. After a pertinent survey of the corpse, he removed the belt from the corpse's neck. He then opened one of the shutters and threw out a half-smoked cigarette, disposing the ash from the ashtray too. He then folded his rug, strapped it with the belt. He kept the rug and pillow in his bag and stood up. After smiling at the lifeless face, he opened the door to the corridor, and walked down the train.
"Life..." murmured the stranger, when he crossed into another bogey, "It might make a good story, but poor lad can't make it now."
The body of Amulakh Bose was discovered by one of the pantry-car attendants of the train who was going round for orders. Opening the door of the compartment, which had one of the shutters down, he found Bose, with an utterly unpleasant sight and without a doubt dead, was lying on the floor with eyes looking above, the blood trickling down laterally by his face, creating a red line across his cheek to the floor.
As it was of no doubt that the man was dead, he ran and fetched the ticket checker of the train, witnessing the same reaction he had a few minutes ago. Some authorities were called upon, with the decision being made of halting the train just shy of Betul station, and send for the railway police, before someone scuttles away. It seemed as there are no stations to stop between Itarsi and Betul, the murdered should be on it till now, unless he jumped off the train at maximum speed, ensuring death or heavy injuries.
The police arrived, inspected the body, gathered the compartment in vain for signs of another passenger - for the murderer has taken the precarious precaution of wearing gloves - took the name and address of every passenger on the train, hundreds of them in population, receiving uneasy answers and grunts from the people. The train was then allowed to resume its course.
The people who were in Bose's compartment were kept back for further questioning. Bose's companion was not in the group. He gave his name and address and went on the train as he was found by the police two compartments back from the compartment where he committed his demonstration.
There were 936 passengers on the train. Of them 331 were women, and 258 were children, the rest of them being men. 255 were pulled back as mentioned before. They followed the policeman till the station and the questioning occurred. But it appeared that no one was acquainted with the great Amulakh Bose, not even as readers of his creations. They did a background check on Bose, and it showed no reason why he should've been murdered.
The police tried their level best, and the press did their part to assist, by propagating the news of the murder of a bestselling author and a murderer who left behind no clues. It did gain attention, but no solution to the predicament. Several homeless ruffians confessed to the murder, whom the police disproved by the single fact of ownership of a first-class ticket, keeping all the dimensions in mind. Nothing helpful occurred, creating a risk of cold case.
It was more than five months later that a young business magnate called upon Dev Bakshi, the former official from CBI, and now one of the sleep-cuckoo detectives of India. His sole request was the solving of the mystery of Amulakh Bose's murder.
Bakshi asked the young businessman why he wanted it to be solved in the first place. It appeared that his old uncle, Madhusudan Rai - the CFO of his firm, had bet him fifty lakh rupees to a rupee he could not solve the problem, and he who had the power but not the expertise, would be very willing to have the huge sum of money which his uncle, who had the expertise but not the power, would never blink. When asked the reason for such a peculiar bet, he replied that his uncle had a pertinent knack for silly bets.
"We are a bunch of lousy nutcases," the businessman added, "My uncle was particularly interested in the case because he was in the train when the murder happened."
Bakshi saw no solution in a cold case. He wondered when the police can't do a thing when everything was fresh, what can he do when everything has frozen and all the evidences are vanished? He sent the businessman away with sheer refusal. He wasn't able to get the case out of his mind the whole day. Like the authorities in-charge five months ago, he racked his brain all over. It was quite puzzling, of course.
Bakshi shook his head. Never has occurred that a murderer has got away with no clues left behind. Most likely Madhusudan Rai was crazy, like the rest of the family, Bakshi thought.
It is not clear when Bakshi chose to indulge in this mystery. Perhaps it was when he recollected the fact that Madhusudan Rai was aboard NS Express when the murder occurred. Did Madhusudan Rai notice something that the authorities didn't? Was he giving a shot at publicity? By the information given by the businessman, it was quite clear that Madhusudan Rai was one of those old cracked gentlemen who keep tidbit but valuable information with themselves. At least, this was one thing Bakshi can try.
Bakshi called his friend, Deputy Commissioner Arvind. When told about the case, Arvind laughed out loud.
"Good to see you on this Bakshi," the DC said, "Do solve it. At least we'll be clear of the noose. We've turned sick on Bose's name... Yes? Ah, Yeah Mr Madhusudan Rai was on the express. Umm, I don't know much about him. Well, one of the inspectors at the scene told of him as a complete nutcase. Yeah he wrote about it in a magazine, and those buffoons printed it. He sent it four days later. Look it up? All right, do inform us when you get the murderer."
Bakshi got hold of the day's letters sent to the magazine four days after the murder. He got the letter of Madhusudan Rai. The magazine didn't think much of it, and they shuffled it to the middle pages, for the hotshot divorce of a leading movie director.
Bakshi read the letter-
"Sir,
Our country has witnessed much of the incompetence of the Police department in the past, and it is visible in the recent Amulakh Bose Mystery too. I was one of the passengers of the express on which Mr Bose was killed. I was subjected to questioning, or more of constant annoyance by the authorities, and duly compensated by the incompetent drama going on, at the fruitless inquiry done by the police.
It is quite visible that the police are clueless on the motive which drove to the homicide. Their modus operandi and inquiries prove that notion. According to me, if they think more about the motive and not recycling the same information again and again, the complications of the case would duly disappear. As it is with the world, the truth is plainly out there, it is all matter of perceptions, we being the idiots to recognize it. Answer why was he murdered, and you'll come to see only one person would've done that heinous crime.
Yours,
Madhusudan . K . Rai "
"Oddity," Bakshi mumbled. He read the letter again and again, thinking is the murderer being blown off between the lines somewhere.
Suddenly, he jumped with excitement and drove off to the Police HQ at City Circle. He zoomed into DC Arvind's office. In minutes he prospected something which left the officer dubious.
"I know its unbelievable and uncertain, we might have a thousand-to-one chance here. But we have a chance and I want to use it to the greatest possible extent. I'm not asking the department to carry out something, I just want couple of men with me. Arvind have you gone blind? The whole meaning of this letter is the question of the motive! It is also visible that the writer knows the motive, its like he's boasting around." Bakshi said.
"But that means he's fully mad!" exclaimed the DC. "Who would murder a stranger on the name of demonstration?"
"He is mad, isn't he? And his family's crazy too, imagine betting fifty lakhs for just a murder?" Bakshi retorted.
"How can someone be so kind to shave away his neck on the noose?" Arvind said, resting his face on his hand.
"We can try... If you can't help me I shall go on it alone, but I want a shot on it and I can't afford to miss it," Bakshi said. Arvind agreed.
Bakshi, after this meeting, went to his house and wrote the following letter, with extreme care for imitating the late writer's handwriting. It was sent from the postbox near Amulakh Bose's Amaranjeri bungalow.
"Dear Mr Rai,
I have been brooding over the amazing demonstration you gave me in our meeting a few months ago. I must say that I am not content; and I'd like you to repeat it. I shall return to Delhi this weekend, and travelling again to Amaranjeri on the NS Express next Thursday. If you have a chance to be travelling the same way, we shall meet again.
Yours,
Amulakh Bose"
Someone who resembled the late Amulakh Bose made himself comfortable in the window seat of a first-class compartment in the NS Express. He was alone in the compartment, in contrary to the fact that the train was filling up. No other passenger entered the train once it took off.
The train was still in its feeble speed when the lone traveler realized that someone was standing in the corridor, staring at him. He raised his eyes from the newspaper he was reading, and looked back. The intruder pushed back the sliding door, entered the compartment and sat down in the corner seat.
He was a scroungy little old man, with a beard and baggy clothes. He kept his bag below his seat and took a pillow and a rug tied by a belt. Undoing the belt, he put the pillow behind his head, perched upon the seat and pulled the rug up to his neck. Then, he closed his eyes.
Bakshi didn't react. It was very nerve-wrecking, patience was never his forte. But he was relishing the satisfaction that his chance is moving with a nice pace.
When the train crossed Sevagram, the old man spoke.
"Talking of Homicides," the old man said, "I must apologize for the mistakes I did the last time."
"Not at all," Bakshi retorted, wondering did his voice give him away, "I'd really like to see it again..."
"With the utmost pleasure," the old man said.
He moved carefully to the corner seat opposite to Bakshi, took out a gold cigarette case from one of the pockets in his waistcoat, and offered a cigarette to Bakshi. Bakshi despised smoking, but that doesn't mean he hasn't smoked ever. His work has made him do so. He was bit careful, it might be altered or poisonous. He lit it and the heavy taste turned his doubts into reality.
The old man stood up and turned towards the windows, "I suppose you have no problem with the shutters down?" he said. Bakshi took this minimal advantage of his movement to swap the proffered cigarette with one of his own. Bakshi knew he should signs of the effects, that might be the most likely indication. He yawned deeply.
"You are following me, right?" asked the old man.
"Superbly," said Bakshi slowly, cloaking his voice with drowsiness, "Please... go on.." Slowly he closed his eyes and swooned a little.
The old man took the belt.
"You might remember this step the hard way," he said, trying to loop it over Bakshi's head. Bakshi was too fast for him. He pushed back the old man and pushed a concealed button on the wall to communicate with the next compartment.
Three men came in and grappled with the old man. The old man was totally frozen, as he unsuccessfully tried to ward off these unknown antagonists at bay. They were the policemen in plain clothes, given to Bakshi by Arvindam for assistance. Mr Rai was now laughing hysterically, making restricted bodily actions. "Smarty Pants, Smarty Pants!" he kept howling. The train made an in-advert stop in one of the rural stations. The captors and their fish were unnoticed as the train went away in full speed.
Mr Madhusudan Rai, now in Tihar Jail, is getting into skirmishes with the prison library. The authorities are not supplying him with Amulakh Bose's new book, where he's sure the writer has benefited from his practical and ethical approach towards Murdering.