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The Mystery of the Locked Room

by Subroto Mukerji
As he sat down to have his breakfast, Inspector Shaukeen was feeling on top of
the world. He had gone to bed last night after reading his favourite speculative
fiction short story, The Tunnel Under the World by Frederik Pohl, and the authors
incredible genius had had its usual uplifting effect on his morale. Shaukeen
loved SF (as speculative fiction formerly known as science fiction had come to
be called) because it was the perfect foil for his sordid everyday world, full of the
most desperate follies and the darkest deeds that man was capable of.

As a matter of fact, Shaukeen lived up to his name in many respects. A bachelor

with no family responsibilities, Shaukeen drove a Honda Civic that he had
bought used but in good condition, while most of his married contemporaries
owned battered Santros or Marutis. He loved the good things of life like poetry
and fine music. Beethoven was his favourite composer, closely followed by Bach.
Not only did the diversions help him to relax, they also promoted a meditative
state of mind so useful when it came to solving whodunits.

He was about to pour himself a second cup of tea and cast an eye over the
newspaper headlines when the phone rang. It was always thus: euphoria was
short lived when one was a police officer posted in a line assignment.

It was his boss, the Deputy Commissioner of Police. Shaukeen, have you read
the papers? Theres been a sensational murder in your area, and the number of
phone calls Im getting the Lieutenant Governor, the CM, the Market
Association, citizens forums its not funny. Get there quickly and report.

Sir, its not even eight in the morning, I havent got around to reading the paper.
But Ill take stock of the situation and get back to you.

Not good enough. Get over there and catch the culprit pronto. Thats an order.
The Chief himself is very upset about it.

Dont worry, Sir, said Shaukeen coolly. Murderers always slip up. Ill report
back in the evening.

Shaukeen surveyed the scene. It was a large living room, about twenty feet by
fifteen feet. There were two small ventilators high up near the ceiling, operated
by cords that were affixed to rings on the top and bottom of the swivelling pane,
and there was wire netting outside to keep out vermin. There were a couple of
rugs scattered about on the floor, an old, cobwebby brass lamp was suspended
by a brass chain from a hook in the high ceiling, and an old-fashioned but
comfortable sofa set, complete with a centre table and some peg tables filled the
empty spaces. A small desk and a simple wooden chair occupied a space near the
barred and shuttered windows. The door itself was made of solid oak, and had
been bolted and barred from inside till the police had forced their way in, in
response to urgent calls from sundry tradesmen who called every day at the
house. The flat had been thoroughly ransacked.

The building itself was an old construction known colloquially as a haveli and
dated back to early in the last century, its cold floors paved with granite
flagstones. Thick masonry walls did their bit for climate control. Once road
facing, the haveli had been overwhelmed by urban expansion and, large as it was,
its faade was now obscured by a row of three-storied retail establishments that
had sprung up a decade back. Shaukeen learned from night duty beat constable
Ashok that the man lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood was the owner of
the building itself and had rented out the rest of it by carving out five flats from
the remaining space, which comprised a small bedroom and a surprisingly
modern kitchenette apart from the living room.

As the police photographer and forensic technicians went about their work,
Shakeen sat at the desk and let the atmosphere of the place seep into his
consciousness. After instructing a sub-inspector to gather local information that
might throw light on the dead mans dealings and past history, he told an
assistant sub-inspector to hunt for the murder weapon. It must be somewhere in
the vicinity; the murderer wasnt likely to gift wrap it to take home as a souvenir.

The body bore a deep wound in the back that could only have been made with a
stiletto-shaped object, probably an ice-breaker. The sharp instrument had pierced
the heart, as testified by the copious amounts of blood that had spurted after the
weapon was withdrawn. See what a rent the envious Casca made. Through this
the well-belovd Brutus stabbed. And as he plucked his cursd steel away, Mark
how the blood of Caesar followed it quoted Shaukeen. No one ever said it
better than the Bard of Avon, thought Shaukeen fondly. He couldnt think of a
single human situation that Shakespeare hadnt covered, whether it was
homicide, avarice, romance, marital infidelity, jealousy, envy or hatred.
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For want of anything better to do, Shaukeen opened the drawer of the desk.
There was a diary inside, but apart from sundry household expense accounts,
there was nothing of interest in it. Then, on the very last page, he found a poem:

The Bleeding Heart

I am the hue of early morn

That glows before the golden dawn;

I rose from depths as yet unmined

Created eons before mankind !

Symbol of earthly desire,

With my crimson heart of fire,

I need blood to feed the flame

From which I get my fatal name.

From far below, now overhead,

I slumber in my tarnished bed;

Unseen but always in plain view,

Ancient, but forever new !

Shaukeen was intrigued in spite of himself. When no one was looking, he slipped
the diary into his battered briefcase, left instructions for his field men with the
remaining sub-inspector, and drove back to his cubbyhole of an office.

The forensic report would take a day or two, but the DVD containing the
photographic record was on his desk by five PM. Shaukeen played it back
casually on his laptop; he intended to give it a closer look at home, after dinner.
He phoned the DCP and gave him his verbal assessment of the situation.
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Crack it, Shaukeen, asap. The boss is getting hell from the Press and so are we.
Ill do my best, Sir, said Shaukeen soothingly into the receiver as the line went
dead.

Shaukeen was home by nine. While he showered, the part-time maid let herself
in with her latchkey, did the laundry, cooked his dinner and cleaned up. Dinner
over, he put Ravels Bolero on, snuggled down in his rocking chair and let the
music wash over him. Shaukeen found Ravel profoundly provocative. It was one
of the ways in which he energized his thought processes. Then he did some
Internet-based research, went over the contents of the DVD carefully, handed the
mystery over to his subconscious mind and went to bed.

That night, while he slept, his subconscious mind cracked the case. Shaukeen
knew why the man had been murdered and who the murderer was. All he
needed to do was to tie up a few loose ends

Two days later he convened a meeting of his entire staff at the scene of the crime.
The DCP, mystified but willing, was the special invitee. Shaukeen had a few
words with two burly Head Constables, whom he positioned at the door. Then
after everyone had settled down, he rose to speak.
Respected DCP Central Zone, members of my staff...it is my pleasant duty to
welcome you all to this conference. As you know, the most puzzling part of the
homicide that took place here was the fact that all entrance points were shut.
From inside. Can anyone say what line of reasoning should one take, under the
circumstances? There were no responses. Well, obviously, if we eliminate the
usual entrances, we are left with only one possibility there is a secret tunnel
leading out of here. This homicide was not committed by a ghost!
A buzz went round the room.
Shaukeen continued smoothly. I think, if we look carefully, well eventually find
the entrance to it, probably behind a sliding panel at the back of a wardrobe or
something. The important point here is that someone befriended the murdered
man and somehow wheedled the secret out of him. Someone who knew the area,
had heard the rumour that the victim had sold 500 acres of prime land in the
NCR and had struck a lucrative deal with a well-known building groupa
someone who could use his official position to browbeat the victim. Constable
Ashok, have you anything to say in your defense?
Ashok made a rush for the exit but was apprehended by Yudhveer and Satveer,
the two burly cops on guard duty, and duly handcuffed.
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So thats our murderer. Our own man! Whats the world coming to, when we
have to protect ourselves from the very guardians of the law?
Oh, and did I mention that Sub-Inspector Anoop found the murder weapon, an
ice pick, hidden behind the electric chimney?
Sir, he said, addressing the DCP, all the circumstantial evidence points to
constable Ashoks guilt. He even made a dash for the exit. Im sure hell crack
under sustained interrogation. The DCP wasnt listening; he was on the phone
to the police chief.
Where did the tunnel lead? It led to the victims shop, of course, in the front row
of business establishments. My enquiries lead me to believe his innocuous
looking curio shop was a front for his real business: he was a fence, that is, he
bought stolen merchandise and sold it to unwary buyers who did not realise they
were buying hot goods. Constable Ashok must have retreated through the
tunnel, and used a duplicate set of keys to lock the shutters behind him. It was
night and there was nobody around. He must have got away with a good
amount of cash and valuables. No issues, well recover it, soon enough.
Sir, addressing the beaming DCP, I think the rest can be wrapped up by the
boys. Okay, everyone, back to your posts. The room cleared quickly.

Shaukeen, youve done a great job. I owe you a favour. Tell me.
Shaukeen thought for a moment. Sir, if its not a problem, may I have that old
tarnished brass lamp hanging from the ceiling? Itll make a fine memento.
Done! said the DCP. Its yours; youve truly earned it.

That night, Inspector Shaukeen spread some old newspapers on the bathroom
floor and unscrewed the base of the lamp. The oil had dried up long ago, leaving
behind a gummy residue. Shaukeen probed around in the mess with a
screwdriver till he felt something hard wrapped in a polythene bag. He pried it
out, then reassembled the lamp and put it away.
Then he sliced open the polythene bag and poured the contents into his palm,
flinching as dazzling beams of crimson seared his eyeballs. Crimson flashes
danced across the floor and ceiling as he turned the huge pink diamond over and
over between thumb and forefinger.
The Bleeding Heart! he whispered reverently. Muhammad Ghori snatched it
from Mahmud of Ghaznis feeble descendants. Ghazni had looted it from the
Somnath Temple, which he sacked repeatedly. Prithviraj Chauhan found it in the
fleeing Ghoris baggage after winning the First Battle of Tarain, in 1191 AD.
Ghori won the Second Battle of Tarain, but although he captured and tortured to
death the defeated Prithiviraj, he failed to recover the heart-shaped treasure
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because Prithiviraj had already given it to the Amber ruler in return for military
support. The gem reverted to the Kushwahas and finally to Sawai Mansingh II
and Maharani Gayatri Devi. Indira Gandhi is said to have extorted it from them,
but Sanjay allegedly took it away from her. Thereafter, the trail peters out.
Apparently it disappeared around 1976, during the Emergency. And now, here it
is again, after all these years.
He dialed a Bombay number from an unlisted phone. Done? asked a gruff
voice.
Yes, confirmed Shaukeen.
Meet me two days from now usual place, usual time. There was a click and
the line went dead.

Three days later, Inspector Shaukeen was back in Delhi. He had handed over the
much-bloodied diamond and in exchange had received a Swiss Bank access code
to a numbered account with $25 million in it. A month later, he flew to Zurich,
and from there he took a flight to Cannes, on the French Riviera. Inspector
Shaukeen was eager to lead the life he had always felt he was born for