THE FINAL STORY (FICTION - CRIME)

The impossible could not have happened.

Therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances. 
       - Hercule Poirot in ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ (1934) by Agatha Christie

***

He had been sitting there for the better part of an hour. Staring ahead at rhythmic wave patterns that took shape only to crash into rocks before they made it to the shore. Occasionally he’d turn his head if something caught his attention. The constant traffic of people floating through the sea-side café he was in, did little to catalyse his mind. What had made him even assume that he would find inspiration here, he thought.  Because he certainly didn’t seem anywhere close to it yet. At this rate, it would take him weeks, if not months to finish the book. And with the calendar breathing down his neck, the launch schedule looming large and the publisher constantly reminding him of deadlines, delaying the final chapter was a non-option. But the truth was that in the last 5 days, the book had barely moved 10 pages. 

The case was at a critical juncture, with the wife having confessed to the murder and 2 days left to nail the real culprit. Also, the maid insisted that she had seen the husband holding the blood-stained hockey stick near the dead body. The wife never played hockey, but the husband did sometimes, with the neighbourhood boys. That, among other things, seemed to make this an open-and-shut-case with the culprit clearly marked out. Till the wife confessed, in addition to a confession the police already had! The murder itself had been straight-forward as interpreted by the forensic expert. There was one blow to the skull that had resulted in cerebral haemorrhage and the victim’s instant death. But how could two people have killed one person with one blow from one hockey stick? Especially when each one claimed they’d done it. Inspector Wagle was completely flummoxed and now a bit irritated too.

And he has been so for the last 3 days, since the time Bhaskar had been visiting the sea-side café daily. It was his favourite place in south Mumbai and he had spent many fun and intellectually stimulating evenings here. This time though, he was here with the sole objective of completing the manuscript he had been working on, for several weeks.

***

A young man in his late-twenties, Bhaskar was popular in his friends circle. He lived in a simple 1-bedroom apartment in one of the suburbs of Mumbai. He had come to the city 7 years ago and worked in various places over time. As a child, Bhaskar was inclined to arts and showed reasonable prowess in literature and drawing. However, he always maintained that talent also needs opportunity to flourish. And on the latter’s count, he considered himself less than lucky.

After completing his education, it seemed natural that he should take up a career in advertising, given his creative bent of mind. It was also the one way he could get out of the sleepy little town he had grown up in. He longed for a larger life in the big city. Joining a small firm in Mumbai as junior copy writer, he soon rose into the more lucrative design function. He went on to rise steadily in reputation within the niche space of mid-sized design firms. As Bhaskar moved from one office to another, he handled more responsibility with each change. But he also grew increasingly disillusioned with the work that he was doing. It is not that he didn’t enjoy the designing, brainstorming, client’s appreciation or the occasional creative argument. Yet something was missing from his life.

Two years ago, he began sharing the short stories that he used to pen in his spare time. And for the first time, he heard what people had to say about this side of his personality. It was overwhelmingly positive. Each pat on the back and each loved-your-stories-Bhaskar comment from a friend or colleague filled him with more joy than he had known in a long time.  Goaded by the praise for his story-telling ability, he began to write more and longer hours in the day. Slowly, he realised, that the stories ran through his mind even at work. With some help from a close uncle in the newspaper business, he got in touch with a mid-sized publisher. The publisher was quite impressed with Bhaskar’s play of words and quirky ideas. Enthused by the young man’s talent, he commissioned Bhaskar to write a book based on crime-fiction. There were some rounds of negotiation and eventual agreement, more like going through motions. It was a rather fair deal for a first-time author and Bhaskar had little to complain. He knew this was his ticket to the future he envisioned.

There was only one tough condition. The book had to be launched in exactly 4 months from then. So they needed a complete manuscript of the novel in about 12 weeks. It was the publishing house’s 5^th anniversary and they wanted to launch one new author in 5 different genres. Bhaskar was fortunate to be their choice in the crime-fiction category. How come they hadn’t finalised on a crime-fiction author yet, Bhaskar asked. Either the candidates were already published not up to the mark, was the response. But I strongly think you can make the cut with readers, the publisher added encouragingly.

***

This was the big break that Bhaskar had been dreaming about secretly since years. However, in order to finish the manuscript, he would need to dedicate himself to the task completely. So he went up to his boss and asked for flexibility in work timings. The boss knew of Bhaskar’s talent and inclination and allowed him a long leave of absence of 4 months. Bhaskar didn’t share that he desperately hoped the book would do well and give him a real shot at full-time writing. So he would never have to work a day more in an office again. Keeping his fingers crossed, Bhaskar plunged completely into his first ever foray into mainstream crime fiction. That was 11 weeks ago. He now had 1 week left to submit the complete manuscript. And he was yet to crack the case that Inspector Wagle had almost managed to close the file of. Until the wife messed it all up.

It was Inspector Wagle’s last case as Senior PI in the Byculla police station. He was due to retire in 5 days, an end to a glorious career as investigator who had solved scores of cases over the last 32 years. This was just another of those straight forward cases. A household robbery gone wrong, sudden outburst of unintended violence and eventual homicide.

On preliminary investigation, based on the statements of the involved actors and some side-kicks, the matter unravelled quite simply. What must have happened before, during and after the homicide, was gathered to have transpired as follows –

Some days back, an old tramp chances upon a copy of the house-key of a couple, that stay down the road, and keeps it. He knows it belongs to them as he saw it fall out of the wife’s handbag whilst she removed something else. He is also aware of the house they live in, as he must have seen them enter or exit from it. The couple (admittedly) realises one of their keys is lost but ignore doing anything about it assuming it just fell down someplace. The tramp tracks the movements of the family members every day for a few days. When he feels he has understood the pattern, he waits for his chance to enter the vacant house. And he gets his chance last Wednesday when he ticks off all household members as being out of the house. Wife – Gone for her weekly cookery class. Maid – Mostly called in sick that day, the old tramp didn’t see her enter the house gate. Husband – left for work in the morning as usual. The time was ripe, and the tramp makes up his mind to burgle the house that day. Using the key, he breaks into the house. The fingerprint expert said the old man’s prints were all over the house wardrobes.

Inspector Wagle’s deputy, a baby-faced young sub-inspector of 25 years, was certain that the sequence of events had transpired exactly as the husband confessed in his statement. The old tramp was in the midst of the robbery, busy filling up the gunny sack with whatever valuables he could lay his hands on. He didn’t hear the door being opened by the couple as they walked in. He was startled and attacked them with a meat knife from the kitchen. Husband ran out, picked up a hockey stick from near the shoe-shelf, came rushing back into the kitchen and swung a sharp (and fatal) blow to the tramp’s head. It was completely in self-defence, he said. Else the tramp would have attacked them with the meat knife. The young sub-inspector didn’t doubt the self-defence claim. It was the husband’s word against that of a dead destitute. But a hockey stick near the main door? The husband explained he had got it home the previous evening after the match with the local boys. But what had gone wrong in the tramp’s planning? The husband’s further statement clarified the lapses that had cost the unfortunate burglar his life.

What the tramp hadn’t known, was that the wife’s classes had closed early since the cooking instructor had a sudden bout of botulism. Not the usual Wednesday evening occurrence. What he also didn’t know was – the wife had called the husband to pick her from class, as she wasn’t feeling too well either. So, devoted husband signs off early at work, heads off to the cookery class, picks up the wife and dutifully gets her home. He unlocks the door quietly, habituated of doing so, as he’s been returning late nights when the wife’s asleep (There had been more work at his office recently). On opening the door, he senses something out of the ordinary and tip-toes into the living room, crossing the kitchen on the way but not noticing the burglar. The tramp however, sees him and picks up the meat knife and brandishes it in front of him. The wife yells, husband threatens, burglar panics and starts jabbing the meat knife in the air at the both of them. The rest ensued as mentioned above.

The only eye witness to the incident was the maid who came in early that evening, as she had been instructed by the couple on their way home. Madam wasn’t keeping well and hence the maid needed to take up more of the kitchen chores for the evening, she had been told. As she walked up to the door, she was a bit surprised to see the door ajar and cautiously stepped in. Only to find the husband standing with a blood-stained hockey stick in his hand. An unidentified man in tattered clothes lay on the kitchen floor with blood flowing furiously from a deep gash on his forehead. She screamed in shock and as is typical in such cases, neighbours suddenly popped out from various corners. Some were shocked, some didn’t quite understand what was going on. Stone-faced, the hockey stick still gripped tightly in his hand, the husband asked one of them to call the police. 15 minutes later, Senior Inspector Wagle from the Byculla police station, walked in with his posse and couple of experts, led eagerly by the young baby-faced deputy. 

***

Bhaskar had built the character of Senior Inspector Wagle from his experiences of meeting various people in Mumbai. A small-town boy, he had absorbed impressions from these interactions more deeply than a native typically would. Mixed with his reading habit, his love of cinema and his keen eye for human character traits, Bhaskar had meticulously created Senior Inspector Pandurang Wagle and his world of crime-fighting. Over the last 11 weeks he had churned out 18 adventures captured in short stories that exemplified the sheer genius of Inspector Wagle in solving crime and sometimes preventing it. It was a good collection and Bhaskar was quite proud of what he had written so far.

The 19^th story, last in this anthology, was the finale of the book. The last case that Inspector Wagle would solve and leave the force on a high, similar to most of his time spent in it.  The case had been built in Bhaskar’s mind as many of Inspector Wagle’s others in the manuscript. Barring a few exceptions, where cases were sensational, on account of the manner of crime or characters involved, most of them mirrored life itself. Simple and deceptively unassuming. This last story had so far run quite well and Bhaskar was satisfied with the ordinariness of it all. But it needed a twist, to crack open the plainness. And it had got one now.  

The eager deputy had taken down the statements of the husband, maid and couple of neighbours who had, on probing, developed a ‘vague memory’ of seeing ‘someone’ and hearing ‘something’ inside the house. The experts had brushed all the prints and taken all the photographs as required. Inspector Wagle then directed a constable to handcuff the husband, take the murder weapon appropriately covered, and all to depart for the police station. Just as they were walking out, the wife screamed, ‘He didn’t kill him! I did. My husband is innocent.’ Inspector Wagle stopped in his tracks and turned around. He expected to see a delirious woman, hysterical with agony. Instead he saw a calm and composed woman staring him straight in the eyes, continuing to speak, ‘All that my husband has said so far, is untrue. I killed the man. That is the truth.’ Inspector Wagle looked at the husband whose eyes were staring down at the floor. Without looking up, the husband said, ‘She is lying. I killed him. That is the truth. Inspector Wagle looked bewildered for a moment. Sensing the air of confusion, the husband continued, ‘Check the finger prints on the hockey stick. They are mine.’

And Inspector Wagle took in a long sigh realising this is going to take longer to close than today evening.

Along with Inspector Wagle, Bhaskar heaved a long sigh too. They both had been stuck at the same place since 3 days and it was getting harder to get a breakthrough. Come on Wagle, what exactly is going on here, thought Bhaskar. Who killed the tramp?

The forensic reports that came in the next day confirmed the husband’s claim. There was only one set of prints. The husband’s. The blood blotches on the hockey stick was a clear match with the burglar’s, as expected. But the wife wouldn’t change her statement. And that meant the police couldn’t press charges of homicide against the husband. They had to nail it down to one of them first.

And Inspector Wagle had only 2 days to go. He could either solve the case or pass it on to his successor. The latter course was a non-option for the proud Senior Inspector Wagle.

Bhaskar realised that Inspector Wagle, despite being almost 30 years older, was very similar in personality to himself. At least, they both weren’t the kind to give up. And they both craved the praise associated with their talent. That afternoon, as Bhaskar sat ruminating over the impasse in the sea-side café, Inspector Wagle sat glum in his chair at the Byculla police station running through his final case’s file notes. Both men were on a mission and time was running out.

***

The clock struck half-past 7 in the evening and Bhaskar had just witnessed a beautiful sunset, splitting like a fresh morning egg over the horizon. That was when she walked in to the café. The heavy whiff of perfume brought in by the breeze, first drew his attention and he turned to look in her direction. She must have been 5-1/2 feet, average-looking and could do with losing a few kilos here and there. She was dressed a tad too heavy for a café visit but then was probably headed someplace else from here. As she opened the door tentatively, she first peeped inside and ran a quick glance around the café.

Not noticing the young writer staring at here, she meandered to a table at the far end of the café. She lay down the Hermes lookalike gently on the chair as if it were genuine leather and gold. Then, with considerable elan, she removed the equally cheap Garimaldi lookalike shades from her over-padded face. Having worked with models and designers on a few luxury brands, Bhaskar knew the real deal in clothes and accessories. The perfume was probably the only genuine thing on the woman. Even the clothes revealed a strong attempt at putting it on. He shook his head disapprovingly. With little else to sustain his interest in her, Bhaskar turned back to his laptop screen and resumed his thoughts on Inspector Wagle’s predicament.

Case of the burglar homicide: File Notes:

(Portion of transcript of interrogation of the wife by the sub-inspector)

Wife (responding to a question on the incident): I smashed his head with the hockey stick kept near the main door, when he tried to attack me with the knife. I had come up alone, while my husband was parking his car outside. By the time he got home, the burglar was already lying on the floor. I was too scared and crying copiously. My husband tried to calm me and sat me down on the sofa in the living room while he got me a glass of water. I sipped the water between sobs when my husband went back to the kitchen. The next thing I see, is my maid at the door, shrieking hysterically. I got up to quieten her and explain what had happened.

Sub-inspector: She said she had seen your husband standing near the dead man with the hockey stick in his hand.

Wife: That may be true. He had gone back to the kitchen to check if the man was breathing.

Sub-Inspector: But then why does the hockey stick have only his fingerprints?

Wife: I have no clue. But he didn’t kill the man. I did. With that very hockey stick.

Sub-Inspector: How much time had lapsed between your husband leaving you on the sofa and your maid seeing him in the kitchen?

Wife: Around half a minute, I think.

Sub-Inspector: Could he have tried to clean out your fingerprints?

Wife: Maybe. I don’t know.

There was some more interrogation with regards to the hockey stick’s presence. In summary, the husband used to play with the neighbourhood boys and had a small collection of sports equipment comprising a football, tennis racquet, a couple tennis balls and a hockey stick. Depending on what he played that evening, he would often keep the item by the shoe shelf near the main door, on his return from the game. The couple often had arguments on this untidy habit. But the husband was typical in his nonchalant attitude about not keeping household objects where they belong.

Sub-Inspector: Where exactly near the main door were such things kept?

Wife: Next to the tall shoe-shelf cupboard, where my husband would just drop them.

After a few more questions in the interrogation, the sub-inspector noted in his final comments below:

‘If the suspect did try to erase prints on the hockey stick, there would be traces of the victim’s blood from the stick on some kitchen cloth or his own clothes. There were none. Neither was the stick wet which rules out washing off the blood or finger prints. Given that the suspect is not a regular criminal and would have been in an agitated state of mind, one could expect some slippage in the form of some of his wife’s fingerprints remaining on the stick. There were absolutely none. In my opinion, it unlikely then that the suspect has tampered with the evidence. The wife is bluffing in order to protect her husband.’

Inspector Wagle concurred with the sub-inspector. He had gone through the forensic reports and the hockey stick was ‘clean’. He had met the couple himself, seen the scene of crime, the victim’s wound, the maid, read the neighbours’ statements and had not an iota of doubt that the husband alone had wielded the murder weapon. Still, something didn’t ring right. The wife was not protecting her husband. He had been through scores of cases in his career and he knew a bluff from an honest claim. This woman wasn’t faking her guilt. She was genuinely convinced she had killed the burglar. But how was that possible? Inspector Wagle shut the file and hit his fist onto the table in frustration. Women! Always complicating things.  

***

Around 20 minutes would have passed since the woman had entered the café, when some commotion at the billing counter broke into Bhaskar’s thoughts. The same over-dressed woman was standing there and gesticulating wildly. Directing his ears to the conversation there, Bhaskar was able to somewhat gather what had agitated the woman so much.

Woman: This is not what I had asked for! It has peanuts in it! I had specifically said no peanuts. I am ALLERGIC TO PEANUTS! Don’t you people check for explicitly mentioned requests in the order? 

Counter boy: Yes ma’am, I am so so sorry, but I don’t know why this got slipped. I will just check.

The counter boy waved out frantically to the chef from the kitchen, who came rather diffidently. The two had a quick exchange that Bhaskar couldn’t hear but did make out that the chef vehemently denied any mistake.

Chef: It is impossible! If the customer has made a specific request, I will ensure it. Look, I will get 

you the order as I have received it. I am sure there was no mention of ‘no peanuts’. 

With these words, the chef marched off into the kitchen. After a couple of minutes, he emerged with a paper in his hand.‘See, I told you. It says here – ‘Miss.... Meera? Yes? It says here one Burmese Khowsuey. All condiments included.’ Where does it say “no peanuts’? See…’ 

The counter boy took the paper from the chef’s hand and went through it himself. The chef was right. There was no specific instruction regarding peanuts. How could this happen?

Anyway, the woman was right as she claimed. But so was the chef in following the order. Clearly someone had slipped. The counter boy had just come into the shift and wasn’t sure if the previous one had slipped. He must have missed out writing this on the order before sending it to the kitchen, the counter boy reasoned in his mind. For now, he had more important matters to deal with, the first one being to calm the woman. With some degree of perspicacity, he tried to do so. But it was not enough for her and she stormed out of the café, her lookalike accessories in tow. Apparently, she had eaten couple of bites of her dish without realising the presence of peanuts. Now she was too nauseous to even stand, very hungry and would get late for a party if she ‘entertained their lame apologies’. As Bhaskar watched her slam the door behind her, he wondered how someone so nauseous could walk straight with so much fury.

This little distractive episode behind him, Bhaskar got back to the manuscript. He had spent only a few minutes on the keyboard, when a new conversation at the counter distracted him again.

One of the women from a group some distance from Bhaskar, had gone up to the counter and was pointing out a mistake made by the chef. Oh dear, there goes the chef again, thought Bhaskar.

Woman: Hello, I had ordered a Burmese Khowsuey sometime ago and it was delivered to our table 

along with the other dishes. But …

Counter boy (looking exasperated with the mention of Burmese Khowsuey): Yes ma’am… But?

Woman: Well, isn’t the Khowsuey supposed to have peanuts? It seems to be the only ingredient missing.

Counter boy (now looking a bit nervous): Uh… yes ma’am. It does have peanuts. I will check on the order with the chef and come back to you right away. By the way, may I have your name please for this purpose?

Woman: Sure. It’s Meera.

***

Bhaskar watched this interaction, amused at drama that had unfolded. He reflected on the dark humour destiny sometimes inflicts upon people. Without them even realising they were a subject of it. Even as he was absorbing what he had just witnessed, the next instant, an idea hit Bhaskar right in the middle of his head. He knew then, exactly what Inspector Wagle had overlooked, in the case of the dead tramp. Barely able to control his excitement, Bhaskar turned away from the little matter at the counter back to his laptop screen. Taking a deep breath and with a broad smile, he began to feverishly type away as the thoughts raced through his mind.    

Inspector Wagle had gone through the file notes a dozen times already. He was now quite weary of it all and wanted to clear his mind. Sitting with his deputy, he shared his predicament of being unable to break the deadlock caused by the double confession.

Inspector Wagle: So… any change in the wife’s statement? Or is she still adamant on protecting him? Have you told her that we will go soft on her husband? We know he acted in self-defence.

Sub-Inspector: Sorry Sir, but she won’t budge. Couple of times, I even felt she was telling the truth! But it just isn’t possible that she could have killed the fellow. The evidence clearly points in the husband’s direction.

The two men were having a similar conversation for the fourth time in two days. Evidently, there hadn’t been any progress in either man’s mind on the dilemma thrown up by the wife. The husband was in their custody and he obviously was fixed in his confession.

Inspector Wagle (shaking his head as if trying to clear thoughts out of it): Hmmm… Let us try a different approach then... What if we assume, just hypothetically, that the wife is telling the truth? Where would that put the husband then?

The sub-inspector looked baffled, but he knew better than to react to the comment or counter it. Nodding his head understandingly, he simply shrugged, ‘I really don’t know, Sir.’

Inspector Wagle (continuing on his train of thought): If the wife did indeed commit the homicide, as she claims and the rest of her account is true, that means the husband is lying. Why? To protect her most likely. But the wife doesn’t know any more than she’s told us. That is my gut feel and I am pretty sure of it. Which means the husband is alone in this game of deception. How does then one reconcile, that the wife isn’t aware of the husband’s bluff and more importantly, how does the evidence support the husband’s statement? So… they aren’t working in collaboration but at the same time, the husband has swung the evidence his way. You know, as in, against him. In that way.

The sub-inspector was now thinking hard. And blinking equally hard to convey that. But he didn’t feel any wiser.

Inspector Wagle continued: Tell me, did we do a complete search of the house?

Sub-inspector: Sir, there was no need to. The murder weapon was found at the scene of crime, the confession was given on the spot by the suspect and he was caught red-handed by an eye-witness who has given a written testimony. Why would we need to search and what would we search for?

Inspector Wagle: Hmmm… I want to know more about the boys who used to play regularly with the husband. Can you round them up at the police station for me in the next two hours? And also go back and conduct a thorough check of the house. Especially the kitchen. And don’t forget the main door area.

The sub-inspector nodded and promptly left to execute the instructions just handed out to him.

***

Bhaskar was close to the finale of the final case in his book. His heart was beating with palpable excitement of knowing how close he was to the end of the first leg of his journey. The full manuscript of his very first book. He smiled in anticipation of good times to come.

But Inspector Wagle was still to cover some ground. He had a hypothesis but that would only be borne true or otherwise by time. And that time depended on how quickly Bhaskar completed typing out the last chapter. Breaking out of his sweet reverie, Bhaskar went back to the keyboard.

When the boys were all assembled at the police station, Inspector Wagle asked them several questions about the husband, his temperament, their sports and play habits and such. They were a group of neighbourhood boys who used to play regularly in the grounds next to the couple’s home and the husband would often join them. He is a good man, often helps us with money to fund little things we need and no, he couldn’t have committed a murder, they all emphasized. I already know that, thought Inspector Wagle, I need something new.

He asked a few questions about their hockey.

Inspector Wagle: Since when are you all playing hockey?

Boy 1: Sir, it has been close to 2-3 weeks since we started. We used to play a lot of football during the rains. But as soon as the monsoons thinned out and stopped, we wanted to start playing hockey. You need a dry ground for hockey, Sir. So we asked the master (they referred to the husband as ‘master’ of the house) if he would join us in playing hockey as he did in football. He told us he would love to. Apparently, not long ago, he used to play hockey at school or college or something. He also bought us each a hockey stick as we couldn’t afford them. We have been playing since then and it has been so much fun. Is he alright, Sir? I had seen that tramp loitering around for a few days, a no-good fellow. Always high on dope and abusing passers-by.  I know he probably got what he deserved and if the kind master hadn’t hit him, he would definitely have attacked the master! Maybe even killed him. I heard he had taken an iron rod into the house?

Inspector Wagle smugly shook his head to indicate there was no iron rod involved. How the overactive media and idle public imagination manage to cook up facts out of thin air, he reflected.

Continuing the chat, Inspector Wagle asked about the hockey sticks in particular.

Boy 2: Sir, All 4 of us who couldn’t afford a hockey stick. So the master bought one for each of us. And one for himself.

Inspector Wagle: And, do all of you have the same hockey stick?

Boy 3: Yes, sir. We all have the same hockey stick.

Inspector Wagle: If I ask you to get your hockey sticks to the police station, could you do that for me?

All the boys (in chorus): Absolutely Sir, we will go back and get it. Do you want to see them now?

Boy 4: Sir, I am afraid I cannot get my hockey stick.

Inspector Wagle, his curiosity aroused: Why is that? Have you lost it? Broken it?

Boy 4: Oh no Sir, none of all that. Well, I cannot get it because I don’t have it with me.

Inspector Wagle: You don’t have it with you? What does that mean?

Boy 4: Sir, I was out of town for the last fortnight visiting my village. We have an annual function there for which I had accompanied my parents. I got back just last evening. So, I have not yet got the hockey stick that the master has got for me. That is why I cannot give it to you.

The boy had barely finished his last sentence, when the baby-faced sub-inspector came barging into Inspector Wagle’s office. He was extremely excited and carried with him something wrapped in cloth. Inspector Wagle looked up at him slowly and gestured one of the constables to take the boys out of his office.

Inspector Wagle: Yes my boy, what is it that makes you come in without knocking on the door and with such vigour?

Sub-Inspector (barely able to conceal his excitement): Sir, you won’t believe what just happened!

Inspector Wagle (having heard that phrase often in his career): Well… what just happened?

Sub-inspector: Look what we found in the house!

With that, the enthusiastic deputy delicately unwrapped the package he was carrying. It was a hockey stick with dried blood patches on the curved head.

Inspector Wagle smiled: ‘Hmmm… And where did you find that?

Sub-inspector: Near the main door, jammed neatly behind the shoe cupboard. Where one wouldn’t find anything unless one went looking for it. There is barely any space between the wall and the cupboard and the stick was tightly ensconced in the gap!

Inspector Wagle nodded with admiration at the sub-inspector’s meticulous execution of his order.

Inspector Wagle: This is good work, my boy. Now have the hockey stick sent to the lab for comparing the DNA of the blood patches on it with the victim’s. My guess is they will be a 100% match. I will also wager that you will find the wife’s fingerprints on this hockey stick, along with the husband’s. Thereafter take this to the husband and confront him with this evidence and tell him his story is blown. I imagine, after seeing what we now know, he will confess to misleading us which he did only to protect his wife. He is a good man and his sacrifice for his wife confirms this even more. I feel bad for them and pride at the same time, in what each of them has done, to protect the other. It is unfortunate what has happened but we have to do our duty.’

***

Bhaskar started to put down the last sentences to his last story of Inspector Wagle’s exploits. They ran something to this effect –

So, it seemed that the wife was indeed right after all. The burglar had died instantly from the impact of the blow of the hockey stick by the wife. The husband had taken the blame on himself because he wanted to protect the woman he loved. What she hadn’t known was how he had almost managed to do that and hoodwink the police. In those few brief seconds that he had sat his wife down on the sofa to regain composure of herself, the husband had seen their maid approaching the house from a distance. He left his wife seated in the living room as he went back to the kitchen.

With no time to wipe out evidence connecting his wife to the homicide (Inspector Wagle wasn’t sure the husband even intended to do so), he quickly picked up the murder weapon and jammed it stuck between the wall and the back of the shoe cupboard. There was the second unused hockey stick, incidentally unknown to anyone else. It was kept on top of the cupboard, to be given to the boy he had bought it for, on the boy’s return. Taking this hockey stick off the cupboard, the husband rolled it over the gash on the burglar’s forehead to cover it with blood and transform it into the murder weapon. And that is how he did it.

The police had finally got their culprit. Once again, despite trickery and deception, Inspector Wagle had solved a case that had found its way into his jurisdiction. He was now all set for a grand farewell from the force.

***

Bhaskar continued to type away on the keyboard, the tapping of the keys now audible to the rest of patrons in the restaurant. What could this young man be writing so furiously, some wondered. Little did they know, the young man was about to embark on the start of a new journey, as a famed writer. He certainly hoped so. The clickety-clack of the keyboard’s buttons slowed down as Bhaskar wrote the final words of his manuscript bringing it to a close.

The End.