by RV Raman
Moments later, a gunshot sounded. Then another. Athreya stood riveted to the window, his eyes wide open and his ears primed. He had the rare opportunity to witness the drama as it was happening. It was imperative that he continued to watch—others would respond to Sebastian’s call. His eyes focused on the hazy blotch of light at the distance, which was the chapel door.
Even as these thoughts flashed through his mind, he heard sounds from inside the mansion. Manu was opening his door. Feet thudded across the floor of the room above his.
The blotch of light he was looking at dimmed momentarily as a figure appeared in the chapel’s doorway. It kicked at something very close to the threshold, and Athreya saw long legs scissoring as it ran out of the door. It wore darkish trousers and some sort of a jacket.
Just as the figure seemed to have escaped, a hand shot out from inside the chapel and caught it by the jacket. With a jerk, the figure yanked it away and ran, heading down the walkway parallel to the mansion.
Within a few yards of the chapel door, the figure melted away into the night, as the light from the chapel faded. Athreya heard footsteps down the walkway, past his window. But he could see nothing.
Meanwhile, the mansion had erupted in an assortment of sounds. Bhaskar bellowed for Sebastian and Manu. Manu’s door had flown open. Someone was running across the floor above. Michelle and Dora’s high-pitched voices were asking questions that drew no answers. Doors thudded somewhere farther off, probably in the staff quarters.
When he was sure there was nothing more to see, Athreya turned from the windows, pulled on his jacket and hurried out of his room into the lighted corridor. He ran to Bhaskar’s door, knocked perfunctorily and pushed it open.
Bhaskar was sitting up in bed with his automatic in his hand.
‘What happened?’ he demanded.
‘Shots at the chapel,’ Athreya snapped back. ‘Stay here and keep your automatic handy. Someone has a gun. I’ll come back.’
Leaving Bhaskar’s door open, he ran out of the back door, toward the chapel. When he got there, he found Manu and Ganesh bending over Sebastian, who was lying in the aisle, close to the door. His nightshirt was drenched in blood from two very visible, gaping wounds. His eyes had glazed over and he didn’t seem to be breathing. In his hand was a ripped piece of cloth.
‘Call Michelle!’ Manu yelled to Athreya.
Athreya spun around and ran back to the back door of the mansion, where Murugan and Gopal were standing, having just emerged from the staff quarters. Athreya ran into the gallery’s corridor, calling for Michelle at the top of his voice.
‘Coming!’ she yelled back and ran down the stairs with her medical bag.
‘Sebastian has been shot!’ Athreya called to Bhaskar through his open door and ran to the chapel with Michelle.
Within a minute, he knew that there was little hope. The bullet wounds were near the heart, and Sebastian’s eyes had rolled upward. As Athreya stepped around the fallen man, his foot touched something on the floor. It was a soft leather pouch, flat and rectangular. It must have fallen when Sebastian ripped the killer’s jacket. At once he knew what the pouch was: a set of lock picks.
Taking a paper napkin from Michelle’s medical bag, he picked it up and dropped it into his pocket. Lock-picking, he knew from experience, was notoriously difficult to do with gloved hands. Moreover, the metal handles of the lock picks carried fingerprints very well.
He walked slowly down the aisle and stopped a yard or two from the altar. Someone had opened the two small cabinets built into the wooden stands that supported the ends of the altar stone.
He looked up at the mural of Jesus on the cross. It was looking down at him and the altar. At that moment, things fell into place. He knew what his subconscious mind had been trying to tell him through the last sketch. He knew whose fingerprints he would find on the lock picks.
Chapter 18
An hour later, Athreya stood where Phillip had been killed, in front of the dais and the altar that stood on it. So, both murders had something to do with the altar. Blood had been spilled before it, the wooden cabinets below it had been forced open, and the candles on had been moved around. Something about the altar had instigated two murders. He climbed up the steps, switched on the lights above the altar and stood behind it, studying it.
From his wallet, he pulled out a very thin, flexible strip of plastic. This he inserted between two of the stone slabs—the ones in the middle and on the left side—that formed the top of the altar. The plastic strip slid inside easily. He held it in place and moved it along the hairline crack between the two stones. It went all the way to the far edge of the altar.
He repeated the exercise along the crack between the middle and right-side slabs. The strip slid through the length without resistance. The forensic man had been right. The three slabs that made up the altar stone were not attached to each other.
This meant two things. First, the altar top had been designed as three separate pieces that were structurally independent of each other. And second, if they were structurally separate, they should be able to move independently of each other.
He crouched on the floor and shone his torch into one of the small cabinets—more cubbyholes than cabinets—built into the wooden supports that held up the ends of the altar top. It was empty. He did the same thing at the cubbyhole at the other end of the altar. Same result: it, too, was empty.
Athreya stood up and considered the possibilities. Had the cubbyholes contained something? Had Sebastian’s murderer taken away whatever they had contained? Or did the cubbyholes serve an entirely different purpose? If they did, they warranted a closer examination.
He lay down on the floor with his head at the opening of one of the cubbyholes. Resting one cheek on the floor, he peered into the dark recess. The torch that was pressed to his other cheek cast a beam into the space. At first glance, the black-painted interior seemed empty and featureless.
After a few moments, he noticed what seemed to be a small plastic box, also black, attached to the roof of the compartment at the very corner. It seemed to be a small connection box or some sort of device that came along with electronic gadgets. On closer examination, he saw the bulge of a tiny LED bulb peeping out of a hole in the box. It was the kind of LED that served as an indicator whether the box was receiving power or not.
Athreya rose and went to the large cupboard at one end of the dais and opened it. He had seen a row of switches there. Several of them were already on. He flipped down the rest, one by one. A few more lights came to life, but two switches seemed to do nothing.
Leaving them on, he returned to the cubbyhole and peered into it. The tiny LED was now glowing red. Still lying down with his cheek pressed against the floor, he probed the box with his fingers. He found a small gap between it and the side wall of the compartment. At once, he saw four wires: two black and two red, running from the plastic box into the wood.
He raised himself on his elbows and sat cross-legged on the floor, his mind churning. He was beginning to see why the altar had attracted so much attention. He now viewed the gilded altar with fresh eyes, taking in the solid combination of wood, stone and metal. Two polished wood cabinets and five metal pillars supported the heavy altar stone, which itself comprised three sections. The two end sections of the stone rested on the wooden cabinets, while the middle section stood on the metal pillars.
Having studied the cabinets, he transferred his attention to the pillars. They were made of stainless steel, and were each about five inches thick. The bottom ends had been embedded into the stone floor and fastened with metal brackets. But the top ends had not.
Rather than being attached to the stone slab they supported, the top ends ran into slightly larger stainless-steel tubes that were about three inches long. The fit was perfect. The three-inch-long metal tubes, which were attached to the stone slab with brackets, were just large enough for the five pillars to fit snugly into them.
At
hreya slowly stood up and looked around. He was alone in the chapel. Sebastian’s body lay where it had fallen, waiting for the police and the forensic team to arrive. Athreya went to the large cupboard at the end of the dais and turned off the switches. The lights over the aisle continued to glow as he made his way to the door.
There, he stood for a moment looking down at the still form of Sebastian. He slowly shook his head and walked out. He now knew the secret of the chapel. He knew what had brought Phillip and Sebastian’s murderer there.
What he needed was confirmation and corroborative evidence.
* * *
Back in his room, Athreya found that he had received a message. His contact in Delhi had obtained new information from Europe, and had sent it to Athreya in the wee hours of the night. There were seventeen articles related to significant happenings in the art world around Vienna in 1994 and 1995. Athreya read through them one by one, three pieces stood out:
MARCEL FESSLER KILLED
Marcel Fessler, a reclusive art collector aged 77, was accidentally killed when a burglar broke into his suburban home with the intent of stealing pieces of art from his collection. It is believed that the burglar was surprised by Mr. Fessler. When the burglar employed force in a bid to escape, Mr. Fessler fell and hit his head on the base of a marble statue and died. The burglar escaped without carrying out his intent to steal pieces of art. Having been seen by two witnesses while fleeing, the burglar was identified as one Jacob Lopez, and later apprehended. He was sentenced to twelve years’ imprisonment for manslaughter and attempted burglary.
Note: Jacob Lopez was released from prison in 2007.
KÜNZI BROTHERS KILLED IN CAR CRASH
The two Künzi Brothers, suspected to be dealers in stolen art, and possibly art thieves themselves, died in a car crash when the vehicle they were travelling in went off a mountainous road in the Danube valley, forty miles north-west of Vienna. The car is said to have fallen 300 feet into a ravine and exploded, charring its occupants. There were no eyewitnesses to the accident.
BALSANO LANDSCAPES BOUGHT FOR
$27 MILLION
Four paintings by renowned artist Fabian Balsano were auctioned for an astonishing price of $26,850,000. The paintings, sold by the estate of the German billionaire Stefan Koch, were purchased by an agent on behalf of an unknown buyer.
Athreya replied, asking his contact to compare Jacob Lopez’s fingerprints with the sets that he had sent, and to see if any link between Jacob and Philipose could be established.
He then sent a message to Rajan, asking him to call once he was awake, and was surprised to receive a call right away. Rajan, it seemed, had risen before the sun.
‘Do you know anyone in Coorg?’ Athreya asked. ‘I need to have some enquiries made urgently, preferably before people start work today.’
‘There is a team looking into drug trafficking in the Western Ghats,’ Rajan said. ‘There is apparently a chain operating from Kodai to Ooty to Coorg. They were here on Saturday. One member of the team has gone to Coorg. I can speak to him. What do you need him to do?’
Athreya told him.
* * *
Two hours later, Athreya was riding in the police wagon carrying Sebastian’s body to Coonoor for an autopsy. Leaving Greybrooke Manor in Inspector Muthu’s charge, with instructions not to let anyone leave, especially Abbas, Athreya had hitched a ride to Coonoor.
His first stop was the police lock-up where the mongrel was being detained. After verifying with the policemen on duty that he had been in the jail all night, Athreya went to speak to the prisoner.
The nickname turned out to be apt. It perfectly described the small-built, bellicose man, who was given to quick movements. He had an angular face with quick, hostile eyes and ears that seemed to stand out a little from his head. A narrow mouth under a drooping moustache and twitching eyebrows completed the picture.
The mongrel watched warily as Athreya entered the cell. He remained silent, made no movement and stared unblinkingly. A constable brought a chair for Athreya, which he took silently.
When the constable left, the mongrel finally spoke.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, his voice sounding like the soft growl.
‘I am investigating Phillip’s murder,’ Athreya replied. ‘I heard about your offer to Mr. Fernandez.’
Slowly, the wary look melted, and a smug one took its place. The prisoner relaxed visibly as his eyes ran over Athreya afresh, taking in the lack of uniform or anything else that could be remotely official. Athreya could almost hear his thoughts: Here is a private representative of Bhaskar, having come to negotiate.
‘I have said what I had to say,’ the mongrel declared quietly. ‘It is Fernandez’s turn to act. There is nothing to talk about till he fulfils his part of the bargain.’
‘Is there a bargain?’ Athreya asked mildly. ‘The lawyer carried your offer to Mr. Fernandez. What makes you think he accepted it?’
‘He has no choice.’ the little man snarled, looking more like a mongrel than ever. ‘Otherwise, he will never know who took out a contract on him.’
‘He already knows,’ Athreya countered. ‘So do I. So does everyone else at Greybrooke Manor.’
‘You lie.’
A moment later, the mongrel grinned as he grew assured. He let out a long chuckle. He seemed to think Athreya was bluffing. He leaned back and laced his fingers.
‘I know your type,’ he said. ‘You have come to negotiate. You will first bluff. Then you will act as if nothing matters to Fernandez. And finally, you will threaten.’
‘You seem to be very sure of yourself,’ Athreya chuckled. ‘For a man who holds no trump cards, you are overly confident and brash. You are playing from a poor hand, my friend. You hold no high cards—no aces or kings. Only small, useless cards.’
‘Ah! This is the first scene where you bluff.’ The little man smirked. ‘Go on, go on. I’ll play along.’
‘Excellent.’ Athreya nodded. ‘Since we understand each other, let me tell you a little story. I’m talking about what you did three months ago.
‘After dinner, when it was dark and misty, you skulked over to Greybrooke Manor from the Misty Valley Resort. You walked alone with the only companion you trusted—a narrow dagger with a wooden handle bound in leather.
‘On reaching the mansion, you waited. You saw Sebastian and the younger Fernandez go about the house, locking the doors and windows. But you were not concerned. You knew that you would have a way in when the time came. You waited for the sign from the window of the middle room on the ground floor, the room I am now staying in. It was then occupied by Phillip.’
The mongrel’s smirk faded a little at the mention of the name and the identification of the window.
‘At length, the window opened and the sign came. All you had to do was to climb up six or seven feet to the windowsill. You did that, and entered the room. You then opened the door and entered the dark corridor, where you turned right. Old man Fernandez must be asleep by now, you thought. In any case, he was a cripple.
‘But you were mistaken. Mr. Fernandez was not asleep. Nor was he as helpless as you supposed. You entered and went towards his bed, only to find him rising with a gun in his hand. Did you know that he chose not to kill you?
‘You dropped your dagger when the bullet hit your leg. You had a choice to make, as you were already halfway into his room. You could go back the way you came, but Phillip’s door might be closed. Alternatively, there was a set of unbarred French windows in front of you. You chose the latter.
‘Somehow, you limped your way to the Misty Valley Resort where Ismail hid you. The same night, a vehicle took you to Coimbatore, were a crooked doctor dressed your bullet wound.’
Athreya paused and waited for the mongrel to assimilate what he had said.
‘Now,’ he continued, ‘you have heard me name two people who helped you: Phillip and Ismail. But neither of them was the one who commissioned you.
Ismail was an agent, and Phillip was a helper. The boss was someone else.
‘I will give you two more names. Then, you tell me if I am bluffing. The names are Abbas and Murthy.’
At the beginning of Athreya’s monologue, the mongrel’s expression had been of one who had bet everything on a single card, which he believed was a winner. He now looked like someone whose hand had turned out to be a dud. The smirk had been wiped off, and his assurance shattered. He had just realized that he had no more cards to play.
‘So you see,’ Athreya continued softly, ‘there is no bargain to be made. Mr. Fernandez has rejected your offer out of hand. He will have no truck with you. At this point, let me let you in on a secret…Mr. Fernandez doesn’t know I am here. He doesn’t know that I have come to see you.’
‘Then why are you here?’ the mongrel croaked.
‘I will tell you, but before that, I am going to make out another case against you. One that Inspector Muthu is convinced about. What happened three months ago was attempted murder. The case against you now is for murder; the murder of Phillip.’
‘I did not kill Phillip,’ the mongrel snarled.
‘No?’ Athreya mocked. ‘Inspector Muthu thinks you did. He can’t be convinced otherwise. Permit me to lay out the case against you.’
The mongrel was staring at him with wide, fearful eyes.
‘You were at the Misty Valley Resort on Friday night,’ Athreya began. ‘That too was a foggy, murky night like the one three months ago. Abbas and Phillip were already at Greybrooke Manor. Murthy went there at 11 p.m. You followed him.
‘You lurked for a long time as the residents of the mansion wandered about the lawns and gardens. Hidden by the thick fog, you crept about, keeping out of people’s way, but overhearing their conversations. You overheard a very interesting discussion between Abbas and Murthy at the rock garden; one that gave you material for blackmail in the future.’