For the next hour, Neel was the perfect waiter. He moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency, refilling glasses of whiskey and collecting empty plates. He kept his ears open, filtering the low hum of conversation. The talk was of stock prices, political favors, and corporate takeovers—the casual dialogue of kings. He learned that Abhijit Singh was staying in the Maharani Suite on the top floor of the private wing and that his personal security detail was stationed outside the suite's main door.
Neel's objective was to get into that suite. He needed proof, something tangible to connect Singh to the Jigsaw murders, something he could use to force Alok's hand. But the suite was a fortress within a fortress.
Then, his opportunity arrived, not with a bang, but with a spill.
A boisterous industrialist at the main table, laughing at one of Singh's jokes, gestured too widely and knocked a full glass of red wine onto a smaller side table. The wine splashed across a box of Singh's personal, hand-rolled cigars, soaking them.
"Idiot!" Singh snapped, his good humor vanishing in an instant. The laughter at the table died. The industrialist stammered an apology.
"These are ruined," Singh said, gesturing to the soaked box with disgust. "I have more in my suite. In the humidor on my desk."
He looked around for the head of his security, a formidable man with a scar on his cheek who stood near the entrance. "Nayak, get one of my staff to..."
Before he could finish, Neel stepped forward, his tray held perfectly level. "Sir, if I may," he said, his voice soft and deferential, a perfect imitation of 'Rahul the waiter.' "I can fetch them for you immediately. I wouldn't want to trouble your security staff."
Singh looked at him, his eyes lingering on Neel for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. It was a look of pure assessment, like a hawk deciding if a mouse was worth the effort of swooping down. Neel held his breath, keeping his own eyes respectfully lowered.
"Fine," Singh said, turning to his security head. "Nayak, give him your keycard. See that he goes straight to the suite and straight back. Take longer than five minutes, and my men will find you."
Nayak, the security head, looked Neel up and down with open suspicion. He pulled a black, unmarked keycard from his pocket and held it out. "Top floor. Maharani Suite. Don't touch anything but the cigar box on the desk. Understood?"
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir," Neel murmured, taking the keycard. The cool, smooth plastic felt like a live wire in his hand. It was the key to the entire investigation.
He gave a slight bow and turned, walking out of the poker room with a measured, unhurried pace. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hurry before they changed their minds. But he remained calm, just another waiter on an errand.
He stepped into the private, velvet-lined elevator, the doors closing him into a silent, gilded cage. He pressed the button for the top floor. He had five minutes. Five minutes inside the devil's private sanctuary to find a decade's worth of proof. The elevator began its silent ascent.