While Jaipur was consumed by the ghost of a prince, Jodhpur baked in the familiar, oppressive heat of a late summer afternoon. Here, two hundred miles to the west, the world was a different shade. The sky was a vast, bleached blue, and the city below was a labyrinth of azure walls and narrow lanes, the air thick with the scent of spices and sand.
In the shaded courtyard of a quiet, forgotten haveli, Neel Verma sat before a weathered marble chessboard. The silence here was his own creation, a carefully constructed fortress against the noise of the world. Across from him, his opponent, an elderly man named Om Prakash, the haveli's longtime caretaker, grimaced at the board, his brow furrowed in concentration.
For the past year, this had been Neel's life. After the maelstrom of the Abhijit Singh case, after the media had branded him "The Ghost of the CBI," he had retreated. He took on small, private cases—a missing heirloom, a suspected infidelity, a quiet background check—cases that required logic but no emotional investment. They were mental exercises, nothing more. They paid the bills and, more importantly, they kept the ghosts of his past at bay.
He moved his rook, a clean, decisive slide across the board. Check.
Om Prakash sighed, scratching his white beard. "You see the whole board, Neel-ji. I only see the next move."
"The next move is all that matters," Neel replied, his voice a low monotone. It wasn't a platitude; it was the core of his philosophy. See the move in front of you, see its consequences, and see the countermove. The rest was just noise.
His phone, a simple, featureless device he kept for a single purpose, began to vibrate on the table beside him. He rarely received calls. He glanced at the screen. The name displayed was 'Alok.' A name from another life. He let it vibrate for a full ten seconds before answering, his expression unchanging.
"Neel," the voice on the other end was gruff, weary, and deeply familiar. It was Inspector Alok Prakash, his former partner, the one man who had stood by him when the CBI had cast him out.
"Alok," Neel said, his eyes still on the chessboard.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important." Alok's tone suggested he knew he was.
"A game of chess."
There was a pause. Alok knew that for Neel, a game of chess was often the most important thing in the world. "Listen, something's happened. Not here. In Jaipur."
Neel remained silent, waiting. Alok knew he wouldn't waste time with pleasantries.
"There's been a murder," Alok continued. "A high-profile one. An archaeologist named Alok Sharma. He was found this morning inside Nahargarh Fort."
Neel's focus didn't shift from the board. Murders happened every day.
"The interesting part," Alok said, his voice dropping slightly, "is that he was in a room that was bolted from the inside. Solid iron bolt. Barred windows. No other way in or out. The local police are stumped."
Neel's hand, which had been hovering over a knight, stopped. A locked room. A logical impossibility. A puzzle. It was a specific tune, and a part of his mind he kept dormant began to stir.
"The whole city is in a panic," Alok went on. "They're blaming it on the ghost of some Rathore prince. Saying the doctor disturbed his tomb. The media is eating it up. It's a circus."
"Superstition is a useful cloak for a murderer," Neel stated, his voice flat. He was quoting a line from one of his old CBI training manuals.
"My thoughts exactly. But the Jaipur police are running in circles. They're good, but this… this is a performance. It's designed to confuse." Alok hesitated. "The victim's daughter showed up this morning. Sharp girl. Doesn't believe a word of the ghost story. She came to the police, not to file a report, but to ask for you. By name, Neel. She had an old newspaper clipping about the Umaid Bhawan case."
Neel finally looked away from the board. He looked up at the patch of blue sky framed by the courtyard walls. He had chosen this quiet life. He had earned it. The chaos of men's ambitions, their greed and their violence—he had wanted to leave it all behind.
"I'm retired, Alok."
"You're a private investigator. This is a private matter. She wants to hire you. Says the police won't solve it because they're looking for a ghost, and she needs someone who hunts for men." Alok sighed, a sound heavy with history. "I told her I would try to pass on the message. That's all. What you do with it is your business. But I know you, Neel. A puzzle with no solution. An impossible crime. This is the kind of game you were born to play."
Neel was silent for a long time. Om Prakash watched him, not daring to speak. The phone call had disturbed the sacred peace of their game. A shadow had fallen over the board.
"Where is she?" Neel finally asked.
A faint sound of relief could be heard in Alok's voice. "I'll send you the details. She's waiting at the Jaipur police headquarters. The officer in charge is an Inspector Vikram Rathod."
"Fine."
He ended the call without another word and placed the phone back on the table. He stood up, his tall, lean frame casting a long shadow across the courtyard.
"The game?" Om Prakash asked, looking from Neel to the unfinished match.
Neel looked down at the board, at the pieces frozen in their silent conflict. He saw the path to checkmate in three moves. The outcome was already certain. It no longer held his interest.
"The game is over," he said. He turned and walked back into the cool darkness of the haveli, leaving the old man and the king to their fate. The Ghost was on the move.