The monsoon had battered Ratlam Junction into submission, leaving the platform slick with puddles that mirrored the sodium lamps' hazy glow. It was half-past midnight on Platform 3, where the Deccan Queen idled like a reluctant beast, its engine huffing steam that mingled with the acrid scent of chai vendors' kettles and sizzling pakoras. Inspector Vikram Rao, a wiry man in his forties with a mustache that curled like the tracks ahead, stamped the mud from his boots. Twenty years on the railway police had etched lines into his face deeper than the grooves on the sleepers, but his eyes—sharp as a signalman's lantern—missed nothing.

The call had come at 11:47 PM: a scream from Berth 7A in the AC First Class coach. Mrs. Lakshmi Desai, a widow from Mumbai en route to Indore, clutched her throat where her grandmother's emerald necklace—worth three lakhs, insured but irreplaceable—had vanished mid-dinner service. "It was there when I boarded in Vadodara," she wailed to the TTE, her silk sari disheveled. "Gone now, like a djinn in the steam!"

Vikram boarded the train, the compartment a cocoon of velvet curtains and polished teak, humming with the low chatter of uneasy passengers. The Desais occupied a coupe: Mrs. Desai, plump and tear-streaked; her nephew, Arjun, a fidgety accountant with ink-stained fingers; and a retired colonel, Brigadier Mehta, snoring in the opposite berth, his medals glinting like accusations.

"Show me the scene," Vikram said, his voice cutting through the tension like a whistle. Mrs. Desai pointed to the small safe beside her bunk, its latch ajar. No forced entry—the thief had known the combination. Arjun hovered, wringing his hands. "Aunty, it must be a mistake. Perhaps you misplaced it?"

Vikram knelt, gloved fingers tracing the safe's edge. Dust motes danced in the flashlight beam. No scratches, but a faint smudge of turmeric—odd, in a compartment reeking of imported soap. He turned to the window: rain-lashed glass, smeared with fingerprints. Outside, the platform teemed with coolies in red turbans, porters hawking bedsheets, and a lone sadhu in saffron robes, his trident casting long shadows.

"Anyone leave the coupe after dinner?" Vikram asked.

The colonel stirred, hacking a cough. "Damned indigestion. I stepped out for a smoke at Ratlam halt—ten minutes, no more. Saw that beggar boy skulking near the bogies, the one with the monkey on his shoulder."

Arjun flushed. "Uncle, the boy? He's harmless. Sells peanuts."

Vikram noted it: the monkey boy, Ravi, a fixture at junctions, his capering primate drawing rupees from sentimental travelers. But monkeys were thieves by nature, weren't they? Vikram excused himself and descended to the platform, where the rain had eased to a drizzle. He flagged down the station master, a bespectacled man named Gupta, buried in ledgers.

"Desai's necklace—seen anything?" Vikram pressed.

Gupta mopped his brow. "Sahib, this is Ratlam. Trains from Delhi to Chennai cross here like veins. Thieves hop off one, onto another. But... a passenger in Sleeper Class reported a scuffle near the pantry car. Some argument over a berth."

Vikram's pulse quickened. The pantry: heart of the beast, where stewards slopped dal and whispered secrets. He pushed through the crowd, past a group of Marwari traders haggling over jute sacks, their voices a babel under the echoing announcements. "Indore Express, Platform 1—five minutes!"

In the Sleeper Class, the air was thick with sweat and masala. Berth 22C: a wiry youth, Raju, nursed a split lip, claiming a "drunk Sardar" had shoved him for spilling tea. But Raju's eyes darted to a crumpled ticket stub under his bunk—Vadodara to Indore, same as Desai's. Vikram pocketed it, mind racing. Coincidence? Or a plant?

Back in the AC coupe, he confronted Arjun. "Your aunt's safe. You knew the combination?"

The nephew blanched. "I... helped her once, in Mumbai. But Inspector, I'm family!"

"Family knows secrets," Vikram murmured. He scanned the compartment again. The colonel's pipe ash on the floor—consistent with his alibi. Mrs. Desai's untouched thali, flecked with turmeric. Turmeric? She'd ordered continental, Gupta confirmed later—no spice.

Vikram stepped out, the train lurching as departure loomed. Platform lights flickered, casting the junction in chiaroscuro: rails snaking into darkness, a goods train rumbling past like thunder. There—Ravi the monkey boy, perched on a trolley, his pet chattering. Vikram approached, rupees glinting in his palm. "Peanuts for truths, beta. Seen a green stone?"

Ravi's eyes widened, the monkey snatching a nut mid-air. "Babu, I see all. The nephew—Arjun sahib—slipped something shiny to the steward at dinner. Then, when colonel went out, he pocketed it himself. Said to the monkey—meant me—'Keep watch, or no banana.' But I followed. He hid it in the water tank by the WC."

Vikram'smustache twitched—a grin. The boy was sharp, street-honed. He radioed the guard: "Hold the train. Berth 7A, now."

Arjun bolted as Vikram burst in, but the coupe was a trap. He lunged for the window, only to find Gupta blocking the exit, baton raised. Vikram pinned him against the safe, cuffing his wrists. "The turmeric on the latch—your aunt's spice box, to throw scent. The scuffle in Sleeper? You, paying Raju to stage it, dropping that ticket as cover."

Arjun sagged, sweat beading. "She was leaving everything to that old fool Mehta in her will. The necklace was mine by right—family heirloom! I just... borrowed it for the auction in Indore."

Mrs. Desai gasped, hand to mouth. The colonel, now fully awake, nodded grimly. "Court-martial material, that."

As the train whistle pierced the night, Vikram retrieved the necklace from the tank—dripping, but intact, emeralds winking like guilty stars. He handed it to Mrs. Desai, who wept in relief. "How did you know, Inspector?"

"Details, madam. Junctions like Ratlam—they're crossroads of lies. Trains carry more than people; they haul greed, too. But greed leaves tracks."

The Deccan Queen pulled out at 12:55, lights fading into the velvet dark. Vikram lit a beedi on the platform, watching the tail lamps vanish. Another night, another knot untied. But as the sadhu shuffled past, trident tapping, Vikram wondered: how many shadows lingered on these rails, waiting for the next dawn?

Ratlam Junction sighed back to sleep, its puddles swallowing secrets once more.