The monsoon rains battered Kolkata, turning the narrow lanes of Shyambazar into slick, reflective mirrors of the city’s chaos. Prodosh Mitra, or Prodosh as his clients called him, sat in his cluttered office above a sweet shop, sipping a steaming cup of Darjeeling tea. His cousin, Tapesh, sprawled on a wicker chair, flipping through a dog-eared copy of Sherlock Holmes. A knock interrupted the patter of rain—a hesitant, urgent rap.

In walked Mrs. Anuradha Bose, a woman in her late fifties, her silk saree damp and her face etched with worry. “Mr. Mitra, my son, Arjun, has vanished,” she said, clutching a pearl-encrusted purse. “He’s the sole heir to the Bose family fortune. I fear… I fear he’s been taken.” Prodosh leaned forward, his sharp eyes narrowing. “When did you last see him, Mrs. Bose?”

“Three days ago. He left for a meeting at our ancestral haveli in Chandannagar. He never returned. His phone is dead, and the police are useless!” Her voice cracked. “Please, you’re my last hope.” Prodosh exchanged a glance with Tapesh, who was already scribbling notes. “We’ll take the case,” Prodosh said. “But I’ll need access to Arjun’s room and any details about his meeting.”

The next morning, Prodosh and Tapesh navigated the serpentine roads to the Bose family haveli, a crumbling relic of colonial grandeur overlooking the Hooghly River. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and decay. Inside Arjun’s room, Prodosh’s keen eyes scanned for clues. A half-burned photograph in the fireplace caught his attention—Arjun with an older man, both smiling, but the man’s face was scratched out. On the desk, a cryptic note in Arjun’s handwriting: “Meet R.K. at midnight. Trust no one.”

“Who’s R.K.?” Tapesh whispered.

Prodosh pocketed the note. “That’s what we’ll find out. But first, let’s talk to the staff.”

The haveli’s caretaker, an elderly man named Shyamal, was evasive. “Arjun babu was tense that night,” he muttered, avoiding Prodosh’s gaze. “He left in a hurry, said he’d be back by dawn.” When pressed about R.K., Shyamal’s hands trembled. “I don’t know any R.K., sahib.”

Prodosh didn’t buy it. As they left, he noticed fresh tire tracks in the mud near the gate—too wide for Arjun’s sedan. “Someone else was here,” he murmured.

Back in Kolkata, Prodosh dug into the Bose family’s past. The fortune, built on indigo trade, was now a tangle of debts and disputes. Arjun’s uncle, Rudra Bose, had been cut out of the will years ago after a bitter feud. Rudra, now a shady businessman, lived in a glitzy high-rise in Salt Lake. Could he be R.K.? Prodosh wondered.

Tapesh, meanwhile, scoured Arjun’s social media and found a lead: a cryptic post about a “deal” with someone tagged as 

@RK_official

The account was private, but Tapesh’s tech-savvy friend hacked into it, revealing it belonged to one Ravi Khanna, a known loan shark with ties to Kolkata’s underworld.

Prodosh’s instincts flared. “Khanna’s our man. Let’s pay him a visit.”

Khanna’s den was a smoky bar in Park Street, guarded by burly thugs. Prodosh, posing as a desperate client, talked his way in. Khanna, a wiry man with a gold tooth, smirked. “Arjun? Yeah, he owed me ten crores. Said he’d pay up that night in Chandannagar. Never showed.”

Prodosh pressed, “What happened to him?”

Khanna shrugged. “Not my problem. Maybe he crossed the wrong people.”

As they left, Tapesh noticed a familiar face in the bar—Shyamal, the caretaker, slipping Khanna an envelope. Prodosh’s jaw tightened. “We’ve been played.”

That night, Prodosh and Tapesh staked out the haveli. At midnight, a black SUV rolled up—the same wide tires as before. Shyamal emerged, followed by none other than Rudra Bose. They dragged a bound, gagged figure from the car—Arjun.

Prodosh whispered, “Stay here, Tapesh. Call the police.”

Slipping through the shadows, Prodosh crept into the haveli’s basement, where Rudra was ranting. “You thought you could sell the estate and cut me out, Arjun? That fortune is mine!”

Arjun, bruised but defiant, spat, “You’re pathetic, uncle. Khanna was a distraction—you hired him to scare me.”

Rudra raised a gun. Prodosh acted fast, tackling him. The gun skidded across the floor. Shyamal lunged, but Prodosh dodged, landing a sharp jab to his jaw. Tapesh burst in with the police, who cuffed Rudra and Shyamal.

Back in Shyambazar, Mrs. Bose wept with relief as Arjun recounted his ordeal. Rudra, desperate for the family fortune, had staged the kidnapping with Shyamal’s help, using Khanna as a decoy to throw off suspicion. The scratched-out photo? Rudra, erased from Arjun’s life but not his greed.

As the rain eased, Tapesh grinned. “Another case cracked, eh?”

Prodosh lit a cigarette, exhaling into the misty air. “For now, Tapesh. For now.”