The humid Madras night pressed against the windows of Detective Yugandhar’s modest office on Mount Road. The ceiling fan creaked, stirring the air thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of old books. Yugandhar, a lean man with sharp eyes and a perpetual frown, leaned back in his chair, studying a cryptic note slipped under his door an hour ago: No.777. Consulate. Midnight. Danger. His assistant, Raju, a wiry young man with an infectious grin, paced nervously.

“Boss, this smells like trouble,” Raju said, scratching his head. “Why us? Why not the police?”

Yugandhar lit another Charminar cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Because, Raju, whoever sent this knows the police are compromised. This is bigger than a street brawl or a petty theft. The consulate means foreign players. Maybe even them.” His voice dropped, hinting at the shadowy threat from the neighboring country, a recurring menace in his cases.

The clock struck 11:00 p.m. Yugandhar grabbed his worn fedora and tucked his revolver into his coat. “Let’s go. We’ll scout the consulate before midnight.”

The British Consulate in Madras stood like a colonial relic, its white walls glowing under the moonlight. Yugandhar and Raju crouched behind a banyan tree across the street, watching the iron gates. The consulate was unusually quiet, save for a single guard dozing at the entrance. Raju whispered, “No lights in the building. Looks deserted.”

“Too deserted,” Yugandhar murmured, his eyes narrowing. “Stay sharp.”

At 11:45, a black Ambassador car rolled up, its headlights off. Two men in dark suits stepped out, one carrying a briefcase. They glanced around furtively before slipping through a side gate. Yugandhar’s instincts screamed espionage. “Raju, follow me, but stay low.”

They crept through an alley, scaling a low wall to enter the consulate’s rear garden. The air was heavy with jasmine and suspicion. Yugandhar spotted the men entering a ground-floor office through a half-open window. He signaled Raju to stay put and edged closer, eavesdropping.

“…the microfilm must reach Karachi by dawn,” one man hissed in accented English. “The plans for the naval base are critical. If India gets wind of this—”

“Quiet,” the other snapped. “We’re not alone.”

Yugandhar froze. A twig snapped under his foot. The men spun around, drawing pistols. “Who’s there?” one barked.

Thinking fast, Yugandhar stepped into the moonlight, hands raised. “Lost my way, gentlemen. Just looking for the main gate.”

The men exchanged glances. The taller one, with a scar across his cheek, sneered. “You’re no lost tourist. Search him.”

Before they could move, Raju hurled a stone from the shadows, shattering a nearby lamp. In the chaos, Yugandhar dove forward, tackling Scarface. The briefcase skidded across the floor. Raju sprinted in, grabbing the case as the second man fired wildly. Yugandhar wrestled Scarface’s gun away, landing a sharp jab to his jaw, knocking him out cold.

“Raju, the case!” Yugandhar shouted.

The second man lunged for Raju, but Yugandhar fired a warning shot into the ceiling. “Don’t move!” he growled. The man froze, hands up.

Raju opened the briefcase, revealing a small reel of microfilm and a coded letter. “Boss, this is big. Naval base plans… they’re planning something at Vishakhapatnam.”

Yugandhar’s jaw tightened. “Traitors in our own backyard.” He tied the men’s hands with a rope from the garden shed, leaving them for the authorities. But as they slipped back into the night, headlights swept the street. Another car—reinforcements.

“Run!” Yugandhar hissed. They bolted through the alleys, the roar of the pursuing car echoing behind. Raju clutched the briefcase, his heart pounding. They ducked into a crowded night market, blending into the chaos of fish vendors and chai stalls. The car screeched past, unable to navigate the throng.

At a dimly lit tea shop, Yugandhar examined the microfilm under a borrowed magnifying glass. “These are detailed schematics of our coastal defenses,” he said grimly. “This could cripple our navy if it reaches the wrong hands.”

Raju gulped his tea. “What now, boss? We can’t trust the local police. You said they’re compromised.”

Yugandhar nodded. “We take this to Inspector Swarajya Rao in Delhi. He’s one of the few I trust. But we need to move fast—before their network realizes the microfilm is gone.”

By dawn, they were on a train to Delhi, the briefcase hidden in a false compartment of Yugandhar’s suitcase. Raju kept watch, his eyes darting to every passenger. “Boss, what if they’re on this train?”

“Then we stay one step ahead,” Yugandhar replied, his voice calm but steely. He’d faced spies, smugglers, and killers before, but this felt different—a shadow looming over the nation’s security.

In Delhi, Inspector Swarajya Rao met them at a discreet safehouse. A burly man with a walrus mustache, he studied the microfilm with growing alarm. “Yugandhar, this is treason of the highest order. We’ve suspected a mole in the consulate for months. You’ve just blown this wide open.”

“Any leads on the mole?” Yugandhar asked.

Rao hesitated. “A clerk named Venkatesh. He’s been feeding information to foreign agents. We’ll handle him. But you and Raju need to disappear for a while. These people don’t forgive.”

Yugandhar smirked. “Let them come. I’ve got a few more numbers to play.”

As they left the safehouse, Raju grinned. “No.777 solved, boss. What’s next? No.778?”

Yugandhar chuckled, lighting another cigarette. “One case at a time, Raju. But something tells me Madras hasn’t seen the last of us.”

The train back to Madras clattered through the night, carrying the detective and his loyal assistant toward their next adventure. In the shadows, the fight for India’s secrets continued, but Yugandhar knew he’d be ready—no matter the number.