Decocted



  All rights reserved only to the author for publishing of the short story and that no part of it must be reprinted or remade in any electrical or printed methods.

  ®Saikat Dey Blog https://saikatdeyblog.tk

  Cover Credit: Saikat Dey Photography

  Edited and Compacted by: Saikat Dey

  Published by:

  Edited by: John Shaw

  About the author

  Born & brought up at the crowd attracting city of Kolkata, India, Saikat Dey is a high school student with an urge of reading and writing more plots. Started writing since third standard, Saikat had been improving impeccably resulting him in signing a contract of his debut thriller book by an Indian Publishing House. With Decocted, he enters the world of electronic books and short stories and at the same time introduces RUPAM, his sole created detective character.

  The India Times arrived as usual, making its position in a squinting area of Rupam’s balcony. The newspaperman was adored and liked by the thirty-nine-years-old man for his punctuality towards his own work. He would have delivered the paper at his doorsteps even before he wakes up. It was Ramnarender’s duty to pick the paper from the balcony and place it along with a decocted coffee at the dining table sharply before five minutes of Rupam’s arrival into the drawing room after getting fresher from previous night’s delightful sleep.

  “Good morning, Ram” he wished the butler while taking the seat next to the table. In a gentle and silent reply, the butler folded his arms in a Namaste gesture and wished him back.

  “What would you like to have for breakfast, master” politely, he asked holding back the empty porcelain plate from the table.

  “Simple for today. Toast with peanut butter.” He said over the unfurled newspaper that covered his face.

  “The coffee is waiting for you, sir” he said, as he drove himself into the kitchen. The sound of cutleries being moved made a blurred noise which disturbed Rupam’s focus from the headline printed in black defined letters.

  ‘Professor being unsafe for his inventions’ he read through his mind’s lips. He knew who it was and for what he had been featured into the front page of the Sunday’s edition.

  Prof. Jamal Rehman had been Rupam’s one of the closest friends since he dragged himself into the detective’s business. Rehman was a tribute for the Indian Government since his first invention. It happened in 1993 when he, along with JP Prabhakar were working on a case study under SENFLIX private institution, he mistakenly diluted a binary parasitic chemical with inflammable gas resulting into an explosion that costed Prabhakar’s life. The lab was fused with the electricity and it was Rehman, who for god’s grief, escaped death. He then understood the result and re-created the item into two small pen refills- redefining it with more strength. It was built strong enough to crunch an entire SUV. He then appointed a private meeting with Mr. Narayan, then the Deference Minister and handed the binary weapon to him. Since then, every year a new product was sold by him exclusively to the government officials at high rates for the defence of the country.

  He completed reading the entire article. It said someone of his mansion tried to steal his latest invention, the bullet streamer. On not being successful at the attempt, the bandit stole the formula of the product from the safe, where it was kept under the professor’s guidance. Rupam recalled the conversation that he had with the professor last Tuesday, regarding the streamer. He said how he made a profit of a billion bucks from the weapon.

  “Sir…” the butler interrupted Rupam’s chain of thoughts as he brought the cordless along with him, its mic covered with his palm. “Professor wants to talk to you” He handed over the call to Rupam as he wished a good morning over the phone.

  “I guess you’ve seen what the news said…” he started, without responding to the greeting. “The paper is of billions and billions of worth, Rupam.” His voice wrinkled. After a pause, he continued, “The bill has the entire country’s life on its hand. Once it goes to wrong hands, all of us are in great trouble.”

  “I see-”

  “I’ll pay you with a blank cheque for you to fill the amount once you agree to work on it, Rupam.”

  “I don’t need it, Professor. I just have to think about it.” He replied while crunching one-fourth of the toast.

  “I don’t have time for you to think. Rupam, you come to my place. I’ll pay for the transportation and everything. Come here within the next hour”, a screechy noise followed his words as the inventor dragged the chair closer to the study table.

  “It would at least take four hours to reach to you at the centre of the country…”

  “You mean the capital, right?”

  “Ah whatever…” he hurriedly lofted another toast into his mouth.

  “The air tickets would arrive at your apartment within the next thirty minutes. Be prepared.” Before hanging the call, the professor noted down Rupam’s Kolkata residence address.

  “Ramnarender, pack your bags. You are on holiday for the next three days. And my duty starts now.

  ~~~~

 

  While the entrance clock showed fifteen minutes left for the bell to ring along with an air ticket to Delhi, Rupam settled himself into the chair facing the assembled desktop which had Google opened on it. His fingers flattered through the keys of the board as he searched for the bullet streamer. Perhaps, he may have thought it to be something of a jet streamer with double of its speed but was immediately proven wrong as the reports opened up.

  It was a single ironed bullet made of a mixture of iron and aluminium with a piercing sharp nib. To add to the extraordinary features of the professor, it was build up with so much of professionalism that it could be only used through a specific gun which was under the projecting hands of the government. It can prove with a theory that the bullet can easily thrash an object at a speed of two thousand and ninety miles per hour. The specific liquid present in the bullet was thermo-citric liquid, which can infect and cause death to the infected person within seven short minutes of its pierce.

  “Who can have taken it…” he mumbled gently while scrolling through the pictures of the professor along with the bullet in his hand.

  His thoughts were interrupted at the midway as the bell rang with two successive clicks. He didn’t get up knowing that the butler would definitely pick the tickets up from the doorway. Further, he continued reading the article.

  “Sir,” the ticket was held up next to his eyes. “He says he would drive you to the airport.” The butler informed gesturing towards the exit door.

  ~~~~

  The library was outnumbered with books of different genres. It had seven large shelves with twelve slabs of wood to store at least ten books at each row. Imagine an entire cloned drawing room with twelve such huge containers surrounding you from all the sides, leaving a wide area with an opening, covered with less designed grilles, from where the dangling sun rays made their arrival to the mansion’s library. The professor had three sons, upon whom the first two had married while the youngest of all remaind single. The entire family stayed at the same mansion, shared same food and had their personal rooms at each part of the house. The ground floor had a dining table for twenty five members, a library and a drawing room. The first floor had the professor and his sister’s room next to the staircase and the remaining floors were given to the sons and their family.

  Rehman sat on the settee facing the window. The thought of Rupam’s arrival had flicked a tinge of hope into his mind. All the long hours he’d spent into the study room since his first invention left a permanent scar on his figure. A scar of intelligence, of creativity. It was the silky black hair that
had stopped being the same anymore. The small stool next to the settee had an aluminous photo of him along with JP Prabhakar. They had been friends of life since the explosion burnt him away.

  “Dad, did you call me?” Making a silent noise on the entrance door to the library, Samit, the youngest of the three made his appearance. It was the butler who’d delivered the notice to his ears of the professor’s wish to meet him. The professor gestured him to come in, still keeping his focus in something left at the other end of the grilles. It was not only the youngest son but the reliable butler had also called up the other two sons. Significantly, he didn’t forget to mention that the father had invited every member of the family in the library, along with their small kids.

  “Yesterday morning, my precious invention was tried to be stolen,” he began, attaining everyone’s attention. He positioned a better pose on the cozy couch. “On not being successful with the work he carried out- rather performing a blunder- he or she purloined the paper where the procedure to the invention and its theory was penned… Though-”

  “Excuse me, father. Can you please elaborate the use of she that you’ve just applied on your speech?” Jessica, the wife of Kabir, the eldest son interrupted.

  “Let the professor continue, Mrs. Rehman” Politely, the charismatic voice of Dr. Alam cut down the situation. He had