The Cursed Shell

4

"I'm sorry, Crunchy, I forgot that!" the young detective justified, driving his Benz.

"Meaaooow!" Crunchy argued angrily.

"I'm again sorry for forgetting your Birthday," the young man said. "Do you really think we're not going to have a party? C'mon, you're my only brother!"

"Mew!" Crunchy rolled his eyes.

This wasn't the first time when the young man had forgotten Crunchy's birthday.

"Okay," the man parked the car in front of a café and leaned back towards Crunchy. "So, cat–food?"

"Weaow!" Crunchy demanded.

"What?" the man shouted as when he translated Crunchy's words in his head, he found that Crunchy had asked for vegetarian food! "Where on Earth are cats vegetarian? Weirdo!"

Soon, the man realised what his little Crunchy wanted. 

"Okay," the young detective said. "So you want dog–food."

Before the young Indian could open the door of his Benz, his phone vibrated. It was a call from an unknown number.

He picked it up. "Hello?"

"Is this Private Detective Ritesh Dhawan?" an old raspy voice cracked through his phone.

The young detective hesitated for a moment. "Who's this?"

"You know me", the voice replied.

Agent Dhawan focused his eyes on his phone screen. He was not familiar with the number flashing on the screen. 'How the hell do I know you?' he thought.

"I'm sorry, may I know your address?" he said, politely. He thought it would be someone from RAW, NSA or any other such agency.

"The first Bungalow near Connaught Place", the voice answered.

Dhawan's eyes widened. He understood who the caller was. He had met her several times. She was a popular American Sanskrit scholar currently living in India.

"Mrs Annabelle Broom?" Agent Dhawan inhaled.

"You better take this case solemnly, detective," she sounded playfully urgent. "The dead shall sing the ballad of the broken shell..." And then, she hung up.

Dhawan turned back to Crunchy who was waiting for his response. "I'm sorry, Crunchy. I was wrong. We've more work for the day."

Crunchy frowned.

'The first bungalow near Connaught place,' the young agent mused as he walked closer to the bungalow in front of him, 'I know this place very well.'

He pushed the calling–bell of the bungalow. The bungalow was in a rich condition - yellow painted three floors and a balcony on each floor, and the glass windows were beautifully framed with wood. The door was twice the height of the young detective.

A weak old woman opened the door. Her skin was very much white and she looked pale. Her hair was turning grey. She had blue eyes which could barely see anymore, but her vision was strong enough to see a bald man and a white furred cat beside him.

"Who are you?" the woman asked.

Dhawan was surprised that she didn't recognise him. However, he could easily recognise who she was. A moment later, he realised why she didn't recognise him. He pulled out a water–bottle from his backpack, opened its cap and showered its water on his head. The thick skin coloured paste which he had painted on his hair washed down with the water and  jet–black hair was again visible on his head now. His jacket soaked with water. Crunchy had already jumped away from him to save himself from the water fall.