The Locked Room MysteryThe door stood open, swinging ever so slightly with the rhythm of the train. It groaned on its hinge, as if reluctant to reveal the mystery it guarded. Henri Duval stood still in the doorway of Compartment 12, arms folded across his chest, eyes scanning the room with slow, methodical precision.There was no chaos, no signs of violence—only silence. The room held its breath, just as the train hummed quietly beneath them.Mr. Jonathan Fraser, the brash American oilman, had vanished.The bed was untouched. The leather armchair by the window sat empty, its fabric still firm—no one had been resting there long. A polished cane leaned neatly against the corner. Duval noticed it first.He stepped inside.The air was faintly scented with cologne—strong, expensive, the kind favored by men who enjoyed leaving their mark. There was a residual heat in the room, as if someone had recently occupied it. Yet there was nothing—no coat, no briefcase, no personal belongings save for a gold ring glinting under the soft amber light.Duval picked it up. The inscription inside was simple, but telling:
"To Jonathan, my only son. R.F."A gift, perhaps. A memory. A clue.The conductor stood at the threshold, unease painted across his face."Locked from the inside?" Duval asked."Yes, monsieur. As always, I make the final sweep after dinner. I check each door. Mr. Fraser’s was locked, as expected. I knocked, but when there was no response, I returned ten minutes later. Still no answer. I used the master key.”“Was the window locked?”The conductor moved to the small compartment window. It was sealed tight—designed that way by the train’s engineers to prevent passengers from doing exactly what they now feared.Escape.Or disappearance.Duval ran his fingers across the latch and pushed. It didn’t budge."No one climbed out of here,” he muttered. “Unless they had wings.”
