The Mayor's Abduction

by Noah Alexander

  The question that remained, and it bounced all over Maya’s head, was why did Salome and Andrew conspire to get Thaddeus arrested, was it just because of the husband’s violence? And also, where was Andrew. If Salome had been forced to abandon her daughter to protect her lie, no way was it possible that Andrew had been able to continue as himself. If Maya needed to find Thaddeus, Andrew seemed like the best way. But she had no clue about this man. She only knew that he had a fishing business in Old Harbor. It was all very complicated and Maya couldn’t see how she could do anything about it.

  “Will you shut up and let me sleep,” the disgruntled voice of Maisie, her room partner rung in the darkness.

  Maya’s line of thought was interrupted and she sat up. “But I am just lying silently, how is that disturbing you?”

  Maisie had often expressed her displeasure at Maya studying her cases deep into the night. The last time Maya had lit a candle to explore some evidence and verify a theory that had occurred to her in the middle of the night, Maisie had created a ruckus. She had refused to talk to Maya or share the house chores for two days after that.

  “In case you didn’t notice,” said Maisie visibly irritated, “you have been mumbling quite audibly for the last half hour.”

  “Mumbling? I am sorry. I’ll keep quiet now. Goodnight.”

  Maya lay down on her bed and tried to push the case out of her head. She would revisit it tomorrow with a fresh mind.

  Half an hour later she was still wide awake. Maisie's low snores rung in the room while Maya, her eyes open and fixated at the window, thought about Andrew Barnett and how she could trace him. She had just stumbled on a way forward. The legal papers that she had found in Salome’s house might have some more information about Andrew. She should, at the very least, get the address of his apartment building. She could then talk to neighbors or acquaintances still living around who might be able to give her some clue about Andrew and where he was now.

  But there was no way Maisie would let her study the documents in the room. Few things scared Maya as much Maisie’s sudden outbursts. She was also supposed to do the laundry tomorrow and Maya could not risk feuding with her and end up having to wash her clothes herself. Maya disliked doing household chores, and doing laundry was the worst. The exercise bored her to death, made her feel strangely like she was going backward in time. She suspected that it might have something to do with her past, her two-year-long stint in the Black Well Gaol where she was supposed to spend half her day doing similar chores.

  Maya tried to postpone her exploration to the next day and pulled the sheet to her face. Perhaps some darkness would help her find sleep.

  She was unsuccessful. It seemed like she would have to spend the whole night in a restless wait.

  But that wasn’t possible.

  Maya gave up. She got up stealthily from her bed, tiptoed to the cupboard, and took out her bag and a lantern. If she couldn’t explore the evidence in her room she would do that out in the street. No one could disturb her there.

  Maya set her bag and the lamp down and settled herself on the wet pavement. There was no need for her to light the lamp as the flickering street light made a bright enough patch where she sat. The cobbled lane was glimmering with gilded puddles while the empty street was shrouded in absolute silence. At the end of the street, under the tamarind tree, slept the only living soul visible to Maya, a beggar who called the pavement his home.

  Maya opened the bag and pulled out the legal papers which she had found in Salome’s house. She had looked through the evidence as well as the judgment copy once before but not in great detail. She flipped through the pages until she found the mention of Andrew in the police petition to the court. The report mentioned that Andrew was a 32 years old, unmarried white man, around 6 and a half feet in height with brown hair and a mole on the left side of his neck. He ran a fishing business going by the name of Arabian Fisheries with the head office near Old Harbor. Andrew was well respected in the neighborhood and had no history of crime in the Cardim police records.

  Also attached was the testimony of three neighbors of Andrew, Mr. Harold Manfield, Miss Macy Wilfred, and Mr. Johnathan Crouch, who mentioned in glowing words the character of Andrew Barnett, stating that he was a helpful man and a kind fellow who never caused any trouble in the locality. Maya noted their names. She could try and interrogate these three to find if they had any other information about Andrew.

  She then found a newspaper report published a month after the judgment which mentioned something which all the police reports had ignored.

  How an apartment fire consumed 45,000 Cowries

  8th January, 1865

  The heat of the terrible fire in an apartment building on Parsi Lane 4 months ago is still being felt as far away as Sophia. It has come to notice that Mr. Andrew Barnett, one of the 21 people who lost their lives in the fire and whose brother in law was the man convicted of starting the fire which consumed the apartment building, had taken a debt to the tune of 70,000 Cowries from multiple banks and private creditors of Cardim, for expanding his fishing business. But the investments had failed miserably, and according to the documents accessed by the Daily Harbor, Mr. Andrew had been looking for a suitable buyer for his company to pay back the debts. It had been believed till now that he hadn’t been able to do that before meeting his unfortunate end, but yesterday it came to fore that the young man was indeed able to sell his company - Arabian Fisheries to a Calcutta based firm called McKenzie Shipping, headed by an Englishman, Mr. William McKenzie.

  The deal was concluded for 45,000 Cowries according to the documentation filled in the Cardim Company registration office and done in cash. As part of the deal, all the debt remained on Mr. Andrew Barnett. After checking Mr. Barnett’s bank accounts, the police have come to the conclusion that he was yet to deposit the money in the bank and the amount was still in his house when the apartment burnt down, taking with it the hopes of all the creditors who had harbored a belief to at least make back a part of their investments on the company.

  The creditors have now moved court against McKenzie Shipping for completing a deal for a company on the verge of bankruptcy without the involvement of its major creditors. The trial has been scheduled for next month, but it is not expected that the courts would extend any relief to the disgruntled creditors.

  Maya read the article twice. Andrew had sold his company to a Calcutta business called McKenzie Shipping. The name rung a distinct bell in Maya’s head, she was sure she had heard it before.

  Maya got up and paced on the pavement subjecting her mind to a thorough dredging, turning over memories like people turn over pages of a book. After a painstaking exercise extending a couple of minutes, Maya jumped in joy.

  McKenzie! She knew exactly where she had heard that name before.

  TWENTY

  Andrew Barnett

  Maya knocked on the door of the orphanage and waited, restlessly pacing on the landing. She had a feeling that she was close to the mystery, something inside her told her that she was on the brink of success, of figuring out Kerry’s complete story. At times like these Maya became flushed with energy, so much so that she faced trouble standing still. The nerves in her brain twitched and itched like she had jumped headfirst into a nettle. She wouldn’t be able to become normal, or as normal as she was capable of becoming, until she tied all the loose threads in her head.

  The gong in a nearby clock tower tolled one, and a dog sleeping on the street nudged lethargically. The windows of the orphanage building were all still wrapped in darkness and Maya doubted that anyone had heard her knock.

  “Hello Mrs. Crompton,” she kicked the door and shouted, “Anyone there?”

  There was still no sign of activity inside the house. But her loud shriek had disturbed the slumber of the street dog, who stood up and stretched himself, glaring angrily at Maya.

  Maya did not dare to return the glance, she had a childhood fear of dogs. Maya beat the door even harder, “Mrs. Crompton, o
pen up please.”

  The dog walked gingerly towards her, more curious than threatening, but Maya couldn’t be sure.

  “Can no one hear me?” she shouted, “Is everyone inside deaf?”

  The last affront had its desired effect and soon there was a sound of footsteps on the other side of the door. Mrs. Crompton, dressed in a nightdress and yawning widely, held the door open slightly to peek at her late-night visitor. But Maya, a dog behind her, pushed the door aside and entered the building, startling her host who barely resisted an impulse to scream. Maya closed the door and latched it firmly.

  “I am sorry for my intrusion, Mrs. Crompton,” panted Maya, “a dog was following me.”

  Mrs. Crompton nodded but did not seem impressed at Maya for barging in her orphanage at one in the night.

  “How can I help you,” she said gruffly.

  “It is regarding Kerry,” Maya went over to the pitcher to pour herself some water, “I think I have found something, something very concrete and I need your help to verify that.”

  “About Kerry?” the mention of Kerry mellowed the manner of the elderly caretaker. She took Maya’s hand in hers, “Please tell me that my girl is safe.”

  “Yes,” lied Maya, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Mrs. Crompton that Kerry was most probably dead, “As far as I know, she is safe. And I have a lead regarding where she could be, but for that, I need to ask you a question.”

  “Yes, please do,”

  “You mentioned that Kerry was brought here by a man, a representative of the McKenzie Shipping Company which had sponsored Kerry. Do you remember by any chance, how did that man look, or what was his name, or if he left any address or anything.”

  Mrs. Crompton was surprised by the question.

  “That was a long time ago, I cannot claim that I remember him very clearly, but I am reasonably sure that he was a tall man, lean, and had long hair and beard, brown in color if I may say so.”

  “How tall would you call him?”

  “I suppose a foot and half above me, but again don’t take my word for it. I might be mixing him for another person.”

  Maya eyed Mrs. Crompton keenly. She was a small woman, maybe slightly over 5 feet tall which made the man 6 feet and a half and with brown hair, exactly as Andrew’s description in the police report that she had found in Salome’s folder.

  “And do you remember his name?”

  Mrs. Crompton thought for a long time.

  “Morgan? No, I am sorry that is the name of my nephew. I don’t remember.”

  Maya shrugged, slightly disappointed.

  “But,” continued Mrs. Crompton, “he must have signed the documents of admission. Everyone needs to sign that when they send in a girl to this orphanage. Let me see if I can find the one for Kerry. That must be buried under piles of paper.”

  Mrs. Crompton scurried away up the stairs leaving Maya alone in the prayer hall of the orphanage.

  Maya believed that the man, who was most likely Kerry’s uncle Andrew Barnett, must have signed in his assumed identity, the one that he, if he was still around, maintained now. If she could get the name of the man and possibly the address, she might be able to trace him. Even if she just got the name, she could run an advertisement in the newspapers, warn him of his brother in law who was on the loose and quite possibly sniffing for his blood.

  Mrs. Crompton returned with a yellowing piece of paper in her hand.

  “Here,” she said handing the paper to Maya, “the ink has all but faded off. See if you can make out anything.”

  Maya observed the paper in the orange glow of the lantern being carried by Mrs. Crompton. The name in the paper had vanished completely but the sign at the bottom still seemed slightly legible. Maya tried to follow the strokes of the signature to get a name.

  It took her a couple of minutes to figure out the signature, but when she did, she realized that she didn’t need the help of newspaper advertisements to find that man. The man who had brought Kerry to the orphanage had signed as Norman Sinclair, the mayor of Cardim. And it was too late to warn him, Thaddeus Cormac, it was clear, had already gotten him

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tripoli House

  The evidence of Norman Sinclair’s Kidnapping case spanned a big hall on the second floor of the Tripoli House, the headquarters of the Greycoats. At least three dozen wooden cartons carried papers, files, and posts that the Greycoats had collected painstakingly from the mayor’s office and residence. Each carton was labeled according to the place that it contained documents from, there were six boxes labeled “Office” while three more were labeled “Home- Living Room” and one, Ernst could hardly fathom how, was labeled “Home - Water Closet”. Apart from papers and documents, there were samples of the mayor’s clothes, shoes, and hats as well as pieces of cutlery, badminton rackets, and a chess set. A large cupboard contained the layout of the Mayor’s Mansion, details of the servants in the house as well as the secretaries and assistants of the mayor. Thick bundles of papers filled with the interview of all the people associated with Norman Sinclair were also stored in the same cupboard.

  Ernst had no clue what the Greycoats were supposed to do with this mountain of evidence. They had apparently, based on what Leonard had told him, already examined all these papers and reached a firm conclusion that the Dragon Cartel had a hand in the mayor’s kidnapping. If it were for the Greycoats, this room was no longer of any significance to the case. Ernst did not subscribe to their belief and was here to further his own theory.

  The first part of his effort had already pointed him to a very surprising lead in the form of the Minister of Order and the acting mayor, Claude Labarthe. Claude Labarthe had arrived in the Council Building at 5:30 in the evening, at around the same time that the mayor had been supposed to get to the Council. He had waited in his cabin for around an hour and had signed out of the building at 6:30. There were no other ministers who had come to the building on that evening, only sweepers, gardeners, and clerks. The mayor couldn’t have come to the council to meet anyone but Claude.

  Ernst spent the whole morning hypothesizing what benefit Claude could have by getting the mayor kidnapped. The two were in direct competition in the upcoming Council elections for the post of mayor but getting Norman Sinclair kidnaped for that seemed like an excessive step. He had also heard that the two were almost neck and neck in the race to the mayor’s seat. Could there be some other reason? Ernst had to figure that out to make a strong case against him. Accusing a man of his stature would require substantial evidence. Ernst suspected that the mountain of documents, letters, and papers waiting in this room were bound to have something to aid him.

  The High Guard loosened his tie and stretched himself. He decided to start with a carton in the corner. It was labeled “Bedroom” and was only half-filled. The box contained personal letters to the mayor and his wife, medical documents, and other private bills and financial documents. Ernst found out the severity of Amina Sinclair’s many illnesses as well as the mayor’s interest in horse races, but there was nothing in the box that related even remotely to Claude Labarthe.

  Sufficiently warmed up, he now moved to the largest box in the room which was labeled “Mayor’s Office 1”. He upturned the box on the floor then forded through the sea of papers to find a clue against the Minister of Order. It took him half an hour to finish the box but apart from a letter from Claude which requested extra funding to buy special riot equipment for High Guards in the south, there was nothing that mentioned the minister of order. Ernst sighed and moved to the next box, and then the next. He worked without stopping to take a breath till the sky outside the only window of the hall turned scarlet and the warden of the evidence rooms made an appearance with a tumbler of tea and biscuits in his hands. He was a middle-aged man with a dark angular face and a huge paunch that barely fit in his khaki shirt.

  “Did you find anything, sir?” he asked keeping the tea and biscuits on an upturned carton.

  “No,” Ernst said letha
rgically, hopping past the pile of evidence to get to his tea. He really needed that right now, hours of toil had made him incredibly fatigued, “All this is useless,” he said taking a sip from his cup. The tea was strong and had been prepared with a mix of spices, “Nothing which would me.”

  “That is the thing with this place,” said the warden, “So much rubbish lies here that all that is important is buried out of sight.”

  “Has anyone ever found anything of consequence here?” asked Ernst. He was losing hope that he could get any substantial evidence against the Minister of Order from this room. Perhaps the Greycoats were saying the truth about going through all this evidence and finding nothing valuable.

  “Occasionally, yes. But it is hard. There are 763 rooms in this building, each as big as this, and 600 are filled with wooden cartons just like these here. Most policemen get lost and leave out empty-handed.”

  The warden looked around the mess that Ernst had made in the room with his tired brown eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” Ernst said, “I will clean this up before I leave.”

  “That you will,” said the man, “I don’t worry about that, I am just looking around to see if I can help you find something useful.”