Locked-Room Mystery Box Set

by Kim Ekemar

  Excerpt from Velvet Nights, Chapter II

  Captain Harding told me to show some of the new recruits around. There were twenty of them who for some reason wouldn’t attend Billy Montana’s lecture. Perhaps these guys were destined to be more than just simple bullet targets.

  One among the grunts struck me as very pleasant. His name’s Frank Vermilion from Kansas, Missouri. He’s very open and talkative, almost too friendly when you consider everybody’s advice that you shouldn’t make friends because it’ll hurt all the more when they’re shot down. When I showed them around the camp Frank kept pestering me about where you could get a nice Asian girl or two – the more the better and preferably at the same time. He knew all about it, he claimed; he has a big brother who recently returned from a stint in Nam. It seems his brother didn’t have a bad thing to tell about the war over here. What it boils down to, Frank informed me, is to shoot a few gooks, make the rounds with the most exotic whores in the world, and go back a hero with a few bucks in your pocket.

  He spent his 19th birthday with his family two weeks before he was shipped overseas. I’ve only seen action three times so far, but this fact makes me feel twice his age. ‘Imagine,’ he told me when we parted, “Crimson and Vermilion fighting the reds. Now, isn’t that something!’ I don’t know if Frank will be killed, but I know for certain he will be very disillusioned.

  Excerpt from Velvet Nights, Chapter IV

  They let me have a day off because of the three-day mission that we carried out successfully in the delta. At least that’s what Captain Harding told us. By chance Frank was on furlough, too, so we left for downtown Saigon together.

  Frank could hardly eat in anticipation of our night out. We were at this small shellfish restaurant where he knew the proprietor. The girls poured in to parade by the table, probably because Frank and the compliant owner had made some financial agreement. Frank made the prettiest and the cheekiest sit down with us, and when it got too crowded he shouted at the owner of the place to throw some of them outside.

  Darryl arrived to join the party, but he had hardly tasted the food before he convinced Frank to go straight for dessert. Suddenly they were gone, good for at least three girls each around their necks. They left me behind with a check inflated by factor four and far too drunk to do justice to any of the women they had decided not worthy of their attention.

  Excerpt from Velvet Nights, Chapter XVIII

  Today Frank came over with the good news he had arranged to be transferred to my unit. We have experienced some heavy losses lately, and I suppose the brass prefers to form elite units with us experienced troops and let the grunt units sort of slowly get the idea of real combat. Well, Frank’s been here almost as long as I have. I guess if there is anyone close to me here it is Frank.

  Excerpt from Velvet Nights, Chapter XIX

  Frank died today from a stray bullet, issued compliments of Charlie. Frank’s the one I’ve known longer than anyone here. I can’t believe he’s dead …

  … I was wounded in several places by shrapnel. There was a nasty gash in my left arm and a smaller one in the leg, both of which they’ve sewed up here at the hospital. When I get my release in about ten days I’ve been promised a week’s leave because of my wounds. Anyway I know I’ll only waste it to get drunk or stoned because I’ll have too much idle time on my hands.

  When you’re wounded in your soul you don’t take time off. To avoid the pain, you should occupy your mind and your hands and your body with no matter what activity.

  Transcript from the police interrogation of PBC taped on March 2, 1973 (cont.)

  I waited and rested and waited. I was shaking violently, half dressed in my thin pajamas. By the sound of the voices I understood that the fire was under control. I was the last to have left the house, but how could the firefighters know? Had they found and rescued Mr. Pringle? I thought about my things and my manuscripts and my diaries. So much work during so many years, and now all of it had been destroyed by fire. A heavy weariness fell over me and I drifted into sleep.

  From the police report dated February 28, 1973

  At 04.37 PM on February 27, 1973, the officer on duty received an emergency call from Mrs. Manning, Harbor Drive 48, who reported that the McPherson house – number 67 on the same street – was on fire. After the fire department had been informed, Officer Jennings and I drove our unit to the address of the incident.

  The north side of the McPherson residence was burning briskly, but considering the snowfall and the distance from other inflammable objects we judged it highly unlikely that the fire would spread from the building. While waiting for the fire brigade to arrive we tried to enter through the front door. It was locked. With my agreement Officer Jennings drew his pistol and shot twice through the front door lock. By this action we were able to force our entry to look if there were still people left in the house.

  We entered into a hallway with a staircase leading to the upper floors. There was a kitchen to our left, still untouched by the fire, and a closed door to our right. We observed a couple of rooms beyond the staircase and a door that led down to the basement. On our immediate right was a door beyond which we felt and heard the fire rage. We decided to investigate this area first.

  Officer Jennings had to turn the key left in the locked door that barred us from entering what turned out to be the living room. The surge of oxygen boosted the flames when we flung up the door. We were forced to quickly close it to prevent the fire from spreading more rapidly than necessary. At this moment we heard the sirens from the fire brigade.

  Since we couldn’t enter the living room we decided to check out the upper floors. The stairs led to an open space on the second floor with a fireplace and a small TV set. There were three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Smoke made it hard to see and breathe, but after we had searched the floor continually shouting out our presence, we determined no one was there.

  We continued up another set of stairs that led to the attic. We found an open space, one bedroom and a small bathroom. The smoke was very heavy here, so after a quick search during which we called out for attention, we determined that no one could be found on this floor either. We descended both sets of stairs. The volume of smoke had increased considerably in the short space of time it had taken us to search the upper floors – perhaps 4 or 5 minutes in all.

  On the ground floor the smoke was now dense, and we had to cover our faces with handkerchieves that we moistened with water in the kitchen. The heat was noticeable although the door to the living room was still in place. We moved quickly towards the back of the house and looked through the remaining rooms on the ground floor. There were no signs of life. The smoke and the heat became increasingly unbearable. We could hear how the living room door began to crack under the attack of the fire. Officer Jennings and I decided that the wisest thing to do was to withdraw through the kitchen back door, which we found unlocked. Outside we heard the firemen hauling hoses and calling out to pump water. The only space of importance we didn’t get the chance to look through was the basement. On the other hand, since it was obvious the fire had started in the living room, we didn’t think anyone would be in danger if still down there.

  We exited the building and joined the fire brigade in their effort to extinguish the fire. In less than an hour it was under control with serious damages only to the living room and the northern wall of the house. By then I was not needed anymore and began to look around the premises. Before the fire there had been perhaps three feet of deep snow around the building. The snow had first melted then frozen to ice in the course of putting out the fire. This made it very difficult to walk around the place. Then I saw a pair of legs in blue trousers sticking out from a half-melted drift of snow. I called on Officer Jennings who helped me to pull out the body of a young white male, later identified as Paul Byron Crimson, a boarder with the McPherson family at the time of the fire.

  Mr. Crimson was in a sorry state. His face was blue from the exposure to the cold. He was dre
ssed only in a pair of pajama pants and a torn shirt. There were cuts and wounds from broken glass and fire debris on his exposed skin, and a lot of coagulated blood. He was unconscious when we found him. The most striking detail about his appearance, however, was that his hands were tied tightly in front of him with a coarse rope attached to his waistline.

  We alerted the ambulance attendants who had arrived on the scene together with the fire brigade. Their immediate opinion was that Mr. Crimson had an unacceptably low body temperature, that he was probably in a state of shock and was in urgent need of hospital care. Inside the ambulance car the ropes around his wrists were cut off while he was rushed to St. Mary’s Hospital.

  Although we interviewed the neighbors no one could confirm where the remaining inhabitants of the McPherson household could be found. Mrs. Manning told us that lately there had been six persons living in the house: Daniel and Inocencia McPherson, her visiting brother Xavier (last name unknown) and a friend of the latter called Vicente (last name unknown), their maid Lorena Carvajal, and Paul Crimson who rented a room with them. The other close neighbors that we visited – namely Mr. and Mrs. Farley, Mr. and Mrs. Cummings and Mr. Brindisi and his eldest son – corroborated some of this information. Mrs. Manning and Mr. Brindisi mentioned, however, that they suspected the ‘South American’ friend who had accompanied Mrs. McPherson’s brother to have left for good several days earlier, because they hadn’t seen him around lately. There were no lights on in the house of the closest neighbor, Mr. Brett Moorefield, and he didn’t answer the doorbell. We assumed that he wasn’t home.

  We called Mr. Rudolph Rawlins at his home after being told by Mrs. Manning that he was Mr. McPherson’s superior at his work as port official. Mr. Rawlins informed us that Mr. McPherson had gone on some business to Boston a week earlier, and that he had expected him back two days ago. Since he hadn’t returned on the agreed day Mr. Rawlins had gone to his house some time after noon a few hours before the house had caught fire. On the slope leading up to the house he had met Mrs. McPherson’s brother, a man in his late thirties known by the name Xavier. He appeared to be in a great hurry, and acted very aggressively when he was stopped and asked a question by Mr. Rawlins. After rudely pushing Mr. Rawlins out of his way he quickly proceeded downtown. The way he expressed himself gave Mr. Rawlins the impression that Xavier was going to travel somewhere, presumably leaving town on the Greyhound bus. Mr. Rawlins had then continued to the McPherson house where he repeatedly rang the front doorbell. He felt the handle and found the door locked. No one opened. Since he had glimpsed a light from one of the windows when he walked up the hill, he went around the house into the garden area where he knocked on various windows. No one answered, and Mr. Rawlins could not detect any sign of life inside. On the other hand, all curtains of the main room on the ground floor were drawn, something he found odd at the time. Since there was nothing much he could do he walked back to his office where he remained until 05.30 PM approximately.

  Considering we found Mr. Crimson with his hands tied and that several members of the household are still missing, we recommend an alert to be issued immediately to bring in Daniel McPherson, Inocencia McPherson and Lorena Carvajal to get their statements. As soon as the men known as Xavier and Vicente have been identified, they should be brought in for questioning, too. Further on we should interview Mr. Crimson as soon as his condition so permits.

  Reported by Sgt. James Carson at 02.30 AM on February 28, 1973.

  The Ship: Chapter X

  THE DRIFT

  The fire thundered over my head. The fall through the chilly, bitter winter wind seemed infinite. It became an endless contradiction – of cold and heat, feeling lashed but liberated, having a heavy mind but a weightless body. Flakes and flaming fragments became etched on my retina. The rope cut into my wrists, but I no longer felt the pain. The cloud constellations in the sky revolved on the axis that was my existence during the seconds my fall could reasonably have lasted. They infused my soul with a euphoria I had never before experienced. I was calm and composed, because I knew I too was going to die.

  When the soft snow embraced me, I was astonished. Yes, it was soft but also cool, not at all like my preconception of the sensation when death occurs. I plunged and plunged ever deeper into the snow, and I fathomed that I was going through the snow and the ice, into water near the freezing point with a current that would carry me out to the ocean. Weariness suddenly overcame me. My destiny was forever linked to that of Oona, Irving and the men on the ship who had brought about our downfall.

  My body was intercepted and for a moment I felt absolutely nothing. Burning pieces of wood sizzled around me as they dug into the snow. Slowly my senses returned to normal. I was incredulous that the ice had withstood my weight and that I still was alive. It took some time for me to comprehend that I had eluded the dangers that had threatened me during the long night – the assassins, the captivity, the fire.

  I gradually became aware of how cold the snow was without proper clothing. I was not safe yet and the closest settlement was many miles away. I was tied by ropes and bleeding from the wound in my arm. The prevailing gales were still considerable. My one chance would be to make it to the van. Not until then could I allow myself the luxury of rest. In the van I would find food and clothes – I could not believe that Gary had carried off everything. Rested, fed and dressed for the climate, I would continue on foot to Haven.

  With some difficulty I freed myself from the drift. Overhead the ship loomed, ablaze from bow to stern. Taking my first steps I felt dizzy as I looked up at the burning vessel. Fate had given me a narrow escape. Sparks flew in the air above me as I staggered around the ship in search of the spot on the shore where we had departed to reach it. I was disoriented and did not recognize the shoreline in the bleak daylight in front of me. The lofty rocks rose like a black, impregnable fortress of inhospitality. The depression between the boulders where we had reached the ice the previous night was nowhere to be seen.

  I punished myself to start walking towards land. Somewhere there was a passage that would allow me to scale the rocks. The relentless gale penetrated the stiff, bloodied clothes I wore and chilled me to the marrow. Ice floes lay stacked increasingly higher the closer I came to shore. Completely absorbed by the omnipresent cold I crawled across the huge blocks of ice that stood in my way. Every recess of my body was pervaded by the cold. It stabbed through my garments and numbed my limbs. My nostrils and mouth were invaded by it.

  It became harder to advance. The ice and the drifts of loose snow appeared endless, and the black rocks loomed forever unattainable. Only a few stray snowflakes kept falling, cutting their capricious figures before my eyes now that the storm had abated.

  The need to sleep took possession of my body with a power I had never before believed existed. For every strenuous step forward, I had to reject the beckoning thought of lying down and sleep. Time after time I was tempted to follow the persuasive impulse. I wanted to rest my head in the soft snow; to grow numb away from cold and painful evocations; to become overwhelmed by the sleep I yearned for more than the most powerful narcotics in existence. With an effort greater than any I had ever accomplished, my instinct for survival forced me to continue.

  Behind me the ship was ablaze with flames three times as high as the object they devoured. Sparks ascended to the sky like fireflies flown astray. I stopped to rest and observed the annihilation without daring to sit down. A few hours more, then only ashes would remain to sully the snow and float on waters that formerly had been ice.

  The blood kept trickling from my injured arm. Although the flow was no longer abundant I was distractedly worried that it had not yet ceased. From the ship to the spot where I paused there was a string of bloodstained snow as if someone intoxicated had marked the path I had taken. The red snow sparkled in the light of the fire.

  I continued to stumble over the ice floes. The time it took me to reach the cliffs and the shore seemed eternal. I was tired and chilled throu
gh and through, but I was alive. I stopped and raised my head in an attempt to estimate the precipice I had to climb. Only occasional flakes contrasted by the black rocks floated down towards me. The storm had come to an end.

  I only permitted myself brief pauses in the knowledge I would endure the cold much easier if I kept moving. My teeth chattered so violently that I thought I could feel chips of enamel being chiseled off. Hampered by the mounds of snow along the shoreline, my movements became sluggish. On the brink of despair, just when I started to think I had gone in the wrong direction, I finally found the gorge through which we had come down the previous night.

  I half waded, half crawled in the gigantic drifts. Any tracks we had left the previous day had been obliterated by the tempest. To get past the snow walls I set my mind on advancing one yard at a time. I repeatedly sank into hidden hollows in the loose white snow, and for every time it became more difficult to get up. The cold cut through my clothes and needled my bare skin, but it was the fatigue that dominated. The urge to lie down and sleep overtook me with every yard I traveled, yet some mechanism in my subconscious always forced me to take another step forward.

  Apart from the persistent weariness I no longer felt anything: neither cold nor hunger nor sorrow or horror. Independent of my apathetic condition, my muscles continued to move me uphill. The left sleeve of my sweater fluttered like a crimson flag for every step I took. The frost degrees, I noted vaguely, had finally coagulated the blood in my wound. I registered all things surrounding me, yet none of them made any impression on my mind. My body perpetually screamed at me to lie down and sleep, but for some incomprehensible reason my brain rebelled against the thought.