by John Holt
“Go on,” said Kendall. This better be good. “I’m listening.”
“It’s there to frighten people,” Cole replied. “I know it sounds crazy, but that’s it. It is there to scare them, and persuade people to sell their land, the fear of the un-known. Or, if you believe in the rumors, the fear of the known, the thought of some kind of secret government establishment in your own back yard so to speak. A chemical plant or an experimental base might just be enough to get you to sell up and move out.”
Kendall had to admit that it made sense, in a strange kind of way. He wanted to see the area for himself. Not that he expected to find out anything he didn’t already know. “Take me up there will you?”
“We’ll go tomorrow,” Cole replied. He looked at his watch. It was near eight o’clock, and the bar was beginning to fill up. He drained his glass, and stood up. “In the meantime we’ll get something to eat,” he said. “And then we’ll find you somewhere to stay for the next couple of nights.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Kendall, as he checked his watch. He drained his glass, and stood up. As he did so he looked down on to the table to make certain nothing had been left. Satisfied, he placed two ten-dollar bills on to the table. He then turned to face Cole. “Where do you recommend?”
“It will have to be the Rosemont Hotel,” Cole replied.
“Is that the best hotel then?” Kendall asked.
Cole started to laugh. “Oh yes, it’s certainly the best hotel around. In fact, it’s the only hotel around.”
* * *
Chapter 24
A Health Warning
When Kendall arrived back at his office two days later, he was surprised to find that the door was unlocked. He was certain that he had locked it when he had left a few days ago. He tried to visualize what had happened then, as he went through the motions. He had stepped into the hallway and placed his overnight bag in the corridor. He bent down and placed his bags down in the same position as he had then. He had then pulled the door shut behind him. He had then pushed it a couple of times, just to make sure that it was closed. Then he had placed the key into the lock. He placed his hand on the handle, pulling it towards him. He placed the key into the lock. He had started to turn the key. Ken, from the office just down the corridor had just come along. Kendall looked up and turned his head looking at the exact spot where Ken had been. Ken had stopped, and they had chatted for a few moments.
It had been nothing of any major consequence, or importance, just the usual everyday conversation. How are things? Family all right I hope? See the game on Saturday? That sort of thing, and then Ken had said have a safe trip, and then continued on his way. Kendall turned his head, looking in the direction that Ken had taken on that morning. He then looked down.
He was no longer holding the door handle, and the key was no longer in the lock. He remembered putting the key back into his pocket. He had then picked up the bag, and had continued down the corridor towards the back staircase. Had he locked the door before Ken had arrived? Or had he merely thought that he had locked it, but hadn’t? He tried hard to remember, still going through the actions in his mind. Had he turned the key fully? He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. It was no good. He could not recall precisely what had happened. It probably didn’t matter anyway. The door was unlocked now, and that was all that counted. No amount of thinking was going to change that. Either he had left it unlocked, or someone had managed to get in while he was away.
“Maybe the landlord needed to get in while I was away,” he suddenly thought. But it had never happened in the past, so why now. So it never happened before, doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Maybe it was some kind of an emergency, a leaking faucet maybe. Unlikely, maybe, but it was possible. In any event the door was not locked, that much was certain.
He turned the door handle, and slowly pushed the door open. Something was stopping the door from opening fully. He glanced around behind the door. There on the floor were a number of envelopes. One or two had become jammed underneath the door. Mainly circulars he guessed. Or worse still, they were probably bills.
He pushed harder. He heard something tear, and suddenly the door was free, and swung open. He stepped inside, and bent down to pick up the envelopes. One had been badly torn. He inspected it hoping that it had been a bill, or at least junk mail. It was a letter from Mrs. Shaw. It had included a check, which was now torn completely in half. He looked at the other envelopes lying on the floor. They were all circulars, and all were undamaged.
He picked up his bags and entered the office, closing the door behind him with his elbow. He walked into the center of the room. He placed his bags on to the floor, and looked around. The room appeared to be quite normal. As far as he could see nothing had been touched. Nothing had been moved. Nothing had been taken. He walked over to his desk. It looked okay. He put the envelopes down, and started to check the drawers to his desk. Everything seemed to be in order. He checked the drawers to Mollie’s desk. As far as he could tell nothing had been taken. But then who would want her magazines, he wondered? He picked one up, Celebrity Lives, how the rich and famous live. He opened the magazine. There was a photograph of a gleaming white mansion bathed in sunlight, and surrounded by palm trees. It was located on a cliff top overlooking a turquoise sea, and a golden sandy beach. Across the top of the page was the banner headline, “Brad Wilson’s Ten Million Dollar Weekend Home.” Underneath a sub heading advised that it was ideal for that “well-earned break away from it all.”
“If only.” He closed the magazine and placed it back into the drawer. Then he picked up another, The Movies. All you needed to know about Hollywood gossip. Who was in, and who was definitely out. He began to flip the pages. He couldn’t stand the modern movies. They were all computer generated effects, and over the top action. Bring back the likes of Dana Andrews, Gene Tierney, Richard Widmark, and Barbara Stanwyck. Now there was a real actress. Not like today’s stars. Back then, they had personality, charisma. Now they couldn’t even speak correctly.
He looked back at the magazine. Nobody would want them, except for Mollie that is. He hadn’t heard from her for a while. He hoped that she was all right. He made a mental note to call her later. He carefully placed the magazine back into the drawer and closed it.
He glanced around the room again, and then he walked over to the filing cabinet on the far wall. It all seemed to be as it should have been. He opened the top drawer. Everything seemed to be fine. He opened the other three drawers, giving them a cursory glance. They appeared to be in order. Next he walked over to the bookshelves. Once again everything seemed to be as it should be. He turned to walk back to his desk. He must have left that door unsecured, after all. There was no other possible explanation. It wasn’t like him, but there it was. Getting forgetful that’s all. Age probably, getting senile. Too much sugar in his diet, he decided. He would watch that in future. Be more careful, more aware of what he was doing, more diligent.
He had almost reached his desk when he suddenly stopped abruptly. He turned around, walked back to the bookshelves, and looked at the books once again. On the face of it they appeared to be okay. Then he noticed a number of streak marks running down the spines of a number of the books. He looked closely at one of the books, and then he looked along the shelf. There were a number of marks in the dust. Finger marks, he decided, not fingerprints. Whoever had left these marks wore gloves. He reached forward and took one of the books from the shelf. Dust particles flew into the air, making him cough. “That whole spine should be covered in dust,” he murmured. So why was part of it clear, pristine almost? Why were there marks in the dust to the shelves? “Because somebody has moved the books,” he announced to nobody in particular. And why had they moved the book?
He knew why. He also knew that he had indeed locked the door. He wasn’t getting old and doddery. He wasn’t getting forgetful. He didn’t need to cut down on the sugar. He spun round and glanced at the office once again. He went into the ki
tchen area, and then into the Store Room. It all looked okay, but it was clear that someone had been there, looking for something. He thought he knew who it had been, but he wasn’t sure as to why. And he didn’t know what it was that they were looking for?
What’s more he didn’t know if they had actually found anything of any real interest, because he certainly hadn’t. Two days up at Rosemont had produced nothing of any real consequence, nothing concrete, at least not as far as he could see. His trip up to the Ridges had told him nothing that he hadn’t already known.
Sure there were lots of oddments, more pieces to a puzzle, but none of them seemed to fit anywhere. Firstly, there was the so-called secret compound. It was so secret that it didn’t even know what it was for. There were so many rumors flying around, but that was all they were, rumors. Then there was Anthony Shaw’s visit, and his questions about the land. What was that all about? Then there were the letters. Almost everyone had received letters from Latimer Holdings, whoever they were, offering to buy their land. There was a definite connection between Shaw and Latimer, but exactly how or what, he didn’t know.
What was it that Cole had said? “It seems obvious to me that Shaw’s report gave Latimer the information they needed. They then made their offers to buy the land.”
It made sense, but there were still too many questions unanswered. No one knew who Latimer Holdings were, or why they wanted the land. Apparently there had been some threats made, a barn had burnt down, there had been a nasty car crash, and somebody had a heart attack. Fortunately no one had actually died.
What did it all mean? Kendall had no idea. However, there were one or two things that he did know. Latimer Holdings had a connection with the Marshall Building. So did Anthony Shaw. So did Ian Duncan. And so did Governor Frank Reynolds. As to what the connection was he hadn’t a clue.
He walked over to his desk and sat down. He opened the top drawer and took out a sheet of notepaper. He placed it on the desk in front of him. He picked up his pen and wrote the names Anthony Shaw and Frank Reynolds across the top. Underneath he wrote 9 mm; Marshall Building; Ian Duncan; and Latimer. He stopped for a moment, then he added the words Rosemont, and Murdered. He then drew lines linking the six items with the two names. “Those six things are all connected to those two names,” he murmured. The chance of it all being a coincidence were millions to one, trillions maybe. It was no coincidence. The two murders were definitely linked.
He pushed the paper to one side and reached across and pressed the play button on the answering machine. There was a call from Mollie telling him to ring her as soon as he got back. Next there was a call telling him to lay off the Shaw case. If he didn’t it could be extremely harmful to his health. He suddenly thought of the warnings about cigarette smoking. He had taken heed of them, and he had quit three or four years ago. He had been warned about possible liver problems due to excessive alcohol, so he had cut down on the drink. He tried hard to take care of himself, and stay healthy. He watched his diet as much as possible. He didn’t have burgers, not every day that is, and he had cut down a little on the French fries. No more than once a day. He tried to get a little exercise at least. Well he did walk down the stairs now, and not bother with the elevator. All in all he considered that he was doing okay. Now there was something else to worry about, more risks to his health. There was always something.
Then there was a second call telling him to stay away from Rosemont. This was also potentially damaging to his health. He pressed the stop button. This is getting really serious, he murmured. Strangely enough he had been feeling ill just lately. Perhaps there was something in it after all. He had thought that it was just the flu, or a bad cold, something he had eaten, but perhaps it was something more serious. He wondered if some antibiotics would help, or perhaps an aspirin. He decided that he would have a hot toddy, some whisky, hot water, a spoonful of honey, some sugar, and a squeeze of lemon. Oh, and some more whisky. Then he would get to bed early. He wasn’t absolutely sure that it was good for you, but it certainly tasted pretty good.
He wondered if his Health Insurance was up to date. Had he made that last payment? More importantly he wondered if the policy would cover him for these latest problems. He decided to check with his insurance company at the earliest opportunity. He wondered if he should continue to play the tape, or was it just too dangerous. He decided to take a risk. He pressed the play button. The final message started to play. It was a call telling him to keep clear of the Reynolds case. On this call there was no specific mention concerning his health. That’s good, he thought. “For a while there, I was beginning to get a little worried.”
He switched the machine off. It is certainly very nice having all of this concern over his welfare. Why his own doctor had never shown such concern, and he was being paid for his services. The last person to be so interested with his health was his mother. Oh and Mollie of course. He would call Mollie later, but he decided that he would not mention anything about these other calls. “No point worrying her. I’m worried enough for the both of us.”
He walked into the kitchen area, and poured himself a drink, a double. He returned to his desk, and sat down once again. He took a large swallow of his scotch. He was wondering precisely who his new friends were, and why they had taken such a deep interest in him. And why they were so worried about his health. If he had glanced out of the window, down to the street level, he would have noticed at least two of his newly found friends standing at the corner. Nearby was a blue Mercury Marauder.
Kendall picked up the telephone, and dialed. It was answered a few moments later. “Mollie,” he called out. “Is that you?”
* * *
Chapter 25
Return To Placid Drive
Two days later Kendall was back on Placid Drive. The crowds had now disappeared, and so had the police. All of the barriers had now been removed. Gone were the television lights and cameras. The road was completely deserted. He slowly drove past the Gatehouse, and pulled in fifty yards further on. It was a no waiting area. He flipped open the trunk, and took out a blue lantern. He placed it on top of the car, and switched it on. It started to turn slowly, the blue light flickering. He then walked back towards the Gatehouse. As he drew nearer Ed, the security guard, saw him, and emerged. He started to walk over to the barrier, towards Kendall.
Kendall reached the barrier a split second before the guard. “Good afternoon, sir,” Ed said. “Can I help you?”
Kendall stepped closer to the barrier. He placed his hands on the lowered rail, and leaned over, trying to get as close to the guard as possible. “It’s about the murder of Governor Reynolds,” he replied. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask. Perhaps you could help me.”
Ed moved slightly closer. He was sure that he knew the man standing in front of him, he was certain that he had seen him before. He was trying hard to remember. “Aren’t you one of those reporters, who were here the other day?” he asked. Then the guard suddenly remembered. “I know you,” he said triumphantly. “You’re the guy I saw round the back of the house, by the terrace, aren’t you, the one on the Tour?”
“Yes that was me,” Kendall replied. “Sorry, I was a bit of a nuisance to you that day. I was just being nosy that was all. You know what reporters are like.”
Ed knew exactly what reporters were like. “I thought I recognized you,” he said. Trying to be funny as well, if I remember correctly, he thought. He pushed the thought to one side. It had, after all, been mildly amusing, and no harm had actually been done. “Who are you anyway?” Ed asked. “What newspaper are you from?”
Kendall hesitated. He looked down to the ground, and then looked up to face the guard. “Well to tell you the truth, I’m not actually from any newspaper. I’m not even a reporter. I’m really a detective.” He quickly flashed his old police identity badge. Ed barely looked at it. “I’d just like to go over a few of the things that were said here the other day.” He paused, watching Ed closely, waiting for a reaction. None ca
me. “Is that all right with you?”
Ed wasn’t sure. After all he had already gone over the details, more than once. What was the point, he wondered. Why the need for yet another detective, asking the same old questions. Besides why was he being so secretive? Why pretend to be a reporter when he wasn’t? Why not come straight out with it?
“Well I don’t really know,” he said. “I mean I’ve already gone through this with the police. That should be sufficient. I don’t see the need to go through it again. I’ve already told them all that I know.”
“I know that you’ve already given a lot of information to the police,” Kendall replied, nodding his head enthusiastically. “And it is greatly appreciated, make no mistake about that. It’s greatly appreciated, and extremely helpful.”
Kendall was fully aware that he had no idea of what information Ed had previously provided. He was also aware that he had been told, more than once, to keep out of the case. “But if you could just do it once more,” he continued. “Maybe, just maybe, you might suddenly remember something that you had forgotten. Something might just come to mind. Something you might think trivial, or unimportant. Something you overlooked. I might see something that my colleagues may have missed. Who knows? Besides I have a few new ideas that I’d like to explore.” Still there was no reaction from Ed. Kendall smiled, and held his hands up. “What do you say? Will you help me?”
It was clear that Ed was not convinced. He had already been questioned, at great length. In fact he had been questioned more than once. He hadn’t expected to go through it all again.
“Come on,” Kendall continued coaxing. “You might just hold the key to solving the case. Just imagine you might be the one to nail the killer.”