by John Holt
Ed thought for a moment of two longer. “That’s it,” he announced emphatically. “It was the blanket.”
“What blanket?” Kendall wanted to know. Ed continued to think for a few more moments. Kendall started to get impatient. He began tapping his fingers together. “Come on, Ed, my youth is passing me by. I’m getting old waiting. What is so important about the blanket?” Deep down he suspected that it wasn’t important at all.
Ed was startled. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to think it out.” He paused once again. Kendall raised his eyebrows, and was about to speak. “The blanket in the back of the car,” he said knowingly. “That blanket.”
This was getting nowhere fast Kendall thought, becoming even more impatient. “What about the blanket?”
“When Mr. Duncan was leaving, I noticed that the blanket was bundled on to one side of the rear seat. It was all hunched over to one side.” He stopped and tried to visualize what he had seen that night. “But when he had arrived the blanket was spread right over the entire back seat. It was kind of lumpy, you know.”
“Lumpy?” asked Kendall, wondering if there was any point in all of this. He was far from sure that it mattered, but he posed the question anyway. “What do you mean lumpy?”
“Instead of being all flat and smooth, it was all bumps, that kind of thing, as though it was covering something.”
Kendall suddenly realized the significance. “Covering something?” he said. “Or perhaps, covering someone?”
Ed looked at him for a moment. “Yes, you could be right, I suppose. Then again maybe Mr. Duncan had just brought something over for the Governor. A present or something, that’s more than likely.”
“Maybe,” said Kendall, unconvinced. “But then if he had brought something with him, and it was removed from the car, why doesn’t it appear on the video tape? Where is it now?”
“Well it wouldn’t show on that camera, the one showing the garage,” Ed explained pointing to the monitor. “Because of the angle, it’s all wrong.”
“All right, that’s fine, but what about the other camera, the one that points towards the main house.” Kendall pointed to the adjacent screen. “That should have shown something. Does it?”
“No it doesn’t,” Ed admitted. “It shows Mr. Duncan and the Governor coming back from the garage, and then going into the house. Later it shows Mr. Duncan leaving. Later still it shows the Governor coming out of the house for the last time, and walking towards the garage.” Ed looked away from the screen.
“But there’s no sign of a large package,” said Kendall.
“No there’s no sign,” Ed agreed.
“So where is this mysterious parcel that Duncan had brought?” Kendall asked. “You said yourself that there was nothing in the car when he left. So what happened to it?”
Ed had to admit that Kendall had a point, a good point. In fact he had several good points. What it meant though he wasn’t at all sure. “So nothing was brought into the house. All right, I agree. So what are you saying then?” he asked. “What was under the blanket?”
“I’m not absolutely sure what I’m saying,” Kendall replied. He paused, and then took a deep breath, shocked at what he was actually about to say, but nonetheless convinced that he was absolutely right. “It’s fairly certain that the blanket was covering something. I believe that Duncan’s visit that night was quite deliberate. I also believe that he had arranged for Reynolds to be murdered.” He paused once more. He thought about what he had just said. Was he right, he wondered? Although he couldn’t prove it, he was certain of it. He looked directly towards Ed. “I believe that Duncan had an accomplice with him that night, in the car. That accomplice was hidden under that blanket.”
“You’re crazy,” said Ed. “Mr. Duncan a killer, there’s no way. You’re out of your mind.”
“Possibly,” Kendall said. “People have said that about me many times in the past, and will probably say it again in the future. Nonetheless, that is exactly what I think. There is simply no other explanation.” He looked at the security guard, and then added. “Unless of course, you have a better suggestion, do you?”
Ed was visibly shocked. No he did not have a better suggestion. Nonetheless, he could hardly believe what he was hearing. The guy standing in front of him was openly suggesting that the respectable Mr. Duncan had deliberately planned, and carried out, the murder of Governor Reynolds. He could not believe it, yet deep down he had to admit that it was a possibility. “That’s quite a suggestion,” he said at last. “You should go to the police.”
“I might just do that, but I need to prove it first, and I can’t do that right now,” Kendall replied. “Can you think of anything else that might help?”
Ed said nothing for a few moments. “There is something,” he said hesitantly. “It’s probably nothing really, but.” He walked over to a cabinet at the side of the room. He unlocked the top drawer, and started to search through the contents. Eventually he found what he was looking for. He took it out, and carefully locked the drawer. A few minutes later he returned holding an envelope. “You might make something out of this,” he said as he handed the envelope to Kendall.
Kendall opened the envelope. Inside were the charred remains of a number of documents, carefully preserved inside polythene wallets. Kendall took out one of the sheets. Although it was burnt at the edges, most of the writing was intact. He started to read aloud. “Matter dealt with. You won’t be troubled again.” It was simply signed D. “What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t really know, Mr. Kendall,” Ed replied. “Not for sure.” He paused momentarily, hesitant, and unsure. “D is obviously Mr. Duncan I would say.” He paused once more still uncertain as to whether he should continue.
Kendall looked up from the papers he was holding. “Go on Ed,” he coaxed.
Ed looked at Kendall. “I’m not sure, but I think that the Governor was being blackmailed. At least that’s what the remains of those other papers suggest to me.”
Kendall looked at the envelope that he was holding. He then looked back at Ed. “Blackmailed? Who would blackmail the Governor?
“I have no idea Mr. Kendall,” Ed replied.
“Can I hang on to these?” Kendall asked.
“Sure,” replied Ed. “No problem.”
Kendall put the envelope in his inside pocket. “Thanks for your help. I’ll probably be back.” He tapped his pocket.
* * *
Kendall then turned around, walked out of the gatehouse, and returned to his car. He drove the short distance to the next junction, where he did a U turn. As he drove back past the house he noticed there were two men standing on the opposite side of the road. One was standing with the hood of their car raised. The other was bending, peering at the engine compartment. To any one passing by it appeared that their car had broken down. Kendall knew differently. He was tempted to wave, but decided against it.
* * *
The following day Kendall received a telephone call. It was Ed, the security guard. The previous night, he and his colleague, had carried out a little experiment. “We got a car, very similar to Mr. Duncan’s. The same size, a four door sedan,” he explained. “We parked it by the garage, exactly as Mr. Duncan had done that night, in exactly the same position.” Ed was sounding pleased with himself. “We checked it from the video tape, it was easy.” Kendall said nothing, but listened intensely, intrigued. “Charlie sat in the back. You remember Charlie, don’t you?” he asked.
Kendall suddenly began to think that this was another story that was going nowhere. “Sure, sure,” he replied. “I remember Charlie.” How could I forget Charlie? Why he’s like a brother to me. “Go on, Ed. Charlie sat in the back, so what?”
“Charlie sat in the back of the car,” Ed repeated. “Then, at my signal, he opened the rear door, and got out of the car.” Then there was silence.
Kendall waited with bated breath. “So he opened the door, then what? Ed, Ed, are you still there?” He was still t
here, Kendall could hear him breathing. “Go on, Ed, I’m waiting. He opened the door, and got out of the car, then what?”
“I’m getting to it, Mr. Kendall,” Ed replied. “You couldn’t see the door open you understand, or Charlie getting out. The CCTV camera didn’t pick it up. As you know the angle was all wrong, you couldn’t see the door close. But it did pick up that shadow, that same dark shadow. So you were right, Mr. Kendall. Somebody else was in the car that night.”
“I knew it,” Kendall said quite simply. “I knew it.” He slowly replaced the handset. It was time to speak with Duncan.
* * *
Chapter 26
The Duncan Residence
The security guard came out of the gatehouse, and slowly walked over to the barrier, where Kendall was sitting in his car. He bent down and peered through the open window. “Here you are, Mr. Kendall,” he said handing back an identity card.
“That checks out fine. You are expected. You can go right up.” He looked towards the gatehouse, and gave a wave to his colleague inside the building. The barrier started to rise slowly. “The house is about three hundred yards down on the right hand side,” the guard continued. “You should park next to the garages. You’ll see where.” He stepped away from the car, and waved Kendall through.
Kendall drove past, and waved an acknowledgement to the guard. As he did so he noticed the barrier slowly coming back down behind him. He could see the guard was speaking to someone on the telephone. They were probably informing the house that he was on his way. Slowly he drove along the tree lined graveled driveway. Every fifty yards or so he noticed the security cameras that were watching every move he made. Kendall had never been to Fort Knox, but somehow he imagined that it would be quite similar. After a short while the house came into view around a bend in the driveway.
* * *
Originally Kendall was to have seen Duncan at his apartment at The Warren Center, but there had been a last minute change. “Come on up to the house,” Duncan had said. “I’ve a few friends coming over later. We shall be having a barbecue, trying to boost Senator Mackenzie’s campaign fund. You might enjoy it.”
It sounded like fun, just his kind of thing. Nice of Duncan to invite me, Kendall thought, most unexpected.
“Everyone will be paying five thousand dollars to come,” Duncan continued. “Perhaps you would care to join us, Mr. Kendall.”
Sure, I’d like that very much. Pity I don’t really like barbecued food. Besides five thousand dollars seemed a lot of money, especially for a couple of burnt sausages, and some over cooked ribs. “Thank you very much, Mr. Duncan. That’s very kind of you, very kind indeed. Most civil,” Kendall replied.
* * *
The house was not that large, Kendall thought. Indeed, compared with The White House, and Buckingham Palace, it was quite tiny. No more than twenty or thirty rooms, he estimated. How did they ever cope? It must be so cramped, so crowded. “I suppose they have to just get on with it. It’s terrible how some people have to live. They just don’t have a choice though. The Government should do something about it.”
He drove on for another twenty or thirty yards, and parked next to a large garage block. This is a garage, he murmured, and started to laugh. The building was twice, no nearer three times, the size of his apartment. He shook his head, and switched off the engine. As he did so security lights came on, and the door of the house opened. The butler stepped out a few feet, and stopped, waiting impassively for Kendall to walk over. Kendall got out of the car, and looked around. He saw the butler and waved. The butler did not budge. Kendall then turned back to the car, and locked it, ensuring that the butler could see exactly what he was doing. He carefully placed the key into his pocket, and ran across the graveled drive, to the house.
“Mr. Kendall?” the butler asked.
“Who else?” replied Kendall.
The butler gave an imperious smile. “Mr. Duncan is expecting you.” He stepped back a foot or two and beckoned Kendall to go into the house. The two men entered into a large entrance hall. The butler closed the front door, and then moved closer to Kendall. “Please follow me, sir,” he said, and showed Kendall into the Library. “Mr. Duncan will be with you shortly.”
He left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Kendall walked further in to the room, glancing all around. It wasn’t quite as big as the County Library in his old hometown, but it wasn’t much smaller either. Look at all these books. I thought the guy was a busy man. How does he get time to read?
He walked around looking at the shelves. Casually picking up a book here and there, looking at the title page, and putting it back on to the shelf. They were all there, Charles Dickens and the Bronte Sisters lying side by side with Ed McBain and J D Salinger. There was Hemingway, and Steinbeck. There was Shakespeare, and Harper Lee. He glanced along the row upon row of shelving. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. He thought of his own bookshelves. He was impressed. On one of the walls were two paintings. Kendall slowly walked over to them. He had been there for a few moments, when the door suddenly opened and in strode Ian Duncan.
“Ah Mr. Kendall, good to see you,” he said as he walked towards Kendall. “I’ve been expecting you. I hope that I haven’t kept you waiting.”
Kendall turned around. “Oh no that’s all right, Mr. Duncan,” he replied. “I’ve been looking at your pictures.” He pointed to the wall behind him. “They’re nice, very colorful.” He looked back towards the paintings. “I like a lot of color,” he continued. “I like things bright and cheerful.”
Duncan looked puzzled, pictures, nice, colorful? He looked at the wall, and suddenly he realized what Kendall had meant. “Oh yes, Mr. Kendall, my paintings,” he said as he drew near. “I’m so glad that you like them. They are from the French impressionist period you know.”
“Is that right, Mr. Duncan,” Kendall replied. “French, just imagine. They wouldn’t be my first choice, you understand, but they’re all right.”
“All right,” Duncan repeated. “You know Mr. Kendall these paintings are considered to be a little more than all right. They are judged the finest of their kind, and they are extremely rare.” He moved closer to the wall, and pointed to one of them. “In fact this one was lost for fifty years. It was eventually found in somebody’s attic.”
Kendall looked closely at the painting that Duncan had indicated. Pity it was ever found again he thought. “You don’t say,” he said. “That is quite amazing. Just imagine, being lost for fifty years.” It hadn’t been lost. It had just been kept out of sight. He paused for a moment. “How much would something like that cost?” he asked casually, not that he could actually imagine anyone wanting to buy it.
Duncan turned away and smiled. “Oh I don’t think you would get much change from five hundred thousand dollars.” He turned to face Kendall.
Kendall let out a low whistle. “Very reasonable,” he said. For the price of two of my apartments I could have one picture. He wondered if that was just for the picture, or did it include the frame.
Duncan tried not to laugh, but failed. “Mr. Kendall, that painting is far more than reasonable I can assure you of that. It is considered to be a masterpiece by the world’s leading art critics, a major work of art.” Duncan looked at Kendall waiting for some kind of response. None came. “That painting is almost one hundred and fifty years old.”
“Really,” Kendall replied. It looked a lot older, and he would actually have preferred something a little newer. He moved closer to the painting, and examined it. “Not bad condition, considering its age,” he commented. “Not bad at all.” He looked at the painting once again. “It could do with a bit of a clean though, and maybe a new frame, this one is damaged.”
Duncan laughed out loudly. “Oh Mr. Kendall, please do come and sit down,” he stammered. “Over here.” Duncan led the way over to the sofa. “There, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a drink?”
It was a little early in the day, Kendall thought. To
o early perhaps, even for him, he wouldn’t normally, but in this case he decided that he would make an exception. It would have been impolite to refuse.
“Why not,” he said. “A scotch and a little water, very little.” He sat down and looked around. “Nice place you have, Mr. Duncan, must be hard dusting all of them shelves.”
Duncan smiled, as he poured the water. “Now what can I do for you, Mr. Kendall?” he asked, as he handed Kendall the glass. Kendall was still staring at the paintings. “Mr. Kendall,” Duncan coaxed gently. Kendall turned. “How can I help you?” Duncan repeated.
Kendall took a drink. “Let me start by thanking you for seeing me at such short notice, Mr. Duncan,” he replied.
“Glad to help if I can,” Duncan replied. “Now you mentioned something about Mr. Shaw.”
“That’s right,” said Kendall. “I’ve been asked to look into the death, I should say, the murder, of Anthony Shaw.” He took another drink, a long one this time.
“Oh yes, I read about it. A dreadful thing, simply dreadful,” Duncan responded. He picked up his glass and took a drink. “A nice young man,” he continued. “Such a terrible, terrible, thing, I can hardly believe it.” He took another drink. “Who did you say you were working for?”
“I didn’t say,” Kendall replied. “But it’s Mrs. Shaw, Anthony’s mother, and his brother, Peter.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Duncan replied. “They must be extremely saddened by this affair, understandable of course.” He paused reverentially, his head bowed down. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up and continued. “What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Kendall?”
“He worked for you I understand,” Kendall said. “Anthony Shaw I mean.”
“No, not exactly, Mr. Kendall, he didn’t actually work for me. Not directly that is,” Duncan replied. “I employed him on a freelance basis. That is to say my company employed him. He has, er, had done a number of things for the company. He was excellent, most reliable, efficient, and highly professional. A good hard worker who did a splendid job, at a reasonable cost, what more could you want?”