by John Holt
“You’ll call me won’t you?” Mollie said, still slightly uncertain. He smiled at her, and simply nodded his head. She looked around at the mess on the floor, and then she suddenly bent down starting to clear up.
Kendall watched for a few moments. “Mollie,” he said gently, touching her arm. “Leave that. It’s not important.”
She looked up at him, tears filling her eyes. “We have to tidy up,” she said. “We can’t just leave it like this. Suppose somebody comes?”
“Another time,” Kendall said. “I’ll deal with it.” He helped her to her feet. “You have to go now.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right,” Kendall replied. “I have someone to see.”
Mollie looked down at the floor. She then picked up her belongings, and started walking towards the door. Kendall took out his wallet, and took out five one hundred dollar bills. “Take this,” he said. “Get a cab. Go home.” He put his arms around her, and gently kissed her. “Pack some things, and book a flight to Florida, as soon as you can. I’ll call you at your cousins when I can.”
Mollie stared at the bills. She hadn’t seen so much money for such a long while. She wondered where it had come from, but she had more sense than to ask. She put the money in her bag, and moved quickly to the door. She stopped and looked back at Kendall. “You take care of yourself,” she called out, and waved. Kendall smiled and waved back. “Bye,” she said and walked out.
After Mollie had left Kendall looked down at the floor for a few moments. Then, seeing what he was looking for he bent down and picked up a notepad. He had decided to put down all that he knew, or even suspected, about Brady and the gun. He began writing.
Thirty minutes later he had written everything relating to Brady, his address, the car registration and the gun. He had suggested that the weapon be checked for a possible connection with the deaths of Anthony Shaw, and Governor Reynolds. He added details of the barn. He read the note over, and made a few corrections, his spelling was so poor. He wished he had paid more attention at school. He read it through once again. When he was satisfied, he signed it, adding his address and telephone number at the bottom. He placed the notes inside an envelope, he then added the driver’s license for Joe Brady, and sealed it. He turned the envelope over, and wrote across the outside “Detective John Ford, 14th Precinct.”
He stood up, the envelope in his hand. He picked up the case holding the gun, and quickly left the office. Down at street level he turned to the left. Three blocks along and he turned to the right and continued for four more blocks. There on the corner was the Precinct House. As he approached the building he stopped one of the police officers who was about to enter.
“Officer, do you know Detective Ford?” he asked. “Give that to him will you?” Kendall continued, placing the case and envelope into the officer’s hands. Without waiting for a response he quickly moved away.
* * *
As he got close to the office he noticed a gathering at the far corner. A fire vehicle was parked across the roadway. Behind it was a police car, blue lights flashing. He didn’t need to see anything more. He knew that the car had been found. He continued on his way. He was anxious to get back to the office. He had some tidying up to do.
* * *
Two days later the telephone rang. It was Detective John Ford. “Kendall that was a nice little package you sent me,” he said.
“I hoped that it would be helpful,” Kendall replied. “I had a lot of trouble getting it.”
“You must tell me about that some time,” Ford said. “In the meantime you will be pleased to know that the gun was the weapon used in both murders. You’ll also be interested to know that Brady’s fingerprints were found on those bricks we found at Shaw’s house.”
“That appears to tie that one up quite nicely, doesn’t it,” Kendall said. “So have you picked him and his partner up?”
“Yes we have them safe and sound,” he replied. “And they are both singing like Sinatra.” Ford started to laugh. “I’ll be seeing you Kendall, take care.” The phone went dead.
Kendall replaced the handset onto the cradle. So that was that part over and done with. Brady was the murderer, and was now in custody. But he was working for somebody that much was clear. He looked at the buff colored file, lying on the desk. He opened it and started to read. Three hours later he turned the last page, and closed the file. He then knew, with absolute certainty who that somebody was. Ian Duncan.
* * *
Chapter 30
Old Fashioned Detective Work
Two days later Kendall was ready to see Duncan once again. He had telephoned the previous day, and an appointment had been arranged for eleven thirty. It was a little after eleven twenty when he drove into the car park at the Warren Center. He slowed down, and glanced around. “Ah, there it is,” he announced, as he drove slowly over, and parked next to a Mercedes SL Class Roadster. It was a brilliant scarlet red in color, gleaming and shining in the sunshine. He got out of his car and walked up to the Mercedes.
“That’s got to be Duncan’s car,” he murmured. “It sure is a beauty.” As he approached the car he casually glanced at the rear seat. Bundled to one side was a patchwork blanket.
Kendall walked across the car park. He stopped a few yards from the entrance, and looked up at the building in front of him. It wasn’t exactly the Empire State, or the Chrysler Building, or the Trump Tower. He had to admit though, as unimpressive as the building was, there was nothing around to touch it. Even so it was no architectural gem that was for sure. Kendall was disappointed. He had expected something far more impressive, far more imposing. It didn’t quite match his perception of Ian Duncan.
What was he so concerned about anyway? It was only an office block after all. A building is a building is a building, and who was Ian Duncan anyway? Only my prime suspect, he murmured, in a double murder case. As he looked up he was suddenly aware that somebody was looking down at him. It was Duncan. Kendall looked away, and continued walking towards the entrance foyer. He entered the building and walked across the marble floor towards the receptionist at the far end.
* * *
Kendall crossed the lobby and took the elevator to the nineteenth floor, as he had been instructed. “Go right up,” the receptionist had said. “Mr. Duncan is expecting you.” As Kendall stepped out of the elevator, Jackson, Duncan’s private secretary, was waiting for him. “Good morning Mr. Kendall,” he said. “You can go straight in,” he pointed towards the office door. “Through there.”
Kendall walked over to the door that Jackson had indicated, and tapped. Jackson looked up from his desk and beckoned once again with his hand. Kendall tapped once more, and then opened the door and went into the office.
As he went in, Duncan stood up and walked forward to greet him. “Mr. Kendall, we meet again, at last. But I thought you were coming to see me a few days ago.”
“Yes I was, sorry about that,” Kendall replied. “I’m afraid that I was unavoidably delayed.”
“Oh I’m very sorry to hear that,” Duncan said. “What happened? Nothing too serious I trust.”
“No, it wasn’t that serious,” Kendall replied. “You might just say that I got held up.”
“No matter, Mr. Kendall,” Duncan responded. “You are here now, that’s what counts, nothing else matters. It doesn’t seem that long ago since our last meeting. It was the day of the barbecue wasn’t it? We were doing a little fund raising for dear old John.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Duncan, the day of the barbecue,” Kendall replied. “How did it go, by the way?”
“Oh not too bad,” Duncan replied. “We made a little under one hundred thousand dollars. That’s with the entrance fee, and a little auction we held during the evening.”
“One hundred thousand dollars,” Kendall gave a low whistle. “That’s not bad. Not too bad at all,” he said, wondering if that was before or after expenses. He also wondered if it
was before, or after tax. He decided that the question of tax probably never arose. “In fact I would say that it was very good indeed.”
“Peanuts, Mr. Kendall, peanuts,” said Duncan. “A mere drop in the ocean, I assure you. Small change I would say.”
Certainly Kendall’s circumstances had recently taken a turn for the better, but he knew what small change really meant. He remembered the times when he had no more than a few dollars sitting in his pocket. One hundred thousand dollars was nothing like small change. That sum was more than he or his friends would make in three or four years. “I can assure you that it’s more than small change to me, sir,” he said.
Duncan started to laugh. “It is so nice to see you again, Mr. Kendall,” he replied. “What can I do for you this time?”
Kendall said nothing for a few moments. He glanced around the office. Seeing Duncan surrounded by the trappings of authority, Kendall suddenly felt hesitant, unsure of himself. He had been so certain, until now. Doubts started to creep in. This was the first time that he had seen Duncan in his office. On the previous occasion they had met at Duncan’s house, just before the barbecue. Kendall smiled as he recalled the five thousand dollar entrance fee. He wondered how the guests had enjoyed themselves, and had they got their money’s worth. For a brief moment he wondered how many burgers you would get for five thousand dollars. He guessed about a thousand. A little less maybe, allow something for the onions, and the rolls.
He shook his head dismissing the thought from his mind. He looked at Duncan. Here was a man who had great power, and wealth, a man of great importance, and influence, a personal friend of the front runner for the Presidency, and an associate of a Governor. Was it really possible that he could be involved in murder?
There’s been a mistake, a dreadful error. Kendall was nervous, and not as confident as he had been. He wanted to leave, now. Did he really have anything concrete against Duncan? No, he sadly answered, it was all substantial evidence, with very little actual proof. All supposition, and hearsay, he decided. He looked at Duncan. He thought of the man in the barn. He thought of Mrs. Shaw. Then he suddenly saw the photograph on the wall. It was the same photograph that he had seen in Mackenzie’s office. It was the photograph of two men on a fishing trip in Florida.
He looked closely at the image of Frank Reynolds. He looked completely ill at ease. There was no smile on his lips. There was only a look of utter …. What was the word? Contempt, that was it, utter contempt. Kendall recalled what Mackenzie had said about Reynolds. “I think he only came on that trip because Ian had told him to go.”
Duncan was smiling at him, daring him almost. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kendall?” he repeated. Then, suddenly, Kendall knew that he was right, there were no longer any doubts.
“Mr. Duncan,” he replied jovially. “You are probably surprised to see me, I expect.” Duncan merely grinned, but said nothing. “In fact I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you had never expected to see me again.” He paused for a few moments. Still Duncan said nothing. “It really is very nice of you to see me, I mean, at such short notice.”
“It is always a pleasure, Mr. Kendall. You know that,” Duncan replied. “Now do sit down, and tell me, how can I help you?”
“It’s probably quite trivial really. Probably nothing at all,” Kendall replied. “But it’s something that’s been bothering me. It’s about the car, the Bentley Roadster.”
“The Bentley,” Duncan repeated, puzzled. “What about it?”
“I’m probably being foolish, and probably not really understanding correctly,” Kendall replied. “It wouldn’t be the first time, but something has been bothering me. When I get like that I’m terrible to live with. I just have to get it straightened out.” Kendall looked at the photograph. “Florida wasn’t it?”
Duncan turned in the direction that Kendall was looking. He then turned back to face him. “Yes,” he replied. “That’s right Florida, Key West actually. You were saying something about the Bentley?”
“That’s right, the Bentley,” said Kendall. “You said that you had struck a deal with the Governor, that night, to purchase the car.”
“That is correct,” Duncan replied, sounding surprised. “We had settled on a price, and the papers were to be drawn up the next day.” He voice faltered slightly. He coughed, and cleared his throat. “That won’t proceed now, of course.”
“No, sadly it won’t.” Kendall said. “But, you know, I don’t think it was ever really meant to happen.”
Duncan looked up. “What do you mean, Mr. Kendall?” he retorted sharply.
“I understand that you had made it quite clear, on a number of previous occasions that you weren’t interested in the car. You were never interested in the car,” Kendall replied. “You considered that it was far too expensive. Besides you were never interested in vintage cars.” Duncan remained silent. “You had no intention of buying that car, did you?”
Duncan said nothing for a moment or two. “Mr. Kendall I don’t know where you have obtained your information, but you have been misinformed. Frank and I made a deal. I agreed to buy the car for five hundred thousand dollars. I considered it to be a good investment.”
Kendall let out a whistle. “Wow, that’s certainly an impressive sum of money,” he said. “Funny isn’t it. I would guess that my old Ford is perhaps worth a little over one thousand dollars. And it’s only ten years old.” He then reached into his inside pocket, and withdrew a small piece of paper. “And the Bentley is what, eighty, nearly ninety years old, and worth so much money.”
“It because it has a rarity value Mr. Kendall,” Duncan started to explain.
“You know Mr. Duncan,” Kendall said slowly. “I’ve been busy the last couple of days, doing a bit of old fashioned detective work. The stuff I was trained for.” He glanced at the paper that he was holding. “You know the kind of thing. Checking around, asking a lot of stupid questions. Who did what? When? Where? Butting my nose in where it’s not wanted. Pretty boring mundane stuff really, not very exciting I’m afraid.” He unfolded the paper, and glanced at it. “Did I say that it was boring?” he asked. “No, no it wasn’t boring, it was anything but. It fact it was quite fascinating.” He looked down at the paper, and smiled. He then looked at Duncan, and continued. “I went along to Grahams, you know Grahams? You know who they are? They are the Auctioneers, on International Drive. I’m sure you know them, large building, all marble and glass, very impressive and extremely high class.”
Duncan said nothing, but looked puzzled. Kendall continued. “Not as large as this building though. Oh no, but shall we say, a little more fancy. No offense intended, Mr. Duncan.” Duncan still said nothing. Kendall smiled, and continued. “You know I never realized that it was so involved. The antique business I mean. There’s such a lot to it. The age of an article, its condition, who made it? How many were made? Rarity value as you said.”
Kendall paused for a moment, and glanced around the office. “I used to think it was just about a lot of useless old stuff. All dusty, and worn, you know,” he continued. “Oh no, it’s a lot more involved than that. In fact it’s very involved indeed.”
Kendall looked around the room. On the wall opposite were two oil paintings. “You take paintings for example,” he announced, pointing towards the wall. “They showed me a photograph of a painting, the one with the yellow flowers, you know the one?”
“Yellow flowers?” Duncan repeated, looking puzzled. “Do you mean The Sunflowers by Vincent Van Gogh?”
“That’s the one, the Sunflowers,” said Kendall. He paused for a moment. “Do you know that it is worth over fifty million dollars?”
“I think that you will find that it’s worth a lot more than that, Mr. Kendall,” Duncan replied. “Nearer eighty million I would say.”
Kendall thought of the print of that same picture hanging in his apartment. It had cost nine dollars, seventy-five cents, plus tax, in a sale at Wal-Mart. Then there was another twenty-two dollars fifty cents for
the frame. Okay, so the frame was nothing like the ones he was looking at. Not quite so elaborate, so ornate. Or so fussy, but it was still quite acceptable. It still held the picture in its place, so what else did you need.
“Eighty million,” repeated Kendall. “Imagine that. I have that picture back at the apartment you know. Not the real one you understand, it’s only a print. It cost me less than ten dollars. Sure there was extra for the tax, and the frame, but eighty million.” He let out a low whistle. “That is a huge sum of money.”
Duncan was beginning to get edgy, and impatient. “I’m sure that it is, Mr. Kendall, but if we could just get to the point, it would be very much appreciated.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Duncan,” Kendall replied. “I’m sorry. I just get carried away with it. It really is a very interesting subject. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. It gets to you, you know. Perhaps I should have been an auctioneer.” He stopped for a moment, and sneezed. He took out his handkerchief, and rubbed his nose. “Hay fever,” he said quite simply, and sneezed once again. He put the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I keep meaning to use paper ones, especially with this problem. Always happens this time of year. I’ve tried everything. From tablets, to sprays, I’ve even tried alternative remedies. You know homeopathy, that sort of thing. Nothing seems to … ”
“Mr. Kendall,” Duncan said forcefully. “I fully sympathize with you, but can we please just get on.”
“Sorry, where was I?” said Kendall. He looked at his watch. “Is that the time? I hadn’t realized that it was so late.”
“Mr. Kendall,” snapped Duncan. “You were talking about Grahams. Although what this has to do with the death of Frank I cannot imagine.”
“Oh yes, Grahams, so I was,” Kendall replied. He paused once again, and looked directly at Duncan. “They normally deal in works of art you know, paintings, sculpture, jewelry, that kind of thing. Objets d’art is what they call them, vintage cars is a specialist subject they tell me.”