by John Holt
It was too long, the decorator had replied. “I’d have to make the letters that much smaller, so they would fit. Then they would be too small to read,” he announced knowingly. “There would be no point having them. No, you take my advice, Mr. Kendall. You make it Detective. It sounds much better anyway, more professional, more substantial. More reliable, take my word for it,” he had said. “Leave it to me.” Kendall had thought of the ream of paper sitting in his storeroom, every sheet addressed “Tom Kendall, Private Investigator.” However, the decorator knew best, he had the experience. “Trust me on this one,” he had said. And so Detective it was.
Kendall stepped back from the door. He could visualize the decorator standing there, in front of him, putting the finishing touches to the sign, all of those years ago. As he completed his final stroke, the decorator straightened up, admiring his work. “It’s all done, Mr. Kendall,” he announced, as he stepped away from the door. “Hope you like it.” Kendall looked at it closely, and smiled. Yes, he had liked it fine. He had to admit that the decorator had been right. He placed his hand back on to the sign, and gently tapped the door two or three times. He then turned around, and slowly walked away.
He went down the stairs and out into the street. It was beginning to get cold. He looked up at the sky. It was clouding over, and light flurries of snow started to fall. He walked to the corner of the street where his car was waiting. On the opposite side of the road were the three teenagers. They looked at Kendall, and waved enthusiastically. Kendall grinned, and waved back. In a funny sort of a way he would miss them too. He looked towards the car. There, on the windscreen was an envelope tucked behind the wiper blade. He cursed, as he picked it up. Wouldn’t you know it a parking ticket.
“I’ve only been there a few minutes,” he murmured. He looked at his watch, and shook his head. “Okay, so it’s almost four hours. Time passes so quickly.” He tore the envelope open, and took out the contents. It wasn’t a parking ticket. It was a card wishing him well for the future. At the bottom there were three signatures. Kendall smiled, and looked over at the three boys. They waved again, and then they ran off. “Probably going to find some other car to lean on,” Kendall thought, and started to laugh.
He opened the car door and got in. As he did so he threw the folder on to the back seat. It landed on the top of a shiny black leather briefcase. He made himself comfortable, and opened the glove compartment. Inside was a tube of sun tan lotion. Next to it was a pair of designer sunglasses. He took out the glasses, and put them on. The snow was now falling quite heavily, and was beginning to settle. The snow didn’t bother him. Neither did the cold. He was on his way to Florida, the Sunshine State. He was looking forward to seeing Disney World once again, and Kennedy Space Center, and Sea World. It had been many years since he had seen baby Shamu. Twenty years in fact, he thought ruefully. He must have grown up by now. He would even get down to the Everglades this time. And Universal Studios.
“They weren’t there the last time.” Oh, and definitely he would go down to the Keys. “It looked pretty good down there,” he murmured, as he thought of the photograph hanging in Mackenzie’s office. “Key West and Key Largo.”
Thoughts of Humphrey Bogart, and Edward G Robinson, came into his mind. “I might even try some of that deep sea fishing.” He looked through the windscreen, and up at the sky, watching the snowflakes as they began to cover his windscreen. He looked away. Then he made a final adjustment to his seat, and switched on the ignition. He sat for a few moments listening to the gentle purring of the engine. Not like the shake rattle and roll from the old Ford. You barely knew that the engine was running. It was so quiet. He turned on the wiper blades, watching as they glided across the glass brushing the snowflakes aside. Then he put the car into drive, looked through his rear view mirror, checked his side mirror, signaled, and slowly pulled out.
He had a long way to go, but it was going to be worth it. A new beginning, and a new life, he thought philosophically. He did not know what the future had in store for him. What lay ahead? But whatever was to come, he figured that the contents of the briefcase lying just behind him would be something of a help.
Oh yes, two million dollars would certainly be a help, a great big help indeed. “Thank you Mr. Duncan, thank you very much indeed.” Then he started to laugh. “Well he did say I could have it, didn’t he?” He put his foot down on the accelerator pedal, and sped away.
The Marinski Affair
John Holt
Phoenix Publishing – Essex - UK
© December 2012 John Holt
CONDITIONS OF SALE
John Holt has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data .
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Printing History
First published by Raider Publishing International, New York, in November 2009.
This second Edition was published by Phoenix, Essex, UK, in December 2012
ISBN
ISBN-13: 978-1481102476
ISBN-10: 1481102478
Preface
The story that follows is totally fictitious. It is a story, nothing more and nothing less. All places and persons included in the story are totally imaginary, and any similarity to actual persons alive or dead, is totally co-incidentally, and unintentional.
Although many of the places mentioned do actually exist, it is only the names that are real in the story. They have, however, been changed as necessary for my own purposes, i.e. to serve the needs of this story.
* * *
My sincere thanks go to my good friends at Omi Privé at Omi Gems, website www.omiprive.com, for their kind permission to use the photographs appearing on the front and back covers.
My thanks also go to Michael and Barbara Morton for their un-tiring work in checking the formatting of the manuscript.
I am grateful to Lauren Ridley, Cherryloco Jewelery for allowing me to base the Phoenix logo on her design.
John Holt
Chapter One
The Bradley Residence
Four Years Ago
Rutland Hall, home to the Bradley family since the early 1920’s, was a large rambling, red bricked Victorian mansion, situated a few miles out of town. Constructed in the middle of the 1880’s, by Henry Lawrence Rutland, a wealthy philanthropist who had made his vast fortune with the coming of the railroad, it had an air of stability, permanence, wealth, and great power. Originally the Hall had been used as an orphanage, designed specifically for the children of railroad workers who had either died, or been killed during the course of their work.
Sadly the building’s stability and authority were short lived, and its power and wealth proved to be somewhat limited. It had finally been forced to close its doors sometime towards the end of 1912, due to a lack of funds and support.
The property had then remained vacant for a number of years, gradually deteriorating, and, generally, falling into disrepair. The passing years had taken their toll. Rain and wind lashed the building. Roof tiles were dislodged. Windows were smashed. Rainwater entere
d the building, causing extensive damage. Further damage was later caused as the result of a small fire in the east wing. At the time it was thought that the fire had been started deliberately, in order to claim on the insurance. Despite a thorough investigation no substantive evidence was ever found, and the claim was paid out in full. At one time it had been planned to actually demolish the building, and redevelop the site, but once again finance had been a major problem, and the works never went ahead. This idea was followed by a string of other plans all designed to bring the building back into use. A school was suggested, or perhaps a hospital, or maybe even a hotel. However, funds were not forthcoming for any of the ideas, and the plans all came to nothing. As a consequence, the building remained derelict, and continued to deteriorate.
* * *
James Meredith Bradley eventually purchased the property shortly after his return from Russia, sometime towards the end of 1917. He then spent almost four years, and a considerable sum of money, renovating the property, trying to bring it back to its former glory, such as it had been. The building was far from beautiful, although it was not exactly ugly either. Love it or hate it, there seemed to be no in-between. Although it did have a certain character, it was hardly a stylish building. It lacked charm. It lacked warmth. It was, however, decorative. No, not exactly decorative. Ornate was probably a better description for it. Excessively ornate some would say. Way over the top, said others, with its unnecessary towers and flying buttresses that had been added at the turn of the century. There was, however, no disputing the fact that in its day the building had been functional, utilitarian, practical with its large rooms, and high ceilings. At least it had probably worked reasonably well as an institution. The rooms made excellent communal dining rooms, or dormitories. However, as a private home, well, that was a totally different matter.
The property was, generally, two storey in height, although there were a number of rooms located within the roof space to the main part of the building. These rooms had originally been provided for certain key members of the orphanage staff. They were now used as servant’s quarters. At the main entrance to the house there was a curved portico, lined with thick limestone columns. This had been added sometime in the late 1930’s in a vain attempt to improve the appearance of the building. Whether or not it had worked in that regard was a matter of opinion, although the majority view seemed to be that it had failed, and failed quite miserably. Above the portico was a balcony area, leading out from the main bedroom. To the east side of the building a single storey addition had been constructed sometime in the mid 1980’s, to provide self-contained living accommodation for the chauffeur and his family. At the rear was a timber framed conservatory, and a further single storey addition, comprising the library, and a music room, which overlooked the south lawn and the lake. To the right hand side of the main house was a garage block, with spaces for five cars. To one side was a cast iron staircase leading to the rooms above. Originally these rooms had formed the living quarters for the chauffeur and his family. However, over the years the rooms had proved to be unsatisfactory for the purpose of habitation, and they did not meet the stringent modern habitation standards. They were inadequately heated, draughty and damp. Gradually the rooms fell into disuse, and were eventually closed down. The area was now used for storage purposes only.
* * *
In front of the house was a sweeping lawn that extended down to a woodland area a hundred yards or so to the north. Along the east side of the lawn was a line of conifer trees that stretched down towards the river. Close to the river, a white marquee stood empty and silent, its great canvas gently flapping in the breeze. It was waiting to be cleared of the tables and chairs that lay inside; waiting for the discarded crockery and glasses to be taken away. The marquee would then be dismantled, rolled up and removed. It was all that remained to show that there had been any kind of recent celebration.
A short time ago the marquee had been a hive of activity vibrating to the sound of dance music, and people laughing and singing. Friends and neighbors had come from miles around to help Robert James Bradley, and his wife Irene, celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. They had eaten the very finest food, drunk the very finest liquor, and, as everyone had subsequently agreed, generally had a good time.
Now all was quiet. Now the area was completely deserted. The last bottle of wine had long since been consumed. The last morsel of food had been eaten. The last waltz played. The last dance was over. The dance band had put away their musical instruments, and departed. The table decorations now lay forlorn and wilting. The once neatly pressed white linen tablecloths disheveled and stained with spilt wine, and morsels of food. Empty bottles lay scattered everywhere, as did the crockery, and the cut crystal glasses that had, until recently, overflowed with the very best champagne. Some glasses had fallen over, the remains of their contents slowly running across the surface, and dripping over the edge. Unfinished food lay where it had been discarded. Streamers and colored bunting hung loosely down from the ceiling. Paper napkins lay crumpled on the ground, next to the crushed cigarette butts, and empty packs. The last of the guests had finally gone home.
Tomorrow would come the task of clearing up. Tomorrow an army of workers would descend upon the property to take down the temporary lighting, and to remove the sound system. Others would take away the trestle tables and chairs. Others would remove the crockery, and glasses. Others still would take down the great canvas tent. Teams would sweep, and scrub, and clean. By late tomorrow afternoon all traces of the celebration would be gone. There would be no evidence remaining to indicate that there had ever been a party. But for now all of that would have to wait. For now the house and grounds lay silent. For now the house was in complete darkness, the occupants, thoroughly exhausted, were all now fast asleep.
* * *
The sky was dull, overcast, and thick dark rain clouds were beginning to form, obscuring the moonlight. There was a strong breeze blowing in from the east, and it was beginning to get quite cold. The wind rustled through the trees. Down by the river a frog croaked, and splashed into the water. Overhead an owl hooted, and then settled down for the night. A rabbit ran across the lawn, and stopped momentarily. It rose up on to its hind legs and sniffed the air, then quickly scurried back into the woods.
A shadowy figure peered out from the trees, silently watching. He was a little over five feet seven tall, and weighed one hundred and sixty pounds. A dark cap, pulled down over his forehead, covered his thick dark brown hair. The man silently watched the house. It was in complete darkness apart from the security floodlights located at each end of the building. He looked at his watch. It was just after two o’clock. He had already been there for a little over an hour.
How long had he been waiting for this night to actually come? It seemed like a lifetime. Was it only four months? Four months since he had first met her? Four months, one week and three days to be precise. It seemed just like yesterday.
* * *
He had first seen her that Monday afternoon, as she strutted down the High Street. She acted as though she owned it. It was a hot sunny day. He had gone into town on business. Business indeed? There was the problem. There was no business. He hadn’t had any work for the past three months. Sure, he had looked, and looked hard, but there was nothing. Nothing suitable that is. Yes he could have got a job in a factory, or working behind a counter somewhere, or perhaps driving a cab. But that was not for him. He was looking for something better, much better. Something a little, shall we say, more high powered, with a high profile. A business executive sounded good; or maybe something in the financial world, or transportation perhaps. There was money in transportation, real money. Shipping, the railroad, road haulage, that would be more like it, much more to his persona.
Not that he had any real formal training for such a position. But it wasn’t what you knew was it? It was more a case of who you knew. Which was precisely the reason for his being in town that afternoon? The previous day he had
received a message. If he was interested in a position that offered real opportunity, then he was to call at 226 Hatfield the following day, to see Martin. That is exactly where he was heading when he saw her.
He watched her as she moved quickly along, eyes looking straight ahead, neither turning to the left, nor to the right. She was totally oblivious to anyone, or anything, around her. Anyone foolish enough to be in her path, either got out of the way quickly or was struck by the bag that she was continually swinging. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, not that she was bad looking either. But there was something about her, apart from her looks. Personality, if you like. Character, maybe? Oh, she certainly had Character. There was no disputing that. And yes, she was glamorous. But above all, she had, what was it? Style! That was it exactly. She had Style, and she knew it. And she knew that you knew it. And she knew that you knew that she knew it. He was instantly attracted to her and quickly followed, a few paces behind. He wasn’t exactly sure how, but he was determined to meet up with her. He had made up his mind, and that was that. Whatever else happened, he was going to get to know her. What about Martin, and that offer of a position? He shrugged his shoulders. If he wants me that badly, he thought, he’ll just have to wait won’t he?
He caught up with her at Jerry’s Bar, at the corner of Sunset and Forest, close to the town square. It was early in the afternoon, and the bar was virtually empty. It was dark inside, and it took a little while for his eyesight to adjust after the bright sunlight. He glanced all around. There were two men talking animatedly at the bar. Two other men were seated in the far corner. Jerry was at the bar. One eye to the baseball game on the television, he was wiping down the counter. There appeared to be no one else. Where was she, he wondered? Then he saw her. She was seated alone in a corner booth. The young waiter was standing at her table, ready to take her order.