by John Holt
Kendall shook his head. It still made no sense. “Two hundred thousand dollar ransom, and one hundred thousand to us,” he said. “That’s an awful lot of money to pay out on someone you want to divorce.”
“Maybe,” said Mollie. “But she can afford it, that’s obvious.” She paused for a few moments. “Besides, do you know who her father is?” Kendall had no idea who her father was. “He is one of the wealthiest men in America,” she explained. “That’s what comes of reading those celebrity magazines.”
Kendall shrugged his shoulders. “You might be right,” he said. “But I think there’s something more to this case. Something she’s holding back.” Kendall looked down at the ransom notes. “She wants him back that’s for sure, but why?”
Mollie looked down at her desk, and thought for a moment or two. Then she looked up. “Did you see her face when she handed you those ransom letters?” Kendall nodded. “Well what was that all about?”
Kendall shook his head, as he spread the three documents out in front of him and examined them. All of the letters had been written on the same light blue note paper. All documents had been written by hand. The handwriting itself was very poor, deliberately so. At first it would slope to the right, and then it would slope to the left. At one point it was all in capital letters, elsewhere all in lower case. Kendall could see nothing of any significance, and yet Eve Simmonds had noticed something. Kendall had no idea what it was all about. All he knew was there was something strange about the whole case, and Eve Simmonds wasn’t telling the whole story. Not by a long way.
He shrugged again. “Oh well just type up everything that you can think of and put it in the file. We have three days before the pay off. Let’s see what happens.” He glanced at the paper lying in front of him. “Oh and carry out a check on Carl Simmonds will you,” he said. “You know the usual. Any police record, convictions, speeding offences, anything, anything at all.” He paused for a few minutes. “Her too,” he added.
Mollie smiled. That was typical of Kendall she thought. “Her too,” she repeated. “I’ll get right on it.” She looked at her computer screen, and started to type up her notes. She suddenly looked up. “That Mr. Bradley, I seem to recall something about a robbery at his house.”
Kendall’s eyes lit up. He looked over to Mollie. “A robbery,” he repeated. “I wonder if there’s a connection with this kidnapping.”
“I very much doubt it,” Mollie said. “The robbery was some years ago if I remember correctly.” Kendall looked disappointed. “I’ll look it up and see what I can find out.”
* * *
Chapter Five
Frank Russell Comes To Call
Kendall looked at his watch once again. It was a little after eight. Not much different to the last time that he had checked. Perhaps the watch had stopped. He shook it, and placed it to his ear. There was the reassuring tick tock. It was going, no problem. There was nothing wrong with the watch. It was working perfectly. The problem was his appointment, whoever he was. His appointment had been for six-fifteen, six-fifteen today, not six-fifteen tomorrow, or six-fifteen the day after. So where was he?
Fifteen minutes late Kendall could understand. He had been late himself on numerous occasions, but not more than fifteen, or twenty minutes. At a push he could accept being thirty minutes late, maybe forty-five. Allowing for bad weather, he could even understand an hour late. Allowing for heavy traffic as well, then perhaps an hour fifteen would be acceptable. He checked his watch once again. It was five minutes past eight. That meant that his appointment was now one hour and fifty minutes late. There was no way that could be justified. It was totally unacceptable, and showed a great lack of manners.
Kendall shook his head again. Sign of the times, he murmured. Society has really gone downhill. Standards have all but disappeared. Nobody cares anymore, no one is bothered, no one wants to be troubled. Good manners were a thing of the past. Just a fading memory, that’s all.
Kendall looked along the street. There was still nobody in sight. He wasn’t going to show was he? It didn’t seem likely, not now. He wasn’t coming, plain and simple. Kendall suddenly shook his head. Perhaps he was being a little unfair, a little unjust. Perhaps he had been taken ill, or something. Maybe there had been an accident. Perhaps he has called the office to cancel the appointment, to apologize and make an alternative arrangement. That sounded reasonable.
But there again maybe he was just not coming. Maybe he had actually never intended coming. Maybe he was deliberately keeping me waiting, out in the cold, Kendall thought. Maybe it was all planned to get him out of the office.
He looked up at the sky. It was still raining heavily. There would be no let up, not now. He looked down the street to his left. Two or three people hurried along the road. Two turned into a bar. For a brief moment Kendall thought of them in the warm surroundings of the bar. He could hear them ordering their whiskey and soda, or their dry martini. He could imagine them raising their glasses to their lips. He could almost taste the liquid flowing down their throats, warming their insides. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought from his mind. Then he looked over towards the third person, watching as she ran across the street and into a waiting cab.
Over on the far corner there were two men sheltering from the rain. One of them was reading a newspaper. Kendall shook his head. Who reads a newspaper, in the street, in the rain? Two young girls crossed the street heading towards him. Apart from that there was no sign of his awaited visitor. Kendall shook his head again. The two girls came closer. They looked in his direction, giggled loudly, and hurried on. A City bus pulled up on the opposite side of the road. Ten or twelve people got off. Kendall wondered if his appointment was amongst them. Minutes went by, and the small crowd dispersed.
The street was now completely deserted once again. His man was not there. It was now eight-fifteen, a whole two hours past the arranged time. There was no point hanging around any longer. Kendall glanced to his left once more, and then he ran to the corner where his car was parked. He got in, switched on the ignition and slowly drove away.
* * *
Ten minutes later he was back at his office. He had obviously received a visit from someone while he had been out. They had been looking for something. The few files that he had now lay scattered on the floor, papers strewn all around. Desk drawers had been removed and the contents thrown to the ground.
What were they looking for? More to the point did they find anything? If so, what was it? How did they get in anyway? Kendall made a mental note to speak to Joe on the reception counter the next day. He bent down and started to pick up the papers. He placed them on top of the desk. He would have to go through the whole lot sorting them into their proper order, and re-filing them. It would take hours, even days. He bent down and reached underneath the desk for another pile of papers. He could not reach them, and needed to crawl further underneath the desk. He moved forward, and hit his knee on the side of the desk. That was all that he needed. The kneecap was almost certainly broken, he thought. It’ll probably bruise and swell up over night. He would not be able to walk, or drive. His sporting days were over for good. No more tennis. No more running. No more sessions at the gym. He would be laid up for weeks, maybe months. He may never recover.
There was a loud tap on the door. Kendall looked up quickly, hitting his head on the underside of the desk. There was another tap, and the door opened. He crawled backwards, striking his knee once again.
“Kendall,” a voice called out. “Mr. Kendall. Are you there?”
Kendall appeared from underneath the desk, and stood up. “I’m here,” he called back wearily. He was rubbing his head trying unsuccessfully to dissipate the pain. He started towards the door. He was surprised that despite the injury to his knee, and the overwhelming pain, he could, in fact, still walk. The real effects would obviously hit him later, with the bruising and undoubted swelling. Then his real suffering would begin. “I’m Kendall,” he said as the man entered the roo
m. “Who wants to know?”
“Mr. Kendall,” the visitor continued. “I’m Russell. Frank Russell.” Kendall looked blank, still dazed by the blow to the head. He looked at his visitor. “Frank Russell,” the man repeated. “You’re expecting me.” He paused. “I should say you were expecting me about two hours ago. Harbor and Main, six-fifteen remember?”
Certainly Kendall remembered. This was the guy who had kept him waiting for two hours, in the cold, in the rain. This was the guy who had caused him to catch double pneumonia. This was the guy who had caused him to smash his knee against the desk, so that he would never walk again. This was the guy who had caused him to bang his head just now, and sustain multiple fractures to the skull. Not to mention the loss of memory. This was the guy who had just put an end to his dreams of sporting greatness.
So what was he expecting, a warm welcome perhaps? Perhaps I should roll out the red carpet maybe, or how about a brass band? Perhaps an award of some kind, a medal for services rendered, from a grateful nation? The keys to the City would be good. What about a ticker tape parade in Times Square? Certainly, no problem.
Give me a break.
“I’m busy Russell,” Kendall said continuing to shuffle through his papers. “As I’m sure you can see.” Russell never moved. Kendall tried to stifle a sneeze, and failed. Then he sneezed a second time. That’s it tomorrow it will be full blown pneumonia, and all because of this guy. “Come back another time,” he continued. “Like maybe in a year or two. Make an appointment with my secretary.” Kendall sneezed a third time. “We’re in the book. Just look under P, P for pushover.”
The man did not move. Kendall glared at him. “So if you don’t mind, I’m a very busy man. I’ve things to do you know, places to go, people to see, deals to make.”
Still the man never moved. “Busy, busy, busy, can’t stop. So much to do, and so little time.” The man still never budged. “You know where the door is don’t you Russell?” Kendall muttered. “It’s that big rectangular thing you just came through. Close it on your way out.”
The man shrugged, but still never budged. “You are looking for Carl Simmonds I believe?” he said. “Is that right, or not?”
Kendall looked up. He nodded, reluctantly. It was right, but he was still smarting from being kept waiting. He was still trying to dry off. Then he had this awful headache, and his knee was still paining, and there was all of this mess to clear up. All in all he was not at his best, his most conducive, his most hospitable. This was not a good day, not a good day at all. It was becoming increasingly clear that this Frank Russell, or whatever his name was, was not going to go away. Kendall looked at the papers on his desk. “Later,” he murmured. “Later.”
He then looked up at Russell. “All right Russell. Have it your way. So what happened? Where did you get to?” he asked. “I mean we did have an appointment didn’t we? I didn’t just imagine it did I? A dream perhaps?” He gave a sigh, and sneezed once again. “You did telephone didn’t you? I mean it was your idea wasn’t it?”
Russell nodded. “Yes we did have an appointment. I’m sorry about that,” he replied. “I just couldn’t get to you that’s all.”
“Why not?” Kendall retorted, still unhappy about being kept waiting. “Don’t tell me you were put off by a little drop of rain.”
Russell shook his head. “It wasn’t the weather. I was being watched.” He hurried over to the window, and stood to one side. He held the curtain, and moved it slightly to one side, and glanced out. He looked to the left and then to the right. “There were two men at the opposite corner of the road,” he continued. “I had seen them before.” He looked out of the window once again. Satisfied that the road was clear he turned to face Kendall. “You must have seen them?” he said. “They were standing directly opposite to where you were, you couldn’t miss them.”
Two men, Kendall murmured, thinking hard. Then he suddenly thought of the two men that he had seen, with the newspaper. “Oh those two,” he replied. “Of course I saw them. Spotted them the minute I arrived.” He tried hard to visualize them but to no avail. All that he could remember was a very soggy newspaper flapping around in the breeze. Some detective he was, he thought. At least he knew that there were two of them. That’s not bad, considering. Well it was raining, and visibility was not that good, he reasoned. “I had my suspicions about those two right from the very beginning,” he continued. “You say that you have seen them before?” Russell nodded. “Where was that?”
“They were at the airport,” Russell replied. “The night that Simmonds was due to go to Chicago, they were there. I think that they were following him.”
Could they have been the kidnappers, Kendall wondered, and he had just ignored them, dismissed them completely out of hand. He hadn’t given them a thought had he? He had just let them slip right through his fingers. He had no idea who they were. He had no idea of what they looked like. “Okay,” he said as he sat down. “Mr. Russell what makes you think that I’m looking for someone called Carl Simmonds?”
Russell moved away from the window, and sat down opposite Kendall. “Let’s not play games shall we, Mr. Kendall?” he replied. “Let’s just say that word gets around.” He paused for a few moments, and glanced over towards the door. “People talk.” He listened for a few moments. Kendall looked over to the door, and shook his head. There was nothing. Russell turned back to face Kendall. “You are looking for him, aren’t you?” he continued. Kendall said nothing, but started to write something down onto a note pad. “What’s that you’re writing?” Russell asked indignantly.
Kendall stopped writing, and turned the paper around so that Russell could see what was written down. All that was on the paper was the date, and the name Frank Russell. Underneath the name Kendall had written seven words. “Is he to be trusted I wonder?” The words were heavily underlined.
“Hey now, Mr. Kendall that isn’t very nice,” Russell said indignantly. “And not very friendly I must say.” Kendall wasn’t feeling very friendly. “All right, I’ll tell you. I work for Carl Simmonds. I do odd jobs for him, I run around for him. A Go-fer you might say. He wants something got, he calls, and I get it. He wants something done, he calls, and I do it.” He watched Kendall closely. “I get paid. And that’s it, nothing more. I don’t ask any questions. I just do as I’m told.” Once again he looked towards the door. He listened for a few moments. There was nothing. He stood up and walked back over to the window. He carefully pulled the curtain back a short distance, and looked out once again.
Kendall smiled, and nodded. He took back the pad and torn off the top sheet. “Okay,” he said, beginning to feel a little less hostile. “So you do odd jobs.” He screwed up the paper and threw it towards the waste paper basket. “Two points,” he murmured. He missed, and the paper rolled on to the floor. He quickly looked away. He never managed to hit the basket. He looked over to the window. “Anything interesting out there?” he asked. Russell turned and shook his head. “All right then, I suggest that you come back here and sit down, and then we can get on.”
Russell nodded, and moved away from the window. He slowly walked back to his chair, and sat down. He was obviously nervous for some reason. That much was clear. His hands were shaking, and he was sweating. Why? Was he really so frightened of those two men? What was more to the point was what did he know about Simmonds disappearance, if anything? Was he really just a simple messenger, or was he involved much more than he was letting on? Kendall shrugged his shoulders. Questions, questions and even more questions; that was one thing he was good at, questions. He never had a problem with questions. It was only the answers he had difficulties with.
“All right, Russell, let’s see what you know shall we?” Kendall said, as he pulled the notepad towards him. He looked up and saw the concerned look that had appeared on Russell’s face. He looked down at the pad, and then looked back at Russell. “Oh you don’t mind do you?” he asked. “It’s just a few notes that’s all. My memory isn’t so good these d
ays and I have to make notes about everything.” He paused, and smiled. “You know what to do, and when to do it? Who to meet, and where? You name it, and I have to make a note about it. It’s just one of those things, I suppose. Some people have great memories. Me. I’m different. I never had a good memory.” He paused once again, and then started to laugh. “As far as I can remember that is.”
Russell said nothing, and just shook his head.
Kendall’s attempt at humor was completely wasted. No matter it wasn’t that funny anyway. “Let’s start at the beginning shall we?” he said. Russell started to tap the desk nervously. “You say you work for Carl Simmonds, is that right?” Russell simply nodded his head. “You do odd jobs,” Kendall continued. Again Russell nodded his head. “Like what exactly?”
“Oh, this and that,” Russell replied. “Just odd jobs, nothing much, you know the kind of thing.”
“No Russell I don’t know. If I did I wouldn’t ask,” Kendall replied. “So tell me.”
Russell started to tap the desk once again. He glanced towards the door, and then over to the window. He took one or two deep breaths. “He wants something got then I get it,” he replied. “He wants something delivered, I deliver it. No questions asked. I just do as I’m told.”
“Something to be delivered,” Kendall repeated, becoming slightly impatient. “Like what?” he asked.
Russell stopped tapping, and looked up. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I would just pick up a parcel, or just make a delivery. I never knew what the parcels contained. I never asked. It wasn’t any of my concern. I wasn’t interested. It didn’t matter to me. I couldn’t care less what was in them.” He paused and shook his head. “Not drugs though,” he said quite simply. “I don’t do drugs. Never have.”
Kendall was gratified to hear it, but he still did not know what was in the packages. More to the point, it seemed that Russell didn’t know either. “All right,” said Kendall. We’ll leave that, for the time being anyway.” He made a note in his pad. “So what can you tell me about Carl Simmonds? Where is he?”