by John Holt
Sam looked at him and smiled. “Is that right?” he said. He glanced over at the clock on his desk. He sighed. The day had been going so well up until this point, he murmured. He didn’t really need this. This was such hard going. He really didn’t have the kind of patience required. It was probably all nonsense, anyway, so what was the point of it? He looked at his visitor, and sighed. He was sorely tempted just to show the man where the door was, and make sure that he used it. On the other hand it could just be important, and Mr. Kendall might appreciate whatever it was. Sam shook his head once again, and decided to continue a little longer, and see what happened.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Sam had managed to piece together Joe’s story. Sam looked down at the notes that he had made, and shook his head. The story was so fantastic that it just couldn’t be true. As he had suspected all along, the past hour or so had been a complete waste of his time. He looked up at his visitor. He smiled. There he was, back over by the plants. Sam shook his head. “Poor old fellow,” he murmured, as he tapped the side of his head. He looked back at his notes, and shook his head once again. Whatever he thought of the story, however crazy it sounded, however fantastic it was, he would tell Mr. Kendall every single detail, word for word. Kendall was funny like that. You had to tell him everything, whether you thought it was important or not. He liked to make up his own mind.
He looked over at Joe, who was kneeling down, smelling the plants. Sam smiled, and called out to him. “I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Kendall.” Joe stood up and looked around, but said nothing. Sam walked over to where Joe was standing. “I’ll tell Mr. Kendall everything you said, all right,” he said as he patted Joe on the shoulder. “I’m sure that he will be pleased with the information.” He took hold of Joe’s arm. “I think that you can go home now,” he continued. “Have a good rest, yes?” He smiled. Joe nodded his head and smiled back. “Come on, Joe,” Sam said as he started to gently guide Louis towards the door. “By the way, where can he reach you?” Sam asked.
Louis stopped, and looked at Sam. He was puzzled. “Reach me,” he repeated. He shook his head. “I don’t know if he can.”
Sam smiled. “Where do you live?” he asked.
Louis looked up and nodded. “Oh, I live in Springwood, on Chestnut Avenue. Number 4A,” he replied. “It’s on the top floor. I like it there. My friend, Donald, lives next door. It’s very nice there. Do you know it?”
Sam didn’t know it, and shook his head.
“I have my own bedroom, and a kitchen, and a living room. And I have a bathroom too.” He paused and smiled. “I have a television set, and I have a little radio. I like the radio.”
He paused once again, trying to think of what else he had. After a few moments he shook his head, he couldn’t think of anything else. He looked at Sam. “Number 4A,” he repeated. “Don’t forget now. It would be very nice if you came to visit me. You could meet Donald, and we could have some tea and cakes.” He then walked over to the door and, without saying anything further, he left the building.
Sam smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He watched until Joe was out of sight. He then turned and walked back to his desk. As he did so, he saw the discarded drinks cans lying on the table. He walked over and picked them up and placed them in the wastebasket. He glanced back out of the window out at the car park, and then walked over to his chair. Better get that written up, I suppose, he murmured.
* * *
As Joe came out of the building, and started to walk across the car park area, two men sitting in their black Chevrolet watched him very carefully. The two men had been watching Joe for some while now. Joe never noticed. He would not have thought anything of it had he seen them. A few moments later and Louis reached the street. He stopped at the curbside.
“Look to the right,” he murmured. He looked to his right, and then he looked to his left, and then back to the right, just as he had been taught as a child. “If it’s all clear, then walk across,” he said. “Don’t run.”
The road was clear. He started to cross the road. He had gone no more than two or three yards when a black car suddenly sped out from a side street. It hit Louis just as he had turned to see it coming. He was thrown ten feet into the air. He was dead before he hit the road. The car continued on its way and was very soon out of sight. No one saw anything. No one heard anything.
No one, that is, except Sam. He heard something.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sam Makes His Report
“The Nacional”, Zagreb, Wednesday – “Yesterday afternoon Croatia’s Health Minister confirmed the country’s first case of Rican flu. Health Minister Darius Ranovic said that a young man had been taken ill after returning from a trip to Turkey and Egypt. He added that the man has since recovered and returned to work, without treatment being necessary. A laboratory operated by the World Health Organization later confirmed that the man had been suffering with a mild case of Rican flu.”
As of Monday, the United Nations health agency said that it had received reports of almost twenty-five thousand cases of the Rican flu infection worldwide, including five hundred and sixty-three deaths. The virus has now officially spread to seventy-six countries. (CNN News, Washington, Wednesday).
“The New York Times”, Wednesday – “A spokesperson for the World Health Organization has advised that specialist teams will be sent out to India and West Africa later today. It is understood that the teams will be accompanied by a significant number of top chemists from Trenton Pharmaceuticals, the largest drug company in the world.”
* * *
Sam was at his desk adding the final touches to the notes regarding his recent visitor. He suddenly heard the sound of squealing tires and the sound of a car engine revving loudly. Then there was silence. He barely looked up. “Another young hot shot boy racer, no doubt,” he murmured. He shook his head and continued writing. “There’s always one.” He looked over at the window. “Where are the police?” he whispered. “They are never around when they are wanted.”
A short time later he heard the sirens of an approaching ambulance. He looked over to the window once again and shook his head. Then he turned back to his desk and the task in hand. Not only was he trying to remember everything that his recent visitor had said, but he was also trying to make some sense out of it. He shook his head. The former objective was progressing quite well, but as regards the latter, that was a dismal failure. The sirens became louder. He looked over at the window once again. He could just see the flashing blue lights through the trees. “I hope no one was seriously hurt,” he whispered, and then continued with his report.
Forty-five minutes later he had completed his report. He looked up and glanced out of the window. The blue flashing lights had now gone. He shrugged his shoulders, and sighed. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. It was just after twelve o’clock. Soon it would be lunchtime, he thought. “In the meantime what about a nice cup of coffee?” he murmured. “And some of those nice chocolate biscuits Mr. Kendall gave me the other day.”
* * *
It was a little after two thirty by the time Kendall returned to his office. As he came into the lobby he looked over at the reception counter, and casually waved. He walked past the indicator board without giving it a glance. Sam looked up and shook his head. Kendall continued towards the staircase.
He had just reached the bottom step, when Sam called out to him. “Oh, Mr. Kendall, just a second.” Kendall stopped and turned. “You had a caller today, Mr. Kendall,” Sam continued. He glanced down at his notepad. “Someone called Joe Louis.”
Kendall looked puzzled for a moment.
“Joe Louis, you know, like the boxer,” explained Sam.
Kendall suddenly smiled. Yes, he knew, the handyman, and gardener up at Trenton. He remembered that he had met him a few days ago. “A bit simple, but harmless enough,” he said.
Sam nodded. “That’s the one.”
Kendall smiled. What on earth w
ould he want?
* * *
“What did he want?” asked Kendall.
“I’m not really sure, Mr. Kendall,” replied Sam. “He kept saying that they had carried him over.”
“Carried him over,” Kendall repeated. “What does that mean? Carried who? Who carried him? Carried him over where?”
Sam shook his head, he had no idea. “I mean Joe was hard going, you know. He was all right, but well you know what I mean?”
Kendall nodded. Yes, he knew; he knew exactly. Sam opened the top drawer of his desk. He reached in and took out a small bundle of papers. “Here’s my report,” he said as he handed the papers to Kendall. “It’s all in there,” he said. “Everything he said as far as I can remember. But what it means, I really don’t know.” He shook his head. “That’s your department, Mr. Kendall.”
Kendall shrugged his shoulders, and tapped the papers on the desk. “I’ll read that later,” he said. “In the meantime, tell me exactly what he said.”
Sam looked down and heaved a sigh. He had already wasted more time than he cared to think of on this whole thing. He really didn’t want to waste anymore. It was all written down wasn’t it? It was all there. Did he really need to go through it all over again?
“Come on, Sam, let’s have it.” Kendall cajoled, smiling.
Sam looked at him, and shook his head. “All right, but I warn you it really is too fantastic.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” said Kendall.
“Okay,” said Sam. “Here goes. It’s all about that young man who died recently in Trenton Pharmaceuticals car park.”
“Richard Dawson, do you mean?” interrupted Kendall
Sam nodded. “Richard Dawson, that’s right,” he said. He paused for a few moments. “A pretty nasty accident, if I remember correctly.”
Kendall nodded. “Go on, Sam, I want the whole story, from the beginning.”
Sam sighed once more, and shrugged his shoulders. “Did you know that this Joe Louis was a gardener up at Trenton?” Kendall nodded, he knew. “Well, he certainly knows his stuff. He was looking at our little display over there.” Sam pointed towards the plant container.
Kendall started to frown. “Get on with it, Sam. Old age is beginning to set in.”
Sam looked up, and smiled. “Well, it seems that on the day of the accident, our friend Joe was working in the flowerbeds around the car park. He was over on the far side, pruning the roses or something.” He paused. “I can’t remember exactly what he said. I never really took that much notice.”
“Go on, Sam,” said Kendall. “I get the picture.”
“Well, anyway, whatever it was, while he was working he sees a young man come out of the building and walk straight over to where his car is parked.”
“The young man was Dawson I imagine,” said Kendall.
“That’s right, it was Richard Dawson,” replied Sam. “Joe didn’t know the type of car, but he did know the color.” Sam paused and gave a sigh. “It was a green car.”
Kendall nodded his head slowly and started to rub the side of his head. “Ford,” he murmured. “It was a dark green Ford Focus.”
Sam nodded. “Well whatever the type of car, Dawson gets into it and closes the door. The engine starts up, and then it suddenly stops. A few minutes later somebody gets out of the back of the car, and opens up the driver’s door. A second man comes over and joins the first man.”
Kendall looked at Sam and nodded his head. “Carry on, Sam, don’t keep stopping.”
“Well the two men are then seen pulling someone, Dawson, out of the car and carrying him across the car park and laying him down close to the low wall where he was later found by the paramedics.”
“That’s it?” Kendall asked.
Sam nodded. “That’s it. That’s exactly what Joe had said. They carried him across the car park, and laid him down on the ground, and then walked away. Fifteen minutes later the ambulance arrives. But between you and me, Mr. Kendall, I don’t really think poor old Joe knows what he is talking about. I think that it’s all fantasy really, if you know what I mean.” He winked.
Kendall nodded his head. “Maybe,” he said. “Do we know who the two men were?”
Sam looked down at his notes. After a few moments he found what he was looking for. “Here we are,” he said. “Apparently their names were Mr. Vickers, and Mr. Norris.”
“Thanks,” Kendall replied. “John Vickers and Clive Norris,” he murmured. “The two eye-witnesses, that makes sense.” He took a deep breath, and looked at Sam. “Did Joe leave an address?”
“He did indeed,” Sam replied. “Springwood Apartments, on Chestnut Avenue, number 4A. It’s on the top floor.”
Kendall nodded. “Springwood Apartments number 4A.”
“Top floor,” Sam called out as Kendall started up the stairs.
* * *
Chestnut Avenue is a tree-lined avenue not far from the Trenton Tower. Kendall idly wondered if any of the trees were actually chestnuts, tree. When you had seen one tree you had seen them all.
The avenue is home to a number of very large, and very expensive, luxury homes constructed in the nineteen twenties and thirties. On the opposite side of the road was a large golf course, and country club. As Kendall slowly drove past he tried to imagine someone like Joe Louis living in an area like this. He shook his head. He could not imagine it. This was a wealthy area, and Joe was far from being wealthy. Obviously, there had been a mistake somewhere along the line. Either Joe had given the wrong information, for whatever reason; or Sam had misunderstood, and written it down wrong. It was as simple as that. There was absolutely no way that Joe lived here, that much was certain.
Kendall was just about to give up and go back when he saw it – Springwood. Not Springwood Apartments, just Springwood. Surrounded by woodland, Springwood was a two-storey apartment block. According to the sign at the entrance it was a warden controlled residential home. Kendall smiled. Just the place for Joe, he thought.
As he slowed down he was surprised to see a police car parked at the corner, but he gave it no particular thought. Kendall parked next to the police car, and switched off his engine. He got out and walked towards the front of the building. A small crowd had collected at the entrance. In amongst them, Kendall could see two uniformed police officers. Probably been complaints from the neighbors, Kendall thought. Complaints of wild parties no doubt, all night drinking, loud music. He could just imagine it. He shrugged, and slowly continued towards the entrance.
As he did so, an elderly man came over to him. “Are you a police officer?” he asked.
Kendall smiled and shook his head. “Not me,” he replied. The two officers turned towards him and nodded. Kendall waved casually, but said nothing.
The elderly man continued to stare at him. “What are you doing here, then?” he asked.
Kendall heaved a sigh. He glanced up at the top floor, and then returned his gaze to the elderly man. “Is this where Joe lives?” he asked. “Joe Louis.”
The elderly man shook his head. “He used to,” he replied.
“Used to,” Kendall repeated. He couldn’t have moved away surely. “What do you mean, used to?”
Someone pushed forward from the crowd. “He was killed yesterday afternoon,” he said.
Kendall was shocked. “Killed,” he said simply.
“Hit and run,” the person explained. “A car came out from nowhere and ran straight into him.” He paused for a few moments, staring up at one of the second floor windows. “Poor old Joe, sent him flying in the air. He didn’t have a chance.”
“He was dead before he hit the ground,” another neighbor added.
Another accident, murmured Kendall. Another co-incidence? He shook his head. He didn’t think so, somehow.
* * *
Kendall knocked on the door again, louder this time. There was still no answer. He placed his ear to the door and listened for a moment. He shook his head. There was no sound. He knocked on the door once
again. “Vickers,” he called out, are you in there?” There was still no answer. Kendall shook his head. He wasn’t getting very far. Norris hadn’t been in, either.
What had that neighbor said? “I haven’t seen him for a few days, now. I think he must have gone away.”
It seemed that Vickers had gone away as well. Quite a co-incidence. He looked back at the door, and hit it once again, hard. It was more in sheer frustration, than any real hope that it would be answered. He started to walk away, when he suddenly heard somebody coming up the stairs. He waited for a few more moments.
“Are you looking for Mr. Vickers?” a voice asked as an elderly man arrived on the landing. He was panting hard. “I live upstairs,” he explained. “The lift’s not working again. That’s why I had to walk.” He shook his head. “Every week it’s the same old thing,” he continued. “Every week there’s a problem with the lift. I can’t understand it. We pay our rent every week. The rent includes the use of the lift. The lift never works. Do they reduce the rent, I ask you? No, they don’t reduce the rent. They ….”
Kendall wasn’t wildly interested to hear about problems with the lift. He wanted to know about John Vickers. He shook his head and smiled. “You asked me if I was looking for Mr. Vickers,” Kendall interrupted. “Do you know where he is?”
The man looked at Kendall. He shook his head. He was bitterly disappointed. He was in the middle of something extremely important. He was talking about the lift. Well, to be honest, he was complaining about the lift, but where did it get him? It got him nowhere. This man isn’t interested in the lift, he thought. He couldn’t care less about the lift. He obviously doesn’t live here. If he lived here, he’d be interested all right. But no, all he wants is to know about Mr. Vickers. Who cares about Mr. Vickers? Nasty man, anyway. Nobody likes him.