by John Holt
Duncan’s comments were duly noted, and recorded. Ultimately, however, they were rejected by the Inquiry. “Mr. Duncan, the possible effect of exceeding the recommended dose of Tylenol is well known. Furthermore, it is clearly shown on the bottle,” the Coroner responded. “Would you not agree?” he asked Duncan, as he handed the bottle to him.
Duncan looked closely at the bottle. He turned it around, and read the small print on the back. It was there, clearly visible, in black and white. “No more than eight tablets to be taken within a twenty four hour period.” He had to agree that it was plain enough. Duncan also had to agree that it would have been so unlike his partner not to take notice of instructions like that. He was usually so methodical, so cautious. He would check, and double-check, everything. Then he would check again. He never did anything without being absolutely certain. The accidental overdose idea was beginning to look more and more unlikely.
After two days deliberation, the Inquiry had reached a decision. The official verdict was that Mr. Warren had committed suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed. Apparently he had been falsifying the business accounts. Duncan could not believe it. There was no way that his partner - his friend - could possibly be guilty of embezzlement. It wasn’t in his nature. The thought of anything illegal was quite abhorrent to him. He was the most honest person you could find.
Duncan vowed that he would prove, conclusively, that his partner had not been involved in fraud. He would fight to clear his name. It was the least that he could do. He instigated an independent investigation into the company’s accounts. Duncan himself was most co-operative. Files, documents, everything was placed at the disposal of the investigation team. The Company’s books, the check stubs, bank statements. Nothing was hidden, and nothing was withheld. No matter how trivial.
“As long as we arrive at the truth,” he stipulated. “That was the most important thing, the truth.”
* * *
After six months, the investigation was completed, and a report issued. The report, which ran into several hundred pages, showed, quite clearly, that all of the allegations were indeed true. Duncan was shocked. Warren had apparently deliberately altered certain figures in the accounts. Large un-authorized sums of money had been withdrawn. There had been dozens of transactions, over a considerable period of time. There was also evidence of insider dealings on the Stock Market. Tax records had been altered. Some records had been deliberately destroyed. The evidence was overwhelming. There was no error. Nonetheless, Duncan still could not believe it.
Then the actual suicide note was discovered at the back of Warren’s desk. The inquiry was re-convened to consider the new evidence. It was shown that Warren had apparently accumulated huge gambling debts. He knew that he could never re-pay such sums. He was being threatened. He needed money, and he needed it fast. He had no choice. He had to falsify the accounts. The suicide note gave full details of the sums involved, together with relevant dates. Warren was frightened of being discovered, and what that would mean. He could not face the prospect of prison. There was now no doubt. Duncan had to accept it, unpalatable as it was.
“I never knew,” Duncan had said, full of remorse. “Why I never even suspected it.” His colleague and friend was dead, and he hadn’t been able to help him. “Why hadn’t he come to me for help? Why hadn’t he told me that he was in trouble?” he asked. “We could have worked something out I’m sure.”
The Coroners Court concluded that as a result of the impending scandal, Warren had taken his own life. The formal verdict of the original Inquiry remained unchanged. But Marilyn Warren, his widow, believed that she knew differently. Her husband hadn’t falsified any accounts. He hadn’t altered tax records. He hadn’t carried out illegal dealings on the stock exchange. He hadn’t manipulated the pension fund. He hadn’t done any of these things. Embezzlement, he couldn’t even spell the word. He didn’t have the brains for such a thing, she told the Coroner. “He wouldn’t know how to go about it.”
As the formal decision was read out, she stood up in the Courtroom. “He would never take his own life,” she had shouted out, with contempt. “He was too much of a weakling to do that, too much of a coward.”
The Court Usher tried to calm her, gently placing an arm around her shoulder, leading her slowly towards the door. She lashed out at the Usher, and pulled away. She looked over to where Duncan was seated. Duncan looked up, and smiled. She glared back, contemptuously. “Besides he wouldn’t do anything without Duncan’s say-so, without his permission, without his approval,” she said as she was eventually led from the room.
Her husband had not committed suicide. Of that she had no doubt, no doubt at all. She firmly believed that her husband had actually been murdered. Up until her own untimely death three years afterwards, she always suspected that Duncan knew more about the affair than he was saying, but she could never prove anything.
Duncan was mortified, but he generously made allowances for her. “I’m totally devastated that she could think such a thing of me,” he said. “We used to be so close, the three of us, especially after my wife died.” He brushed a tear from his eye. “Naturally she’s distraught. She must be dreadfully upset, and it’s no wonder. What a terrible time for her. You can understand how she feels can’t you? I mean what a dreadful shock it must have been. She doesn’t know what she is saying.” He looked up, took out a handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. “She doesn’t mean it, I know that. I forgive her.”
* * *
The Warren Center was actually part of a small development that included a number of residential apartments, and offices, together with a small shopping mall. The main section, the so-called Tower, was a modern concrete and glass structure that had been built fifteen years ago. Apart from one or two slightly curved embellishments, provided in the name of so-called style, it was nothing more than a plain box, twenty stories high. Insignificant maybe as far as normal skyscrapers were concerned. Nonetheless, it was the tallest building in the town. It was something of a local landmark, and could be seen for several miles around the town. Everyone knew the Warren Tower. You couldn’t miss it.
Apart from the height, however, it had nothing else to recommend it architecturally. Not that it was particularly ugly, because it wasn’t. But it wasn’t particularly beautiful either. In fact it had no redeeming features, none whatsoever. It was just plain, and functional. That was all that mattered according to Duncan. It had to be functional. It had also been economic, and quick and easy to construct. It was not meant to be a work of art. He did not need people admiring it for its grace, and artistic form, analyzing it in terms of its shape and space. It was a place of work that was all. It was a place in which to conduct business and make money, nothing more, and nothing less.
ALSO BY JOHN HOLT
Kendall could just see the television screen. There was a photograph of Governor Frank Reynolds. Across the bottom of the screen the ticker tape announced in large black letters 'Governor Reynolds Murdered'. The voice over was filling in whatever detail was available. Apparently his body had been discovered earlier that morning. He had been found lying in his garage. He had been shot twice. One shot to the upper chest, the other hitting his shoulder. 'Police believe that the weapon used was a 38 mm caliber revolver,' the reporter said. Kendall froze. Anthony Shaw had also been killed by a 38 mm bullet. Kendall was not quite sure of what it all meant. What connection was there between Anthony Shaw, and the State Governor, and the business mogul, Ian Duncan? And what about Senator Mackenzie? Where did he fit in? And who or what was Latimer? Only a short while ago Kendall was a small time private detective, a Private Eye, investigating an insignificant little murder with no clues, no witnesses, and no motive. In fact, no nothing. Now he had so many pieces of a puzzle he didn't know how they fitted together. He didn't even know if they all came from the same puzzle.
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ALSO BY JOHN HOLT
The Marinski Affair began as a dull mundane case involving a missing husband. Okay, so he was a rich missing husband, but he was nonetheless, still only a missing husband. The case soon developed into one involving robbery, kidnapping, blackmail and murder. But was there really a kidnapping? And exactly who is blackmailing who? Who actually carried out the robbery? Who committed the murders? Who can you trust? Who can you believe? Is anyone actually telling the truth? What have they got to hide? And what connection was there with a jewel theft that occurred four years previously? All is not as it seems. Tom Kendall, private detective, had the task of solving the mystery. He was usually pretty good at solving puzzles, but this one was different, somehow. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any of the pieces. Oh no, he wasn’t short of clues. It was just that none of the pieces seemed to fit together.
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ALSO BY JOHN HOLT
Tom Kendall, a down to earth private detective, is asked to investigate the death of a young newspaper reporter. The evidence shows quite clearly that it was an accident: a simple, dreadful accident. That is the finding of the coroner and the local police. Furthermore, there were two witnesses. They saw the whole thing. But was it an accident, or was it something more sinister? Against a backdrop of a viral epidemic slowly spreading from Central America, a simple case soon places Kendall up against one of the largest drug companies in the country.
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ALSO BY JOHN HOLT
‘To make a killing in the City’ is a phrase often used within the financial world, to indicate making a large profit on investments, or through dealings on the stock market - the bigger the profit, the bigger the killing. However, Tom Kendall, a private detective, on holiday in London, has a different kind of killing in mind when he hears about the death of one of his fellow passengers who travelled with him on the plane from Miami. It was suicide apparently, a simple overdose of prescribed tablets. Kendall immediately offers his help to Scotland Yard. He is shocked when he is told his services will not be required. They can manage perfectly well without him, thank you.
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ALSO BY JOHN HOLT
The lake was flat and calm, with barely a ripple. Its dark waters glistening reflecting the moonlight as though it were a mirror. Fritz Marschall knew that neither he, nor his friend, should really have been there. They, like many others before them, had been attracted to the lake by the many rumors that had been circulating. He thought of the endless stories there had been, of treasures sunken in, or buried around the lake. He recalled the stories of the lake being used to develop torpedoes and rockets during the war. Looking out across the dark water, he wondered what secrets were hidden beneath the surface.
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Tom Kendall had been with the 32nd Precinct, New York Police Department for just under ten years. But now he wanted a change. Now he wanted to start his own Private Detective Agency. He had grand ideas. He wasn’t interested in just any old case. Oh no, he would handle only the big time cases, the expensive ones.
He would be able to take his pick, the ones that he wanted, where the stakes were high and so were the rewards. He knew exactly the kind of case that he wanted. Anything else would not do, and it would just be turned down flat.
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On the night of April 14th 1865 President Abraham Lincoln was attending a performance at The Ford Theatre, in Washington. A single shot fired by John Wilkes Booth hit the President in the back of the head. He slumped to the floor, and died a few hours later without recovering consciousness. Was Booth a lone assassin? Or was he part of a wider conspiracy? What if Booth had merely been a willing party to a plot to replace Lincoln with General Ulysees S. Grant. Let us suppose that Booth had been set up by a group of men, a group of Lincoln’s own Army Generals; Generals who had wanted Ulysees S Grant for their President, and not Lincoln. And let us also suppose that the funding for the assassination had come from gold stolen by the Confederate Army.
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