Myriad of Corridors

by Stan Mason

  The architect allowed the idea to penetrate his mind for a few moments and then the notion came to him. Of course. That was the way forward. If he couldn’t find Anotonio Perrera he needed to determine a means by which the man came to him.

  ‘By the way, Dad,’ intervened Ellen. ‘Jeff used to drive around Brands Hatch just like you did.’

  ‘Really?’ Her father’s eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘What car do you have at the moment?’

  ‘I had a red Ferrari,’ he explained. ‘It was the one my wife died in. Now I have a Volvo. Not quite the same but useful.’

  Mr. Masters got to his feet. ‘Come with me!’ he commanded.

  They left the house and went to one of the two garages off the driveway. He pressed a remote control in his hand to open the door of one of them to reveal an old sports car.

  ‘A Bugatti, 1934,’ gasped Hunter, looking on in admiration. ‘What a fantastic car!’ He examined the bodywork almost daring to touch the bonnet with his fingers. ‘It’s in fantastic condition. I don’t suppose you’d let me have a spin in it.’

  ‘Not until hell freezes over,’ came the reply. ‘This car’s in pristine condition. It stays where it is.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind me asking,’ smiled the architect. ‘It’s a beauty. I’d give my right arm to own one of these.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that affect your work as an architect?’ joked Masters teasing him. ‘How good are you at your work?’

  ‘I passed my apprenticeship five years ago and I’ve been working on building designs ever since for a reasonably-sized company. I know my way around buildings to satisfy most people.’

  ‘How serious are you about Ellen?’ The question came directly like a bolt from a cross-bow. ‘I fell in love with her the moment I saw her,’ he his host. ‘We’re taking it slowly at the moment but I’m certain I shall end up as your son-in-law. I love her to bits.’

  Masters looked into Hunter’s eyes to check whether he was telling him the truth. Then he made a quick decision. ‘When you finished your quest on the killer,’ he said briefly, ‘contact me. I’ll have a job for you.

  Hunter was overwhelmed at the comment. What a bit of luck! He would be working for an enormous company quoted on the Stock Exchange... under the direction of his future father-on-law. It was more... much more... than he could ever have expected and he was delighted to have conceded to come on the weekend trip to meet Ellen’s parents. The shock of the wealth of the family was now beginning to recede. He could see himself as part of it, ready to lead a life of comparative wealth... not that money really mattered to him. His mind was filled with love and romance for the beautiful, attractive, adorable Miss Ellen Masters.

  ***

  The words of Todd Masters rang continuously in Hunter’s ears. They were indeed words of wisdom. When you come to an impasse turn the situation on its head. Do something unusual which is quite the reverse. There was a method of getting Antonio Perrera to come to him... if only the man would take the bait. The architect picked up a pen and a sheet of paper and sat at his desk in the study preparing the ploy. There was a way to wheedle out the man but it had to be a clever trick. He started to develop his strategy by writing and advertisement on the paper.

  ‘Will Antonio Perrera contact Mr. Hunter on 07245 688804 where he will learn of a substantial financial advantage left to him in a bequest.’

  If Perrera read the advertisement, he would surely make contact. First there was the strategy, then came the tactics. Hunter contacted the local newspaper and entered the advertisement for two weeks. He considered that if the man was to read it, two weeks would be sufficient.

  The local weekly newspaper was issued on the following Wednesday but nothing was heard that day. Thursday passed by and there was still no contact even on the architect’s ansaphone. However, Friday produced a positive result. Hunter was eating breakfast at eight-thirty when the telephone rang.

  ‘My name’s Antonio Perrera,’ claimed the caller. ‘You put an advert in the paper about a financial advantage.’

  ‘Yes,’ lied the architect. ‘I’m the executor of a Will and if you come to my house I shall reveal the contents.’

  He told the caller his address and waited for him to arrive. The man turned up twenty minutes later. Hunter was expecting a swarthy character but the caller was nothing like that at all. His face was pure white, his hair was thin and slightly balding, he was about thirty-five years of age, and his dress was poor to say the least. The man was the last person in the world that Amy Chester would have wanted to marry.

  ‘I’m Antonio Perrera,’ he announced at the doorstep.

  Hunter stared at him suspiciously. ‘You don’t look like an Antonio Perrera to me. Show me some identity.’

  ‘Ah... I haven’t any on me,’ explained the man casually. ‘You see I was mugged two days’ ago and all my stuff was stolen. But I am the person you’re looking for.’

  The architect was now certain that the man was trying to obtain something that didn’t belong to him. He was a scallywag making a false claim. ‘I don’t think you’re the person I’m looking for?’ he stated boldly. ‘What do you know about Amy Chester?’

  The caller shifted his feet nervously and stared at him bleakly. ‘Amy Chester? Who’s she?’’ he managed to say realising that the game was up. Then, without further ado, he turned and ran as hard as he could away from the house having given up the ghost of the claim. The architect suddenly realised that the advertisement was likely to attract all kinds of rogues trying to make money. It had been a good idea to start with but now he was reaping the worst kind of scoundrels. It was likely that he would be inundated with bogus claims over the next week.

  A further telephone call came in the afternoon. Hunter was up for it this time.

  ‘I’m the man you’re looking for,’ claimed the caller.

  ‘Let me say one thing,’ returned the architect savagely. ‘If you can’t prove without a shadow of a doubt that you’re Antonio Perrera, I suggest you hang up the phone immediately and go on your way.’

  There was a short pause and the line went dead. The architect shook his head in disbelief. How on earth did these people expect to get away with it. Perhaps they were simply trying their luck even though they knew they might be caught out in the end. Nonetheless, he received a telephone call on the following day which sounded positive. He read him the riot act and received a man at his house who fitted the description. Antonio Perrera was very Latin in appearance. He had black hair, dark eyes, a swarthy face, and he sported a light moustache. Hunter soon realised that, at last, he had his target inside his domain.

  ‘So you’re Antonio Perrera,’ he began solemnly after examining his documents and taking him into the lounge.

  Perrera sat in an armchair with his hands clutched before him. ‘You have information of a substantial financial advantage for me,’ he ventured hopefully. ‘Can you tell me who left me something in a Will?’

  ‘There are two complications with regard to the Will,’ Hunter informed him falsely, ignoring answering the man’s question. ‘There’s a clause which ties you up with Amy Chester.’

  ‘Amy?’ he responded in surprise. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘What do you know about her?’

  His black eyebrows shot up in surprise at the question. ‘Well for one thing she’s dead. For another, I went out with her for about two months. That was some time ago. She was mad keen to marry me. That was all she had on her mind... to get married. I wasn’t prepared to do that. You see, although she didn’t know it, I already have a wife who lives in Malta. She was chosen for me by my parents... an arranged marriage. It was not my choice and I couldn’t stand being with her in the end which is why I left the island. So you see, I couldn’t consider marrying Amy for fear of committing bigamy. We parted on amiable terms and a couple of months later
then I learned she’d been murdered. But I’m afraid I can’t see anything connecting me with her in a bequest.’ He paused to reflect on the architect’s words. ‘You mentioned two complications. What’s the other one?’

  ‘Before any monies are paid out after probate, Amy’s killer must be found,’ commented Hunter looking directly at Perrera’s eyes.

  ‘That’s crazy,’ exclaimed the caller. ‘It may take years... or he may never be found.’ He paused for a few moments as realisation crossed his mind. ‘You think I killed her, don’t you. Well you couldn’t be further from the truth. And if it helps, I was in Malta getting a divorce from my wife when she was murdered. I have proof of the dates and my solicitor in Malta can back me up. You see, I read about her death in the newspapers on my return.’

  The scales fell from the architect’s eyes. He had been so certain that Perrera had had a hand in Amy’s murder, pinning all his hopes on it. Now, looking at the man and speaking with him, it was patently clear that he could have had nothing to do with it... regardless of his alibi. It was a path to another dead end.

  ‘You haven’t yet told me the name of my benefactor,’ declared Perrera becoming irritated by the lack of response.

  Hunter shook his head slowly. ‘At present I’m unable to reveal that information. However, if I can take your address and telephone number I promise to get in touch with you shortly.’

  On receipt of the information, Perrera left rather mystified and extremely unhappy at the outcome. As far as the architect was concerned, the matter ended there. Perrera seemed to be a solid character extremely unlikely to have been involved with Amy’s death. Once again, Hunter was to be disappointed in the outcome.

  ***

  A caller of a different nature turned up the next day. It was Meredith, the reporter on the local newspaper. He arrived unsolicited and sat in a comfortable armchair in the lounge with a glass of sherry in his hand, resting his notepad on his knees with a pen poised in the other hand.

  ‘We spoke when you were on Vernon Beach the other day,’ he began, with his nose twitching at the outset of a new story. ‘When that Swedish student was murdered. I was surprised to see you there. You seemed very interested in the case? Why were you there?’

  The architect paused for a moment before speaking. He knew that anything he might say would be printed in the next issue and he recognised that he had to be extremely careful in case he condemned himself. On the other hand, as he had thrown his hat into the ring to become a private investigator, his words might influence someone locally to reveal information on the murder that had never before come to light.

  ‘Indeed,’ he responded shortly. ‘My main aim is to find Amy Chester’s killer. I’ve given up my job as an architect to do so and I’ve been making inroads which have even defied the police.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ came the obvious question.

  ‘It’s really a private matter,’ explained the architect enigmatically. ‘Do I have to divulge the reason?’

  ‘Come on!’ urged Meredith tiredly. It was almost always necessary to extract information from people like pulling teeth and he was fed up with it. ‘A person doesn’t give up his job to do work the police have failed to do... especially with regard to a murder! What’s your connection with Amy Chester?’

  ‘There isn’t any direct connection,’ stated Hunter bleakly. He realised that he was beginning to get into a mess, like treading on wet paint that had been spilled.

  ‘Then give me a good reason why you’re doing it.’ The question couldn’t have been simpler but Hunter felt that he would be ridiculed by the public if the true story was published.

  ‘I can’t,’ he uttered slowly.

  Meredith stared at him suspiciously. ‘What’s wrong with you, man?’ demanded the reporter tenaciously. ‘We have a hundred thousand readers out there who want to know why you’ve given up your job and taken on this task. It’s vitally important that they understand the reason.’

  The architect found himself cornered by the question. He realised how weak the truth would sound in bold print. The problem was to determine whether he should risk relating it to the reporter. After an agonising few moments, he decided not to come clean whatever the risk. On balance, if there was someone out there who had further information, it was important for some kind of reasonable story to be printed. If he was humiliated in the process, it might be a Pyrrhic victory but he would come out of it on top. Consequently, he decided against telling the truth, committing himself to a complete lie which sounded plausible.

  ‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘The truth is that Amy Chester was my cousin. I won’t go into family details but that’s the case. I’m so angry at the police for not following all the clues that I decided to charge myself with the task. There you have it!’

  Meredith stared at him in disbelief. ‘Well that wasn’t so hard to say, was it? Why did you prevaricate?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want the family to blame me if I didn’t succeed, or if they preferred that I let dogs lie.’

  The reporter put down his wine glass on the coffee-table beside him and he began to write notes on his notepad. ‘I understand your fervour in becoming a private investigator but I don’t believe that you’ve told me the real reason. Many people are murdered these days but their relatives don’t give up everything to find their killers. I ask you again... why are you doing it?’

  It was clear that the reporter was not going to be fobbed off with a lame excuse. However, the architect suddenly formed a plan in his mind which might be of value to him in the long run. ‘Because I used the services of a psychic,’ he revealed out of the blue. ‘She told me that Amy had been murdered on the third floor of a large building. Bloodstained clothes have been left in a cupboard there but they don’t belong to Amy. Also, there’s a large Maltese Cross affixed to the wall. These are clues of which the police weren’t aware and I decided to pick up the challenge and follow them up. I then interviewed all the suspects and even found one which the police were unable to unearth.’

  ‘How close are you to discover the identity of the killer?’ asked the reporter, taking a greater interest in the story.

  ‘The investigation is continuing,’ related the architect candidly. ‘I’ll find him, or them, in the end.’

  ‘Them?’ demanded the reporter perking up.

  Hunter paused for just a moment and then revealed more information. ‘From the photographs of Amy’s body, and after speaking to the pathologist, it’s possible that two people were involved in Amy’s death.’

  ‘How do you come to that conclusion?’ Meredith’s instinct told he that he had a real scoop on his hands.

  ‘The bruising on the spine indicates that one person held her down while the other raped her.’

  ‘Did the pathologist confirmed that fact?’ The question was short and sharp.

  ‘Let’s say that she didn’t disagree with me.’

  ‘Do you have anything more to add?’ The reporter was twitching to get to his computer to write the story.

  ‘Not at this moment,’ replied Hunter casually. In his opinion, the interview had gone very well. He considered that it was best to end it on a high note.

  ‘Right,’ declared Meredith, closing his notepad and standing up. ‘I’ll have something printed in the next edition.’

  ‘There is something you can do for me, Meredith,’ continued the architect. ‘Can you search through your newspaper’s records to find out whether any murders, suicides or incidents occurred at that spot on Vernon Beach? There has to be a reason for the bodies to be left there.’

  ‘I’ve already done that,’ returned the reporter effectively. ‘It seems that a woman by the name of Mrs. Dorothy McBeth, aged at forty-one, died on that spot on Vernon Beach fifteen years ago. I’m trying to dig up more information on it.’

  ‘Dorothy McBeth,’
repeated Hunter shaking his head slowly. ‘There has to be a connection somewhere. On what day was she found there?’

  ‘It was on a Saturday,’ came the swift reply.

  ‘That figures. The other murders were carried out on Saturdays. How did she die?’

  ‘Raped, beaten and strangled. The same as the other two killed recently.’

  Hunter sat in his armchair with thoughts flowing through his mind. ‘How come so many years passed by before the murders took up again?’

  ‘Ah!’ declared the reporter. ‘That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. There’s a rumour that the body of a woman was placed in the same spot five months before Amy was found but the tide came in higher than usual that night and carried it away. There’s a strong current in that area, you know. Many people are on the missing person’s list who’ve never been found. She might have been one of them.’

  ‘Do you think Dorothy McBeth’s son, if she had one, is taking revenge for the death of his mother?’

  ‘That’s quite a good theory... if you can find someone of that name. I’ve tried but there’s no one listed in this county.’

  ‘Maybe I can turn up something, only it’s too much of a coincidence to let it lie fallow.’

  ‘It’s all yours,’ stated the reporter moving to the door.

  He departed to get the story to his editor leaving Hunter to reflect what had been said. The architect had lied deliberately about being a relative of Amy’s but no one in her family would dispute his claim. Cousins and second cousins were rarely recognised and he knew that he would get away with the falsehood. Most importantly, he had told the reporter about the Maltese Cross and the fact that two people might have been involved in the murder. Perhaps one of them would crack under pressure when the article was published or maybe someone else would provide information that would lead to the eventual arrest of the killer. And, suddenly, out of the blue, there was the additional feature of a Mrs. Dorothy McBeth, whoever she may have been, and the rumour of another woman’s body which had been carried out by the tide and never found. The mystery was getting deeper and deeper and, it rested now in the hands of fate.