The Mayor's Abduction

by Noah Alexander

  Contents

  Title

  Publisher's Note

  Free Stuff

  ONE The Investor

  TWO The Mayor's Friend

  THREE Lieutenant Ernst Wilhelm

  FOUR The Bombay Detective Agency

  FIVE The Sophia Home for Destitute Girls

  SIX The Mayor's Mansion

  SEVEN The Devout Cabman

  EIGHT The Riverbank

  NINE The Dragon Cartel

  TEN Ernst's Theory

  ELEVEN Kerry's Lover

  TWELVE Midnight Break-In

  THIRTEEN Confrontation

  FOURTEEN The Minister of Order

  FIFTEEN Kerry's Well-wisher

  SIXTEEN Salome Mariner's Story

  SEVENTEEN An Uncomfortable Dinner

  EIGHTEEN Ernst Goes to the Council

  NINETEEN Kerry's Uncle

  TWENTY Andrew Barnett

  TWENTY-ONE Tripoli House

  TWENTY-TWO The Burglar

  TWENTY-THREE The Minister's Conference

  TWENTY-FOUR The Conspiracy

  TWENTY-FIVE An Unexpected Discovery

  TWENTY-SIX The Orphan's Tale

  TWENTY-SEVEN Epilogue

  The Mystic's Miracle

  Free Stuff

  Spread the Word

  About the Author

  THE MAYOR’S ABDUCTION

  NOAH ALEXANDER

  Copyright © 2020 Noah Alexander

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this document may be reproduced , distributed or transmitted in any form by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by the law.

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  The Spiritualist’s Dilemma - Detective Maya Mystery Novella

  Dr. Chinew's first night in his new house is disturbed by a break-in. The intruder steals nothing but leaves behind a message - Death Comes to All.

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  ONE

  The Investor

  July 18, 1878

  Benjamin Dolgoff’s long, claw-like nose wiggled in synchrony with his ample paunch as he jogged through the empty street, his leather boots clomping ominously upon the dark, cobbled lane. He stopped on a covered sewer hole at the end of the street and caught his breath in the glow of a gas lamp. Strangely, the patch of yellow light from the lamp spanned only the girth of the iron lid of the sewer, as if the streetlight had specifically been placed at such a height and angle to illuminate only the cover. The man took out his pocket watch. It was 3 minutes to 1 AM. He was on time. Benjamin let out a sigh. He had feared for the worst when the wheel of the hand-pulled rickshaw that he was traveling in had come off near the Temple Bridge, flinging him face down on the road. With no other transport in sight, he had been forced to run the two miles from Temple Bridge to this street. But he was on time.

  In fact, he had three minutes to spare before his appointment. He wiped his forehead on an already wet handkerchief and lit a cigarette. It was a muggy, July night, the sort of night that made the accountant grumble about his job which forced him to be immaculately dressed at all times. He felt sticky and wet in his black frock coat, and there was a strong itch between his thighs due to his unplanned exercise. After taking six long quick puffs from his cigarette, he snuffed it under his shoe and looked at his pocket watch again. 1 minute to go. Benjamin Dolgoff took out a comb from his coat pocket and adjusted his sparse grey hair which flanked the middle pond of baldness on his head like a horseshoe.

  He looked around casually to make sure no curious beggar was watching him, he could imagine how strange it would look for a smartly dressed gentleman to enter a gutter hole. He held the wet iron hook of the lid and turned it three quarters clockwise, then 1 quarter in the opposite direction, and then, finally, a full circle clockwise once more. There was a click and Benjamin swung the lid up. A faint beam of light escaped the hole. He clutched his leather bag carefully in his hand, and clambered down the hole, stepping upon the iron rungs jutting out of the wall of the gutter. He had emerged in a roughly circular room (curiously devoid of any smell from the sewers), half of which was lit by two gaslamps, resting in a niche in the wall, while the other half, on the far side from where he stood, was wrapped in utter darkness. Benjamin closed the lid of the sewer and settled himself on the single iron chair on his side of the room, waiting for his master to arrive. Before long, there was a loud hiss on the darker side of the room, and a tall figure drifted in. The Investor was here.

  Benjamin stood up to greet the man. He couldn’t be sure if the other acknowledged his greeting, the Investor was wrapped in darkness and, as always, only a faint silhouette was visible. He could tell that the man in front of him was dressed in a long overcoat, and wore a top hat upon his head, but his face and features were hidden. The Investor was a mystery as much to the world as to the people who worked for him.

  Benjamin felt a familiar shiver of unease drift over him in the company of his master. It was hard to forget that he was standing in front of the most powerful man in Cardim. The unquestionable emperor of the world’s biggest metropolis.

  Not only was he the master of inconceivable wealth (he could sink a ship filled with gold each day and yet not live to see the last of his money go down into the sea) but the Investor’s influence over the city was unparalleled. He could topple governments at whim, make the most dreaded criminals do his bidding, and throw half the city in flames if he so chose. And yet, it was remarkable, how few people actually knew about him. The Investor preferred to operate in a shroud of anonymity. And Benjamin could understand why. Being invisible made him immune to his enemies. If people did not know who they were pitted against, they could hardly be expected to fight him effectively.

  Benjamin liked to think of himself as the Investor’s most trusted commander, the person who knew him most intimately, and yet, even he knew precious little about him. He had been working as his chief accountant for the past five years, growing into the position after seven years working in various roles across his nameless organization. And yet, after years of observing him intently during the brief monthly meetings Benjamin had with him, he only knew with a fair amount of certainty that his master was a middle-aged man, perhaps bordering on 50, was tall and lean and had a taste for expensive perfumes, none of which he wore twice. He was the owner of numerous business and shell companies all over the city and the country which acted as a front to the clandestine illegal operations in which he had interests. Illicit liquor shops, opium dens, stolen goods markets, illegal firearms, ransom syndicates, and countless other ventures. He did not actively manage any business, he left that to the experts, but only put money in them and took his share of the profit. He was a banker for the criminals. That was what had prompted Benjamin to name him The Investor. In reality, his master was not supposed to have a name. Actually, if Benjamin thought about it, his master was not supposed to exist.

  Benjamin slid back upon the chair and opened the leather bag on his lap. It was empty. He slipped his finger into a small pocket on the inside and pulled out a small brass key. Then keeping the bag on the ground, he unbuttoned his coat and shirt. Inside his shirt was a cotton bag tied around his belly. The bag was strapped by a tiny brass lock. Benjamin opened the lock and produced a bundle of papers which he kept on the ground and slid towards his master, before buttoning his shirt and coat.

  “Sir,” he said after clearing his throat, “This is the accounts summary for the month of June. You would be glad to know that most of the ventures a
re doing well. Starting with our recent foray into the fake painting business, which has been the highlight of the last month, Mr. Conrad, our artist partner, has been able to sell four forged masterpieces – two Rembrandts, one Goya and one Vermeer, totaling to about 150,000 Cowries. Taking our share of 60% in it amounts to 80,000 Cowries. We invested around 10,000 Cowries in setting up the venture and so we are already in a profit of 70,000 in about 7 months.”

  Benjamin was sure he heard an encouraging grunt from his mysterious host.

  “Among the newer ventures, the syndicate which smuggles animal skins and bones is also doing well. We earned over 20,000 Cowries this month from that business. Most of the jump can be attributed to the opening of newer hunting routes in the Western Ghats and establishing a dedicated warehouse in Madagascar for the African goods. The demand from Europe and Persia has seen a huge increase, and we are thinking of expanding the business. Among the older ventures, the Shadow Vault is doing well, as always. We had a one-time jump in revenue this month as we found a relic in one of the lockers whose lease had expired. A professor of archaeology that we contacted thinks that the relic is from some ancient American civilization and values it at over 50,000 Cowries. So, that has been quite encouraging. And then…”

  “If I listen to you,” broke in the Investor in his soft cold voice which sliced through Benjamin’s heart, “I would think that business has never looked more rosy.”

  “That is true, Sir.”

  “Don’t tell me what I want to hear,” said the mysterious man, “Tell me what I need to hear.”

  Benjamin shuddered. He had been trying to find a way to slip in the less encouraging details so that they didn’t overpower the sweeter things. But now he had no choice.

  “The British Chemist whom we funded three months ago to the tune of around 3,000 Cowries for research in a new deadly disease and its antidote has gone missing. We haven’t heard from him in two weeks and we don’t know where he is. We have information, however, that he had stumbled upon a breakthrough in his research and there is reason to believe that he might be planning to first spread the disease in some dense locality in Cardim and then keep all the profit from selling its cure for himself. We already have men searching for him and are hopeful of catching him soon.”

  “When you get him,” said the Investor making no effort to hide his displeasure, “send him to the dungeon to cell number 1. Throw out whoever occupies it now, and make sure that you document his torture and reveal the details to the press. I want to set a precedent; no one dares to rip me.”

  Benjamin shuddered upon the mention of Cell Number 1. He had only heard rumors about the treatment meted out to the people kept in the private prison of the Investor, and they were enough to make him slightly queasy.

  “What about the smuggling syndicate,” asked the investor, “and the man who had been arrested last month.”

  This was the question that Benjamin had feared the most. The Investor held a big stake in the countless smuggling syndicates operating from Cardim, the biggest of which smuggled goods worth more than the revenues of some of the smaller countries of the world. The business had been flourishing for more than a decade, with the help of some influential officials from the council as well as local policemen and customs officials. However, last month, a man called Rattan Singh who was an important lynchpin in the biggest syndicate was arrested and a large warehouse that he managed raided. The arrest of the man threatened to spiral into huge losses for the syndicate and thus for The Investor. More so, if Rattan Singh revealed the names of some of the more important members of the gang, there would be repercussions.

  Benjamin took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  “I am afraid,” said Benjamin, “the developments in that case are not very encouraging. Rattan Singh, who was an important part of the syndicate and had a lot of information about its operations, has been shifted from the hospital in which he was being held for the last month to a transit prison in Sophia from where he would soon be shifted to a high-security prison in Vasco. Once that is done we can be sure that the police will spare no effort in investigating his involvement in the smuggling syndicate. I have tried to hush the matter through our contacts in the Council, but it has been very difficult. The Mayor, Norman Sinclair, has taken a personal interest in the matter. He seems intent at getting to the bottom of the affair and bringing down the syndicate.”

  “How much loss can we potentially suffer?”

  “It is hard to tell for certain, but based on some rudimentary calculations, in the worst case, if Rattan Singh reveals the details of all the secret warehouses and the top men managing the business, overall our losses would come to a little over 5 Million Cowries including the loss of men, of hideouts and goods, trading routes, ships and the bribe we would need to pay to keep us out of the matter.”

  “And is it possible, by any chance, that the police can get to us through him.”

  “No sir. The business dealings and the accounts are designed in such a way that we are protected even in the worst-case scenario, though we may lose some very important men in our organization.”

  “That wouldn’t do. We cannot afford to lose 5 million Cowries. What have you thought about that?”

  Benjamin shuffled in his chair. The itch between his thighs was growing unbearable and he was finding it hard to focus.

  “Actually, sir, I have been thinking long and hard about it. There seems to be no legal way to get Rattan Singh out of the prison. We can try and storm the place that he has been kept in, but it would be quite difficult, we run the risk of causing a huge noise and may not even succeed in getting him. This would be contrary to our principles of keeping a low profile, so I don’t think that is a viable option. We need to somehow convince the mayor to drop his interest in the case. You already know that we have tried to get him to work for us in the past but haven’t been successful, he is too honest for his own good. But, there is hope. When our lawyer was granted access to Rattan Singh in the transit prison, yesterday, he told him about a man in the same prison who could help us. That man claims that the mayor owes him a favor and that if we help him get out of the jail, he would agree to make a deal with us.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “He is called Thaddeus Cormac. He is serving life in prison for burning an apartment which led to the death of around two dozen people and has already served 14 years.”

  “And how is he related to the mayor.”

  “We tried to find out, look for his history, but we could not connect him to the mayor in any way.”

  There was a long silence as the Investor contemplated the situation.

  “What does he want?” he asked finally.

  “We sent our lawyer to him to discuss and he said that he wants us to get his sentence commuted and further wants 150,000 Cowries and a house in Cardim.”

  “But that is ridiculous. It is too much.”

  “It is sir, we told him that, but he insisted. In return, however, he told us that not only will he help us hush this matter about Rattan Singh but also, since the Council elections are coming, he would help us make sure that Norman Sinclair does not win, and the candidate that we are supporting does.”

  “How much will it cost to get him out?”

  “Based on his record in prison, which hasn’t been great by the way - he has injured 12 fellow inmates in brawls, one of them fatally, during his tenure, as well as tried unsuccessfully to escape thrice, I believe we would need to get recommendations from at least five judges and a couple of past jail in-charges to get him out. That would, based on prior dealings, cost around 35 to 40,000 Cowries.”

  “Good. Then you know what to do. Connect him with our connection in the Council, he will take care of him. Ask him to get him out, pay the money, and deal with him. Let us keep ourselves out of it.”

  Benjamin nodded and stood up. He found it hard to believe but the meeting had gone much better than he had expected. He could now go home and get some
sleep. Perhaps Helena would be free to come over as well. The thought of the prostitute’s warm embrace and ample bosom made Benjamin forget the torment of the past week and he broke into a happy whistle as he clambered out of the gutter and sauntered towards his house.

  TWO

  The Mayor's Friend

  Norman Sinclair tore open the second to last letter in his bundle of posts for the day with a faint sense of joy. He felt happy at having received no overtly worrying news in the four dozen letters that he had read and replied in the last 2 hours. In the position that he was in, such days were rare.

  In fact, in his five years as the mayor of Cardim, he could easily count these occasions on his fingertips. Usually, Norman Sinclair’s hands were brimming with pressing problems - the city was facing an acute shortage of drinking water, or the intelligence had picked up activity in the border areas which indicated an imminent invasion from the neighboring kingdoms, or the dock workers had revolted and were marching down the Victory Avenue pickaxes in hand, or some or the other council member was unhappy and threatening to resign.

  Today, though, Cardim seemed to be at its tranquil best. The most concerning problem that it faced, based on the letters at Norman’s desk, was a fire at a newspaper press where three workers were critically injured. The mayor felt sorry for the three men, but could still not help a contented sigh as he unfolded the letter.

  “I’ve not seen you more relaxed in a long time, sir,” commented Jabbar Hassan, his personal assistant who occupied a seat on the other side of the table in the mayor's office. Jabbar was a young man with a thin black mustache and short-cropped hair. He was busy writing the replies to the letters deemed ‘less important’ by Norman.

  The mayor finished reading the letter, it was about an orphanage seeking more council funding, and looked up at Jabbar.

  “I would like to be blessed with more such days in the future,” he said, “it is not fair that a mayor should be burdened with problems every day. He too needs to relax and let go. Don’t you think?”