The Ponzi Men

by David Chilcott

  Chapter 21

  Markham unlocked his room in the lodge, and turned to Bo.

  “I think we should eat in my room tonight instead of going anywhere. Come about, what,” he looked at his watch, “eight thirty, I’ll organize something to be sent up. That’s plenty of time to get some sleep – you’re going to be busy tonight.”

  “Aren’t you going to be busy as well?” Bo looked as though he was expecting the worst.

  “You won’t need me, I’ll only get in the way. But we can discuss everything when you come for dinner. On your way, and get some sleep.”

  Markham entered his room, and was pleasantly surprised. It was not a suite, but it did have a dining table, as well as a double bed and toilet facilities. He decided he would have a sleep himself. But first he phoned down and ordered dinner after studying the in-room menu. He ordered what he liked and the same for Bo. Bo could either eat it or not.

  Markham was awakened by a heavy knock on the door. He looked at his wristwatch. Twenty past eight. He had slept on the bed in his shirt and trousers, shed only his shoes.

  He swung his legs to the floor, running his hand through his hair. He padded across the floor in his stocking feet, opened the door. It was Bo. Markham stood to one side, to let him in.

  Bo was dressed casually in shirt and jeans, trainers on his feet. Markham pointed to the table, and sat down himself.

  “I’ve ordered dinner, it should be here very soon.”

  “What are we having?”

  “It’s a surprise, Bo.”

  Bo slumped in the dining chair. “What about a drink, first?” He pointed at the drinks refrigerator. Markham wondered if he’d already raided the bar in his own room.

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea to drink before we do the kidnap. You don’t want to drive off the mountain side.”

  Bo made a petulant face, but dropped the subject. Seconds later, there was the sound of a trolley clanking in the corridor, then a rap on the door. Markham nodded at Bo, who got up and went to open the door.

  The waiter pulled the cloth off the trolley, and served the food on to the table. The last course he left on the trolley.

  Bo said, “What is this?”

  “Venison steaks. Probably local. Come on Bo, I know you like steaks.”

  Bo took a mouthful. “Yeah, okay.”

  Markham sighed and began to eat, too. He would never make out Bo. He was the first to finish his steak, and put his plate on the trolley, lifting the cheese board and placing it on the table. He also put the biscuits on the table.

  Bo was eating everything laid before him. He wolfed into the cheese and biscuits. “What time am I doing the kidnap thing?”

  “Well, when the guy is in bed. To be sure of that I would go after midnight. There can’t be enough night entertainment in a safari camp that would keep you out of bed at midnight, surely.”

  “That would be my thought as well. So I’ll go back to my room and watch the TV film channel. That be okay? Perhaps you could make sure that I’m awake at twelve. Phone my room, will you?”

  It was twelve thirty before Bo was creeping down the path from the lodge. He was wearing a windcheater over his shirt, to hide the pistol he had tucked into the back of his trousers. In his trouser pocket was a bottle of liquid and a fresh handkerchief. Around his waist, he had wrapped a considerable length of nylon rope. In his shirt pocket was a pencil torch. In his hand he had the key for Bungalow seven. It was easy to find, he had looked at the plan of the camp-site in his room before he left.

  When he arrived at the bungalow it was in the shadows, away from the lamps illuminating the path. He nearly collided with the Range Rover parked near the door. That gave Bo an idea. The car had been reversed up to the bungalow door. He could load the victim and drive straight out. If he could find the car key. Usually people put the keys in the hallway. He suddenly remembered that the camp gates wouldn’t be open until six in the morning, over five hours away. Shit. He would have to load the man in the car, and then hang around in the bungalow.

  This was becoming a risky venture. He would be reaching the hideout in daylight. There was the chance he could be seen. What had appeared to be a simple job was now spiced with danger. But a reward of over a million pounds must be worth some risk.

  Bo silently inserted the key Markham had given him into the bungalow door. He turned it carefully and scarcely heard the tumblers fall. He turned the knob, and the door opened without a squeak. Pulling the torch from his pocket, he quickly flashed it downwards, on and off. To the left, a table. Car keys lying there on the top. Ahead a door, open. To the right a door, closed.

  Bo stood in the dark. Put his left hand carefully out, got the car keys from the table and put them in his pocket. He listened for a few minutes, but there was no sound. He took several steps forward, through the open door. His eyes were becoming used to the dark. Once in the room he could make out shapes, illuminated from the moonlight coming through the window. The outline of a TV set, two large easy chairs. Magazines on a coffee table. Across from him, another door. No, two doors, side by side. To his right, yet another door. Bo guessed, for no good reason, that the far doors were bedrooms, the door to his right a bathroom, or a kitchen. Best then, to open the door to his right. Most likely to be empty and therefore to be discounted.

  This door creaked as he opened it. He stopped with the door half open, and listened. Still no noise. He poked his head round the door. A window straight ahead gave a little light. Kitchen. He left the door open, and moved back towards the other doors. Which one to open? Bo chose the right of the two doors. This one opened silently, a bedroom. He could see from the window with the curtains not drawn that the bed was unoccupied.

  He turned to the last door. He could feel his heart racing. He pulled out the handkerchief and the bottle, uncapped it and sloshed liquid on the cloth. A pungent smell filled the air. Quickly he pushed the door opened, saw the bed, dashed across as the man had turned and was saying drowsily: “John, what time…” Bo held the cloth over the man’s face. Eventually he lifted the cloth. Turned the man over to lie on front, but with his head to one side. He replaced the cloth near his nose. He was still breathing. God, he was a big heavy guy.

  Bo pulled the rope from round his waist, crossed the guy’s wrists, and expertly tied his hands together. Since he hadn’t brought a knife, he stretched the rope down his back, and then lashed his ankles together. There was not a lot of rope left by then. He put the light on, looking for a gag. The man’s clothes were piled on the bedside chair. He reached for the man’s shirt, tore it into strips, wrapped them round his head, the cloth between his teeth, knots behind his head.

  Bo worked quickly, aiming to get the guy into the car before he came round and started struggling. Next he went out to the car, zapped it open with the key and lifted the hatch up. He returned and, taking a deep breath, got the guy in a fireman’s lift. He was taller than Bo, so his feet trailed on the floor, making it even more difficult to carry him. At last he dropped the guy on to the tailgate, and rolled him into the car.

  Bo went back into the house, grabbed a blanket off the bed, took it back to the car, draped it over the man, shut the tailgate quietly, relocked the car. Then he sat down in one of the easy chairs to wait for the daylight.