by John Holt
Reynolds looked up. Memories of his conversation with Duncan came into his mind. This is it, here it comes.
“The first of the three areas, is the disused mine area, the site that we already occupy, thanks to the Governor over there.” Duncan put his hands together, and started a slow handclap. “Let’s hear it for the Governor, gentlemen.” Slowly, reticently, the other four men joined in.
Duncan abruptly stopped clapping, as did the others. “The second area is located down by the lakeshore, close to the timber company. The third area is owned by a certain Bill Clancy.” Duncan knew the name. He had recently received a report of somebody up at the compound asking questions. His name was Bill Clancy.
“There are also a number of other areas that are worth looking at. Amongst them there is a small farmstead owned by one Dave Lennon,” Duncan paused. That should be easy enough. He grinned. “And another small farmstead owned by the MacDonald family.”
“Ian, I still don’t understand how we are going to get rich,” Martin Berry commented. “I mean all this talk about buying farms. I mean do we need it?” He looked around at the others, hoping for some moral support. There was none forthcoming.
Duncan looked up from the report, ignoring Berry completely. “Hey Frank,” he called out. “Do you remember our little conversation regarding land values?” Reynolds remembered it very well but said nothing. Duncan grinned mischievously. He looked back at the report. “It states right here, that the present valuation would be in the region of one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars per acre.” He looked back at Reynolds. “So you see Frank, I was right,” he said smugly. “I was sure that my figure was about right.” He looked down once again. “What do you think Frank?”
“That’s excellent, Ian,” Frank replied, although he did not sound as though he actually meant it.
“Sorry Frank,” said Duncan. “What did you say? I wasn’t listening.”
Reynolds heaved a loud sigh, which did not go un-noticed. Duncan looked up and smiled. Reynolds glared back. “I said that it was very interesting, Ian, so clever of you to make a lucky guess like that.”
Duncan started to laugh. “It wasn’t a guess, Frank. I don’t resort to guesswork. I leave that to people like you.” He looked back at the document once again. “I don’t need to guess.”
Mackenzie sat alone, away from the rest. He was busily writing notes into a pad. At last there was the something that he had been looking for, the something that he might be able to use against Duncan if ever it proved necessary. The insurance policy he badly needed. This would be a good addition to the dossier that he had started.
Duncan looked over towards him. “Hey, John,” he called out. “What are you doing? Writing your memoirs?” He laughed loudly. “The Road to The White House would be a good title.” He laughed once again.
Mackenzie looked up, startled. “Oh no, Ian, not yet,” he stammered. As he did so he carefully removed the bottom sheets of paper. He slid them across the tabletop, down the edge of the table, and into his pocket. He hoped that Duncan had not noticed. “Just making a few notes, that’s all.”
Duncan stood up and started to walk towards Mackenzie. “A few notes,” he said. “That seems a bit risky to me.” He reached the table, and looked down. There was a single sheet of paper. He picked it up, and started to read. “Very interesting, John,” he said. “But I don’t think we need it do we?” He tore the paper into a number of strips, and placed them in a glass ashtray. He then struck a match, and watched as they burned. “No more notes, eh, John.” He laughed once again.
Duncan continued reading the report. He suddenly stopped and looked up. “Frank,” he called out. “This part is very interesting. It relates to potential values. Do you remember that part of our conversation? It seems that I’m a little out with my calculations.”
“Really, Ian,” Reynolds remarked. “That’s so unlike you. I mean to make a mistake. What went wrong do you think?”
Duncan gave a mock bow. “It has been known. I mean, for me to be in error. It doesn’t happen often, unlike you, Frank. I got a little carried away, I guess, a little too enthusiastic.” He paused for a moment. “The report talks of nine hundred thousand dollars per acre, not the one million that I had said.”
Reynolds was becoming more and more agitated. “So it’s only nine hundred thousand. So what about it, Ian?” he asked.
“Oh nothing really, Frank, nothing at all,” Duncan replied, laughing once again. “I just thought that you might have been interested that’s all.”
“Ian, quit riling me,” Reynolds snapped. “You have been on my back ever since I came in.”
Duncan looked hurt. He turned to face the others, silently pleading with them. His hands outstretched. “Is that fair?” he asked. He then turned back towards Reynolds. “Frank, you’re overwrought that’s all,” he said sympathetically. “You’re tired. Overworking I expect. You could do with a holiday.” He paused once again. “Why don’t you get up to my cabin this weekend? Relax. Enjoy yourself, a bit of fishing, a few beers maybe. You’ll be as right as rain in no time.”
Reynolds had used Duncan’s weekend retreat on a number of occasions in the past. Duncan had been very generous, and had never made a charge. Now Reynolds was fully aware of what the actual cost was. “Oh. No thank you, Ian,” he replied. “Your rates are far too high for me.”
Although Duncan was surprised by the outburst, he found it highly amusing. “Oh Frank, surely not” he responded. “A special reduced rate for you this week. Just one bill, that’s all, one small bill.”
Reynolds knew that he wasn’t talking singles. Reynolds was only too well aware of the kind of bill that Duncan had in mind. He looked away. Then he stood up and walked over to the drinks cabinet, and poured himself a large scotch. He looked over at Duncan, and then called out. “Can we get moving Ian? I do have other things to do.”
“Sure thing, Frank,” Duncan called back. “I wouldn’t dream of delaying you. I know what a busy man you are.” Duncan looked at the others still seated impassively in front of him. “Shall we get on gentlemen?” he asked. Then without waiting for a reply he continued with the report.
* * *
“Well, gentlemen, that about wraps it up,” said Duncan thirty minutes later. “Our business is completed. We know the areas where we are going to concentrate, although that is not to say we won’t be interested in other areas. We’ll send out the preliminary offers next week, and see what happens.” He paused as he gathered up the papers lying on the desk, and placed them back inside the envelope. “Gentlemen we are going to acquire that land,” he continued looking pointedly at Reynolds. “Make no mistake about that. We are then going to develop it, and then sell it, and become immensely rich.”
“What if they don’t want to sell,” Reynolds asked. “What will you do then?”
Duncan looked at him, and then looked away. “We are going to get that land,” he said nonchalantly, and then looked back at Reynolds. “Come what may.”
Reynolds was shocked at Duncan’s reply. No so much by what he said, but his manner. “No one must get hurt,” Reynolds suddenly said.
“Frank, Frank, Frank,” said Duncan exasperated. “Who is going to get hurt?” He looked imploringly at the others. They said nothing. He then turned back to face Reynolds. “How can anyone get hurt, I ask you? All I’m planning to do is to buy up some land. They will all get a fair price, more than fair.” He turned to face Mackenzie. “John you know me,” he said. “I’m a fair man. Would I hurt anyone?” Mackenzie said nothing for a few moments. Then very quietly he admitted that Duncan was a fair man, and that he would not harm anyone.
Reynolds was far from convinced, but he said nothing. He looked at Mackenzie, and slowly shook his head. Mackenzie knew exactly what that meant, and turned his head away.
There was silence for what seemed an eternity. Duncan looked at the five men seated in front of him. They were a mixed bunch. What good were they anyway? He wondered if he
could really trust them. Did he really need them? Sadly he knew that he did, for a little while at least. The time would come when they could be dispensed with, but in the meantime he needed them. He shook his head once again, and heaved a sign. At least the first stage of the plan was over. Now they were ready to proceed to the next stage, the actual purchase of the land.
Chapter 11
Joe Brady
A few hours later a young motorcycle courier arrived at a small hotel on the other side of the town. He had a small package addressed to Mr. Joe Brady, care of the Pacific Hotel.
The hotel was old, and in need of repair. The walls were grimy with the dirt of the city. To either side of the entrance door, was a large wooden tub, containing the dried up remains of a rose bush. The pathway leading to the entrance was cracked in several places, and generally uneven. A number of letters were missing from the sign above the doorway.
The courier removed his helmet, and placed it on to the seat of the motorcycle. He opened up the rear pannier, and took out a small package. He then walked to the entrance of the hotel, and entered into the reception area, his thick leather boots crossing the lobby noisily. There was also a loud throb coming from the earphones that he was wearing. As he reached the reception counter, he loudly announced “Package for Brady.”
The hotel receptionist looked up from his newspaper, not happy at being disturbed. “Turn that racket down will you,” he yelled, as he laid the paper down, and stood up at the counter.
The young man reluctantly removed the headset. He then reached for the Walkman attached to his waist, and lowered the volume a fraction. “Package for Brady,” he repeated.
“Package, what package?” the receptionist asked.
The courier looked at the receptionist with derision. “I’ve a package for Brady,” he said. “He’s staying here, right?”
“Yes he’s here,” the receptionist replied, holding his hand out. “I’ll take it.”
The young courier could sense the possibility of a tip slipping away fast. He moved the package behind him. “No dice,” he replied. “I have to deliver it personally. Person to person, understand. Directly to Mr. Brady and no one else, that’s my instructions. Now what’s his room number?”
“Have it your own way. It’s no skin off my nose,” the receptionist retorted. “It’s room 307. Turn left out of the elevator. It’s towards the back.” He watched as the courier walked away, and then sat down and returned to his newspaper.
The courier walked over to the elevator. A few moments later he alighted at the third floor. He turned to the left, and slowly approached the door to room 307.
* * *
As Brady lay on his bed there was a loud knock on the door. He looked up. He wasn’t expecting anyone. No one knew that he was there. He got up from the bed, and walked over to the door. He released the catch with his left hand. His right hand was behind his back. He was holding a gun. Cautiously he opened the door. Standing in front of him was the courier. “What is it?” Brady demanded.
“Package for Brady,” the young man answered nervously, offering the package. “Is that you?” Brady took hold of the parcel, and without a word quickly closed the door in the young man’s face.
He took the parcel over to the bed, and sat down. He tore the outer wrapping away, and opened it. Inside was a photograph of a young man, aged no more than thirty. Attached to the photograph was a single sheet of paper on which was written the name Anthony Shaw. There was also an address, 275 Cedar Drive, Richmond, Vermont. Across the bottom was a simple handwritten signature, Latimer.
Although Brady did not know the person, he knew the name well enough. He placed the photograph, and the paper, onto the table at the side of the bed. He then returned to the package, lifting it up and opening it a little more. He reached inside and withdrew the contents, placing them on the bed in front of him.
There was twenty-five thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills. He did not need to count them. He knew precisely how much was there. He also knew that there would be no mistake. This was a down payment. He knew that there would be another twenty-five thousand when he had completed the task. He picked up the photograph once again, and studied it. He then looked at the sheet of paper. When he was satisfied he took a cigarette lighter and set the documents alight, allowing them to burn for a while until he dropped them into the washbasin in the corner of the room. When the papers were fully burnt he turned on the tap, washing the ashes away.
He went over to the wardrobe, and opened the doors. He reached inside and withdrew a small attaché case. He then walked back over to the bed. He placed the case on the bed, and sat down next to it. He flipped the catches, and opened the case. Inside were a .38 pistol, a telescopic sight, and a silencer wrapped in a muslin cloth. He picked up the gun and wiped the muzzle with the cloth. He then cradled the weapon in his hand, checking the balance. He released the safety catch. Then, raising the gun he stretched out his arm. He pointed the muzzle in the direction of the light switch by the door. He closed one eye, and looking along the barrel, he took careful aim, lining up the center of the switch, with the gun sight. Then, slowly, gently, he squeezed the trigger. There was a muffled click.
“Bang, bang”, he whispered. “You’re dead.”
He returned the gun to its position in the case. He then picked up the silencer, and checked it. Once he was satisfied he placed it back inside the case. He then opened the drawer in the bedside cabinet, and took out an ammunition clip. He placed the box inside the case, closed it and placed it back inside the wardrobe. He picked up the bundle of bills and placed them back inside the envelope. He placed the envelope at the back of the top shelf of the wardrobe.
Satisfied that everything was safely put away, he stood up, and put on his jacket. He went downstairs, and out of the hotel. An hour later he returned carrying a cardboard box, and four large house bricks. He placed the bricks inside the box, and sealed it. He then placed a label on top of the box. On the label was written Anthony Shaw, 275 Cedar Drive, Richmond, Vermont.
He was ready.
* * *
Two days later a black BMW turned into Cedar Drive. Slowly it made its way along the road until it came to number 275. The car pulled over and stopped. The driver switched off the engine, and applied the hand brake. On the passenger seat was a brief case. He opened the case. Inside was a pistol. He picked up the gun, and attached the silencer to the gun barrel. He then placed the gun assembly into a shoulder holster underneath his jacket. He got out of the car, and looked around. The street was deserted. He walked over to the house, his footsteps echoing on the sidewalk. He was holding a large parcel in his hands. He rang the doorbell. A few moments later it was answered. The man was gratified to see that it was Anthony Shaw standing in front of him.
“Package for a Mr. Shaw,” he announced offering the parcel. “Special delivery.”
Shaw took hold of the parcel, and thanked him, and began to close the door. The man put his hand up, stopping the door swing. “I’ll need a signature, sir,” he said. “Sorry to be a bother, but you know what these things are like. There’s always the paperwork.”
“Yes, sure,” replied Shaw beginning to struggle with the parcel. “Let me put this down somewhere first. I’ll be right back.” The parcel was quite heavy, and he was curious to know what it was. He walked back inside the house. Brady followed, closing the front door behind him. Shaw, still holding the parcel, turned. “What are you doing?” he started to say.
Brady stood in front of him with the gun in his outstretched hand. He raised his arm, took aim, and gently squeezed the trigger. There were two muffled thuds, and Shaw fell to the floor. As he fell he hit the table sending it backwards, the contents being thrown to the ground.
Shaw lay dead. Lying next to him was a number of papers pinned together. On the top sheet was typed the words “Rosemont Valley.” Across the top was written “Latimer.” Brady gathered the papers together, and threw them into the fire, setting light to them.
He never noticed a sheet of partially burnt paper fall on to the floor. He then bent down and placed a package onto the floor, next to the body. It was a small package, wrapped in white paper. Brady stood up, and took one last look around. He then left the house, and returned to his car. He looked around once again. The area was still deserted. He switched on the ignition, put the lever to drive, and pulled away.
* * *
Shaw’s body was discovered two days later, in the middle of the afternoon. A neighbor noticed the newspapers left on the porch and decided to investigate. The first news reports were broadcast during the early evening news. Reynolds had been preparing a speech that he had to present the following day, when he caught the tail end of the news. He stopped what he was doing, and turned up the volume on the radio. The news item was quite brief. Anthony Shaw’s body had been discovered earlier that day. He had been shot twice. There were no other details. Reynolds reached for the telephone and dialed.
The call was answered on the fifth ring. “Hello, John Mackenzie speaking.”
“John, it’s Frank. Did you hear the news?” Reynolds asked quickly. “It was just on the local radio station.”
“Take it easy, Frank. Slow down,” replied Mackenzie. “Now tell me again, from the beginning, but slower this time. What news?”
“John, there’s just been a small item about Anthony Shaw. “He was found earlier today. He has been murdered.”
“Anthony who?” Mackenzie asked. “I didn’t quite hear you Frank.”
“I said, Anthony Shaw,” Reynolds said, louder this time.
Mackenzie remained silent for a few moments. “Anthony Shaw,” he repeated, sounding puzzled. “Who is, or was Anthony Shaw?”
Reynolds was stunned. “John, you must remember. Anthony Shaw is the young man who produced that report for Ian. The one regarding Rosemont.”
“Rosemont,” Mackenzie repeated. Of course he remembered. Did Frank think he was getting senile or something? “Sure, Frank, I know who you mean now. It hadn’t registered, that’s all. And now you tell me that he is dead.”
