Concerns about my location were constantly pre-empted by more dark thoughts. Who were my kidnappers? Where were we going, and what was going to happen to me when we got there? My speculations offered me no comfort in the least but had me on the verge of panic.
The aesthetics of the weather-beaten covered bridge that we drove through failed to calm my nerves. The rhythmic “thud, thud, thud” of the tires crossing the wooden boards just made me edgier. Yet after we crossed the river, there was waiting for me a modicum of consolation. A historical landmark sign at the exit point reading Floyd’s Bridge finally gave me a sense of location. I was traveling on Old East Road, the historic road that leads to the bridge from the West.
I remembered that Morgana and I had crossed the Floyd once to go to a dinner party. But as I got my bearings, my kidnappers turned onto another gravel road and headed toward Woodland Falls, according to my calculations.
The guy seated next to me clasped his lapels together again—his gun had peeked out into view. What bothered me more than his weapon was something that I had noticed when I entered the car. He had a scar on his hand, just above his right wrist.
My companion caught me watching him. “Remember, MacKenzie,” he said, “we asked you politely to come with us, and you willingly complied. We never threatened you. We could have, but we didn’t.”
I didn’t respond; I just sat quietly . . . and prayed.
We soon turned off the rutted road and onto a well-kept, pea-stone driveway. As we slowly approached a battleship-gray clapboard colonial-style house, my whereabouts finally registered.
“This is Chester’s Holland’s place,” I announced like Archimedes solving a puzzle.
“Of course,” said the driver, flatly. “Where else did you think you would be?”
I didn’t answer, not wanting to give these unsavory characters any ideas.
There were three cars in the driveway, two of which I didn’t recognize. These I noticed had odd-looking license plates. Of the two, we parked behind the dark green sedan. I was well familiar with the third car that was in the driveway. That was Chester Holland’s pride and joy, a 1970 Ford Mustang Boss 302. He purchased the classic red car soon after his divorce, he said, to ease his pain.
The beauty of Chester’s car was lost on my escorts. They paid it no mind as they quickly ushered me out of their vehicle. We made our way along the red brick path to the house. We passed two tall, burly, and menacing-looking fellows in dark gray suits. They were walking around Chester’s lawn and pointing at something in the distance as they went. Rightly or wrongly, I assumed that they were lookouts. Looking for what, I didn’t hazard a guess. One of them gave us an acknowledging wave.
Both of my companions waved back.
“Who are they?” I asked.
“Business associates,” answered my backseat companion.
Before I could ask a follow-up question, the three of us had stepped up onto the porch. Our driver gave a single press on the bell, and the front door soon opened.
To my dismay, we weren’t greeted by Chester but by another fellow whom I had never seen before. He was about my age, maybe older, and was about my height. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit—an expensive one by the look of it. Beneath it, he wore a light blue shirt and fuchsia silk tie. He was big brawn and appeared very physically fit. His eyes were like a reptile’s—cold.
“Mr. MacKenzie,” he said in a detectable accent introducing himself. “I am Luger . . . Josef Luger. I was worried that we would not have a chance to meet since I have to fly to Rome; the flight leaves Newark in fourteen hours.”
“Your name is Luger?” I glanced at my backseat companion. “He’s Luger?” Again I faced the man in the doorway. “You’re Luger?”
“Yah, I am,” he confirmed. “I just said so.” And then, with a smirk, he added, “You really should pay attention, Mr. MacKenzie. Bad things could happen to you if you don’t.”
Luger shortly conversed with my two companions in a language that started to sound a bit Slavic or German in nature. Yet, whatever was said, Luger’s displeasure showed on his face.
Mustering up the nerve, I interrupted, “Why am I here? Why was I brought to Chester Holland’s house, literally, just moments after I buried my uncle . . . and at gunpoint, I might say?”
“Gunpoint?” asked Luger with surprise.
My companions on either side of me shook the heads in the negative.
“In any case,” I said, “why am I here, and what do you want?”
“Fair questions. Shall we go inside and get the answers, Ja?”
Feeling that Nein wasn’t an option, I entered the house with Luger leading the way. Frick and Frack from the car came along too, staying as close to me as my shadow.
As we made our way through the house, I wanted to be—as people say—cool, calm, and collected, which was no small feat for me at the time. To suppress my apprehension, I thought about the only time I was at Chester’s home. It was about three years ago, one year before the Hollands split up.
The occasion was a Christmas party. All the college bigwigs had gathered there to celebrate the season. Morgana had just been appointed English department chairperson, and she felt obliged to be there. Hence, she thought it prudent that I should also attend. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have gone—I hate those types of affairs. But Morgana asked me to go, and it was her first year as chairperson, so I made an exception. I remember that I was impressed by Chester’s backyard. It was a quarter of a football field in size and was nicely landscaped. I also recalled that Chester served an excellent single malt Scotch at the gathering.
Exiting the kitchen, the four of us then entered the den located at the rear of the house. There I found Chester and Vera Krauss on the couch waiting for us.
“Richard,” greeted Chester, “this is a fortunate surprise.” He stood up and approached me, maintaining a broad smile that he usually reserved for greeting college trustees and donors.
“I got your text messages,” I said as calmly as I could
“Text messages?” replied Chester looking puzzled.
“I sent him the message to come here,” declared Luger.
“Really?” said Chester, a little puzzled. “In any case, I am happy that you are here, and I am so sorry for any inconvenience that you had coming here at such a difficult time.”
I hadn’t the slightest doubt that Chester was nervous; there was a slight tremor in his voice when he spoke. Yet, he also projected heartfelt sincerity. And sincerity was something Chester didn’t reveal unless he had one too many drinks.
Yes, something nasty was up. I felt it.
“Yeah, well, there was no more that I could do for Uncle Raymond, anyway,” I said, hiding my annoyance. But there are occasions—as more intelligent people than I have often said—when discretion is the better part of valor. So, in a quick assessment of my circumstances, I concluded that I was in one of those rare occasions, and the best tactic for me was to be as polite as I possibly could—a mission almost impossible.
“Now that I am here, Chester, what can I do for you?” I said, faking imperturbable calmness. “As you know, I am pressed for time. I have a luncheon to attend.”
It was then that I glimpsed through the den’s sliding glass door and noticed, of all things, a helicopter in his backyard. Before I could question Chester about it, he cleared his throat and said, “It’s not purely what you can do for me, but rather what we can do for you . . . or, better put, how we can help each other.”
I had no idea what Chester was talking about. “I am a little lost here. What are we talking about, and who are the “we” in this matter?”
“Huh?” Chester was flummoxed.
“I know you and Vera,” I explained. “But Mr. Luger and his associates, who are they, and what is this all about?”
“Forgive me, Mr. MacKenzie, ” said Luger, “ the urgency of the matter has made me forget my manners. I am Josef Luger.”
“I got that but�
��”
“The two gentlemen who brought you here are my associates, Mr. Nagy”—my backseat companion—“and Mr. Fordor”—the driver. “I am attached to the Hungarian embassy in Washington. I am involved with economic treaties and agreements between our countries.”
“Glad to meet you all,” I lied, and I think my new acquaintances knew it. “What can I do for you?”
“You see, Richard, we need your assistance,” continued Chester, “with the missing papers—”
“Sure,” I said, “no problem. I told you at the college get-together that I would help with the Stoner Papers, but since they have gone missing. I don’t know what else I—”
“Please, Richard,” said Chester betraying more nervousness as he spoke, “there is no need to pretend.”
“Pretend?”—that didn’t sound good. “Chester, what are you talking about?”
“If you just cooperate, Richard, things don’t have to become messy.”
“Messy?” I didn’t like the sound of that either.
Chester began to stammer. “Richard, please don’t do this. Just give us the documents.”
“The documents?” I never saw that coming.
“The Steinmetz Papiere.”
“What? I don’t have the stupid things. I didn’t even know about them until the college started all this hoopla about their public unveiling . . . or whatever you called it.” Then a wild thought came to me. “Wait a minute. Are you accusing me of being involved in the theft of the Stoner Papers?”
“We think that is a real possibility,” said Vera Krauss from across the room.
“That’s a bit rash,” I said, defending myself and at the same time trying not to make matters worse. “Do you all think that I stole those stupid papers?” I glared at Chester. My temper was up.“That is the most ridiculous thing that I ever heard and—”
Before my mouth could continue my train of thought, I spotted my escort, with the peek-a-boo gun, start to play with his jacket lapels again. “Well,” I said in a less discordant tone, “ you all are very . . . mistaken.”
“There is evidence that points in your direction, Richard,” calmly countered Krauss.
“That is simply impossible,” I said. “I haven’t even seen the damn papers. I haven’t ever been in the same room with them.”
Krauss got off the couch. There was something hypnotic about her as she slowly walked toward me. Dressed in black riding boots, tight-fitting dark green slacks, and a white long sleeve wrap-around blouse. There was an enticing undulation to her body with every step the woman took. She reminded me of a stereotypical femme fatale from an old 1960s spy film—her accent did nothing to kill the image.
“Then, Richard, you must have an explanation for this.” With a Teutonic know-it-all grin, she handed me a pink slip of paper.
“What is this? Are you firing me?”
Ignoring my remark, Krauss continued, “This receipt has your name on it. And it was found on the floor in the rare books room where the theft occurred. Can you tell us how it got there since you say that you never have been in the room?”
I looked at the paper that Krauss had. It was a generic receipt from a pad purchased at any business supply store, from what I could tell. And though it hadn’t any business identification, I instantly knew where it came from and who wrote it.
My name, address, and home phone number were written on the slip above the abbreviations, “DK. OAK C.—LG. & STR.” (dark oak chair—leg and stretcher.) It was a receipt for Morgana’s chair repair. It was identical, except in color, to the one I had.
Like Krauss and her buddies, I came to the same question—How on earth did this get into the rare books room?
“Hey, I didn’t drop this. And I know nothing about the whereabouts of the Stoner Papers or the old map.” I looked again at the slip of paper in my hand and gave it back to Krauss. “Have you mentioned this to the authorities?”
“Tell your brother, you mean?” said Krauss. “Do you think that would be prudent? He may be in on the theft.”
“Let me show you something.” As I reached into my back trouser pocket, I spotted my ever-vigilant escort, Mr. Nagy, quickly sliding his hand under his jacket.
“Easy there, Gun Smoke,” I said. “I am just getting my wallet.”
In the fashion of sports TV slow-motion, I retrieved my wallet—always keeping my eyes fixed on my skittish watchdog. There, mixed in with several five-dollar bills, I withdrew a yellow slip of paper.
“Here you go.” I passed both papers to Krauss. “That pink slip is not mine. This yellow one is mine.”
Krauss compared the papers and gave them to Luger.
He examined them and frowned. After a dozen seconds or so, he declared, “This proves nothing.”
“I think it does. I don’t know how it is in your part of the world, but here in The United States, a shop or store gives one receipt to the customer. If there are others copies of the receipt, the said establishment keeps them for its own use or throws them away. That pink paper isn’t mine. The yellow one is. In fact, at the bottom of my copy, it reads ‘customer copy.’ I was never near the rare books room. Even when I was an undergrad, I never went into the room . . . and I didn’t steal the papers.”
“Then tell me this, MacKenzie,” said Luger, “how could this receipt, with your name on it, get into the room where the theft occurred?”
“Good question,” I said. “But I haven’t a clue.”
I lied—well, not really. Obviously, I knew the origins of the two receipts and who was present when the receipts were filled out. Maybe Kyle had a receipt copy; he could have dropped his copy while doing his investigation. I just wasn’t going to volunteer any thoughts, information, or theories until I knew more about this potentially dangerous situation that I was in.
“Please, Mr. MacKenzie,” said Luger, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but we don’t believe you. But that is neither here nor there.”
“That is good of you. May I have my receipt, please?”
As Luger returned it to me, he asked coldly, “Who gave you the receipt?”
“What was that?”
“What was the receipt for?”
“The receipt?”
“Yes,” said Krauss. “What did you buy; what service was performed that entitled you to receive this receipt?”
Ah, there it was —the inevitable question. Now my problem was what do I give Krauss and Luger for an answer.
“I rather not say,” I replied, knowing full well that was not going to play out.
“I think that you should, Mr. MacKenzie,” countered Luger as he snapped his fingers. Immediately, my gun-toting companion placed his hand on my right shoulder and squeezed—hard.
“You,” he said directly into my ear, “really should tell Herr Luger what he wants to know.”
Panic at times makes people do and say foolish things. The type of things that, under normal conditions, would never see the light of day.
“I got an early Valentine’s Day present for my wife.”
“A Valentine’s Day present?” said Krauss, unconvinced. “It is October. It isn’t even Christmas shopping season yet. And you want us to believe that you were buying Valentine presents? You must do better than that.”
I felt the grip on my tighten.
“It isn’t a Valentine, Valentine’s Day present. It is more of a Valentine . . . or, eh, ‘I love you present.’”
“Tell me then, please,” grumbled Luger, “from what shop did this receipt originate, MacKenzie?”
The hand on my shoulder let go. In its place, something poked into the side of my ribs. I couldn’t see what it was, but I could guess. I knew that my adrenalin was rising, and I felt the innate flight or fight urge growing inside me. My sensible self, however, believed that neither of these options was doable. Instead, I chose to play the innocent and bide my time with a big lie, hoping for the best.
“I bought a sex toy for my wife,” nervously replied. �
��It was to be a surprise.”
“A sex toy?” said Luger. He looked at me as if I was some kind of zoological curiosity. Again, he snapped his fingers. The discomfort that I felt in my side subsided.
“Yes, a sex toy.”
“Please explain,” calmly said Luger, as he peered into my eyes to discover the truth somewhere within them.
I took a breath and continued my tall tale. “I was in Boston two months ago with my Uncle Raymond . . . And while he was getting some medical treatment, I went down the street from the hospital to a fairly respectable looking, adult-oriented boutique—”
“You mean a sex shop,” said Krauss.
“Yes, a sex shop,” I said, conceding to the term.
“You Americans are so . . . prudish about such things,” commented Krauss.
“Yeah, okay, maybe we are, but anyway, while I was there, I bought Morgana a personal gift.”
Luger looked at the pink slip in his hand. “So, what is written here, is what you purchase, ja?”
“Ja, eh, yes, I got her a present,” I said with the most embarrassed look that I could muster.
“So,” pursued Luger, “what did you purchase. What is this ‘DK OAK C—’”
“A dark oak, colored, large strap-on device,” I blurted quickly, hoping that I was close in covering the abbreviations on the receipt.
Whether I did or not, my reply stunned my inquisitors into silence for several seconds. Luger stared at me and blinked several times. Krauss suddenly became interested in knowing the time and examined her watch and avoided my gaze.
I noticed poor Chester on the other side of the room, who had come to know Morgana reasonably well during the last three years, had an ‘I really didn’t want to know this’ look upon his face. As for my two obnoxious escorts from the car, they couldn’t contain their snickering at my expense.
The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery Page 24
