Laying back on the Victorian chaise lounge, winter sun shining
through the beveled panes of the solarium windows, he reached
for the dog-eared paperback. With a sip from the nearby glass
of Chardonnay, he cuddled inside the down comforter ready
to spend his Sunday afternoon the way he loved most - with
one of his dearest friends, V.I. Warshawski, that feisty Chicago
P.I. the creation of Sara Paretsky. Dissecting a crime novel
was a past time Sinclair Shepley found absolutely delectable
and he looked forward to an afternoon of it.
Opening the book, he scowled when he heard the doorbell ring
deep within the house. His butler would attend to it and hopefully
advise the intruders that Prof. Shepley was out of town for
the day. He turned to get maximum use of the sun and then
re-joined V.I. in a brawl in her apartment with the current
main suspect, too early to be the real culprit though. Light
taps on the oak door of his study meant that Prentice had
not been successful on warding off the distraction. "Come
in," he shouted across the room.
Prentice, a tall, thin slightly balding Welsh man, stood at
attention, a soldier in the fight for a distraction free Sunday.
Having failed, he was ready to accept his punishment. "I'm
sorry to disturb you Professor Shepley but there is a distraught
couple at the reception. They said the matter was of an urgent
nature and could not wait. Ò
Though annoyed, he knew Prentice had tried his best and had
done so for the last twenty odd years. "Give me five
minutes to tidy up, then send them in."
Sinclair Shepley reached into a side wardrobe and pulled out
a tweed jacket, folded the comforter at the end of the deserted
chaise lounge and sat down at his desk. Soon the door opened
revealing a middle-aged couple. The man was obviously wealthy
but the flashy suit and heavy diamond studded watch meant
this was the first generation of such opulence. His wife was
also gaudily dressed but her coifed hairstyle was askew and
the heavily made-up eyes melted down her face. The man reached
out his hand to Sinclair. "Hello Prof. Shepley. I'm Nick
Convolleti this is my wife, Susan."
Sinclair shook the man's hand. "Prof. Shepley we’re
so sorry to disturb you without an appointment. We know that
you’re a busy man but we’re desperate for help." Tears
formed in his eyes. "You might have read in the newspapers
about our daughter, Tiffany. She was kidnapped three weeks
ago. We paid the ransom last week but they haven’t brought
her back. And the police...." His anger built for a moment
as he tried to contain his emotion. "... they're useless.
Completely useless. We know about your reputation. About saving
those other kids. We were hoping you’d be able to find
our Tiffany."
As the wife cried quietly into an embroidered, silk handkerchief,
Sinclair tried to remember the details of the case from what
he had read in the newspapers. He followed it, of course.
Kidnappings were his specialty. He wrote the authoritative
books on the Lindbergh kidnapping, the 1960 Peugeot kidnapping
and the 1973 kidnapping of the grandson of John Paul Getty
III. Since the books, he gained widespread fame for finding
eight different kidnap victims where the police had failed,
and in all cases but one, saving the hostage. In that one
case, the young boy, five-year-old Carl Remington II, was
found blind folded and gagged in a storeroom of an abandoned
warehouse. Unfortunately, he had vomited and had choked to
death behind the gag before Sinclair had found him. Otherwise,
Prof. Shepley was 7 for 7 and he felt his adrenaline rise
at the challenge of another case.
He dug out a yellow legal pad from his desk and pen in hand
said, "Okay give me the details." Mr. Convolleti
explained how three weeks ago his 16-year-old daughter was
picked up by a dark colored sedan car on her way from school.
Two witnesses saw the car but they each described it differently,
so the police had gotten nowhere. A week later, they had the
first contact, which was a letter, computer produced, demanding
one million dollars. The money was to be put in a locker at
the train station and within 24 hours their daughter would
be released.
The police watched the locker for a week and nobody collected
the money. The kidnappers never made contact again. When the
police finally checked the locker, the money was gone. A hole
had been made at the back of it from the public toilet behind
and the money removed. They got their money, but Tiffany was
never released.
Prof. Shepley rubbed his forehead in frustration. The police
inspired little confidence. ÒI see a few places where
I can start. I don’t want to get your hopes up Mr. and
Mrs. Convolleti but I think I can find Tiffany.”
Nick Convolleti jumped to his feet and grabbed the professor’s
hand. “Prof. Shepley I knew youÕd help us. You’re
gonna bring our baby back I can just feel it. I knew the famous
Sinclair Shepley would be able to help us."
Mrs. Convolleti was smiling through her blurry, black tears
and took Sinclair’s face in both her hands kissing each
cheek, whispering over and over, "God Bless you."
After Prentice ushered the couple out, Sinclair lay back in
his leather chair, a slight smile on his face. Yes, he would
help the Convolleti's. He had wondered when they’d come
looking for his assistance. Walking to the bookshelf-lined
wall of the study, he pushed aside the leather bound set of
legal works and behind them was the large family Bible. Opening
the cover, he flipped a few pages to where a crude square
area had been cut out. In this hidden place, he pulled out
a key. He opened the doors of the wardrobe pushing the clothes
to one side, a door was revealed at the back. Using the key,
he unlocked it and climbed inside, carefully closing the doors
behind him and made his way down the steep, dark staircase
inside.
At the bottom, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling revealed
a girl sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the room.
She was tied, gagged and blindfolded. Even though Sinclair
knew that the headphones that she wore since her abduction
three weeks ago drowned out all sound, he came near to her,
gently caressing her bare arm, and whispered, "Not long
now, Tiffany...."
A Note From The Author:
I am a freelance writer and author living in Botswana. I won a highly
commended prize in the 2004 Commonwealth Short Story Competition with
my story “A Pot Full Of Tears” which will also appear
in an anthology by Oxford University Press coming out in 2008. My
first novel came out in April 2005, published by Macmillan entitled
The Fatal Payout. I also won a very highly commended award in the
John H. Reid/Tom Howard Annual Short Story & Prose Contest 2005
for “The Collector of Lives”.
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