Hello my faithful readers! Welcome to Chapter 5. Thank you for all the reviews, I've really enjoyed reading them, and they have kept me going. This coming week, I shall attempt to update more often, as school will be getting out. Holmes and Watson aren't mine, but I hope you enjoy the company of my characters Callie Talbot and Anne Madison. And so I present, Chapter 5.
"So, where do we start," I leaned on the doorframe, my pen poised at the ready to take notes on the detective's work.
"Well, I'm not sure about you," said a muffled voice from below, "But I start down here." Taken aback, I gaped at Holmes, meticulously surveying every inch of the carpet, his hands gently feeling the intricately flowing patterns of lavish Turkish floor rug. Anne, Watson, and I, restricted to the narrow door frame of Peter Madison's office watched as if watching a television show, our interest piquing with each exclamation, and our dismay deepening with each stoop of Holmes' brow, which had neared a ninety degree "V" in the middle of his forehead.
This spectacle continued for at least half an hour, and I was tantalizing close to a nap rather than revelation. Murmuring noises of revelation, Holmes prowled the perimeter for the 11th time.
"Ah Ha! My friends, what do you make of this!" His hand swept toward the carpet, which to everyone (but Holmes') eyes remained merely an expensive import from a country unfortunately named for a popular American dish.
I don't know about the rest of you," quipped Anne, "But what I make of it," she continued very seriously, "is the interesting sight of a man renowned for his brilliance crawling about like a buffoon on the floor of my father's study." I clamped my mouth shut, lips caught between my teeth in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal my grin. Holmes' glare seared through my ridiculous expression, Watson's convulsions of laughter, and Anne's bemused visage with such intensity, I believe it might have burned a hole in the wall behind us.
Holmes, attempting to fight down his ego and indignation tensely directed his question towards Anne: " Miss Madison." He paused, closed his eyes, and drew a short breath. "Has anyone entered this room since your father's disappearance?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, it is our habit not to enter father's study, because he never allowed it, ever since I was a young girl."
Holmes' brow straightened, his composure regained, "Then I can conclude that your father has been kidnapped. It's quite obvious, really. The different shoe prints, the varying directions of the carpet fibers; There was most defiantly a struggle."
Truth dawned, "So, then we can be positive that Madison was not in charge."
"No, Miss Talbot, not positive, but he is no longer the prime suspect, since the only plausible explanations for a kidnapping would be by a rival drug ring, or by his inferiors over payment issues. At the moment, there is not true way to ascertain his innocence, unless there is another piece of evidence that would be of some help…" Holmes stood from his crouched position on the floor to walk toward the fireplace, regarding it with the urgency of one who is looking for what he is certain is there. His slender hand deftly brushed the charred remnants of a fire, coating his fingertips with a light black powder. Taking a handful, he blew it back into the fireplace, and the ashes floated through the rays of sunlight beaming through the window, going though the transparent paper, to reveal ink: writing. The vestiges of a fevered burning settled on the hearth, and Holmes beckoned our trio closer. His rapacious eyes darted back to the fireplace, and his hand darted out to retrieve to bits of paper. One, of stationary, the other, of newspaper clipping. Remaining of the handwritten page were a few scribbled warnings, their message clear: compliance, disgrace, kill, family, daughter, pretty thing, shame, you.
Blackmail.
The newspaper clipping appeared to be from the classified add, and had somehow in Madison's hurry, or his kidnappers, escaped the factual inferno.
Help Wanted
Delivery boy to report to Warehouse C on
Long Wharf. Must be able to run cargo. Pay
Is good, but must be obedient. Job will cease
To be viable by 20 Jan. Please Call, Madison.
123-4567
The four of us looked at the scrap, and any doubt of Madison's innocence was blown away with the ashes.
~***~
"Alright," boomed Watson. "There's little to do, and much time to do it in." He paused, frazzled. "Reverse that. You know what I meant." Despite the man's intelligence, Watson, I had noticed, was one governed by his heart rather than his head. Which was refreshing contrast to his friend, and many of the people I worked with. And myself. It was the day of the pick up, and it this was the day my story would be born. Assuming all went well, we would have regained Anne's father, and lost the trouble of one more criminal group plaguing the cities' streets. The journalist in me was ready to stick it out to the end, ready to share this story with the public.
Anticipating the cold, my excitement, and gloved hands, I decided I would be quite unable to take notes today. It was definitely an excursion fit for the tape recorder. Holmes had decided that mass transportation would be to obvious, as would taxi, or even arriving as a group. He would accompany Anne insofar as a block away from the Wharf, and would then proceed to trace her route on parallel roads, taking up watch in the loading dock area. Watson would be positioned in the street with his trigger finger at the ready… to punch in the number for Scotland Yard.
I, presently clad in all black, and feeling like a criminal myself, stole along the dank streets. "Control yourself. Do not look over your shoulder. Do not run." Footfalls resounded through the empty street. "Run!" my mind screamed. A gloved hand covered my mouth and roughly pushed me against the wall.
"Oy, w'ats a purdy la'dy loike y'self doin' our 'ere all alone, ye never know who's goin'a go looken' for trouble 'ere abouts'." A grizzled looking workman flashed a rank, disgusting smile at my wide eyes. A hot flash of adrenaline and terror ripped electric fire down my nerves, paralyzing my body and mind.
"I thought journalists, and you especially were ready for anything, Miss Talbot," continued the worker, his face morphing into one tempered with anxiety.
"Damn it Holmes, you're supposed to be watching Anne, not me." I pushed him away and hurried toward our designated rendez-vous point.
" 'ave to keep an eye on both me girls, don't I's" drawled Holmes.
We crouched in the darkness, our eyes never wavering from Anne's confident figure. Before long, a large white industrial van slowly pulled up to the warehouse, and as the wheels crunched the grit and sand into the pavement, I clicked the record button on my tape recorder. The van crawled to a halt a few yards away from Anne, and a man dressed in black oozed out of the passenger side.
"Miss Madison," he expelled in a monotone voice, "the bag, if you please. Your father has great need of these funds, and would appreciate your generous offer." Anne walked forward to complete the delivery, when a series of thumps came from the rear of the van. "Will you shut him up!" Barked monotone-man, but apparently, his cronies could not, for out of the back of the van came Peter Madison. He was beaten, his eyes swollen and bloody from abuse; hands and feet bound with plastic.
"Father!" yelled Anne. She ran towards him ready to fight the idiot who came between her and her father, the street lamp illuminating the two in a circle of yellow light. Holmes started, taken off guard by the unexpected development. He rocked to his feet, and I closely followed, but was no match for his speed.
As we raced for the yellow circle, a crack pierced the tumult, leaving only silence as the bullet sliced through the night air.