Chapter Three – The Visitor
It was a warm day for this time of the year and Harold Brinks turned up the air conditioning on his old Studebaker 170. It made little difference. The machine had reached a time in it’s life when it just wanted to be put out to pasture. He swore at it but predictably, it made no difference. Harold, not Harry. It was always Harold even as a child. Harold had moved back to Massachusetts some months back, partly to find work in a place where he had spent some time and so felt comfortable. But also to find some solace in being near the place where he once worked but thanks to others who thought he was stealing their jobs, no longer. It took him a long time to accept that he had been sacked. Sacked! Harold Brinks should have been able to leave with dignity but they didn’t let him. Maybe he could make up for it. Funny if they got sacked because of him!
The apartment reeked of age and despair. And last night’s dinner. The woman on the floor below stood at her door in a gown. She had seen him come from her window. He knew what she wanted was not to fix her cupboard door but to fill her lonely life. He had filled too many lonely lives, and wives for that matter. One reason he moved about. Now he needed something to kick start his life or he would end up like his uncle Oswald. A no hoper and a slob. However last week’s aimless wandering might just have paid off. He reminisced on his driving slowly around and past his former employment premises, Huntington Repository. It was late at night and very quiet but the sight of a silver Mercedes parked a block away caused him to pull over and speculate. It had black stripes like that twerp Merrell who had got him kicked out. In fact he was sure it had to be his for he had never seen any other around when he worked here.
Thirty minutes later and two Chesterfields to keep him company, he was startled to see movement above the car on the building next to where it was parked. A swinging rope caught his eye then a figure in black, rappelling down to the pavement. The rope somehow fell and it and the man got into the car and drove away. It had to be Merrell. It was his car. Harold got out and walked to the spot. ‘Why here?’ he thought. Then he realised that the roof would lead to the roof of the Repository and he suddenly caught on. He had stumbled onto a robbery of sorts.
In the gutter an object caught his eye and he stooped to pick it up. A book. And a classic by the looks. It had to have come from Huntington and this seemed to confirm that it was Merrell. “I never took him to be the athletic type but the world is full of surprises.” He said this aloud but there was no one to hear his spoken thoughts. By the time Harold had arrived home, he had already formulated an idea. An idea that could earn him lots of money and bring his dream of ousting Merrell, to reality.
It didn’t take long to locate where Walter Merrell lived. Telephone directories make it so easy. There is no privacy any longer. You are always to be found, to be spied upon. The first night it was the semi’s of the baseball league and he gave away any thought of going out to confront Merrell. Winchester was batting tonight and that could not be missed. There was some money riding on it as well.
But after a couple of bourbons the next night, he drove past the house slowly at around 9.30. There were lights on and parking a couple of houses away, walked slowly to the front door. His heart was racing but the thought of what could be achieved was foremost on his mind. He would be polite. Respectful. And he would make this man pay.
A car drove past but he didn’t glance up. ‘Just keep walking to the door’ he said to himself. It was one of those conservative places. Neat lawns and primroses and a chimney or two. He rang the bell and waited. Then again. Not a sound so he pushed the button again. He could hear the chime inside. He tried again. Then a noise and the door opened. Walter Merrell was there in a light jacket peering at him and asking the obvious. Harold proffered the book.
Obviously he had not recognised him and took him for some student or whatever trying to return an item. When he went to close the door, Harold got straight to the point. He held the book up against the security gauze. “I think you should see it now.” Then he gave his name and when they had last met. When he got a recognition he pressed the point about talking. Brinks could feel the indecision in the other’s mind and the uncertainty in the book he held. Then the door was unlocked and he was in.
The library looked like a miniature of Huntington. Books line the walls and stretched to the ceiling. A step ladder was necessary to get to the higher shelves. It put an ache in Harold’s heart to be around such knowledge. He should be still around it except for this man. So he just said what he felt. The expected defence of his action came. ‘Three people’ was taken in and he raised his eyebrows. Maybe the other two didn’t like him also, but he always believed it was just Merrell. These were words to cover an action. Then the direct question of why was he there. Harold was a direct man so he gave a direct reply. “Money. Pure and simple.” He went on to give a brief account of his difficult life since then and his chance meeting of Merrell’s car and the owner coming down a rope. Brinks knew he had him and could see a little blackmail coming easily.
Walter vigorously denied the statement that he was the person in black or the owner of that car, providing a story of many similar cars now belonging to Huntington staff. For once there was now a small doubt in Harold’s mind. ‘Was he telling the truth or just denying it was him?’ This was something he needed to think out. Suddenly a small shiver went through him. The thought that he was wrong came up with bright flashing lights.
He heard Merrell go on about Beaton and someone else but he was only half listening. When the librarian went up the book ladder and waved a book shouting “here it is”, he was still half listening. His gaze was more ahead to the far wall when he became aware of a stifled shout and turned slightly to see movement. Harold took microseconds to register the fact that the ladder on which Merrell was balancing was toppling sideways and he saw the librarian momentarily hang, then fall. In that same instant he knew the ladder would miss him and a small smile started to form on his lips.