The Murvelli Murder

22. Dotting I's And Crossing T's

The two criminals, Cyril and Martin were bound with chains to a huge rod on the floor of a large room. Detective Max and chief inspector Kennedy joined them. Martin covered his face in his palms as the officers entered, but The only eye of the stout Cyril glared at them fiercely with utmost anger.

Max began to speak. "You are probably both surprised how your perfectly devised plan has been ruined by an unsuspecting detective. Your plan was smart, I give the two of you that. But your appearance had given you away right from the start. The both of you had heavy scars on your body and face, evidence of a tragic event which you have both encountered. How infuriated you Were when I made mention of it. But your anger was not directed towards me, I could see. I deduced it was directed at whoever caused you so much pain  and you were never going to rest until that person pays for it.

"When I interviewed all of you at the mansion, one thing stood out from all your testimonies. Mr. Anthony Murvelli was a very generous man. Extremely generous and philanthropic I may say, and in all this he never wanted the public to know about his generosity. This pointed me to the fact that he was trying to compensate for something he had done in the past, something evil that he was desperately trying to make up for. I was already forming a theory that one way or another, his past has come to hunt him, hence his death.

"I then proceeded with this line of thought. The two of you had met your target in the person of Murvelli, but my deduction is that he never recognized either of you. This could either be because he had never met either of you before, or he had seen you both before with different faces. My guess is the latter. He had been involved with you before but without the scars and without a blind eye, and most likely a very long time ago. All these features made it impossible for him to recognize you instantly.

  "Seeing that he couldn't recognize you, but knowing that you couldn't get to him outside his mansion, you both entered his service but at different times. Martin was to be inside the house, keeping a close eye on the target and studying how best to eliminate him without suspicion. While you, Cyril was to carry out your own nocturnal activities outside. Have I erred in my line of reasoning so far?"

Martin and Cyril were both watching the detective as he spoke. They said nothing but their expressions clearly showed their frustration and resentment for the smart detective.

He went on.

"I take it that my deductions are right," Max continued.
"You took your time, which was roughly two years, to gather all you need and device a plan. Then the perfect timing came at the arrival of the son, Jason, who had demanded for money but denied by his father and after which he had had a bitter quarrel with your target, putting the boy in a spotlight of suspicion.

"Martin had poisoned Murvelli's bottle of drink that day somehow. It was a matter of timing. Cyril was to come through the open window when the poison must have rendered the man paralyzed. The window was supposed to be open, an opportunity for an outsider to come in, and then there would be no suspicion upon any of the occupants of the house. But it was not so. It rained. I deduced from the driver's testimony that the storm must have compelled Murvelli to lock the window. But still somebody came in by climbing a rope with a hook attached at the end. I observed a scratch on the window sill, most likely caused by the hook Cyril threw from the ground for him to climb up to that window, and there also was trail of mud on the window sill from the boots of the criminal."

At this, Martin turned and glared at the young detective. "What!" he exclaimed.

"I'm afraid, Martin, "You forgot to clean that up. I noticed the floor of the crime scene was very neat -- almost too neat -- like it had been mopped recently. When I interviewed you, you told me you had not mopped it since last Saturday but that was just another lie. You saw the mud and dirt that your wet compatriot had brought in due to the rain outside, and you saw that you needed to clean it. While all these went on, the cook was restless in her room because she was hearing sounds mixed up with the whooshing of the wind and rain, therefore scaring the hell out of her.

"You had both revealed your true identity to your paralysed victim, making him understand why he had to die, before you each plunged the dagger into him one after the other. It was your custom to leave your symbol of revenge on his dead body and so you had to leave the dagger there. You wore gloves so your fingerprints would not be imprinted against the handle. Then one of you came up with the plan of implicating the son all the more. Cyril left again through the window. Martin came out with some material and went to Jason's door."

"So you were there all this time,"  the lanky cleaner growled.

"Oh no, I wasn't, "Max replied placidly. "The cook saw you but she didn't know who she saw. It was dark and she thought it must be Jason going to his room. You stood at the door and with the material, collected Jason's fingerprint from his doorknob and then transferred the imprint to the dagger. Any thin polythene material such as a nylon could have done that."

Martin sighed. One-eyed Cyril just kept groaning.

"These things were not clear to me at first," said Max. "I had the facts but I still did not know your  motive. If I knew you were the criminals, you'd ask why had I not arrested you there and then? In the law court, I have to prove beyond every reasonable doubt that you are the criminals. But without motive and actual concrete evidence, this was impossible. It would be my word against yours and then you may have won in court if you have an excellent lawyer. I needed to catch you red handed. In that case I had to make you think that you are in the clear. So I declared that Jason had pleaded guilt of the crime and gave everyone else leave. Since you were out for vengeance, I knew your work was not complete. I anticipated your next move. I put myself in your shoes. You'd want to destroy the man completely, himself and his achievements which he stole from you all. You would want to reclaim what is yours. Your line of attack would be to steal money from the corporation and probably destroy it, so I stationed my men outside of the place waiting for you."

Then I thought, why had Cyril come into the service of Murvelli yet never sleeps in the mansion?  It could only be for one purpose. You were working outside but you needed to have acquaintance with the deceased and also maintain frequent contact with your partner in the house. I noticed your sandy fingernails. There was sand underneath all of them. But of course you were a gardener. But you trim flowers and seldom would you get involved with sand and mud. It was of little consequence then but now I know. It was way more than just gardening, You must have been digging a passage below the ground from a place probably your house to the corporation. I am on track, am I not?" 

"You bloody fucker!" muttered the thick set gardener below his breath, his teeth clenched fast and raising his cuffed hands as if to strike."

"I take that as a yes," said the detective as he continued. "You had infiltrated the corporation at night through this secret underground passage, and probably hacked the computers and devised means by which you'll divert the funds of the company to some where else,  then setting fire on the building and then you went to the airport gleefully, feeling quite accomplished, you must have even hugged and kissed each other."

"Fuck you," cried Cyril with tears in his eyes, "fuck you, fuck you all!" And fuck that man who called himself Anthony Murvelli. He is the devil himself, and I'll kill him over again if I had the chance."

"Martin and Cyril cannot be your real names, "the detective remarked. "Could you be as nice as to tell me the names you used when you were in acquaintance with the deceased?"

The detective waited for a response.

It was the tall limping cleaner who spoke at last. "My real name is Mayende. He," pointing at the gardener, "is Chunle. We were friends with Aaron who you now know as Anthony Murvelli. We were all six in number. Together as brothers we worked in Sierra Leone about thirty-five years ago before the bastard attacked and betrayed us all. Three died because of Aaron's greed. I and Chunle survived."

Max listened with rapt attention until the janitor finished his narrative.

Max grinned. "It's going to be a bitter duel between you two in hell, I guess."

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The End!