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Scribe
Join Date: Jul 2004
Location: United Kingdom
Posts: 96
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No Death, No Money
I posted this in the wrong place!!! I put it in the writing tips and advice...ooops. Can't have been lookign very well. well, here it is...in the right place this time!! LOL
I wrote this a few years ago, and managed to dig it out from a large mass of paper. I've posted it on here to see how it goes, as I'm intrigued about what people might think about it. It got an A grade at A-level. I was told that tutors might have used it for future lessons in Englsih (I was very shocked, but pleasantly surprised.)
NO DEATH, NO MONEY
The L’Atrium of the Casino de Monte Carlo was a magnificent hall of class and wealth, with its rich marble pillars on either side and its oak doors and golden eighteenth century architecture. Tara Tomassi, a twenty eight year old New York woman admired its every pattern and structure, and peered at each glass window and white and black tile below her feet. The tiles below her feet formed a large picture of the sun.
She was married to a wealthy Sardinian, fifty-six-year old Carlo Tomassi who owned a string of restaurants and casino’s across Europe and America. They had decided to take a holiday in the principality after their marriage had started reaching the brink of collapse, but Tara’s plans were sinister. Carlo had already gone through the door in front of her, which was the Salon de L’europe, where he said he was to play Trente et Quarante. His driver flanked him.
It was after waiting thirty minutes and witnessing droves of mixed nationalities swarm into every door wearing formal dress, with the men wearing black suit and tie and women on every arm that her brother Ben appeared. His dark looks and dress seemed out of place in the grand hall, but he never seemed hesitant as he walked up to his sister with a smile. He had instantly seen her because of her bright red evening dress, and diamond necklace that sparkled from the golden chandeliers above her head.
“Where shall we go? We need somewhere private,” he looked towards the Salon de L’europe. “Is he in there?”
Tara smiled unashamed, “He’s playing Trente et Quarante. We shall go down to the harbour. We have a yacht there.”
“Good, how long will Carlo be here? Because if he catches us there will be…”
“No payment,” she interrupted, “he will be in there most of the night. Trente et Quarante is his favourite game.”
At the harbour the lights were shining from the boats hulls and tops, and the moon’s light dancing on the ocean waves as they rushed gently into the harbour. From the boat named, ‘Floating Gold,’ they could see the Casino de Monte Carlo up against the black sky upon the hilltop. The other buildings around had less pattern and style but looked magnificent in the gold light. Ben couldn’t help but look back and admire the view; although he knew that time was not on his side.
“Ben come one, we haven’t the time to stand and stare,” she said gently.
“Okay, okay sis.” He looked at the boats hull. “You have the briefcase on board?”
“Of course.”
He smiled and jumped over the side of the white-sided hull, with his leg trailing the word ‘Gold’ in doing so. The boat was large with plenty of standing space on the outside; a wooden table with a white cover was in front of him. The moon laid a blanket of silver over the table and cover, and silver consumed Ben and Tara’s faces.
Tara then opened the opaque door and walked down some shallow steps and into a very stylish interior, with Ben following.
The living area was made up of a central glass table with an oak bookshelf up against the wall. There was also a bar to his left and black leather chairs took up the remainder of the room. He noticed a silver bucket of dry ice on the bar, and on the central table a Cigar box with a lion in gold and surrounding the lion a build-up of daisy flowers and stars. It also had the box maker, ‘Highgrove’ in gold printed along the bottom. The floor below their feet was pine panelled, and the tiny porthole windows were drawn shut with white silk curtains.
Tara Tomassi had already picked something up from the bookshelf, and when she turned around to face Ben she held a black leather briefcase with gold clips and a gold combination lock. She rolled the combination to the correct status and unclipped the briefcase. She placed the open briefcase on the central glass table; Ben sat down on the leather chair and looked into the briefcase. Tara sat next to him and took the revolver out of the briefcase.
“A .38 Enfield revolver with spare ammunition. Six bullets in total, although you hopefully only need one. To the head preferably or the heart depending on the targets status.” She placed the gun back in the briefcase.
“Don’t worry, one shot should do it,” he smirked, “the contract?”
She lifted the contract from below the gun and placed it on his lap. He inspected it closely, it read:
‘Ten million US Dollars to paid into the account of Ben Lyons on the elimination of Carlo Tomassi. The contractor must eliminate the target with a .38 Enfield revolver with a clear shot to the head or the heart. If the target is to escape wounded then the transaction will not take place and the contract will become void. Alongside the contract must be a picture of the deceased target using the camera within the briefcase; no other camera will be used. When you have eliminated the target you must send the contract with the picture of the deceased target to apartment room 34 of the Tomassi Hotel. Money will be transferred 48 hours after the delivery of the contract and photograph.’
Ben Lyons looked back at his sister as if he was waiting for something; she then reached for the briefcase and pulled out a silver camera. The camera looked expensive and Tara handled it as if it were a delicate china cup.
“This is the camera you will use. Better take two pictures, just in case.”
He looked at the individual buttons on the camera. Tara then placed the camera back inside the briefcase. While doing so, Ben had noticed an envelope with a gold trim and red felt bow.
“I suppose that is the envelope for the contract and photos?” he stifled a yawn. “Looks expensive. I suppose that is one of your special envelopes for guests.”
“It is for your contract and photos, and yes it was on the expensive side, but Carlo won’t miss it, will he?” she managed a smile. “Oh, nearly forgot, the combination lock for the briefcase is 662. Would you like a cigar?”
“Why not.”
Tara carefully unclipped the gold clips on the Cigar box with the lion’s head disappearing, and revealed a pile of cigars that were concealed in small silver tin tubes. She handed one over to Ben, and took one for herself. She also too a lighter from the box and lit both cigars.
“Things are looking up for both of us,” claimed Tara. “Soon we will both be very rish individuals and Carlo will be having a small memorial service in Sardinia.” She smiled cruelly, but Ben was less amused.
“I guess you’re right sis. I see floating dollar signs.”
*******
It was the evening of the proposed death of Carlo Tomassi, and last minute preparations were in place. It was discussed between Tara Tomassi and Ben Lyons in the café de Paris over some coffee that Carlo was staying in his second hotel, ‘Tomassi 2’. Tara indicated that Ben’s entrance to the suite was all in place and that a man was in place to make this possible. He thought he knew whom she meant, her driver.
It was five hours after the meeting. He was standing in front of Tomassi 2, he entered through the glass door, which was trimmed with gold fittings and handles, and entered the reception area of the hotel. The desk was right in front of him, with a small blond woman who failed to acknowledge him, and to his left down a couple of minor steps a large oak table with French magazines surrounded by cream leather armchairs that looked comfortable. It was out of the corner of his eye that he noticed a man dressed in a white suit and wearing black sunglasses, although it was evening. He then took off his glasses glanced down at the briefcase and nodded.
His eyes wandered to a door to the side of the reception desk, and Ben walked through the door with no real problem and encountered some stairs that he managed to get to the top of in ten minutes.
His heart was pounding as he saw ‘Owner’s Suite' engraved on a gold plaque and screwed on the door. After a few glances back he knew that it was now or never, and with the briefcase in his hand that felt ten times heavier than it did earlier, opened it and reached for the gun.
He knocked on the door, and then heard a rustling sound and Carlo Tomassi opened the door without even looking, he then walked to the other side of the large gold room without taking a glance at Ben.
Ben then held his gun aloft aiming for the back of his head, and shot with the energy shaking his palm and watched as Carlo fell to the ground with the blood that showered the white leather chairs. Ben’s eyes followed him as he hit the beech panelled flooring. The blood ran on the flooring in the light.
Ben Lyons was rooted to the spot; the sound of the gun had failed to alert anyone. Lyons unclipped the briefcase and reached for the camera, and he then took two pictures without hesitation and made his escape.
******
‘Wealthy hotel owner murdered in hotel room’, said the Monte Carlo Eye. Ben Lyons sat on a park bench in Paris, he had fled yesterday evening. He lifted his head from the newspaper that was resting on his lap and looked up at the Eiffel Tower. The warm air brushed his face and his eyes felt dry and sore. Ben felt uneasy about the whole situation, it felt so easy accessing Tomassi’s suite without anyone noticing, and of course the gunshot. He wanted to let things settle down, he knew that his presence in Monte Carlo was precarious and others would be quick to throw accusations.
It was later that day, under the glow of the Monte Carlo lights where Ben Lyons stood. A cigar glowed in the dark; he held a black attaché briefcase. It felt like a case full of bricks, it could have been the guilt trapped inside. The case held his contract and his photos. He walked past the Casino de Monte Carlo, looking in its entrance and noticed Tara walking towards him with a twinkle in her eye, wearing a timid smile.
“What are you doing here, Ben? I told you to let things settle down, what are the authorities going to think?”
“To hell with the authorities,” he walked closer to her. “I was concerned about you. You are my sister,” he said.
“And I will still be your sister in a few more days. Its too late now, people may have already seen you, come with me; I want to show you the money.”
They arrived at Tara Tomassi’s apartment half an hour later. The money was in another attaché briefcase on an oak table in the centre of the apartment room. The wide screen television blared out the French news in the background.
“Here is the money as promised,” she picked up a handful wrapped with an elastic band. “Looks nice doesn’t it?” she smiled.
“It will when it’s in my bank account,” he smirked.
Tara walked to the bathroom door and opened it, and out walked a dark figure. Carlo Tomassi emerged neatly dressed. No injury, no bloodstains, very much alive under the chandelier, and eyes on the briefcase.
Ben Lyons looked shocked, he felt his confidence crumble. I’ve been framed, he thought. He looked at the money, a mountain of stacked green notes neatly arranged into piles.
Carlo Tomassi pulled out a silver revolver’ he smiled and gave him a sympathetic wink of his left eye. Ben then looked at his sister’s eyes and they showed no emotion, they were cold. She didn’t grin. She was blank. She then walked towards Ben and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Remember Ben?” she looked into his eyes and smiled. “No death, no money.”
The gun went off, Ben Lyons fell to the ground clutching his stomach in pain, and then he looked up and saw two blurred figures, figures of betrayal. He then heard his very last words: ‘Rest in peace’.
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Imagination is our sixth sense...
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