₦airaland Forum

pweeeetychi: Hmmmm, i don't know what his reply would be, positive? ,
if mr lot isn't married pls link us up.

Lol! You're a very interesting lady. I will make a character of you and link you up with Lot in the third book.

Adinije: Thank God that u have been unbanned. But u supposed give us double portion o!

I was banned again last night.

Nice.

FIFTEEN

As Daniel Famous made his way towards the address where he’d been instructed to pick up the man who had supposedly called himself Abel, his mind did a time travel; he remembered the man with whom he’d been involved years earlier. The man who had pounded and beaten him front and back, almost killed him if not for the stunt he’d pulled to save his own life. It was years earlier but it felt very recent now. He didn’t understand why he was thinking about the man now; perhaps the name of the new man he was going to meet gave him this strange sense of foreboding. He wondered if he was not interfering in something that might threaten his life again.

He was in Sawmill Lane now. The late afternoon sun was as orange as a dragon’s egg; this street did not give him any assurance either. A young boy on a bicycle careened past, whistling. He had always had an unsettled mind lately. He didn’t know why. By the way, he’d resigned from the force, why he’d taken the decision to investigate the death of Mr. Jamal Malik – a man he barely knew – was baffling to him. It could be because of Remi. And he felt very sad for not being entirely forthcoming with Lot about the night of the incident. There were so many things about that night that he hadn’t told his superior. He wondered if Lot would have would have solved the case earlier if he’d told him everything. But he was very much afraid about the conclusion the older man would draw. And this time, he might not be able to defend the innocent. Innocent? Was Remi really innocent? He doubted it himself. Truth be told, he saw Remi cross from the corner where crime was committed. She could have been the person who held the weapon; but that might never be known, the knife was without print.

Sawmill Lane was large and oblong in shape, well-supplied with street lights; but this street was planned by someone who couldn’t stand the idea of a straight line. Sawmill Lane curved as an old witch’s staff. Along the west side of the street, the buildings were higher than the others, although there were few terraced houses on either sides. The street was surprisingly inaccessible to motor traffic by three concrete bollards across the entrance of the street, and it was sealed off at the farther end with the gate of a very nice house, now standing open. A bicycle was propped beside one of the front doors of the buildings, but there was little other signs of habitation. This neighbourhood was one where everybody minded his own business. There were some few shops where canned and sealed foods were sold. Apparently, the folks around Sunset lane had little concern for a balanced diet, because no fresh fruits or vegetables seemed to be sold here, only a variety of packaged goods. He sufficed that these inhabitants would find fresher foods only by journeying to the market located kilometres away. There was a beauty salon, itself in need of make-overs, and a thrift shop selling all things used.

This was too quiet for Daniel’s liking. With school out, the kids in the neighbourhood would be busy learning homicidal skills from video games. Better yet, the pubescent boys would be surfing the net for pornography, sharing it with their innocent younger brothers, and scheming to rape the little girl next door. The world reeked of crime everywhere.

Although the day was gloomy, as though rain was soon to release; no light shone behind any of the net-curtained windows, and the large street seemed drab and uninviting, except of course the single one that took position at the far end of the street. The street should rather be called Sawmill Close. The first house on the left was number 2, and Daniel walked farther down the road, past number 4, past number 6, past number 8 – and there he was, standing in front of the door marked number 16 and feeling strangely nervous.

On the door was a neat sign that read: PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING. Daniel knocked, but he did not enter, he waited. After waiting a short moment, he knocked again, a little louder this time, and stood back to look at the house. The door was painted brown, and to his right was a window, the curtain within drawn across. Daniel did not attempt to peep through the cracks of the window because he knew it was futile, he would not see anything within. He stood there opposite the door, waiting and noticing the impressive brickwork of the arc.

No one answered the door when he knocked the third time. Daniel’s mind clicked and clicked again as he looked keenly around. There was something, he could feel it, something was very wrong. The premonition of disaster isn’t always confined to violent deaths; there is always that instant of realization, however brief, before the blow falls, the car hits, the ladder gives way. Part of the mind has been forewarned of the horror within which smell and sight are soon to confirm. But not of the extent though.

“Hello? Anyone home?” he called.

He turned the knob, it was unlocked. He pushed the door further. The room was quiet; from inside, strange smells hit him, it took him a few moments to distinguish the odours. There was the pungent stink of mouse urine. A whiff of mildew, traces of powdered insecticide – and the subtle perfume of decomposing animal flesh, possibly a rodent that had died long ago and that was now about a scrap of leather and grey fur wrapped around papery bones. It was an unfurnished one; a television set stood on a small stand. The rug was old and bed was at a side of the inner room which door stood ajar. Except for the covered floor, the room could have been a nun’s cell; he almost felt the lack of a crucifix at the top of the entrance. Daniel opened the door wider to get a clearer view of the room.

A bearded black man was lying sprawled across a writing table at the farther end of the room. He was lying in a horrible, unnatural position. There was a pool of some dark fluid on the desk by his head, and it was slowly dripping onto the floor with a horrible drip, drip, drip. The corpse’s wide eyes stared with startlement at the first glimpse of eternity that he received in the instant when his soul fled this world, the eyes were glazed with the dull impassiveness of death, and fixed beyond Daniel as if his presence was unworthy of notice. A little stream not much thicker than the lead in a pencil came out the side of the deceased’s mouth.

Daniel was very shocked at this sight. He had seen corpses a couple of times, but this grotesque image in an awkward position troubled him. He managed to pull himself together and went across the room to the corpse. The deceased’s skin was cold to the touch. The hand that he raised fell back lifeless. The man was undeniably dead – shot through the head. The bullet had gone through the left temple and emerged about an inch above the right ear. Daniel could discern the splitered place where it had been lodged in the ceiling. The dead man’s face, on closer examination, was curiously peaceful, and there was little blood indeed, as he’d noticed earlier.

He noticed something else too. On the table was a deck of cards scattered and spilled face up. He knew that this was done purposely, although it could appear to untrained eyes as mere spallation, but Famous knew better. The playing cards had been the national card game of the country: Whot! Each card had been carefully chosen for the table did not contain all the number of cards contained in a complete deck. The suits of these chosen cards appeared to be of no consequence, but the numbers on them were meaningful: 4 of Circle, 2 of Cross, 1 of Star, 5 of Square, and 3 of Triangle. Daniel turned away from the cards and looked at the corpse now with the intense considering scrutiny of a man facing once again the fascinating evidence of human depravity.

He left everything. He knew that the outline of these cards had some certain significance to the man’s death, but he could not understand them now, not under this atmosphere of death. The very air smelled of blood. This was not, perhaps, the most terrible of violent deaths. This was quick enough, more merciful than most methods if one had the strength of hand and the will to make the first shot certain. He became suddenly uncomfortable. The air was stifling, the room stuffy. He felt as though the walls were closing in on him. A feeling of claustrophobia overwhelmed him. A rush of revulsion took hold of him. He needed to get out of the room. But not yet, not now, he needed to inform the detective about the situation of things. He placed the call.

“Are you on your way back?” Lot answered at the first ring.

“No, we’re not.” Replied Daniel, his voice hoarse, “We can’t.”

“The man is dead, isn’t he?”

Daniel took a deep breath before replying, “Yes, sir, he is. It’s horrible, sir. He was shot on the head through the temple.”

“What happened there?”

“I don’t know. I just found him dead. This man’s death is bringing back ugly memories, sir. I feel as if I killed him.”

“Did you?”

Daniel was taken aback, “What! Of course not! The man’s death is only affecting me emotionally. I feel a wild sense of déjà vu. You know what I’m talking about, sir.”

“Okay, I understand you. I’ll send two policemen to come and bring the body here.”

“There’s something else you need to know, sir.”

“I’m all ears.”

“There are some playing cards spilled all over the table close to the deceased’s head. These cards hide another secret message, I believe.”

‘You know what to do, don’t you?”

“I don’t.”

“Take the pictures with your camera phone, that’s what you should do.”

For Daniel, these preliminaries to the investigation should be done by a professional photographer, not with the use of a mobile phone. Even the careful maneuvering of the camera lens round the body, the lens focused impersonally on glazed, unreproachful eyes and the crude shattering of the brain fragments was the first step in the violation of the defenseless dead. It wasn’t really any worse than the dehumanizing routines which followed even a natural death. The almost superstitious tradition that the dead should be treated with reverence always failed at some point along that careful, documented final journey to the grave.

“Okay, I’ll do that now.” He replied finally.

“The men are on their way.”

The call was terminated.

Adinije: Larry what's happening na?

Spambot banned me.

pweeeetychi: i think i am a bit confused o, shebi there was one abel, the one that shot cain, and there was another abel here that slept with the sister, infact i am very confused sef.



But i must say i like your writing style, and you're making me love the job of a detective, cos mr lot is brilliant.
If u see any brilliant detective you know, tell him i'll like to meet him, cos i'm already in love with him.
More grease to your elbow

Lol! The way you typed that first paragraph got me chuckling. Don't worry, you shall understand soon.

But I don't know any other detective except Lot. But if you told Lot you love him, imagine what his reply would be.

bigsholly: why don't you try me first

Okay, I will. But I should go and type the next chapter now.

Marcela04: Pls wat did u study because u are better than our detectives. I though Abel said dey won't be able 2 find him, any way shal i am waiting nd well done. Pls wat did u study because u are better than our detectives. I though Abel said dey won't be able 2 find him, any way shal i am waiting nd well done. Pls wat did u study because u are better than our detectives. I though Abel said dey won't be able 2 find him, any way shal i am waiting nd well done.

Wow! You read the prequel? I'm filled with glee.

Adinije: Yea, or was it not Abel from the prequel?

That Abel killed his father. Okay, you shall know what happened to Abel. That is the paradox.

Adinije: Larry, update is too short na. Abeg make nothing happen to Abel o!

The chapter has ended. The next chapter shall be posted tonight.

Lol! So, you like Abel?

Flakeey: *groans*
Dis update is too short
D suspense is killing
Abel hmmmmm

Will update tonight.

firestar: Pray tell, Sir Larry...

Why writing poetry ties you in knots?
Your flare for writing just is.

I'm more comfortable farming in the vineyard of prose fictions. I sometimes try to write some poetic lines though, but each word is a strain on my intellectual elasticity. A line of poetry can be substituted for a chapter of prose.

firestar:

Butterfly tummy.

Still

*Cobweb brain*

Just a paragraph? C'mon!

firestar: Twists...
Turns.
Shifts...
Churns.

All in the belly.
Indigestion:
Spin cycles,
Of yummy jelly.
Diagnosis:
Butterfly tummy.

Finally, you've burst out of your inhibition. Kudos, bro.

Have a definite style, for without style there cannot possibly be a single work out value in any branch of eloquence or poetry. I'm glad your works are not wanting in depth and regularity; your pentameter is iambic and it is easy enough to identify the rhyme schemes and enumerate the chiming vowel-sounds and the alliterated consonants.

I suffer from an incurable dysentery of words in others' poetry. Perhaps that is why I find pleasure only in reading Yeats' 'The Second Coming' and Shakespeare's 'The R*pe of Lucrece':

Turning and turning in a widening gyre
The falcon cannot see the falconer
Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.
(TSC)

Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week
Or sell eternity to get a toy?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?
(TRL)

Deeper than prose, poetry is a land of iron coinage and of iron speech; hence my reluctant desire to journey thence. I once came, I saw, and I fled. I'll rather remain grinding my stones in the hamlet of amateurish prose. Those who travel to this iron land are later canonized as gods; gods of words.

Well done, OMA4U, and goodluck.

Flakeey: hmmmmm

i tried to re-check and read the letter again
i couldn't decipher where d numbers were scripted from.

Larrysun...i envy your writing talent, kudos bro.

Thanks a lot, ma'am. I appreciate the accolade.

Adinije: Wow! This Larry is something else o! Waiting to see Lot's explanation on how he come about the phone number.

Lol! Larry is an ordinary person, but I can't say the same about Detective Lot though.

bigsholly: Larrysun are you sure you are not a detective? If not, what's your displine? cos am begining to suspect you oooooo or is that you love triller novel this much I like lot way of reasoning sha, he is a very inteligent Detective

You'd not believe me if I told you my discipline.

pricelesslove: nawa ooo. see as human being dey crank brain. hmmmm Larry well done.

Thank you, Princess. The brain is an amazing bowl of spaghetti.

Flakeey: Larry, oya answer the question.
@rapmike...with his way of writing, he should be, although Shakespeare's way of writing is not easily comprehended, a bit tedious than Larrysun's

His writing style is very deep, and it has remained unmatched for centuries.

Flakeey: hmmmm...
this one that Mr.Malik was a womaniszer, i hope he didn't date the maid?
anyways Fingerscrossed...

Lot with his tongue lashing, hian

He is easily irritated. And much like Old Chima, Ruth Brown serves to become his nemesis.

rapmike: Larry! Larry!! Are you a fan of Shakespeare?

I love the man!

“How did you come about this?” Daniel asked, favouring the detective with the blankest stare of astonishment that had ever been beheld on his countenance.

“It’s very simple. I told you the number hides in the quote, didn’t I? What gave it off was line 21. The asterisked words are only three: 3 digits.”

“I don’t understand yet.”

“ ‘In the beginning’ signifies origin, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, they are the first three words of Genesis.”

“Good. You know the three numbers that are the genesis of the Nigerian mobile telecommunication lines, don’t you?”

“You mean 080?”

“Exactly.”

“Isn’t that far-fetched?”

“No, it’s not. My dearest mor*n. You see, the job of a detective, however feeble-minded he or his sidekick may be, is to produce a faithful and accurate report on whatever fact he’d been able to establish, however insignificant those facts may appear.” The voice was monotonous, didactic, with the slow refined articulation of a schoolmaster explaining the school rules to a particularly dull pupil. “It’s often the small, seemingly insignificant and far-fetched detail that later assume a new-born magnitude. Haven’t you seen it by now?”

“No, I’ve not.”

Lot sighed, looked at Daniel a moment and said, “Of the eight numbers you are seeing, count out each second number.”

Daniel obeyed, and he gasped as he counted them out, “1, 2, 3, 4.”

“The numbers are the four lines of the quote.”

“And the number before them are the number of words in each line.” Daniel observed excitedly.

“He finally gets it.”

“That’s very brilliant!” Daniel bellowed, “The writer of the note is very clever. He hid the numbers brilliantly, only few people would be able to figure that out.”

“Is that what you think?” asked Lot. “Anyway, let’s call him, shall we?”

Before placing the call, Lot made certain that his phone number was hidden. The call rang severally before it was picked.

“Hello?” It was a male voice at the other end of the line, the voice sounded weary.

“There is a tide.” Lot said.

“It’s nice hearing your voice again, Detective Lot.”

“How do you know me?”

“Of course, I know you. You’re the popular detective.”

“We’ve been able to break the quote, evidently.”

“I expected nothing less from you.”

“Are you aware that your life may be in danger?”

“Is it?”

“Jamal Malik has been killed.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Do you know who did?”

“Of course.”

“Who is?”

“I can’t tell you that on the phone. You’ll have to meet me in person.”

“Where are you?”

“Do you want to come and meet me?”

“I’ll send my partner to come and bring you to me, only if you’ll tell us where you are.”

The man at the other end paused a while before replying, “Okay, I’m at 16, Sawmill Lane. You have to come very quickly.”

“What is your name, if I may ask?”

The man paused before answering, “Abel.”

The call was terminated.

Lot told Daniel the address and asked, “Is the address legit?”

“I don’t know,” replied Daniel, “but I know Sawmill Lane, it's not very far from here.”

“How long will it take you to reach there?”

“Half an hour – or an hour latest.”

“Then you should be on your way immediately. Go and bring our link to everything.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Daniel regarded Lot. “Someday,” he said, “You’re going to ask me to bring you the Queen of England and I’ll do my best. But I must remind you that the last time you in my presence when asked someone to be brought in, it didn’t really end very happily.”

“You need to get there very fast, even if it means you have to steal a car.”

“That’d be impossible. I have no idea about how to hot-wire an engine. Hell! I don’t even know how to drive. I’m not one of those whizzes that possess natural talents on the operation of motor vehicles that is the equivalent of Mozart’s brilliance at musical composition.”

“Get out of here!”

After Daniel’s departure, Lot dialled the phone number again. This time it rang and rang, but nobody picked up the call.

“What about the asterisked lined 21? Is it part of the quote?”

“No, it’s not. I suppose that is why that line is asterisked. Now that the final lines are broken, we’ve got to find the significance they have with line 21.”

“What we need to find out is the phone number.”

“There’s no number here, Detective Lot. Maybe the writer forgot to include the phone number when he was writing the message.”

“Contrary to your latest achievement, that is the dumbest word that has escaped from your mouth today, my dear Famous. The number is here in the note, we just need to notice it through linear reasoning. It’s a kind of code that needs to be broken. If the writer and his reader understand each other they just hide some things in their messages, knowing that it was the only other recipient who would be able to break it.”

“You mean Mr. Malik hid a phone number in the note?”

Lot stared at him, “You think the deceased wrote the note?”

“Of course, he’s the one who did it. Who else would have written it?”

“Why do you think so?”

“It’s here in plain sight, you should have seen it, sir. You cracked most of it.”

“Humour me,” said Lot.

“The first five lines show that the writer was visibly afraid for his life – ‘I shall probably be dead when you read this note’ – and he was murdered before his reader got the note.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Isn’t that what it is?”

“I’m afraid yes, it isn’t. That note was not written by Mr. Jamal Malik, it was sent to him.”

“How did you come about that, sir?”

Lot shifted his bulk in his seat, “This is what I believe: the deceased and the writer were involved in a secret plan (see line 20) but they were very much afraid of having someone among the family members find out about their plans (see lines 19 and 18), this made the writer of the note get a new line so that both could talk freely. But unfortunately for Jamal, the plan was discovered by a member of the household; and he was murdered before he could contact his partner. The other party’s life is currently in danger, we’ve got to find out the writer of the note and contact him. If we’re able to do that, we may probably know the identity of the murderer of Jamal Malik.”

“I don’t know how we’ll possibly go about doing that. There is no phone number here. I am not seeing any.”

The doctor studied the note for five minutes. There was silence in the room, Daniel was also trying to find the number but he was not succeeding.

“I believe the phone number lies in the quote.” Lot said.

“I would like to understand the reasoning behind this belief.”

Lot stared at Daniel again.

“What?” Daniel asked, evidently uncomfortable with the stare.

“You just made a grammatical blunder, Famous.”

“How?”

“The verbs ‘like’, ‘prefer’, ‘care’, ‘be glad’, ‘be inclined’, etc., are very common in first-person conditional statements. In these, ‘should’, not ‘would’, is the correct form of the English idiom. The phrase should rather be ‘I should like to know’.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Lot concentrated on the note and said, “The quote is rather a misnomer to the rest of the note; a space was particularly left between line 20 and 21, that should tell you something.”

“It’s telling me nothing, sir.”

“Why would the writer put the quote in the first place?”

“To warn his recipient, sir, about the danger inherent in the refusal to carry out the plan as speedily as possible.”

“No,” Lot disagreed, “I don’t think that’s the only reason why he’d go to such length to give such a straightforward message. There’s one thing the writer would not want a third party to know, and that is the phone number. You should wrap your brain around that.”

“If you think so, then ‘In the beginning’ here is where we should begin looking, right?”

Lot did not answer, a torrent of thoughts poured from his brow as he kept staring at the note. Then his face beamed up suddenly and he grabbed a pen with which he began scribbling on a paper. Within a minute, he spoke out, well pleased with himself.

“I think I’ve got the number.” Lot pushed what he’d written down towards Daniel.

On the paper was a phone number:

08041525344.

Adinije: It good to have u back Larry. U never mesmerizing me with ur writing skills. all I can say is bravo. #inthevoicedbanj# I'm just an Oliver Twist

Thanks dear. I'm also glad you have you back. Your presence made my day.

missEmjay: @ LarrySun. how can I meet detective Lot. I'm sure he has a lot of stories to tell.

He first appeared in The Brand of Cain. It's on my signature. Let's see if you can guess out the murderer before Lot does

This is the pitch:

A body outside the house, suspicion falls inside.
Africa’s first detective tackles one of the most baffling cases of his career.

Different people are brought together by a sheer twist of fate. Some are born to sweet delights where some others are born in beds of thorns. Heredity has been too strong on Richard Philip who was born poor at the wrong side of the blanket; an armed-robber rapes an innocent girl and Richard is the product. Now, after twenty-seven years, that child is heading the path of crime his father has once trod. He gets himself employed as the driver of a business tycoon, and the shocking secrets he learns about his new boss and the gorgeous wife culminate into a well-planned, cold-blooded murder.

At already half past five one morning, a fourteen-year-old boy discovers a body with a bullet hole on its forehead lying outside its compound. And Detective Lot’s sudden appearance at the crime scene is a surprise to his sidekick, Daniel Famous, a twenty-four-year-old police officer, who, much to the chagrin of the detective, never believes for once that the crime can be solved.

Shortly after his arrival, Detective Lot realises that he is the only person interested in catching Cain Martins’ killer. He learns that the night before, Richard Philip drove his boss out of the compound in a black jeep; but the gatekeeper, Mr. Eze Chima, claims that Cain drove back that night without the driver. Lot concludes that Cain must have somehow left the compound thereafter but Chima insists that he locked the gate himself. It was impossible for Cain to have left the compound without his knowledge.

The thread with which Detective Lot must darn this mystery is thin indeed, for it is only he who believes that the mystery surrounding the murder of Cain can be unraveled. A couple of hours before the time of death, he was anonymously paid a large sum of money to investigate the case.

And with these available clues, the famous detective must bring this criminal to book:

The murder weapon, which was nowhere to be found.
Two different notes written in different handwritings.
A text message sent through a strange number.

Lot turned to look at Daniel whose arms were folded across his chest.

“Secrets are being exposed now.” He told the younger man.

“I’m not seeing any exposed secret yet.”

Lot tried to picture Daniel thinking and found it extremely difficult. He had always seen the young man as an incurable idiot but not the kind that attempt to get the temperature of a man’s brain by putting a clinical thermometre into his ear, or the kind that would shoot himself in the foot to observe the effect of the bullet, but nearly so.

“Didn’t you hear the doctor’s words?” The detective asked.

“I heard everything.”

“But you were briefly deaf when he said the deceased was a womanizer, right?”

“I heard it, but I don’t see what significance that carries in this case. No one deserves to die for his fondness of the fair sex.”

“Your brain is getting blunter each passing year, Famous. The man slept with five nurses in the doctor’s clinic, including the married ones. What kind of human being does that?”

“And so? There are more grievous crimes than that. Should I begin to list them?”

“You’ve said some pretty dumb things in the past, but this one takes the biscuit! The deceased was cheating on his blind wife; shouldn’t that tell you something?”

“What I believe would tell me something is the content of the note you found on the corpse. Someone intentionally put that note there. We need to know what it contains.”

Detective Lot looked at him for a few seconds and asked, “You really think you’ll understand the content of the note, don’t you?”

“I believe so.”

“Okay,” Lot’s hand disappeared into his bag and came out with a new sheet of paper on which he’d been previously jotting; he gave the paper to Daniel. “That’s what I’ve been able to come up with. What do you make of that?”

Daniel looked in the note. He could see that the detective had done an amazing job. He’d copied the half-revealed texts here as they’d appeared in the original note, and he’d tried to complete each line with presumed completion for each of the lines. He had done this with the first twenty lines, but had left the remaining five uncompleted. Daniel saw that the detective was holding another sheet as the one on his palm. The detective had written it in two copies. He tried to read the note.

I don’t want to ramble too unnecessarily. I feel that
it is at this moment impera tive to inform you that these
may quite be a chance that I shall probably be dead when
you read this note; because I’m beginning to suspect that
my life is somehow being th reatened.

I should have called, really , but I’m afraid the secret
isn’t as hushed as it initially was. Or rather someone, somehow
may linger behind these stult ifying walls to eavesdrop at every
words that come out of my m outh. I have therefore gotten a
new line from which we ca n have our own moments of
privacy; a safe-house well pa rticularly situated out of this
compound and we can freely discuss without fear of having
the walls grow unnecessary ea rs. The phone number, which
you will notice when you see it, will only be available each
day between midday and 2 pm. And if I’m fortunately alive
when you call, I shall be wai ting for you to cite the quote.

I expect that the other partie s concerned are still unaware
of the truth over there. But V — is beginning to suspect
the truth – we have to act fast.

I really hope the plan wor ks out well.

*In the beginning*

There is a tid---
In the affairs---
Which, taken a---
Leads on to f---

Daniel was visibly impressed at the work. He saw that it lacked polish here and there, but it wasn’t bad in the least, really. He read the texts three times. When he raised his head, he asked the particularly obvious question:

“Why the dash in line 18?”

Lot had been expecting him to ask that question, “Look back at the line, what do you see before the dash?”

“The letter V.”

“V in block—capital letter. That spells proper noun. It’s either the name of a person or a place. And honestly, I can’t guess that. But from the drift of that line and the next, I’m assuming it’s somebody’s name.”

“There are names that begin with the letter, names like Victor or Victoria.”

“Or Vivian, Valerie, Vanessa, Veronica, Violet, Virginia or even Vincent. Which one among the household names begins with V?”

“Their middle names may be, we may ask them for their middle names when we begin to question them. The name does not necessarily have to be Foreign, it could be local.”

“I disagree. How many local names that begins with V can you tell me?”

Daniel tried to think and found it extremely hard.

“But we’ll take your suggestion,” Lot added, “We ask them for their middle names.”

“There is something else,” said Daniel, “If what you decode is correct, then the phone number is in the note. But I can’t seem to find any number except 2, and you presumed it only represents a time in the afternoon.”

“Yes, the phone number is in the note.”

“But I’m not seeing it yet.”

“There is, we only need to notice it when we see it—according to line 14. Festina lente, make haste slowly.”

“I have one more question; are you certain that these words you guessed for each line are correct?”

“I’m not certain about all the lines, but most are correctly filled. Now, let’s discuss about the last four lines I’ve not been able to crack.”

“ ‘In the beginning’ “ Daniel quoted, “Whatever does that mean?”

Lot answered him, “You’re asking questions as if you’re the boss here.”

“I’m only asking questions about what I don’t understand. Everything is just so complicated.”

“I believe line 21 shows the start of something, perhaps the origin of the message hidden in the last four lines. You noticed that the particular line is asterisked front and back, right?”

“I see it.”

“We can only get the significance of line 20 after completing the lines after.”

Daniel critically looked at the last four lines, as he looked closely he felt somehow familiar with the incomplete texts. A part of him tried to tell him something of which he was not able to grab.

“There is a tide or something.” Lot said.

“Daniel looked up sharply at his superior, “What did you just say, sir?”

“It’s on the note, line 21.”

He looked at the note, it was not complete but he could now see it clearly as if the burnt part had been joined. On that line was ‘There is a tid’, but there was an absence of just a single letter—e!

Daniel Famous could see everything clearly now. He was so very excited at his discovery, he didn’t request for a pen to write down his discovery, he knew the lines perfectly. He spoke out excitedly:

“It’s a quote! It’s a quote!!”

“How sure are you about that?”

“Because I know it well, I know the quote!”

“Let me hear it,” Lot said, still not believing that Daniel of all people had actually cracked the lines that had been giving him quite a tough time.”

"There is a tide…In the affairs of men…Which, taken at the flood…Leads on to fortune.”

Lot frowned, “Who said that?” he asked.

“It’s from Shakespeare,” replied Famous, “It’s a popular quote, I’m surprised you don’t know it.”

“Which Shakespeare?”

“The quote is from Julius Caesar.”
“That is the only Shakespeare I didn’t read. Julius Caesar said those words?”

“No, Brutus did.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that there is no time to be wasted anymore. That’s what the writer of the note was trying to tell his recipient. The quote literally means ‘now or never’.”