Ransom, P.I. (Volume One - Dead Eyes): Ransom, P.I., #1

By Luke Shephard

Volume One of the Ransom, P.I. series

Paris, 1945. Foreigner and struggling Private Investigator Daniel Ransom takes a missing persons case that seems like any other. Before long, however, things begin to look a bit more serious, a bit more…sinister.

Strange occult references turn up at the crime scene and Daniel begins to hear word of a new hallucinogenic drug hitting the streets. A drug that sells faster than opium and, more often than not, finds its users committed to the insane asylum.

Can Daniel crack the case and find the missing person before it’s too late?

Fans of John Locke, Russell Blake, and James Patterson will love this quirky detective thriller series with clever characters and suspenseful settings.

Praise for Ransom, P.I.
"I love a good crime drama but it's even better when there is a hint of something more. That's what I loved about this book and I want more from the author. I wasn't exactly sure what I'd get when I picked up Ransom P.I. but I was more than pleased with my choice...The dialogue was great and the noir mood of the book really creates a great atmosphere."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Our Pack Press
• Release date: Nov 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501450051

Book preview

Ransom, P.I.

Volume One – Dead Eyes

Paris, 1945. Foreigner and struggling Private Investigator Daniel Ransom takes a missing persons case that seems like any other. Before long however, things begin to look a bit more serious, a bit more...sinister. Strange occult references begin to turn up at the crime scene and Daniel begins to hear word of a new hallucinogenic drug hitting the streets. A drug that sells faster than opium and, more often than not, finds its users committed to the insane asylum. Can Daniel crack the case and find the missing person before it’s too late?

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I

It was Paris in the Fall that made me love this city. It was the way the cool winds would send spiralling colours of vibrant oranges and reds across the cobblestone pavements, how the many gargoyle statues and pieces of public art looked at that time of year, staring down at you from their perches of lofty grandeur. I had first visited the City of Lights as a student in 1938. My father, back in the United States, had made his fortune in his youth when he inherited one of the largest publishing houses in the country at the time. And so I too wished to delve into the profession of literature. But, unlike my father, I wanted to write the books, not publish them, and Europe had seemed like the place to do that. Paris, when held in my youthful gaze, had been firmly planted on a proverbial pedestal in my mind as the booming centre of the world for art and literature. And so it was that, after some convincing, I managed to get my parents to pay my way to the city for a visit.

Even then, there were whisperings of war on the horizon, of worse days to come. People spoke of Hitler in one of two ways. Mostly it was to do with his brilliance and political leadership, and indeed, shortly after that he would be announced back home as Time's Man of the Year. But there were others, who could be found whispering in dark alleys, with concerned voices about the future of Germany, and indeed the future of all of Europe.

I spent three months there in the City of Lights. Using the money my father had given me, I rented out a dilapidated apartment and bought a typewriter, which sat on my small, lopsided desk in the middle of the room. Every day I would walk through the streets, admiring the beauty of its buildings, the energy of its people, and the poetry of its leaves dropping to the ground. I would walk past the steps of the majestic Hôtel de Ville (which would one day play host to Charles De Gaul's stirring speech) and try to gain inspiration for my first manuscript. However, it would seem that I soon became overwhelmed by the city in all of its glory, for during that three-month period, I believe I only wrote perhaps seventeen pages.

And then the war began and it wasn't until the Liberation of Paris in '44 that I suddenly felt its cobblestones calling to me once again from across the ocean. Six years had passed and I was no longer a youth filled with lust and ambition. I was thirty years old, and with the decision of having to follow in my father’s footsteps by taking over the publishing house looming on the horizon, I decided that, before I could bring myself to being locked into its million dollar industry, I owed it to myself to return to the City of Lights and try to pursue my dreams of literary fame one last time.

It was after the war by the time I managed to touch foot inside that marvellous city again and Adolf Hitler had already committed suicide. We had won, of course, but there was still an uncomfortable atmosphere resting over all of Europe like a thick smog. Gone were the days of Bohemian brilliance that had been made famous by the likes of Hemingway and Picasso. No, the brilliance that my romantic heart had fallen in love with as a child had become grey and wilted in those days. The colour had been sucked from the world and the Paris which had once been described as a moveable feast now appeared to me more as a destitute table.

Shortly after arriving I realized that the golden age of literature for Paris, and for me, had been cut short by the war and the struggling writer was no longer a romanticized occupation. So I set up a small business to make ends meet, a fool's errand to survive on, at least until the life came back into the city and my dreams could be accomplished. I became Daniel Ransom, Private Investigator; a foreigner regarded with suspicion by locals and someone well-known for having a love affair with a bottle of single malt.

Allow me to explain to you presently what exactly it is you are reading. Now that the formalities are out of the way and a proper back story has been laid, I can more-easily do so. My current place of habitation, in which I am scribbling this down on old yellow papers, is a ruined castle in the south of France. I don't know what it is called but I can tell you that it resides roughly three hours north of that damnable fishing village Coins Sombres from which I have fled. My French is a little rusty these days, but it seems that I have made it out from the Coins Sombres - the Dark Corners and straight into a place of entirely new nightmarish imaginings.

As I scrawl this down now, I can hear them banging against the front door and it will not be long before they break through with their spears and clubs. Alexander Faure lies fallen beside me – cause of death unknown, and scattered across the floor are the remains of a shipment of that cursed drug. I seem to be in the master bedroom of the castle and, although I have barricaded the doors, I do not hold out hope that they will keep the villagers at bay for very long.

These writings may never surface to the outside world and if they do I urge you whole-heartedly to turn back now. Do not let another word pass through your eyes, for this is a story that will undoubtedly lead to madness. My own sense of sanity having left me weeks ago, I can no longer be certain if what I am seeing is reality or purely the hallucinations of a corrupted and twisted imagination.

And so; this is my memoir (and it is more than that.) I write this for any man who is insane enough to read it. But please, heed my warnings: Do not attempt to find me, for where I go next, I know not. Do not seek to understand what I have seen; there is no reason here. For the love of God, if you are ever near Coins Sombres, do not stop for a visit, not even for a minute. Turn around and run in the opposite direction before its people are aware you are even coming. Abandon hope and live out your days in ignorance. La Mort de Tous. For this story only leads to the death of all...

II

It was half past eleven by the time I arrived at my office on the morning Nicolé Faure came to hire me to find her brother. It was bucketing down with an autumn rainfall. Motor vehicles crowded the roads and the street venders were already out attempting to make a living amidst the hustle and bustle of Parisian culture. I had stopped at the small café down the road and bought a cup of coffee before dragging myself over to my tiny office.

Behind a small tobacconist establishment was a dingy, disused shop once belonging to a watchmaker. When I had discovered it, it was in a state of disrepair and so I took it on for hardly any money at all, transforming it over a matter of weeks into my headquarters from which I could conduct the shop-front of my detective agency. My secretary, Denise Faucon, had already arrived and she was planted in her usual spot, wrapped up warm in a pretty pink woollen sweater that she must have picked up from one of the night markets that she was so fond of attending.

Good morning, Denise. I said, walking past her and hanging my coat and hat up by my office door.

Morning, Monsieur Ransom. There is a client waiting in your office. She motioned towards my office, leaning in to whisper to me, She says that she knows you.

Curious, I entered to find a familiar looking woman with dark black hair sitting at the chair in front of my desk. Her clothing betrayed her heritage; she came from old money. Perhaps from some French family that had once served royalty. She stood as I entered and I smiled, motioning for her not to get up, before sitting at my desk. It wasn't until I had sat that recognized it was Nicolé Faure I had sitting across from me. The years had aged her, but she was still as beautiful as I had remembered. In my younger days when I first came to Paris, Nicolé had been the dream girl. My dream girl. The one that got away.

By God! I exclaimed, Nicolé! It has been so long. She smiled at me, her lips curving into the precise shape that had so enchanted me before the war. She had been my muse for those entire seventeen pages. It had all been love-sick drivel, as I recall, and Nicolé Faure had been its culprit.

"Danny. It's so lovely to see you. Look what the years have done to us. We are both