Chapter 3 - The Locked Founder’s Office
The restaurant manager stared at the envelope.
“That is absurd,” he said quickly. “Someone is trying to create trouble.”
Adrian did not answer.
He opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper. The message inside had been typed, but the final sentence was handwritten.
The financial records have been altered. The original ownership documents are still in the founder’s office. Open the room before midnight, or they will disappear.
Adrian checked his watch.
It was 9:18 p.m.
Mrs. Whitmore showed no surprise.
“You expected this?” Adrian asked.
“I expected someone to become nervous when I returned.”
The manager’s face tightened.
“I have protected this restaurant for fourteen years. You cannot seriously believe an anonymous message over me.”
Mrs. Whitmore picked up the brass key.
“Then you should have nothing to fear from opening the office.”
The manager stepped between her and the doors.
“That room is unsafe. The ceiling is damaged, and the electrical wiring has not been inspected.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed.
“You told me last year that the office had been renovated.”
The manager hesitated.
“I meant the corridor outside it.”
The young waiter watched the confrontation with growing fear. He had worked under the manager for nearly two years. He had seen him dismiss employees without warning, alter schedules, and hold private meetings with suppliers after closing time.
Until now, the waiter had never questioned any of it.
Mrs. Whitmore stood.
Her old coat made a soft rustling sound as she placed the photograph back inside her book.
“Adrian, your father once told me that greed rarely enters through the front door. It is usually invited in by someone already holding the keys.”
The manager’s voice rose.
“This is insulting.”
“No,” she replied. “What happened at this table was insulting. This is an investigation.”
Adrian turned to one of his assistants.
“Lock the main doors. No employee leaves until we understand what is happening.”
The manager’s eyes widened.
“You cannot imprison people here.”
“No one is being imprisoned,” Adrian said. “But the records must be protected.”
He looked at the waiter.
“You will come with us.”
The waiter pointed at himself.
“Me?”
“You were the last employee on the terrace before the envelope appeared. You may have seen something without realizing it.”
The group entered the restaurant.
Guests watched in confusion as Adrian, Mrs. Whitmore, the waiter, two assistants, and the manager crossed the dining hall toward a narrow hallway near the kitchen.
At the end stood a dark wooden door covered with dust.
A brass plate read:
Founder’s Office — Private
Mrs. Whitmore inserted the key.
The manager suddenly grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t open it.”
Everyone froze.
Adrian stepped forward.
“Take your hand off her.”
The manager released her slowly.
For the first time, genuine panic appeared on his face.
Mrs. Whitmore turned the key.
The lock clicked.
When the door opened, a cold draft moved through the hallway.
Inside, the room was not abandoned.
A desk lamp was still glowing.
Fresh coffee stood beside an open ledger.
And behind the desk sat a man wearing the restaurant’s old founder uniform.
He lifted his head and looked directly at Mrs. Whitmore.
“You arrived later than I expected,” he said.
The waiter gasped.
May you like
Mrs. Whitmore tightened her grip on the brass key.
“You,” she whispered. “They told me you were dead.”
