The Vanishing Act

The Vanishing Act

A personal anecdote about the infamous disappearance of Mr. Santre Clawes 

When I was first approached by my publisher to write about Mr. Clawes’s disappearance, I was reluctant. However, now that the talk’s died down, I feel fairly comfortable talking about it. And I feel I owe him that; to make sure he isn’t forgotten. 

The first time I met Mr. Clawes was at a party. It was a quiet, dull, and honestly awkward event. I knew the host, my friend Minister Rudolf, well enough, but the rest of the guests seemed almost alien to me, and I’m sure they found me even stranger. The night went on with the usual boring gossip, except it seemed that everyone there was too full of themselves to jabber about the usual stuff. No, the guests, who were mainly academics and sponsors of academics, somehow thought that regaling themselves with failures of less favorable peers was entertaining. They sat there in those cushioned chairs, laughing and dismissing the casual banter with a casual wave of the hand. It was incredibly boring until Mr. Clawes arrived. He too was known only to Minister Rudolf and was more of a social pariah than I was. At first, I was thankful that the snobs had someone else to turn their noses up to or stare at disdainfully until I realized that Mr. Clawes was both, a veteran and a war history aficionado, two professionals I was looking for desperately, and the reason for my presence at the little party. As a military neophyte, I would be mad to pass up an opportunity to consult with an erudite member of the community. In order to regain some lost respect from previous mishaps, I needed to publish an objective and unbiased report of the various different war crimes that our nation was accused of, or some nonsense like that. 

Truthfully, I neither knew about history nor about the war, but people wanted to read about what was hot right now, and right now, the war was hot. It was either that, or I had to cover the district dog pageant finals, in which the contestants (a chubby little pug and a young golden retriever) were to race around the town’s largest fountain. Riveting. So I decided to write about war. I don’t recall believing half the absolute nonsense I wrote in the report, but at the time, it did save my face. In fact, my reputation rose so rapidly, I was hired by several publishers. Coming back to Mr. Clawes, I decided to approach him and ask if he could provide some ethos to my report. The man was pleasant enough to converse with, but as everyone else can also attest, he was a very paranoid man. Though we were in the house of an attache of the Interior Ministry, he still looked as though he expected armed monkeys to crash through the windows and hold everyone hostage in exchange for his life, or at least that’s what the expression on his face told me. I never asked him why he acted that way and never did understand his behavior; well, at least not until the night he went missing. He wasn’t a cantankerous person; quite the opposite, actually. He was fairly amicable, though he did seem a bit fastidious.

At the party, I asked him if he would mind coming to my little office two streets away from Minister Rudolf’s house the next day, so I could interview him. Observing his fidgety manner and the anxiety that was practically etched on his face, I didn’t expect him to accept, but a desperate man still has to hope, right? And astoundingly, he -extremely nervously- accepted. Only in the morning, though. I said okay. I kept my composure on the outside, but internally, I was welling with relief. While Mr. Clawes was an object of amusement in the eyes of his peers, he was nonetheless a well-respected war historian, and I later learned that he was highly decorated. Some military awards or such, I don’t know, and I don’t believe it’s very important. Anyway, he came by the next day, and that began what I hope I can call a fairly close friendship. Though he remained frigid to me (like he did to everyone else), his normally silent demeanor slowly though only partially melted away. We corresponded on an almost daily basis and met up over something or the other at least once a month. I have to say, I was intrigued by Mr. Clawes, and he remained an enigma even long after we met. There was always a cloud of mystery surrounding him, and that’s what made our interactions, in my opinion, so dynamic and entertaining even after knowing him for seven years. Until he disappeared. 

There isn’t too much to say about how he disappeared, which could have been through in a myriad of ways, all of which don’t really interest me. What piqued my curiosity was why. Everyone knows that Mr. Clawes was a wealthy man. Not just relatively wealthy, but by most standards. In fact, his properties were worth millions, and he was a silent investor in more enterprises than I can count on my fingers. I hadn’t pegged him as the business type, and I only found out after his sudden vanishing act. What shocked me so much was that I had been to his home on numerous occasions. 

While the house itself was fairly large, I always -and I don’t know why- imagined he had inherited it. And any money that came with it, I thought, went into the several safety mechanisms, which were an eclectic mess. The house had blast shields, a basement panic room with numerous -I hope- legally obtained rifles, swords, a stab vest, and even a bloody suit of armor, to boot. Even if the army invaded his home, he had enough food and drink to last him another five years. There were even a charming little commode and a mirror too. Coming back to his wealth, it turned out that he had left behind quite a large fortune. Millions, in fact. There were no instructions on what to do with it after he died (he gave me the impression that he assumed he’d live forever), and because there was no evidence to suggest that he was dead definitively, there was no attempt to do anything about it. Last I heard, any accumulations just sat in his numerous bank accounts, which I believe were frozen, as he had used a large list of aliases to set them up, presumably to protect both his wealth and identity. This gave me rise to a theory that I, the police, and several others initially supported: someone had attempted to -unsuccessfully- extort his vast fortune, either killing him, abducting him, or forcing him to flee. 

However, there were signs that it may not have had anything to do with money at all. This second theory is, in the eyes of many, equally plausible, and considering Mr. Clawes’s behavior, I believe too. While the police investigated his vacant house, they discovered a small trap door leading to a hidden tunnel, which led to a second basement, which funnily enough, was constructed under his neighbor's house, without their knowledge. I don’t even know how he managed it, but it was genius. In this small room, they discovered several documents, which I admit are most indefinitely blackmail evidence. When pressured by city council members, the police leaked them to the public, exposing a disturbingly large percentage of Ministry officials. The evidence ranged from lecherous behavior and debauchery to insider trading or unscrupulous lending practices to bribes and perjury. When this information reached the eyes and/or ears of the public, there was outrage, and several politicians, officials, businessmen, lawyers, doctors, and a whole carnival of others were removed from their positions, replaced, or publicly scandalized and attacked. I believe one Finance Ministry official was even lynched. The terrible business of course, but this was only the tip of the iceberg. The most horrendous little file was so disturbing, there was a whole committee to investigate the information before they deemed it appropriate to release it to the public, due to the graphic and bloody nature of its contents.

What contents? Death, of course. Not just one death, no. Hundreds. It’s still unclear as to who he was gathering evidence against, but I think it was obvious that the file was incomplete. While the police were able to identify two hundred and seventy-three of the people in the pictures, I overheard the commissioner saying that there were missing reports for most of them, but the bodies were never discovered. Eerier than this was that the remaining people in the pictures had to be identified by the military intelligence department. And that was the end of that. The trail went cold. No one could take a gander at who exactly this information targeted, as all that was there were the pictures. Which brings me to the second theory: whoever Mr. Clawes had tried to investigate had discovered him, located him, and, to put it crudely, had him whacked and hidden. It still bothers me that this fiend or group of friends might still operate, but there’s nothing I can do, yes? 

The weeks leading up to the day he disappeared were placid, yet indicative of a coming storm, but I guess none of us realized it. Three weeks before his vanishing act, Mr. Clawes requested that I meet him for dinner at a restaurant known as The Bells. It was a classy place. Expensive. Yet it allowed very, very discreet dining; paparazzi wasn’t allowed in, and patrons could request private tables. Sure enough, when I arrived at the restaurant, he led me to a dark corner table. In retrospect, he was considerably more paranoid and anxious, but at that moment, nothing seemed out of place, you know? Mr. Clawes was Mr. Clawes and I doubted he’d ever change. He wasn’t a finicky eater, but even that changed that night, as he took almost half an hour to make up his mind, before ordering some soup. While the food was being prepared, I asked him what the occasion was. He said that he had something to show me. I was surprised. Even after seven years of knowing Mr. Clawes, he was still unusually guarded around me, as he was with everyone else. I’ll admit, I was dying to know; the intrigue made the wait excruciating, but I didn’t want to rush him. Whatever he was about to show me was going to be special. I knew it. 

And then came the food. I’ll admit, it was probably the most delicious meal I ever ate. The anticipation of seeing whatever Mr. Clawes wanted to show me was so exciting, I doubly, no trebly enjoyed the food. The warm scent of his mushroom soup and the warm garlic bread they served it with wafted towards us from the approaching waiter. He took his time to drink it, sometimes, lifting some up to his mouth, only to put the steaming spoon back into his bowl. My sandwich arrived soon after, and I remember finishing it quickly in my haste to leave, only to realize that Mr. Clawes was still spooning his soup into his mouth like an infant. I began to grow irritable, as I was hungry, but didn’t want to order another dish and wait for it. After what seemed like an eternity, he finished, and I practically jumped out of my seat. Contrary to what I thought, seeing my eagerness and curiosity only encouraged Mr. Clawes instead of dissuading him. He immediately drove us to what I thought would be his house, but no. We drove straight past it. I regret that I don’t remember where he took us, it was dark, I was excited and wasn’t paying attention. 

When we got there, I realized he had brought me to the old storage shed. He walked so briskly to the last one, I had to jog to keep up with him. Finally, he unlocked the shutter and pulled it up about three feet. And then proceeded to crawl into the room. A few seconds later, his head appeared from under the shutter, and he asked me to go inside. Naturally, I was apprehensive. Firstly, I was afraid it was something dangerous or even illegal. Secondly and more importantly, the three-piece suit I had on had cost me thousands. After almost fifteen minutes of resistance, he finally pulled the shutter two feet higher, allowing me to stoop down and under. And I had to admit, what I saw was utter… disappointing. In my excitement, I didn’t expect to be scammed or bamboozled, but in hindsight, knew I should have expected some nonsense like this. What was in the shed? 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. After cursing him for a good five minutes, Mr. Clawes told me that this was a test. A test for what, I have no idea. At that point, I was too irritated to ask what in the world he wanted to show me in the first place, and whether he even wanted to show me anything at all, so I just left. I flagged a cab, rode home, and that was that. When I woke up the next day, I decided that I’d call Mr. Clawes and try to meet him again that night. Though I was still annoyed with him, my curiosity was getting the better of me. He picked up on my third attempt and agreed to meet me again. I returned to the same restaurant that night, but he didn’t show. And that’s the last I saw of him. Every time I tried to speak with him, he blew me off. For two more weeks. And that leads us to the day he went missing. It turned out to be an ordinary day for me; interviewing experts, reading reports, and just generally doing my job. At the end of the day while I prepared my dinner (baked potatoes and some fried chicken), I turned on the TV and flicked over to the news, and what I saw I almost couldn’t comprehend: Mr. Clawes was on one of those news panels, nervously countering the anchor’s questions. Though the questions were mostly harmless, it was clear they were accusatory, and his discomfort was almost tangible. Among the various slander they spewed, one of the allegations was of spying on private citizens, a very severe crime in those times. I watched the beads of sweat rolling down his face, which was pale and sunken. Whatever he was hiding was more valuable than gold. If I could score an interview with him, I was almost sure my article would make the headlines on at least one major paper; I could even write a book if I squeezed enough juice out of him. And at that point, I craved prestige like a dog craved a bone, pitiful as it may sound. Who could blame me? Times were tough for reporters and writers. I was willing to stoop to the point of destroying our tenuous friendship for even a sliver of recognition. So I called him. Persistently. For hours. He never did pick up, though. It was a strange feeling like he knew what I would ask of him. I gave up the next day. 

It took about a month until the whole incident blew up. It wasn’t unusual for Mr. Clawes to disappear into his house for weeks at a time (the record was eighteen days), but he would always come out. He would, past tense. After thirty days of no signs of him, a concerned neighbor phoned the police. Footage showed him entering, but there was no sign that he had ever left. The newspapers piled at his door, the normally blooming flowers withered on his front lawn, and the packets of milk were stolen after he failed to collect them. His absence was also noticed by his employer too. I wasn’t sure what he did for a living, but it must have been sensitive since his boss had allegedly pressured police into breaking down his door. The attempt failed. Of course, Mr. Clawes had reinforced the frame and the door itself, making the exterior look like delicate wood, whereas the inside was hard as steel. I believe they used a bomb to blow up his door. They rushed into his house, only to find it completely empty. Spotless, too. As though no one had lived there for a month. And so they began to eviscerate his house, searching every nook and cranny for any evidence of his mysterious departure, and quite literally tore the place apart, explaining how they found the trap door and panic room. I tried to enter on numerous occasions, but after being rebuffed by the police each time, I gave up. His house is now sealed completely, and the investigation has been halted.  

Any and all associates of Mr. Clawes -myself included- have been interrogated by the police many times until I already had the questions memorized. It was pointless; nothing pointed in the right direction. There were no discrepancies in anyone’s story, and we all had the same experience with him: he’d tried to show us something, but never ended up doing it. The police then began to investigate the mysterious “thing” he’d tried to show us. Fruitlessly, of course, but they had to try, right? And they did. For months. It’s been quite a dull year without him around, but what can I do? Even if he’s alive and well, he’s probably fled to Paraguay under a new name, prepared with a veritable legion of aliases and millions in cash. We’d never find him. I never published anything that criticized him, no egregious articles about his idiosyncrasies, and neither did any other self-respecting writer. We knew he might be dead, but with Mr. Clawes there was always a chance. He was a very well-prepared person, after all. And so that’s the story. I know, there’s not too much that happened or that we know about, but that’s all I can say. That’s all I have to say. 

If you’re wondering what my opinion is, I think he’s dead or as good as. A disappearance was as clean as he is only explained if he was abducted and… finished off, or if he just skipped town. Forever. He had no family that anyone knows of, no friends he relied on, and no obligations to fulfill. In other words, other than those that worked with him, no one would miss his absence. I feel that he’d, what do the kids say, messed with the wrong guy? That folder they found says it all. That was some bad business. Hundreds of people had been made to disappear by this man, woman, or group, so why did people think that it would be hard to vanish Mr. Clawes? Harder than most, maybe, but still possible. Whatever the case, it’s still unsolved. Who knows? Maybe it always will be.