by Warren Court
Out of Time (Armour Black Mystery Book One)
https://www.amazon.ca/Out-Time-Armour-Black-Mystery-ebook/dp/B07195HLR5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1535071232&sr=8-1&keywords=out+of+time+warren+court
The Last Dive
https://www.amazon.ca/Last-Dive-Vincent-Thriller-ebook/dp/B06XDVVDQT/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1535071287&sr=8-1&keywords=the+last+dive+warren+court
Hog Town (John Temple Mystery Book One)
https://www.amazon.ca/Hog-Town-John-Temple-Mystery-ebook/dp/B07996DXJT/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1535071311&sr=8-1&keywords=hog+town+warren+court
Keep scrolling for an excerpt from Out of Time, the first book in the Armour Black Mystery series.
Out of Time
By Warren Court
Prologue
1926
Richard Krantz caressed the wooden butt of the Mk VI Webley revolver tucked in his belt. It brought back a terrifying memory of a fire trench dug into a hill in France. The Great War had been over for eight years now and he was back in his home town of Hamilton, Ontario, in one piece, more or less, but the memories of the conflict were strong, relentless. Though he was standing on a sidewalk in Hamilton’s east end at two in the morning in February, he could smell the burned flesh and cordite of war, and he thought he could hear the hiss and the roar of the Flammenwerfer, the terrifying German flamethrowers that had been deployed by the enemy to burn him and his comrades off that hill.
A sharp pain spread through the right side of his head and burrowed into his brain. He gagged and put the back of his hand to his mouth. After the sensation passed, he took a pull of Canadian Club from a flask. The whisky burned the back of his throat and warmed him but it could not erase the horror of what he’d gone through. It just keep it at bay for the time being.
He turned his back to the wind and stamped his feet for warmth. The sidewalk in front of the Passion Club had a thin sheen of black ice covering it and he took care not to slip. A police notice affixed to the chained doors of the defunct club fluttered in the wind. Across the street, behind a stretch of row houses, Merchant Field loomed, hulking and dark.
Krantz took another pull of Canadian Club and tucked the flask back inside his racoon fur coat. He checked his pocket watch. It was now two thirty. He ran his thumb over the inscription on the back. With love from Evelyn. He yanked the twenty-five-dollar Elgin and its gold chain from his pocket and hurled it at the doors of the Passion Club, where it bounced off and landed in a snowbank.
An early model Ford Depot Hack glided by on the snow covered street. Krantz stiffened with anticipation, but the truck kept going until it vanished into the icy mist, its heady exhaust mixing with the smell of burning wood and coal coming from the row houses. He swore, and a puff of vapour vanished into the night air. He had chosen the Passion Club as the location for the meeting to make a point and, hopefully, to gain an edge over his adversary. Now that appointment was two hours late and he felt his edge slipping away.
Krantz spotted a man walking towards him. The man lurched from side to side and several times lost his footing on the ice. He was hunched over, clutching at a threadbare cloth coat not suitable for spring weather, let alone the fury of a Canadian February. His face was hidden by a soiled newsboy cap. To Krantz it looked like the man had just stumbled out of a booze can. This couldn’t possibly be the person he was waiting for, so Krantz ignored him and instead focused on another automobile coming up behind the drunk. It was a Gray-Dort custom sedan, the same kind the man he was meeting drove. As the drunk passed he muttered something, and Krantz caught the odour of cheap corn whisky.
If Krantz had paid attention to the drunk, he would have seen a remarkable thing happen as the wretched soul passed him. He would have seen the man’s steps become surer and his posture more erect. He would have seen the man remove a length of wire with wooden dowels at each end from his pocket.
But Krantz paid him no mind and instead focused on the approaching car. The former drunk turned on his heel and came up behind Krantz, the light snow muffling his footsteps. Krantz’s hands flew up in reflex as the wire was pulled taut across his throat. His feet slipped out from under him on the ice, which helped pull the wire tighter. The Gray-Dort, which had slowed to get the timing right, surged forward and slid to a stop. While Krantz kicked the last moments of his life away, a young man with light blonde hair jumped out of the car. The garrote finally sank into Krantz’s neck and blood splashed over the killer’s hands. Krantz went still and the man from the car gathered his legs and lifted. The killer left the garrote embedded in Krantz’s neck and picked the dead man up by his shoulders. They quickly bundled him into the Gray-Dort and sped away, leaving behind a steaming pool of blood on the black ice.
* * *
“Scotty! Over here.”
Tim waved to his friend and then crouched back down to take another look. Hanging on to some tall grass, he leaned over the edge as far as he dared, his campaign hat in his free hand. It was a three-hundred-foot drop to the rocks below. The two boys were out with their Boy Scout troop. It was a warm spring day and they were hiking on the escarpment, the cliffs that ran around the city of Hamilton, extending to the east and west of it, and afforded wonderful views of Lake Ontario. Wonderful views unless you got too close and the unstable bluffs gave way. Then it was a quick drop to a certain death.
Tim leaned out farther, relishing the thrill of being that high up, when suddenly he spotted something. At first he thought it was a dead pig. “Scotty!” he shouted again.
Scotty came quickly, clomping along in his father’s work boots. The boys were dressed in their standard scout uniforms with shorts, grey tunics, yellow ties, and caps, but Mr. Thompson, their pack leader, had instructed them to wear boots suitable for a muddy hike. The other boys had chided Scotty when he showed up in his father’s work boots, but Tim had stood by him and defended his friend. Scotty’s family didn’t have much. He usually showed up with his uniform unwashed and wrinkled, his socks a little riper than the other boys.’
“What is it?” Scotty said.
“Take a look.” Tim pointed into the brush below.
* * *
Tim and Scotty had been best friends from their first day in the Boy Scouts. The other boys were alright. Some were shy and said very little. Bernard, aka The Big One, was a bully and gave it good to the other boys any time Mr. Thompson was out of sight. Bernard was two years older than the other boys and towered over them. He stank of dirty socks and had oversized front teeth that were the colour of Dijon mustard. He smiled all the time, especially when he was dishing out his favourite form of punishment, repeated punches to the arm muscle. Tim still had bruises on his arm from one of the Big One’s onslaughts.
For this outing, Mr. Thompson had promised the boys that they’d build a fire using a flint he had and some sticks. They’d brought tins of Campbell’s beef barley soup with them and a pot. Each boy carried a canteen and cup and a rudimentary pocket knife that had a flick-out spoon. There was also a bundle of roast beef sandwiches with French’s mustard that they’d picked up at Schwarz’s Delicatessen on James Street. Each boy had chipped in a penny or two and Mr. Thompson had made up the difference.
Tim’s stomach rumbled; it was getting close to lunch. They had marched for an hour in a single line along the network of paths across the escarpment until they emerged onto the Richardson homestead. They had shrugged off their backpacks and put them in an orderly circle, and the boys were tasked with finding the firewood. Mr. Thompson had warned them to stay away from the edge of the escarpment, but Tim had disobeyed and slipped away, and Scotty had followed after him like a cocker spaniel.
The escarpment, a geological formation left over from the last ice age, was akin to a long winding tableau that ringed the northern shore of Lakes Erie and Ontario, extending east to New York State and west to Illinois. But it was at the western end of Lake Ontario that the escarpment became most distinct, rising up to 300 feet above the industrial city of Hamilton. Hamiltonians called i
t the Mountain, and they had built their city in its shadow. Hardly a mountain, but Hamiltonians loved referring to it as such. There were farms and horse corrals on top of the mountain and schemes for developing it, but for now it was mostly bush and vacant fields. There was even a funicular running up the side of the escarpment, which had made for a thrilling start to the scouts’ hike earlier that morning.
Scotty looked around for Mr. Thompson and saw the leader’s hat above the tall grass over near the Richardson house.
“Don’t worry, he’s making a date with the widow,” Tim said.
Both boys laughed. They were only eleven years old but they knew why Mr. Thompson had marched them out here. It was no secret he was making time with the Widow Richardson. If it got them their merit badge, then let the old man get some.
“Come on. Don’t be chicken.” Tim stuck out his hand. Scotty hesitated.
“I’m not going to do anything,” Tim said.
“Promise?” Scott said.
“Promise,” Tim said.
Scotty grabbed his friend’s outstretched hand, trusting that he wouldn’t fool around. He leaned out slowly and looked down. He could see the raw bloody stump where the man’s head had been and then two further down for the missing arms. Large semi-circle black stains on a white U-neck undershirt surrounded each stump. Curly blonde chest hairs flittered in the wind. The lump of meat was perched on a ledge of sand and rock about twenty feet down from the top of the escarpment.
“Pull me back, pull me back!” Scotty screamed.
“You there!” Mr. Thompson’s voice bellowed. Tim pulled his shaken friend back up.
“What are you boys doing?” Mr. Thompson was striding towards them. The other boys had stopped gathering wood and stood watching.
“Sorry, Mr., Thompson,” Tim said.
“I oughta tan your hides.” Mr. Thompson’s face was the colour of cherry licorice. His hat was pulled down low and his icy blue eyes bored into the boys’. His powerful hands were balled into fists and resting on his hips. His buff body was rigid. He grabbed both boys and pulled them violently away from the cliff.
“But Mr. Thompson! You have to see this,” Tim protested.
“What did I tell you? If one of you doesn’t follow the rules, everyone suffers.” Mr. Thompson had served over in France and he doled out a strict brand of military discipline.
The other boys had gathered around now. Tim and Scotty were already on the outside of the social circle of the scout troop; if Mr. Thompson punished everyone because of their disobedience it would make them outcasts.
The Big One stood behind Mr. Thompson, glaring, his yellowed front teeth gleaming in the sun. He was enjoying this. He would go to work on them as soon as he got the chance.
“Mr. Thompson,” Tim yelled, snapping the scout leader out of his tirade. “I know we’re in trouble, sir, but you have to see this.”
“See what?”
“Take a look.” Tim stepped aside and pointed over the escarpment, hoping that what they had found would absolve them of their crime of disobedience.
Mr. Thompson took off his hat and handed it to the nearest scout, who was awestruck with the privilege of holding it. Mr. Thompson leaned over the edge.
“What the hell?” Mr. Thompson stood up straight and wiped his brow. He turned to his troop. “Here, boys: form a chain. Hold onto my hand.”
Just as Tim had helped Scotty, the entire troop lined up and linked arms to anchor Mr. Thompson. The Big One pushed Tim out of the way, took his place at the front of the chain, and grabbed his beloved Mr. Thompson’s meaty hand, allowing the scout master to lean over just far enough to see.
Mr. Thompson looked at the corpse for a while, and then nodded his head and the boys yanked him back up. Mr. Thompson then staggered to the nearest clump of grass and tossed up his breakfast in front of his boys. When there was nothing left to come up he straightened up and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
Thompson’s words were choppy and his face was still pale. “Tim. Go to Mrs. Richardson’s house. She has a telephone. Get her to call the police.”
“What for?” one of the other boys called.
“What is it?” another one whispered.
“Just do it. Tell them to send an ambulance too.”
The boys were excited. Some of them tried to repeat what Tim and Scotty had done but none of them wanted to play the support role: they all wanted to lean out to get a look.
“Tim, go!” Mr. Thompson repeated. “The rest of you boys – get the hell away from the edge.”
“Mr. Thompson, what is it?” Bernard asked.
“It’s dreadful.”
Chapter 1
Armour Black downshifted his Ford coupe for traction when he came to a steep hill and his car slowed to a crawl. The hard-shifting clutch of his ’21 Model T had always provided the thirty-six-year-old Black with a much better workout than dumbbells or the heavy bag. It was mid-August and Armour had the vent windows open for relief from the humidity. The scent of weeping willow filled the car, making his nose twitch. A shiny new Lincoln came barreling up behind him and he waved the fellow on. The Lincoln bathed Armour’s automobile in a wash of dust and gravel as it roared by.
After spending the morning arranging his papers for his appointment with the loan and mortgage officer at his bank he’d gone up to get ready to leave his house when Detective Henderson called. The shrill ringing of the Crosley in the kitchen had given his heart a start; he rarely got phone calls. Sometimes he wondered why he’d bowed to the pressure to put one of those things in his home. Henderson had asked him to come out to the site where the new stadium was being built. It was a short drive from his home and Armour was intrigued, as Henderson was a veteran detective with Hamilton’s homicide squad. And any excuse to get out of another painful financial discussion with Vishnal. The letters from the bank were piling up. He could lose the house. He would lose the house.
Henderson had provided scant details over the phone except to say that it was “right up his alley,” and then had hung up, leaving Armour standing there in his kitchen in just his trousers and lathered up for a shave.
The new stadium was being built on the Hamilton Mountain. Armour’s house was to the east of it at the end of Mountain Brow Road, which skirted the edge of the escarpment. Driving along Mountain Brow now, Armour spied a lake freighter gliding under the lift bridge into the harbour. The steel factories were spewing never-ending plumes of steam and the devil’s tongues of flame from the smelters licked the sky.
He turned north and drove out into the country where the stadium was being put up, and followed signs to the construction site. After twenty minutes of driving he could see steel girders and the tips of cranes peeking above a phalanx of wooden boards surrounding the site. There were a half-dozen cars, decked out in the livery of the Hamilton Police Department, parked on the side of the road. A group of construction workers in hard hats and soiled work shirts stood around with their hands on their hips while one of them argued with the policemen behind a barricade of sawhorses at the entrance to the site. A photographer was capturing the confrontation. Armour parked his automobile and approached the group.
“How long’s this going to take?” the construction worker doing the talking asked.
“Don’t know,” the cop said. “Could be days. Maybe weeks.”
“Look pal, we have a tight schedule. I wish to Christ I’d crushed the damn thing.”
The cop switched his attention to Armour.
“Help you?”
“I’m here to see Detective Henderson. He called for me.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Armour Black.” Armour handed the cop one of his business cards from the Hamilton Historical Society.
“Wait here.” The cop walked off into the site with his card. Another cop took his place at the sawhorses.
“You’re going to get those fancy shoes all muddy,” the construction worked jibed, and his buddies laughed. Armour looked
down at his spectator wingtips. The man was right, but Armour would risk muddy shoes to find out what Henderson wanted with him.
The cop returned and Armour followed him into the quagmire. There were Bucyrus cranes and mechanical shovels standing idle. Pilings were partially hammered into the ground; a silent Vulcan Works pile driver stood next to them.
They were building a stadium capable of seating 35,000 people. It was to be the new home of the Hamilton Tigers. Merchant Field, the Tigers’ home for the past century, was to be torn down. He found it hard to imagine thousands of loyal football fans trekking all the way out here to watch a game, but what did he know?
Armour was led to a group of four men in suits standing around a hole in the ground that was marked off with yellow tape. He stood back and waited. Detective Bain Henderson was in the middle of the throng. He was the oldest of the group and the other men were listening to him. The wind caught his suit jacket and Armour caught a glimpse of Henderson’s snub-nosed .38. Henderson’s girth dwarfed the holstered weapon. It must look like a toy when he held it in his hands, Armour thought. His enormous round belly required both a belt and suspenders. A 32-year veteran of the force, it had been ages since Henderson had donned a uniform or walked a beat and it showed in his physique. Henderson noticed Armour standing there and waved him over.
“Black, thanks for coming. Need your help with something.” His enormous hand enclosed Armour’s, squeezing hard. It was only nine in the morning but Armour caught a whiff of booze coming off the detective. Maybe it was from the night before?
“This is the guy I was telling you about,” Henderson said to the other men. A couple of them nodded at Armour, about as cordial as detectives could be to a civilian interloper.
The detectives made way and Henderson led Armour to the hole, which was about the size of an automobile. There were two other people already there, dressed in thin white outfits. They were photographing the bottom of the hole. They stopped and moved aside when Henderson approached. Armour gasped a little. At the bottom of the hole was a partially exposed human skull. The jaw was separated from the upper palate, giving the skull a wild, screaming look.
