by Jack Murray
Within a few minutes both the young man and the young woman emerged from the building entrance, holding hands. They headed for the young man’s automobile and soon sped off.
Hammett followed them. It looked like they were driving downtown, probably for dinner. It was after seven now and Hammett also felt hungry. Or was it something else? He needed a drink more than anything. As soon as he thought of alcohol he began to cough. He spluttered all the way through the centre of San Francisco.
The couple seemed to be heading towards Fisherman’s Wharf. Their automobile pulled up to a large fish restaurant near the boats. They went inside, greeted by a maître d’ who obviously knew them or, more likely, had received big tips. The kid was not short, judging by the car, his manner and his girl.
Hammett extracted the photograph of the young man from the file. Attached to it was a sheet containing a biography. He began to read:
Algernon Aston (1892 - )
Born San Francisco. Father: Alastair Aston (1860 -), Mother: Christina Aston, nee Alvarez (1870 – 1917). Engaged to Dain Collins (1900? -). See separate sheet.
Algernon Aston, also known as ‘Algy’, is Vice President of Aston Associates, the large advertising firm on Van Ness. The firm is owned by Aston’s father (see above) who is semi-retired but still works occasionally.
Aston is around six feet tall and around one hundred seventy-five pounds. His hair is a sandy brown. He has no beard or distinguishing marks.
Aston majored in law at UCLA leaving in 1913. He joined Daniels & Bloom, a law firm in San Francisco, until he resigned in 1917 to join the US Army. He fought in the war, returning in early 1919. Rather than go back to law, he chose to enter his father’s advertising firm where he has remained ever since, taking over from his father at the beginning of the year.
Aston Associates is one of the largest advertising firms in San Francisco. Founded in 1897 as Aston & Gutman, the original co-owner Sidney Gutman was jailed for embezzlement in 1906. He was released in 1910. Gutman’s present location is unknown.
Hammett stopped reading at this point. The file on Dain Collins had much less detail. He sat outside the restaurant, drowning in the smell of fish. He wasn’t sure if he was hungry or feeling ill. Or both. Couples streamed into the restaurant. It was obviously a popular hangout. He began to cough again. It lasted for a minute and then subsided. He really needed a drink now. He took out a cigarette instead.
Across the car park, a cab drew up. Out stepped the man he’d seen earlier near the apartment. His suit really was ill-fitting. Someone should tell him. Or perhaps he was attempting to hide the tools of his trade. There was a tell-tale bulge in the coat pocket Hammett noted. Hammett walked over to a wall in a heavily shaded area and sat down. He wasn’t sure if the kid had made him, but he would soon enough. Hammett certainly wasn’t attempting to hide his presence.
It was dark now, but the night air was still warm. Hammett felt like his body was beginning to corrode. Even more than a whisky, he was desperate for food, a shower and sleep. Across the car park, the kid was smoking a cigarette, looking straight at him. Hammett wondered who had sent him. Geauque had said nothing to him about back up, so it was likely to be someone also interested in the girl. But who? A jilted boyfriend? A parent? It was tempting to stroll over and find out. There were ways. Then he remembered the gun. Perhaps not.
Another thought struck Hammett, as he sat in the car. How did the kid know to come here?
Two hours later the couple emerged from the restaurant, much to Hammett’s relief. He saw the kid hail a cab. The convoy would start soon. Hammett’s intention was to follow them wherever they went but he would not stay. There were only two possibilities at this point: the guy would stay, or he would drop her off.
A third possibility existed, as he was soon to discover.
-
Algy Aston watched his fiancée step up into her apartment block. She turned around and gave him a light wave. She even smiled. Then she was inside, a silhouette now in the dim light of the lobby. Once she was in the elevator, Algy drove off.
He felt as happy and as troubled as any soon to-be-married man would feel, happy to be marrying Dain Collins, the most beautiful girl he’d ever met. Also troubled by the prospect of marrying her. Someone he realised with each passing day; he barely knew. What else did he need to know? He loved her. She loved him. At least, he was sure she loved him. Sometimes there was a distance in her that was unbridgeable. Most of the time, though, she was smart, sweet and fun. If she didn’t want to talk about her past, then fine. If she didn’t want to invite family to the wedding, then it made him love her more. It made him want to take care of her. Protect her.
He was back at the house fifteen minutes later. His father was up, as usual, reading in bed. Their housekeeper had long since gone to bed. He looked in through the door on his father.
‘Hey, pops,’ he said with a grin. His father looked up at him with exasperation. ‘Solved the case?’ continued Algy nodding towards the book in his father’s hand. It was called ‘A Murderer Lurks’. The cover showed a young woman being tracked by a giant shadow.
Alastair glanced down at the book in his hand and said, ‘A mere trifle for a mind such as mine. I shall be reading Wittgenstein in the original tomorrow.’
‘Sure you will, pops,’ laughed Algy leaving him to his sleuthing.
Alastair watched his son leave the room. He went back to the book but found he could no longer read. Closing the book, he leaned over towards his bedside lamp and switched it off. He lay in bed for a few minutes but felt distinctly restless. The light went on again. He threw the bedclothes off and got out of bed. He was wearing a nightshirt that went to his feet, which were clad in warm socks.
The corridor was dark as he padded down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs he made for the kitchen. It was dark and he took a moment to adjust his sight. He went to the cupboard and took out a cup. As he turned around and he found himself face to face with Ella-Mae
‘Good Lord, woman,’ he exclaimed, ‘Why do you keep doing that?’
Ella-Mae looked at the cup and then back to the master of the house.
‘I can’t sleep. I want some warm milk,’ explained Alastair. Ella-Mae rolled her eyes. She took the cup from him. Five minutes later Alastair returned to his bedroom carrying the warm milk she had made him. He set it down on his bedside table and got into bed. He picked up the cup of warm milk, which had been supplemented by a dash of brandy and put it to his mouth. The liquid raced down his throat, warming his heart, his stomach and his mood. He was asleep within seconds of putting the empty cup back onto the bedside table.
-
Around eleven, after Hammett had watched Algy Aston leave the apartment building, the gunsel arrived again. He climbed out of a cab smoking a cigarette, pretending not to look in Hammett’s direction. So, they both stayed at different points outside the apartment block ignoring one another out of the corner of their eyes.
At eleven thirty, there was a wrap on the window of Hammett’s car. Hammett glanced up.
‘’Lo, Dan,’ said Hammett. His heart sank. He looked at the big former-detective but could not muster any desire to be friendly. The feeling was unquestionably mutual. He and Dan Cowan, as far as Hammett was concerned, occupied different ends of the moral spectrum.
‘’Lo, Dash,’ said Cowan.
‘Your turn now?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Read the file?’ asked Hammett.
‘No, do you have it?’ Hammett handed him the file. ‘Anything I should know?’ asked Cowan. Hammett told him about the kid and their convoy down to Fisherman’s Wharf. Cowan’s eyes scanned the place where Hammett had said the kid was standing. He nodded to Hammett and said, ‘Got him.’ There was little else to report from Hammett. He watched as Cowan’s eyes stared at the file.
‘Seen something?’ asked Hammett.
Cowan shook his head. He put a paw up to his mouth and picked at one of his teeth. He did this as much
to irritate Hammett as to stop being irritated by the piece of chicken stuck between his molars. When he had finally extracted the offending piece of food, he flicked it into the road. Had he belched Hammett would not have been in the least bit surprised. Thankfully he was spared any further dental self-surgery. Cowan looked at Hammett. ‘Want me to do anything about the kid?’
‘No, let it ride a bit longer,’ replied Hammett. ‘I’m curious to see what he does.’ They both looked at the kid. He had his arm raised. A cab stopped in front of him and he jumped in. The cab stayed where it was, however. Waiting.
‘Well, I guess we know now,’ said Cowan.
-
Hammett returned to his apartment just after midnight. He’d hoped to return earlier but as expected, he’d been followed by the cab containing the kid. After taking a detour downtown, then through Chinatown, he’d finally been able to shake him.
Inside the apartment, he went straight to the kitchen and grabbed a small glass from the sideboard. Beside it was a bottle of bourbon, half-finished. He’d bought it yesterday. He took both into his living room and sat down. It was a small room but nicely furnished. A vase with flowers in the window. Beside it a photograph of a couple: a wedding photograph. They looked happy. Not so long ago either. Hammett gazed at it for a moment. Then turned back to the bottle in his hand. He felt a cough rise from somewhere round his feet. It lasted for a minute then the wave abated.
The apartment was small. A living room with a sofa led through to a small kitchen. To one side was a door. The bedroom. Hammett looked around. He could do better than this, he was certain. For now, though, he was a detective. Or, more precisely, a private detective. One of Pinkerton’s best.
He put his feet up on the table and thought about the current case. What seemed a straightforward case was now more complicated than he’d bargained for. He’d phone Geauque in the morning after speaking to Cowan. Maybe he’d have some thoughts on how to proceed. Better still, perhaps the drink would help. The first shot of bourbon provided no answers nor did the second. By the third he’d stopped caring. He looked at the bottle and debated whether to finish it or not. It was an easy decision. He fell asleep, fully clothed, on his armchair. A moment later, the glass fell to the carpet. It didn’t break but the noise woke him.
Bending down he picked up the glass and brought it back into the kitchen. He put the empty bourbon bottle into the trash can like she had told him. He walked unsteadily towards the bedroom then crept inside. In the double bed lay his wife, Josephine, snoring quietly. She woke as he tried to undress.
‘You’re back,’ she said. Her eyes tried to adjust in the darkness.
‘Go back to sleep, darling,’ he said gently.
Josephine put her head back on the pillow. Hammett joined her a few moments later. She was already sleeping. He thought about stroking her hair for a moment, then he started coughing again. He rushed out of the room for fear of waking her up.
Why had he signed up for someone else’s war, he thought as his body jerked with every wracking convulsion.
9
Mary looked at Agatha who was having a post lunch nap in the cabin they shared. “Cabin” somewhat understated the size and the relative opulence of the accommodation. Their rooms were very large and, for most, utterly unaffordable. One large twin-bedded room adjoined a generous living area. Mary walked into this room where Natalie was rummaging through a large trunk.
Natalie lifted out a dark skirt and looked at Mary who nodded. She set the skirt to one side and then bent over the trunk again. Mary peeked over.
‘There it is, the white one,’ whispered Mary.
Natalie lifted a white blouse out of the trunk. As she did so, Mary noticed an object in the trunk. She lifted out a small, rectangular box wrapped in bright blue paper. Rather luridly coloured, thought Mary and she gently shook it. There was clearly an object inside, not very heavy. The package was barely a foot high and not very wide. She looked at Natalie who shrugged Gallic-style. Mary, for wont of any response, shrugged also and replaced the object.
‘Must be a last-minute wedding present,’ said Mary.
‘Shall I put it with the others, Lady Mary?’ asked Natalie.
‘Yes, perhaps you should,’ agreed Mary with a smile.
Mary took the clothes into the bedroom to change. A minute or two later, she emerged wearing the new outfit. The skirt was long and roomy, the white blouse fitted and emphasised her slender build.
‘Beautiful, mademoiselle,’ said Natalie and she meant it. Lord Aston is a very lucky man, she thought. For a moment Natalie thought about the conversation she’d had with Agatha earlier. She smiled at Mary and said, ‘Bon chance,’ as Mary headed out of the room.
‘Merci,’ replied Mary with a smile.
Out in the corridor, she met Kit, clad in a light fitting shirt and white cotton trousers.
‘Aunt Agatha?’ said Kit, making no attempt to disguise his happy assessment of Mary’s apparel.
‘Sleeping,’ replied Mary grinning.
Kit took Mary’s hand and they headed into his cabin. A few minutes later they emerged, hair and clothing slightly less pristine-looking. They ran into Natalie who had, herself, just emerged from Mary and Agatha’s cabin.
‘Natalie,’ exclaimed Kit and Mary in unison.
Mary said, ‘Lord Aston forgot his epee.’
Natalie glanced down at Kit’s hand which was, by anyone’s assessment, empty of any kind of cutlass. She looked back up at Mary, with a half-smile and said, ‘I won’t tell, but be more careful.’
She curtsied and in a moment was on her way. Mary looked ruefully up at Kit and said, ‘Sorry, best I could think of. I should really have checked what was in your hand.’ At that moment, one of Kit’s hands was resting companionably on his fiancée’s seat.
Kit laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry, she’s French. They understand these things. Still good to know she’s on our team.’
Mary looked up at her fiancé and said, ‘Indeed. Now, let’s go to the fencing room. You can show me the ropes, so to speak.’
Moments later Aunt Agatha appeared in the hallway outside the cabin, ‘Ahh, glad I caught you,’ she said, plainly oblivious to the fact that she hadn’t. Mary glanced at Kit; eyebrows raised.
‘I wanted to come along and watch. I haven’t fenced in, my word, fifty years probably. I was the fencing champion at St Crispin’s three years running. It would have been four but for some foul play from the villainous Joyce Holman.’
‘It’s good that you’ve forgiven her,’ said Kit.
‘Don’t be silly, Christopher, I never forgive,’ said Agatha marching forward, eyes straight ahead. Then she stopped, spun around and acknowledged, ‘Now, I don’t know where I’m going, lead on.’
Kit walked ahead, with Mary and Agatha following.
‘How long have you fenced?’ asked Mary by way of conversation.
‘Since I was a boy. Mind you, as I mentioned, I’m a bit rusty. Apart from an incident in Moscow, I haven’t fenced since, well, I can’t remember. Maybe a bit at Cambridge.’
‘I can’t wait to learn, it sounds frightfully D’Artagnan-like. Any fencing tips for me Aunt Agatha?’ asked Mary sweetly.
Agatha looked at Mary archly and replied, ‘I doubt I can teach you much, young lady.’
The gymnasium was located at the opposite end of the liner. It wasn’t a short walk through the crowded deck, but the sun was shining brightly, and the ultramarine calm of the sea made their circuit of the boat quite pleasant.
They reached the gymnasium ten minutes after setting off from the cabin. It was the size of a generously proportioned tennis court. The beautiful day outside meant it was relatively empty. Kit went over to the gym attendant and requested two foils and masks.
While the attendant went to retrieve these, Kit turned to Mary and began to explain the rules, the etiquette and the technique of fencing. Every so often he would dance forward and backward to demonstrate the correct movement. Agatha occasio
nally chipped in also, invariably to disagree with her nephew. Mary’s smile grew wider and wider.
-
‘Well, I hope you learned your lesson,’ said Kit, twenty minutes later. His face was flushed, bathed in perspiration.
‘I certainly did, Lord Aston,’ nodded Mary. There was only the merest hint of a glow on her face. One might have concluded she’d had to work much less.
‘Good,’ replied Kit, ‘because you definitely have a lot of promise. If you can get more practice in, you have the makings of a pretty decent fencer.’
‘Bit off more than you could chew, Christopher?’ suggested Agatha, who was sitting very contentedly by the wall. She had a glass of gin in her hand, which may have contributed to her general mood of good fellowship.
‘Well, I felt a bit rusty out there. A bit slow at times, the old leg and what not,’ suggested Kit.
Agatha made a sound that was as close to a harrumph as one was likely to hear. ‘A bit slow? I’ve seen calendars move more quickly.’
‘Tad harsh,’ said Kit sorrowfully.
‘You lost eight on the trot,’ pointed out Agatha.
‘I stopped counting after the fifth. Was it really that many?’
Mary shrugged and put a hand on his shoulder, kissing him gently albeit briefly on the lips. ‘I wasn’t counting either.’
This cheered Kit up. A thought occurred to him and he said with a grin, ‘What if I’d won?’
‘Christopher,’ scolded Agatha, stopping just short of wagging her finger but thereby ending this avenue of inquiry. The look on Mary’s face suggested a follow up on the subject would be of mutual interest to both parties. She might even let him win.
-
A few hours later, a slow waltz caressed the ears, the bodies and the senses of the passengers in the Aquitania ballroom. The orchestra was small in number, but each note filled every corner of the room. The floor was brimming with couples, exquisitely dressed floating like they were on water, which, of course, they were. Men wore white tie and tails, the ladies were clad in beautiful dresses of all colours, except yellow, which appeared to be out of fashion this season.
