The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  Kit looked down at the woman in his arms and smiled.

  ‘What are you grinning at, boy?’ said Agatha, looking back up at her nephew. ‘You have a lifetime ahead of you of dancing with that young lady. A few minutes with me won’t kill you.’

  Kit laughed and replied, ‘I haven’t said anything, and I certainly wasn’t thinking anything so foul. You jump to conclusions too quickly to be a good detective.’

  Agatha harrumphed, ‘I was in the detection business while you were being toilet-trained.’

  Kit looked at his aunt in surprise. A story for another time, perhaps. He smiled and wondered how well he really knew the lady he had known all his life.

  ‘I’m delighted you’re dancing, Aunt Agatha. It’s my pleasure.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. I’ve always loved dancing. But you’re too good to be true, sometimes, and I’m not referring to your dancing either,’ said Agatha but not harshly. There was a hint of wistfulness. She continued, ‘If I were engaged to that young lady, I’d regret every minute spent away from her.’

  Kit looked at his aunt affectionately, ‘As you say, I have a whole life ahead with her. They both looked over at Mary. She was wearing a pastel-coloured Grecian-style dress by Madeline Vionnet. She was, to Kit’s wholly unbiased view, the most beautiful woman in the room. It was clear he was not alone in this opinion.

  A few men, whom they’d met on the voyage, were attempting to play court to her. She smiled serenely but kept her eyes on Kit. One particular Frenchman had inveigled his way into their company on the pretext of having once met Kit during the War. Comte Jean-Valois du Bourbon claimed a distant connection with the Bourbon family. Kit doubted the veracity of this but there was no question he was a glamorous figure in the manner of a knight-errant. He was tall, dark-haired, with a pencil-thin moustache and dark eyes that Mary claimed genuinely flashed.

  ‘That Frenchman has returned, I see,’ noted Agatha, who was proving a surprisingly light-footed waltz partner.

  ‘Shall I name you as my second?’ suggested Kit.

  ‘By all means,’ replied Agatha sardonically, ‘Just don’t choose swords.’ This made Kit laugh, his humiliation at the hands of Mary, all too fresh. It was not a particularly sore point. The waltz finished, and Agatha and Kit returned to their table.

  Bourbon clapped enthusiastically and rose from his seat. He bowed to Agatha and took her hand, kissed it and followed it up with more compliments than Agatha had received in over forty years of marriage to Eustace ‘Useless’ Frost. Agatha was too long in the game to be affected by such inconsequential flattery and too much a woman not to appreciate the effort by the Frenchman.

  ‘My boy, if I were fifty years younger you wouldn’t be looking anywhere else,’ said Agatha, pointedly.

  ‘But madame, I am not,’ pointed out Bourbon chivalrously, ‘I have only eyes for you.’

  ‘Humbug,’ replied Agatha, ‘However, you may ask me to dance if you wish.’

  Bourbon rose immediately, bowed flamboyantly and asked humbly for the next dance with Agatha. She accepted gracefully and accompanied Bourbon onto the dance floor, turning around long enough to give Kit and Mary a wink.

  ‘Shall we, my love?’ replied Kit. ‘I must remind you, though...’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  Mary looked at Kit, her eyes glistened with tears. Nothing needed to be said. She rose from her seat and took Kit’s hand and led him to the floor. The music played a slow waltz. Dancing with Mary, it seemed to Kit, transported him above the waves and into the air. He was no longer a soldier with a stump, but a bird darting and diving and gliding above the earth. Her eyes never left his. The music seemed to melt into them, both its sadness and its beauty as well as its joy.

  They returned to their seats. Bourbon was with Agatha but glanced down at Kit limping, He looked up and caught Kit’s eye. They nodded to one another. The War. Kit wondered how it had affected Bourbon. No one emerged from the conflict unscathed. Bodies and minds would bear testimony to the horror of what Europe had undergone.

  The dance floor cleared for the moment as the orchestra took a short break.

  ‘Well, we arrive in New York tomorrow,’ said Kit as he and Mary sat down. ‘Excited?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mary, sitting down between Agatha and Bourbon, ‘But a little disappointed we haven’t had a murder to solve.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Agatha.

  Bourbon looked up at Kit with alarm. Kit shook his head and put his palms in the air in the manner of a chap who will not take responsibility for the foolishness of his companions.

  ‘Your aunt and fiancée never stop delighting, Lord Aston,’ said Bourbon laughing.

  ‘I assure you they are entirely serious. Too much time reading the very worst literature,’ said Kit with a smile.

  ‘I must disagree, I think the ladies have excellent taste,’ said Bourbon, gallantly. ‘The ingenuity of these writers never fails to entertain me. Crime is the very highest peak of the pyramid in literature.’

  He finished this speech with a toast to detective fiction. The others joined in good-humouredly albeit with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

  -

  Kit bade goodnight to the ladies outside the cabin door. Once inside he collapsed on the bed. His leg hurt damnably. As much as he wanted to dance with Mary, there was a price to pay. He was happy to pay it, however. Aunt Agatha was right; he begrudged every minute spent away from Mary.

  There was an urgent knock at the door. Kit looked up. The knocking did not stop. He rose slowly and opened the door. Mary was standing in the corridor. Kit’s hopes rose immediately. They went crashing to the floor immediately when he saw her face.

  ‘Come quickly,’ she ordered.

  Kit followed Mary into the cabin. He could see Agatha in the other room, sitting on her bed. But then his eyes were drawn to the trunk. Its contents had been emptied onto the floor.

  ‘Someone’s been through it. I can’t believe it was Natalie,’ said Mary.

  ‘I agree. I’ll go and fetch her. In the meantime, do not open the door to anyone but me,’ said Kit having a quick look around the room and then the bathroom. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  True to his word, there was a knock at the door five minutes later.

  ‘Kit?’ asked Mary from inside.

  ‘Yes, I have Natalie with me.’

  Mary opened the door to allow them inside. Natalie gasped when she saw the room. She looked at Mary and then Kit. She was obviously upset. In a frightened voice she said, ‘I did not do this, mademoiselle.’

  ‘We know,’ reassured Mary, ‘Please sit down. Can you tell us everything you did tonight?’

  Natalie sat on the chair and drank a little brandy handed to her by Kit. She began to explain, ‘I stayed here, after you and madam left. I tidied up for a while. Everything was folded and returned to the trunk. When I had finished, I left the room. I checked to make sure the door was locked. I always do this.’

  ‘What did you do then, Natalie?’ asked Kit.

  ‘I went back to my cabin downstairs,’ replied Natalie.

  ‘You didn’t stop anywhere?’

  ‘No, Lord Aston, I went straight to the cabin.’

  ‘Did you see anyone on your way back near the cabin, or, in fact, can you describe anyone you can remember seeing?’

  Natalie took a sip of the brandy as she tried to recall the faces of the other passengers.

  ‘There were a number of people I saw on this level. An older man, his wife. He doffed his hat to me. Another man, definitely a foreign gentleman, also passed me. He looked at me in a way I did not like but you know men.’

  Mary glanced archly at Kit. ‘Can you describe him, Natalie?’ asked Mary.

  Natalie described the man: short, well-dressed, definitely not English. Mary looked at Kit when Natalie had finished. Kit nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes, it sounds like the same man.’

  10

  ‘’Lo, Dan.’

  ‘’Lo, Dash.’


  Cowan was stood by his automobile outside the apartment. There was no sign of the kid, nor had there been for over a day and a half. The girl had not left the apartment the previous evening nor, apparently, received any visitors.

  ‘Dan, would you mind staying an hour longer? I want to follow up on something.’

  The big Pinkerton man grinned malevolently, ‘Sure. Hey, I’ll stay all day if you want. Who needs sleep?’

  Hammett attempted a smile. He wasn’t sure how the smile looked; but it sure hadn’t felt very pretty to him.

  ‘I need the file,’ said Hammett and he reached inside and lifted it from the passenger seat of Cowan’s car. ‘I won’t be long.’

  A quick nod and he returned to his automobile and headed to the east of the city to a gym where he knew some people who knew things. It was another hot day. By the time he reached the gym, he was probably sweating more than the boxers inside. He parked across the street and dodged a few cars as he jogged across the road to get out of the heat.

  It was an unnecessary effort. The gym was also at cauldron levels. He walked inside and scanned the interior. In the middle of the room was a boxing ring. A bell sounded and a youth in his teens and an older boy, who looked Italian, advanced to the centre of the ring.

  ‘Dash,’ shouted a middle-aged man from the other side of the gym.

  Hammett made his way over to the far side, his eyes now glued to what was happening in the ring. Whoever described pugilism as the noble art had clearly not had an opportunity to watch these two kids, thought Hammett. They were tearing strips off one another. Defence was based around the simple principle of trying to kill the other person first.

  Hammett reached his friend, ‘Hey, Joe.’

  ‘Dash, what brings you here?’ said Joe shaking Hammett’s hand.

  ‘Work.’

  Joe rolled his eyes and then, indicating the two kids in the ring, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Not much science.’

  Joe laughed, ‘I know. If either ever learn to defend themselves, they could go far. They’re aggressive as hell.’ Joe wasn’t lying.

  Hammett glanced back to the ring. The white kid made a swing at the other with a punch that started somewhere in the mid-Pacific. It missed, leaving him open to a wild swing coming from the other direction.

  ‘He’s Irish,’ said Joe, by way of explanation.

  ‘You Micks,’ said Hammett with a grin. The round ended with the bell. Joe called into the ring, ‘Hey, Huston, Pelosi, that’ll do. Get on the heavy bag for ten minutes.’ Joe watched them climb out of the ring, both laughing. ‘I don’t get that kid Huston. He has talent, brains but as soon as the bell goes, it becomes a tear up.’

  ‘Huston? I’ll keep an eye on how he goes.’

  ‘Yeah, John Huston. Listen out for him. Anyone with that much aggression could go places. Anyway, what can I do for you?’

  Hammett showed him a photostat of Dain Collins. Joe whistled his appreciation.

  ‘A looker.’

  ‘She is,’ agreed Hammett. ‘Can you find out anything about her? She’s come from nowhere. People are interested.’

  Joe took the picture and said he would and added Hammett owed him another beer. Hammett laughed and said, ‘You drink too much as it is.’

  ‘You too, Dash. Be careful eh? I mean it, don’t be a sap’

  Hammett said he would which his friend took to mean he would not stop drinking. Giving a casual salute to his friend, he turned and walked towards the exit. He glanced back at the kid again. The heavy bag was having the hell beaten out of it. Probably deserved it.

  The next stop was the Hall on Dr Carlton B Goodlett Place. A sergeant passing Hammett as he walked through the double doors of the detective bureau nodded to him.

  ‘Cells are that way, Hammett, make yourself at home,’ cackled the policeman.

  ‘You kill me,’ replied Hammett. He walked through to the offices behind and up the stairs. Paint was peeling off the walls in the old building. Hammett ran his finger along the wall. Arriving at the first floor he hurried down the corridor and went into an office without knocking.

  Lieutenant Sean Mulroney looked up at him and said sardonically, ‘Come in.’ They shook hands. Hammett sat down and faced the policeman. He was in forties, lean-faced, hard blue eyes. A man that could easily have been on the other side of the law. Probably was once, thought Hammett. He knew Mulroney well enough now to bet there was no man less likely to be on the take than the Irishman.

  ‘Anything?’ Hammett got straight to the point.

  ‘Nothing. It’s like she never existed and then she did.’

  Hammett shook his head and thought for a moment. He stubbed out a Fatima in the policeman’s ash tray and asked, ’What do you make of it?’

  ‘She’s changed her name. Not against the law. It’ll take more than what you’ve given me to dig more, Dash. I can’t just start asking for this stuff without a reason. Have you a photograph of her?’

  Hammett nodded and let out a sigh, ‘I’ll get you a photostat of her face.’ He rose from the seat and saluted the policeman. He was outside the door moments later. There was no farewell from either man.

  -

  Dan Cowan looked at his watch. He said mirthlessly, ‘Fifty-seven minutes.’

  Hammett shrugged. ‘Told you I’d be back in an hour,’ he said before glancing over at the apartment. ‘Anything?’

  Cowan shook his head. No visitors either apparently. ‘Later,’ said Cowan. He walked off without looking back. Hammett didn’t bother looking at him. Instead he scanned around the area. He assumed the kid was somewhere nearby looking at them. It was strange, perhaps even concerning, he wasn’t showing himself. It confirmed he was taking orders from a more nuanced mind.

  An automobile tooted him on the way past. Cowan. He heard a cackle and then both it and the driver were receding into the distance like a bad memory. Hammett lit up a Fatima. A drink would have suited him now. Not water either. A little after twelve, Dain Collins made an appearance. She seemed cool as an ice cream.

  She was dressed in a grey sleeveless, cotton dress. It hung nicely in all the places it was meant to hang nicely. Hammett stayed in the car and waited to see what she would do. Cab or foot? Foot, it seemed. Her curly brown hair bobbed daintily as she glided along the sidewalk.

  Maybe he needed a walk. He needed it like a punch in the gut. It was too hot for anything except sipping a cold beer. Hammett reluctantly climbed out of the car and followed her down the street. The reaction of men as she passed was by turns amusing and shaming. It made him wonder if he ever did what they did. Not the wolf whistles, certainly, but the undisguised staring, or even the disguised staring.

  She stopped at one point to look in a shop window. Hammett stopped also. He felt a slight prickle in his skin that was not related to the heat. Just for a second, only a second, he wondered if he’d been made by her. Was there just a second’s glance using the reflection?

  She moved on after a few moments. A tram came to a halt nearby. She boarded the tram. Hammett followed her on. He guessed she was going to Van Ness. This would probably mean she was meeting her fiancé, Aston.

  Hammett’s hunch proved accurate. The tram came to a halt near Van Ness and she exited along with Hammett. He followed at a distance. Up ahead he saw her boyfriend. They embraced and then he took her hand and led her towards a nearby restaurant. They went in but Hammett stayed outside. There was nothing in there for him. He had at least an hour to kill.

  A cab stopped nearby to let out an elderly woman. Hammett climbed in. It pulled up outside the James Flood building on Market Street, where Hammett hopped out. His lungs felt tight as he entered the building and he had to stop as another coughing fit overcame him. People walked past shaking their heads. He was holding a cigarette.

  Hammett took the elevator and made his way to the Pinkerton office. Geauque saw him first. He looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Should you be here?’

  ‘She’s having lun
ch with Aston.,’ explained Hammett.

  Geauque motioned for him to follow. They walked into Geauque’s office. It was small and files sat on every piece of free real estate. How the boss ever found anything in this office escaped Hammett.

  ‘Looks tidier,’ commented Hammett sourly.

  ‘Yeah, I like to be organised. So, what’s new?’

  ‘Nothing. I asked Mulroney. He says she didn’t exist four months ago.’

  Geauque nodded. Dain Collins was a mystery, not just a new name. ‘What else are you doing?’

  ‘I need a photostat for Mulroney, I gave the one from the file to a contact. We’ll show her face around, but it won’t be much use if she’s from out of town. There’s been nothing from the other offices?’

  ‘No,’ replied Geauque. ‘Quite a mystery this lady.’

  Hammett rose from his seat as Geauque looked for another image of the girl. It took a few minutes of hunting among the files before he was able to fish out a picture.

  ‘Great system,’ said Hammett escaping the office before Geauque could make a suitably off-colour reply.

  On his return journey, he stopped by the Hall and left the photostat for Mulroney. He was back at the restaurant in time for dessert. It looked like cheesecake. He hadn’t eaten all morning, but the sight of the cheesecake made him feel a bit nauseous. Or maybe it was the TB. To stave off the hunger and the nausea he lit up a cigarette and waited. The sun overhead caused sweat to drip down and sting his eyes. He felt uncomfortable. He felt ill. He felt he wanted to do something else with his life than this.

  11

  The deck thronged with people eager to get a view of New York and the Statue of Liberty. It was early morning, but this had not stopped every available place on each deck being full. Even Aunt Agatha seemed carried away by the excitement of arriving in the New World. Of course, she referred to the United States as one of the colonies and even made a particular point of this when near anyone who might conceivably hail from the land.