The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Since?’

  ‘Before eleven, sir.’

  ‘Ahh young love’ said Alastair with a wide smile which turned to a grimace the moment he went into his old office, now occupied by his son. ‘Young love,’ he repeated more bitterly. The phone rang. He picked it up.

  ‘Put him through, Margaret. Hello James, how are you?’ Gone was the not-so-kindly old uncle. In his place was a man who had built up one of the most successful advertising agencies in the city.

  For the next ten minutes, Alastair dealt with a client who, if not quite annoyed, was far from ‘noyed either. At the conclusion of the call, Alastair replaced the phone wearily. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. At that moment Algy arrived.

  ‘Hey, pops,’ said Algy. It was an Algy-thing to say but the usual brio was missing. Alastair at once sensed something was awry. But he’d been out for nearly two hours.

  ‘You’re back, I see,’ said Alastair with undisguised irritation. ‘I’ve been dealing with a rather unhappy client while you’ve been out romancing the mysterious Miss Collins.’

  ‘Don’t say that, pops.’ For once Algy was quite serious and he was clearly unhappy for reasons that had little to do with his father.

  Alastair immediately felt contrite. ‘Is something wrong, my boy?’

  ‘Nothing, pops. Who were you speaking to? James Bosworth?’

  ‘Yes Bosworth. He’s refusing to pay us for the work we did.’ Alastair looked at his son but Algy did not return his gaze. The only sound in the room was the clock on the wall.

  ‘Where are Jefferson and McKay? The only person I could see in the office was Margaret.’

  Finally, Algy looked up at his father. There was sadness in his face. A deep sadness. Alastair looked with concern at his son, ‘Son, what’s wrong? Tell me.’

  ‘I had to lay them off, pops. We’ve had a run of bad luck.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Algy collapsed in a chair and put his head in his hands. His father rose from his seat immediately and went to comfort him. Finally, when Algy had regained control, he began to explain.

  ‘We lost a couple of clients, new ones I had brought in last year. They wanted a New York agency to handle the national account. They liked us but they were given no choice. Then Laidlaw’s said they wanted to end our contract.’

  ‘Laidlaw’s,’ exclaimed Alastair, ‘But Fraser Laidlaw has been a client of ours for twenty years. Why would he leave?’

  Algy sighed.

  ‘He wasn’t a client of ours, pops; he was a client of yours. When you retired, I think he felt it was an opportunity to leave. Same with Nathaniel & Webster. Same with Fred Johnson. We lost ’em all.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something, Algernon? I could have done something about it.’

  ‘No, pops. They were obviously apologetic. They said our work was still good, but they felt it was time to have fresh thinking. I didn’t say anything because we won the Bosworth contract and a few others. But it looks like they’re all going. I had to let go Cy Jefferson last month, so I’ve been writing all the copy.’

  ‘Who’s doing the accounts, if not McKay?’

  ‘Well that was not much of a loss, pops, as you well know. The man was incompetent.’

  Alastair nodded dolefully, ‘Yes, that was a bit of a hospital pass, wasn’t it? I’m sorry son.’ He patted Algy on his back.

  ‘It’s been going wrong for a while now, pops. The only good thing in the last few months was meeting Dain.’

  ‘Ahh yes, the enigmatic Miss Collins,’ said Alastair rising from the side of Algy’s seat.

  ‘You should give her more of a chance.

  ‘I would love to, son. But I wish she was more forthcoming about her life. Her family.’

  ‘We’re not in England now. Family isn’t as important here.’

  Alastair eyes widened in anger, ‘Don’t say that. Family is important.’

  Algy now returned his father’s glare. He said, ‘Then why don’t you talk to your brother? Why haven’t you spoken with him in thirty years? Why have I never met him? Why isn’t he coming to this wedding?’

  Families also have secrets, thought Alastair. Deep secrets that sometimes see the light of day in our thoughts, in moments of weakness when we hold onto them like a drowning man to an outstretched hand. But sometimes those secrets are the weeds dragging us deeper into the water, covering our eyes, our mouths, stopping us from breathing, enveloping us and slowly, ever so slowly, suffocating us.

  Alastair rose up and put on his hat. He looked again at his son, ‘I accept what you say. We’re having a bad run. It happens from time to time. But when it happened to me in the past, Algernon, my way of dealing with it was to fight. To get back up off the ground and fight. Fight,’ said Alastair, clenching his fist, ‘fight and fight until you’re winning again. Your mother would have killed me had I swanned off for two-hour lunches while the business was in trouble.’

  The mention of his mother, realised Alastair, was too much, no matter how true. Algy’s face crumpled. He began to weep uncontrollably. Alastair went over to him, tears stinging his own eyes, ‘I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry.’

  14

  Kit stepped off the train first at San Francisco Station. The platform was swarming with people running around like they’d spilt hot tea on themselves. Porters fought for air with the human wave of passengers. Mary followed Kit off the train then both turned to help Aunt Agatha. Natalie joined them a few moments later. The noise on the platform was deafening. Conversations in the United States seemed to occur across platforms such was the din.

  ‘Why do Americans insist on speaking so loudly?’ asked Agatha, rhetorically. Kit glanced down with some alarm as he saw the umbrella. The last thing they needed was for his aunt to assault some innocent passenger who had the misfortune or poor judgement to be standing in her way.

  The party headed towards the exit with Kit and Agatha looking out for a familiar face. When they reached the concourse, Agatha saw Alastair and waved at him to attract his attention. It took a few moments, helped by Agatha nudging a few passengers out of the way, and then he saw them. Moments later they were embracing one another like long lost family, which they were.

  ‘You haven’t changed, Agatha,’ lied Alastair with a wide smile.

  ‘You have,’ said Agatha glancing upwards at his head.

  ‘Ah yes, I think the last hair went in 1918,’ admitted Alastair ruefully. He shook the hand of Kit and then, overcome with emotion, embraced him also, ‘Kit, my boy, so good of you to come.’

  Finally, he took a step back and looked at Mary with the relish of an art historian gazing upon an undiscovered Madonna by Raphael, ‘Lady Mary, what a great honour.’ He turned to Kit and with a stage whisper that was meant to be heard by all, ‘My word, Kit, congratulations.’

  ‘My word, indeed, Uncle Alastair,’ agreed Kit smiling broadly.

  Mary looked at the tall, slim man in the ridiculous tweed suit and dark bow tie. Ridiculous because of the stifling heat. The expressive eyes were bordered by bushy eyebrows and his grin was saved from being maniacal by the obvious sweet-nature of the man. Mary decided immediately she was going to like Kit’s uncle very much. Instinctively she took his hand and he rewarded her with an embarrassed giggle.

  ‘I don’t want to make an enemy of my...’ Alastair hesitated a moment before saying nephew. ‘Come this way, we have a car waiting. I’ll send for your luggage. And do you have...?’

  ‘This is Natalie, my maid,’ said Agatha, emphasising the last two words to Alastair. The older man turned to the younger woman, sized her up, literally, in a moment and smiled almost with delight, ‘Pleased to meet you, too, Natalie.’

  Was it Kit’s imagination that his aunt and uncle exchanged a look? Almost inaudibly he heard Alastair say to Agatha, ‘Very good, Agatha. Very good.’

  Kit turned to Mary. She looked at him and raised her eyebrows. Apparently, it wasn’t just him then. The group followed Alastair towards the
exit of the station. Suddenly he stopped. It was just for a second. Kit noticed the momentary pause and looked at a sea of faces. Had he seen someone? Alastair was moving again. It had happened so quickly that the two ladies hadn’t broken their stride.

  ‘Where’s Algy?’ asked Kit.

  Suddenly, Alastair stopped and turned around, ‘I have something to tell you. Perhaps when we are back at Bellavista.’

  -

  One day earlier:

  Hammett stood outside the apartment block and watched Lieutenant Mulroney arrive with another cop he didn’t know. Mulroney introduced him as O’Hara. He scowled at Hammett when he saw a smile crease the Pinkerton man’s face. Yes, another Irishman. He could read Hammett’s mind sometimes.

  The three men walked up into the apartment block. Hammett nodded to Cyrus. They took an elevator to the third floor. The doors opened and they walked down a corridor with pale brown wallpaper to the door at the end.

  They knocked on the door. No answer. Impatient, Mulroney knocked again, harder this time. Then he used his fists and banged the door like he meant it. Just as he said, ‘Police, open up,’ the door opened. A man answered the door. He was tall, well-made and about as far from being a criminal, thought Hammett looking at the bow tie, as it was possible to get.

  -

  Algy looked at the three men standing in the corridor. His first thought was they were as likely to be robbers as policemen. The grim faces on the three men prompted his second thought, a realisation that this was not going to be good. He was right. Then the man at the front showed him a badge. Algy had never been arrested before but he recognised a police badge when he saw one.

  ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’

  Algy’s first rule of dealing with policemen was politeness. In fact, he used this rule with most every person, but with policemen it was especially important. He finished off the question with what he hoped, was a winning smile.

  ‘Is Dain Collins at home?’ said the man holding the badge. It read Lieutenant Sean Mulroney.

  ‘Yes, come in,’ said Algy, still smiling, but hope was fading fast. This was definitely not going to be good. The three men walked in without another word. ‘This way,’ added Algy somewhat superfluously.

  They entered a generously sized living room. The ceiling was high, the furnishing second hand but tasteful. Some paintings on the wall, in the modern style. Two brown leather Chesterfields sat opposite one another. On the table between the two Chesterfield’s was a cup of coffee and an ashtray with a half-smoked cigarette. Hammett’s first view up close of Dain Collins was the back of her head. She remained seated as Mulroney asked, ‘Dain Collins?’

  She rose from the seat. Up close she looked younger than her twenty years, thought Hammett. And beautiful. A porcelain beauty. Flawless white skin, and then there were the eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ said the young woman. Her voice was just barely audible. She was nervous. The arrival of the men was clearly not a surprise, Hammett noted. Confused yet not so confused. Yes, she was beautiful, that much was clear but in a way that was difficult to define. There was an innocence, an unworldliness in the green-brown eyes. She seemed remote but he sensed fear also. Of course, he had met many like her before; the manner was unmistakable and easily explained. He examined her more closely as she looked at the two policemen.

  The longer Hammett gazed at her, the stranger her beauty seemed. The ears were without lobes; the hair was a mass of reddish-brown curls, the vacant-but-amused eyes, the sculpted cheekbones. She was compelling while she, at the same time, kept you at a distance. She was not tall, but she was very slim, perhaps too much so.

  ‘Do you mind if we sit down and ask you a few questions?’ asked Mulroney.

  Dain Collins looked at Algy, who nodded. She nodded dumbly also and sat down, reaching for the cigarette. Lieutenant Mulroney sat in front of Dain Collins. Mulroney got to the point very quickly. ‘Miss Collins, a man has been murdered. Daniel Cowan. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  She shook her head. Algy moved around the back of her chair and sat down. He took her right hand in his. On her left hand, Hammett saw an engagement ring. It didn’t look new. This surprised him. The Aston family were rich, weren’t they?

  ‘Miss Collins, look, we know your name isn’t Dain Collins.’

  ‘It is, though.’ The voice was soft, refined, expensive.

  ‘It wasn’t always. What was it before?’

  ‘You don’t have to answer that, Dain,’ said Algy. ‘Lieutenant, unless you are charging my fiancée with something, anything, then I don’t see why she should explain a name change that is legal.’

  Mulroney glanced at Algy and removed his cigar, ‘Are you her lawyer, bud?’

  ‘No,’ replied Algy amiably before adding, ‘I’m her fiancé. I used to practice, Lieutenant. I think we both know Dain is under no obligation to answer your questions.

  Mulroney scratched his head and pointed out what seemed obvious to him.

  ‘A man has been murdered. Your refusal to answer even the simplest of questions makes us kinda suspicious.’

  ‘Dain’s told you she didn’t know the man, has never met the man. Why do you believe she is connected to this man?’

  Mulroney looked at Hammett and shrugged.

  Hammett said, ‘He was working with me.’

  ‘And you are?’ asked Algy.

  Hammett told him.

  All this time Dain Collins said nothing. In fact, she did not look at either the policemen or her boyfriend. She seemed to be either uninterested in the conversation or she was trying to use a cool façade to hide her fear. Hammett suspected the latter, but another thought was gnawing away at him.

  ‘Why is some two-bit shamus following my girlfriend?’ Algy was clearly rattled or angry or both.

  Hammett smiled at him, ‘Two-bit? You rate my abilities more highly than my boss. Speaking of which, he would be disappointed if it was me answering the questions rather than you and your girlfriend. One of our men has been murdered and I mean to find out who did it. I think you’d be doing yourself and your fiancée a favour if you told us what you know because I know my friend here has a low tolerance for obfuscation.’

  Mulroney turned to Hammett in surprise and said sardonically, ‘Whatever that means, I agree. Look, I can go downtown and get a warrant, or you can come with us and answer questions real friendly like.’

  Dain Collins seemed to wake up from her reverie at this point. There was fear in her eyes. This was clear. Algy also seemed less sure of himself. There seemed to be no way out.

  ‘Have it your own way,’ said Algy, ‘but Miss Collins is not answering any questions without a lawyer present.’ He stood up and went over to the phone.

  A few minutes later they left the building, Dain Collins and Algy first then the three detectives. After being indoors, the heat punched them all in the face. Across the road, Hammett could see the kid again. Out of the corner of his mouth he whispered to Mulroney, ‘Ten o’clock. Who’s the kid?’

  Mulroney made a show of looking to his right and pointing at something then he glanced left and caught the kid directly in the eye. The kid bolted.

  ‘Did you see him?’ asked Hammett.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mulroney. ‘I could be wrong, but I think his name is Cookson. William Cookson. He’s pretty new. Did some juvenile time. Seems to be a hired heavy these days. Why do you ask? Is he connected to this?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hammett. ‘He’s been hanging around the apartment, but I hadn’t seen him in a few days. Makes me wonder if he knew Cowan and was laying low.’

  Mulroney shot Hammett a look.

  ‘Seems to me, Dash, I should be putting you in a room too.’

  ‘Wise guy,’ said Hammett. He wasn’t smiling. ‘Say, can you do me a favour?’

  Mulroney laughed mirthlessly, ‘Protect and serve, it’s what we do, right?’

  ‘Sure you do,’ replied Hammett. ‘Can you find out more about Cookson?’ asked Hammett. ‘Who’s paying
him?’

  ‘What do I get in return?’ shouted Mulroney as Hammett walked away.

  A salute, apparently.

  15

  The Aston residence in San Francisco was named ‘Bellavista’. Mary gasped when she saw it. At last, after years of searching, she had found a home as spectacularly ill-designed as her own at Cavendish Hall. Built on almost a similar scale, it was made of wood, like most of the American houses she passed on her journey from the station. The front door made a half-hearted attempt at a Palladian entrance, perhaps the only part with any material not made from wood. At each end of the house were wooden turrets which, no doubt, offered impressive views across the bay although probably little else by way of function.

  Alastair saw the look on Mary’s face and decided, once again, that Kit was the luckiest man in the world. He grinned at Mary and said, with a tone of voice that one might have said was gleeful, ‘Hideous, isn’t it?’

  Mary looked at Alastair in shock. This was replaced by a wide smile as she realised he was serious. Incredibly, he actually seemed to share her enjoyment of the extraordinary spectacle that was Bellavista. She took his arm, looked up at him and said, ‘It’s gruesome. You really must see Cavendish Hall sometime. I think you’d love it there. We combine Palladian, with Gothic and Tudor.’

  ‘No,’ exclaimed Alastair delightedly. ‘Are such things really possible?’

  ‘The evidence at Cavendish Hall,’ replied Mary, ‘suggests possible, yes. Advisable, no.’

  ‘Well I’m now doubly excited at the prospect of your wedding, my dear. My wife and I fell in love with this place at first sight. Lord knows what the architect was drinking when he designed it. American houses are so protestant and serious, it was a genuine delight to come across a folly such as this.’

  Agatha looked on at the conversation with head-shaking exasperation while Kit merely laughed. He had been looking forward to Mary’s first sight of Bellavista. Mary’s reaction had not disappointed him. Oddly, though, both Alastair and he were extremely fond of the building which seemed a wonderful example of the New World’s take on Gothic, albeit in....