by Jack Murray
‘Are you alright, mister?’
She was in her early twenties. Heavily made up. He looked at her and wondered why she’d bothered. Mother nature had been kind enough to her.
‘Water,’ croaked Hammett. Then he tried to smile, ‘Add it to the whisky.’
The woman said, ‘Come this way.’ Hammett followed her towards a door where the music was coming from. He saw some other men walk through a different door. She saw him look at the other men.
‘They show films. Do you want to go?’ she asked. Sadness filled her like tears. She seemed to want him to say no.
Hammett frowned and shook his head. The coughing wasn’t as strong now, but he could still feel the tickling sensation in his chest. She led him into a large ballroom. A small orchestra, dressed in white dinner jackets which looked pronounced against their dark skin, was playing jazz music. The dance floor was empty. The room was not very bright. A dim light emerged stealthily from behind cornices on the beige-coloured walls. They walked over a dark red carpet towards the dance floor where most of the remaining free tables were situated.
The dance floor was a light brown parquet, probably made from an odd assortment of hardwood. A bronze railing surrounded half the dance floor and led to the orchestra who, thought Hammett, were actually rather good. They occupied around a third of the stage. Elsa Nichols was singing. She was not bad either. Maybe he’d done her a disservice. What little there was of the dress was very pretty too. Reluctantly, Hammett drew his eyes away from the dress to his new companion. They sat down and the young woman went to collect a drink for him. A minute later she returned with a half-bottle of whisky and a glass.
‘You not joining me?’
She shrugged, ‘Do you want me to?’
Hammett pushed the glass in her direction. Underneath it was five dollars. The young woman sat down. She was clearly nervous. Hammett handed her a cigarette and lit it. The music suddenly switched from jazz, which had failed dismally to attract any dancers, to a slow tango. Several older men and several clearly reluctant young women trooped onto the dance floor.
‘I’m looking for a girl,’ said Hammett.
The young woman looked bored now, ‘You’ve come to the right place.’
‘A particular girl. Name’s Danielle. D’you know her?’
‘Look, mister, I just work here.’
Up ahead Hammett could see some of the men belonging to the club looking over at his table. Eventually one strolled over.
‘Is everything alright?’ he asked. There was trace in his voice that he cared either way what the response might be.
Hammett smiled up at him, ‘Just dandy.’
The young woman got up to leave, ‘Thank you for the drink, mister.’
The man watched the young woman go and then looked down at Hammett. He said, ‘Perhaps it’s time you left, too.’
Hammett nodded, perhaps it was. The young woman had been pulled aside by a man in an expensive dinner suit. They were both talking and looking over at him. He turned away from Hammett and walked off. Moments later the man he had been speaking to came over.
‘Come with me.’ It wasn’t a request. Hammett stood up and followed him away from the dance floor. They walked towards the foyer of the nightclub but turned suddenly into a shallow corridor that led to a door. The man knocked then opened without waiting for a reply.
Hammett entered the office. There was a leather sofa by the wall. Above it was a painting that Hammett suspected was a Picasso. There were other paintings that looked like they would cost Hammett’s annual salary. The room was dominated by a large oak desk. Behind the desk was the man who had been looking at him earlier. He was smoking a cigarette. From the cigarette holder, Hammett guessed this was the great man himself: Eddie Lehane.
The door shut behind Hammett. He stood alone in front of the desk like a schoolboy about to be punished. The man regarded Hammett in silence. No doubt he was trying to intimidate him. Hammett could have laughed. Finally, he spoke.
‘I don’t like people coming to my club asking questions.
‘I missed the sign saying that’ replied Hammett. ‘Sorry.’
Lehane’s eyes hardened.
‘Wise guy. Listen up, I already have an arrangement with the local johns. Understand? Now, beat it.’
How do you do, too, thought Hammett. He kept his eyes on Lehane.
‘I’ll go, but just so as you know, I’m Pinkerton, not one of your boys on the force. You don’t own me.’
‘Yet, shamus, yet,’ sneered Lehane. Neither his veneer of wealth nor polished dress could hide the obvious: he was a crook. And probably a mean one, too. His hair was turning to grey but with the suit and the general well-heeledness that provided its own level of self-assurance, he was not bad looking. The eyes were hard though, even if the smile wasn’t.
Hammett took a chance. He showed a picture of Dain Collins. He said, ‘I’m looking for information on her. I know she worked here.’
Lehane took hold of the picture and looked at it closely then handed it back to Hammett.
‘Danielle. We haven’t seen her in months.’
The door opened behind Hammett. The other man entered again. Lehane nodded to the man. The conversation was over, and Hammett felt a hand grasp his elbow, far from gently.
‘Wait up, Mr Lehane,’ said Hammett rolling the dice. ‘I know where she is now. That’s not what I want.’ Lehane stopped and turned around again to Hammett.
‘Go on.’
‘I want to know where she came from.’
‘Why?’
‘My client. She’s about to marry some guy. She’s under suspicion for murder and no one, police included, knows who she is.’
‘That about figures. You’re climbing the wrong tree here, shamus. You may have gathered we don’t do background checks,’ said Lehane with a mirthless smile, and gesturing around his club, ‘If you take my meaning.’
‘Who’s the English guy?’
Lehane, removed the cigarette holder from his mouth and walked up close to Hammett. He stared deep into Hammett’s eyes. Hammett stared back. A slow grin crossed Lehane’s lips, ‘I don’t know why, but I like you. You seem straight.’
‘My partner’s dead. I didn’t like him. But that means something to me, anyway. If this girl is connected, I want to know why.’
‘You think she killed your partner?’ Lehane seemed surprised.
‘I don’t even know her name and I’ve been tailing her for days now. I don’t know. Who’s the English guy?’
‘Sorry, shamus, I’m not in the business of informing,’ said Lehane and turned away. He was gone in a moment.
Hammett turned to the man and grinned, ‘Looks like it’s you and me, sister. Do you dance?’
The man growled at him, ‘Blow.’ Hammett felt his arm being handled roughly. Another man came over towards the table. This was becoming distinctly unpromising.
‘Alright, Clyde, I’m going.’ Hammett shook his arm free and brushed past the other man on his way to the exit. He could feel a hard object in the man’s pocket as he passed him.
21
The automobile slowed down as it passed each house. Finally, it reached its destination. Overhead the night sky was a black blanket, the rain cloud had arrived and dispensed its gifts generously. It was after two in the morning. A single streetlight shone. Gutters were flooding. Even the criminals were indoors with their feet up.
‘That’s it. Look up there,’ said the young man in the ill-fitting suit. ‘Some house, huh?’
The other man in the car looked at him, trying to disguise his contempt. He was dressed neatly: dark trousers, dark shirt, dark overcoat. He regarded the house for a moment. It was a monstrosity. He looked back at his companion driving the car.
‘Some house.’
It was difficult to say if he agreed with the driver. The foreign accent hid all manner of nuance. Not that the young man would have understood sarcasm rooted in tone rather than words.
The car
drew to a halt, and the two men sat and viewed the house. The young man was surprised that his companion had made no move.
‘What are you waiting on?’ he asked, nervously.
The other man looked at him again, without expression. The silence in the car lasted a few moments but felt like minutes to the young man.
‘I’m waiting,’ said the foreign gentleman, pausing almost for dramatic effect, ‘for the rain to stop.’ As he said this, he was mentally shaking his head. Where did the fat man find these people?
The fat man.
He hated the fat man; worse, he didn’t trust him. But he had no choice. They were bound together by the one thing that is thicker than blood: money. When this was finished maybe he would retire. Not in America, though.
Barbarians.
Barbarians like the man beside him. Without culture, without a spiritual or intellectual impulse unless it involved money. There was no love of beauty, of finer things such as art, music, jewellery, ideas. These people were not like him. Without refinement. However, there was something to be said for the openness of their society that allowed people from the bottom to rise to the top. This was an improvement on Europe, unquestionably. He looked again at his young companion who was chewing gum. Then again…
They sat in silence while the rain fell heavily onto the car beating metronomically. It was hypnotic. The young driver began beating his fingers on the wheel in time to the falling rain. The other man looked at the fingers and then at the young man. He stopped immediately.
The foreign gentleman closed his eyes and waited. His senses were filled as surely as the gutters on the road by the sound of the rain falling. They waited. Half an hour passed with little change in the intensity of the rainfall. Beside him, he heard the crack of thunder, or, at least, snoring. The foreign gentleman opened his eyes and looked with disgust. Once again, he wondered where the fat man located such low level hoodlums. He nudged the boy awake.
The kid at least had the decency to look embarrassed. He tried to smile but nerves contorted his face into something less friendly, more maniacal. The foreign gentleman remembered similar smiles on idiots from his village. He shuddered at the memory. A long time ago. He’d escaped.
A few minutes later the rain eased to a point where he felt he could risk stepping outside to brave the night. He climbed out of the car and told the driver he would be back soon. He knew what to do if not.
The night was dagger-black, the air damp like a cold wet towel on his face. He made no attempt to hide the fact he was walking to the front door. He walked up the long garden path silently then onto the porch and stood in front of the entrance. He tried the door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. Opening it would have presented little or no problem. However, negotiating the stairs brought with it a certain amount of risk, even at this ungodly hour.
He walked along the front of the house and round to the back. There was a garden gate built into the wooden fence. The fence was knee high. The foreign gentleman looked at the picket fence in wonderment. What was the point? He continued on his way. A few moments later he stood in the back garden. He peered through the French doors into a well-stocked library. Turning away from it he saw what he was looking for.
The kitchen was situated on the ground floor of the mansion. It jutted out from the main building. Directly above the kitchen were the guest bedrooms, at least according to the intelligence he had been given from the fat man.
With balletic grace, the man hopped up onto a pipe attached to the wall. He used that as a platform from which to climb onto the windowsill. From there it was an easy manoeuvre to reach the roof of the kitchen. Moving forward he counted two windows over from the end of the house. He jumped up and caught hold of the railings of the first bedroom’s balcony. He hauled himself up and over onto the balcony itself. The curtains were closed.
Removing some keys from his pocket he tried a few different options for the French doors. Finally, one slotted in. A few moments of manipulating the lock and the door opened. He slipped inside.
On the bed he saw an old woman. She was snoring lightly. The man padded over to a large valise and opened it. Empty. He went over to the wardrobe and searched it, with no success. The drawers were equally unproductive. There was no sign of any wedding present in the room. He crept out of the room and went to the next room. With great care he opened the door.
On the bed was another woman. She was young. He recognised her from the boat. Such beauty, such elegance. He stood over the bed and admired the serenity of her features at rest. Even in sleep she was the very definition of refinement. Exhaling dejectedly, he tore himself away from the vision before him and conducted a similar search of the room with a similar lack of success.
The next option was the one he had been looking forward to least. He had been briefed on Aston. In all likelihood he was a light sleeper. This was now heading towards risky territory. He reached inside his pocket and felt the familiar cold metal. He was prepared for any eventuality.
Except one.
The man opened the door of Mary’s room and crept out into the dark corridor. His first step caught a loose floorboard and he heard it creak. It felt like a rumble of thunder in a monastery. He resisted the urge to scream a volley of oaths. He continued on his way, creeping along the corridor like a burglar which, strictly speaking, he was.
He arrived at the final guest bedroom and began to twist the doorknob when he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head and his eyes lit up. He screamed in agony and then he felt a wild animal attack him with what looked like a silver drinks tray. He was hit repeatedly with the edge of the tray, which, it must be said, was rather painful.
‘You’re hurting me,’ he complained, truthfully.
‘Take that,’ shouted the wild animal, who, the man could see was the rather diminutive housemaid he had been warned about.
The row had, by now, woken the house. The first to appear was Alastair Aston who, sensibly, switched on a lamp sitting on a table in the hall. Next to appear was Kit followed by Mary, who exclaimed, ‘It’s that horrible little man.’
‘Pardon me?’ he said in a voice that was as offended as it was clearly not American.
The man glanced hurtfully at Mary, his moon eyes, quite literally feeling a pain that was no longer just physical. Mary felt a stab of guilt for a moment seeing the man’s evident distress was not solely a consequence of Ella-Mae’s rather violent attack.
Seeing the two, no actually it was three now, Aston men, advancing on him - Algy had made a belated appearance at the end of the corridor - the man remembered in the midst of the battering that he had a gun in his pocket. He pulled it out and pointed it wildly at everyone and anyone who was moving.
‘Leave me alone,’ he shouted, in the manner of a child who has been set on by his friends. Everyone stopped in their tracks immediately. In fact, everyone, including the man, stood rooted to the spot.
‘What do you want from us?’ asked Kit. His voice was unnervingly calm; the small man did not like the look in the English lord’s eyes. He did not seem afraid. Worse, he looked like he was quite some way down the track of a plan to disarm him. At this point the man bitterly regretted his decision not to load the gun. It was then he registered that the tall Englishman was leaning on a walking stick. Heavily.
He glanced down at his adversary’s two legs then back up into the eyes of Kit Aston. One man was in control, and it seemed to the little man holding the gun it wasn’t him. He waved it about again, hoping to remind the man facing him of the situation.
Guns and Joel Israel did not get on. He considered them, not unreasonably, dangerous. Joel Israel did not consider himself a violent man. From time to time he had, as a final recourse, resorted to behaviour that resulted in bloodshed. This was not him, though. He was too refined, too cultured, fundamentally too caring not to regret its deployment. He felt it important that the people he was holding the gun on understood this.
Joel Israel’s journey to San Francisco’s Bellavi
sta had begun some forty years previously from the most unlikely of locations. He was born in a small village outside Cairo. His mother had met a young man whom she believed loved her. His departure soon after she demonstrated her love for him was inevitably unexpected. The young man was rich, she was not. He was also married, a detail he had neglected to mention as he wooed her with jewels that subsequently turned out to be as fake as his professions of undying love.
Thus, young Joel Israel grew up with a hatred of rich men. He channelled this hatred positively by robbing them in a single-minded effort to become just like them. His talent was as prodigious as his success inevitable. By the age of twenty he had moved to Cairo with his mother and, with the opportunities only a big city can provide, he achieved a surprising level of affluence for one so young. So surprising in fact that it attracted the attention of what law enforcement there was in Cairo at that time. They, like many of the neighbours, could not understand the source of the young man’s wealth given that he, ostensibly, did not seem to do a tap of work.
He kissed his mother goodbye and fled to Constantinople which was to remain his home for the next fifteen years. His career continued, albeit at a less frenetic pace, and he achieved a level of affluence consistent with his pedigree. Avoiding the same mistake as Cairo was paramount.
To this end, he brought his mother over to join him in Constantinople and set her up as proprietor of a small antique store which acted as a front for his true profession: stealing and fencing stolen goods. He kept his hand in, from time to time, on robbery, but tended, of late, to play the gentleman about town rather than cat burglar. The Joel Israel of today was a dapper little man with a fluency in many languages including the one true lingua franca of the planet: money.
Yes, Joel Israel had come a long way, literally, as he stood face to face with the tall, good-looking Englishman. It was clear to the little man that this was someone from a noble background. Twenty years of associating with such people had tempered his view of this caste. Was he not one of them now? Had it not always been so? They were alike, at least in Joel Israel’s rather skewed view of the world. Standing there with a gun in his hand was unfortunate. No, worse, it was ill-mannered.
