by Jack Murray
‘I regret the necessity of this. But you have something of mine, and I want it back,’ he coughed apologetically. ‘You will please put your hands up.’ He moved the gun upwards to emphasize his meaning lest it was not understood by the native English speakers facing him.
‘We have something belonging to you?’ exclaimed Kit. ‘What do you mean?’ His hands remained resolutely by his side. He didn’t look happy, thought Joel Israel, before realising he probably wouldn’t be either if he had been woken up by a gun-wielding intruder, no matter how well-dressed and polite he was.
Joel Israel looked at the tall Englishman apologetically and glanced down at Kit’s hands, motioning upwards with his eyes and gun for him to do as the others, however reluctantly, had done. He was just about to launch in an explanation, of sorts when a door opened to Cairo’s right. The voice of Aunt Agatha could be heard complaining about the racket outside her room.
Joel Israel knew it was a mistake the moment he glanced the old woman’s way. In the blink of an eye he registered, first, her surprise, followed by her righteous anger. However, the volley of abuse that followed from her immediate assessment of the situation served to add to his distraction. To be fair to the old woman, her understanding of the status quo was as rapid as it was accurate and also, surprisingly, colourful; stopping just short of outright swearing.
He felt a sharp pain on his arm. He glanced back wildly at Kit. The gun was on the ground thanks to the Englishman knocking it out of his hand with his walking stick. The Englishman was on the ground in seconds seeking to retrieve the gun. Time to leave, thought Joel Israel.
Quickly.
He turned and sprinted down the stairs. Agatha looked at Kit who was now back on his feet. The moment he picked up the gun he realised it was lighter than it should have been. To his left he heard Aunt Agatha say, ‘Well go on, shoot him.’
‘It’s empty,’ pointed out Kit.
Joel Israel was at the bottom of the stairs now with a set of keys in his hand. He put one in the front door lock.
‘Well chase him then,’ ordered Agatha. Kit glanced down at his leg, which was missing its prothesis, and raised his eyebrow questioningly.
‘Oh yes, I forgot that.’
Algy tore past Kit and Agatha and raced down the stairs three steps at a time. He reached the bottom just as Joel Israel opened the front door. He was at the door a second after it closed. The two men wrestled the door open. But then Algy heard a tell-tale click. The little man had closed the door and locked it from the outside. Algy could hear footsteps racing off into the distance. He went to the window and saw him climb into an automobile which then sped off into the night.
‘Who was that?’ demanded Algy angrily, climbing the stairs.
‘More to the point, what was he after?’ mused Kit. He turned to Mary whose eyes seemed more amused than terrified by the experience. She walked over to Kit and kissed him on the cheek.
‘That was quick thinking, Lord Aston. I was wondering when you would try something.’
‘I’m off to bed,’ announced Agatha, ‘I trust I can leave it to the men to guard this place for the rest of the night?’
‘It looks to me like Ella-Mae did a much better job of that,’ pointed out Mary.
Alastair glared at Ella-Mae, ‘Welcoming as ever to guests, I see.’
‘I try,’ replied Ella-Mae, turning and walking down the stairs. As she walked down to the bottom Alastair leaned over the balcony.
‘Are you getting...?’
‘Yes,’ replied the older woman.
A minute or two later she returned carrying a Webley revolver.
‘Is it...?’
‘Yes, it’s loaded.’
‘Algy,’ said Alastair, ‘You go first. I’ll take over at five.’ Algy nodded and took the gun from Ella-Mae. Alastair turned to his guests, ‘Perhaps we should turn in. Let’s get some sleep. We can try and make sense of this extraordinary affair tomorrow.’
Downstairs, Natalie appeared. She looked up first at the Astons and Mary standing on the first-floor balcony overlooking the entrance hall, then she registered Algy holding the Webley. Her eyes widened. Putting her hand to her mouth she said, ‘Mon Dieu.’
Indeed, thought Kit, Mon Dieu.
22
The waitress at John’s Grill offered Hammett some more coffee. It had been a late night. Very late. He raised his cup and she refilled it. He added some sugar and put it to his lips. He was beginning to wake. Slowly. Around him businessmen and some women were breakfasting. The Grill was full; a couple of people even stood in line for a free table. One of them was the Pinkerton man who had shadowed Dain Collins. His name, Hammett now remembered, was Foley. Strange how he could remember the name so easily now when the day before he couldn’t place him. Old age thought Hammett. He was twenty-six years old.
Hammett motioned him over. Foley saw Hammett and moved rapidly through the tables. There was an economy of movement about the small man, not just in words. He nodded to Hammett, sat down and removed his hat.
‘The old man sent you?’
Foley nodded.
‘The Collins girl. Any sign?’
‘None. I just told Geauque. The landlord in the building told me she’s paid up to the end of the week. Her apartment was already furnished.’
‘So, she’s flown the coop.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Looks like it,’ replied Foley, raising his hand to attract the attention of a waitress. He ordered coffee.
‘You can save me a trip then, tell Geauque that I’m following a lead I mentioned to him yesterday. A fence named Sidney Goodman. Owns an antique store on Pine. Do you know him?’
‘Only by rep. The store is a front,’ said Foley.
‘I gathered that. What about Dain Collins? Do we have anything new on her?’ asked Hammett.
‘The old man is going to find out what the client wants. I have the feeling he thinks it’s case closed.’
‘Just like that?’ Hammett was unhappy at this news.
Foley shrugged. He had no investment in the case either way. Pinkerton’s would assign him something new. He looked at Hammett. The man before him was a similar age but looked much older. He sure didn’t look well. The coughing began again in between cigarettes.
Foley asked, ‘What’s it to you what happens to her?’
Indeed, thought Hammett, what’s it to me? Something didn’t feel right. That’s what. A colleague had been murdered, possibly in connection with this case, although it was just as likely, perhaps more, it was a revenge killing. There were few leads; the girl was one of them. The idea of dropping the case, no, it didn’t feel right.
He thought about Dain Collins. She was like a fawn, beautiful, nervous and prey to the men around her. She was vulnerable. That much was clear. Perhaps, rather than being a murderer, she was also a victim. But why should he care? It was just another case.
Only it was never just another case. Hammett could never shake this bad habit of his: a desire to know what and why. A desire to do the right thing even it was for a partner he detested and a woman he barely knew. She knew about death. He was certain. He was equally certain she knew more about Cowan’s death than she was letting on. A killer though? It seemed unlikely. How could a young girl get the better of a man like Cowan? There were plenty of other men who she knew who could have, though: Lehane and the kid, Cookson, just to name two.
‘Before we get pulled, can you do me a favour?’ asked Hammett, as his train of thought ran its course.
‘Shoot,’ said Foley.
‘Wire a description of Dain Collins to the New York office. Ask if they have any missing persons like her. Actually, while you’re at it, anyone who is wanted who matches her description. Mention her eyes, they kind of change between grey and green, and she has funny shaped ear lobes.’
‘I thought we’d done all this.’
‘That was before we saw her up close. We’ve got a better description of her now. She supposed to have escaped a bad situa
tion with her family in New York. There’s a detective you could ask, he owes me one.’
Foley took the details of the policeman and also the key points to mention in the wire. He drained his coffee and left without saying goodbye.
‘Goodbye to you too, Foley,’ said Hammett, sardonically, watching him walk out the door of the grill. Hammett lit a cigarette and considered his options. He wasn’t carrying a gun. But his note to Goodman could be like casting a grenade into a still pond. A compromise was to pop into the Flood Building nearby and let Geauque know his movements just in case Foley hadn’t. Decision made he paid up and walked over to the Pinkerton’s office.
-
Just before eleven, Hammett walked into Goodman’s Antiques. Sandra Robins looked up from her book as he entered the shop. The book, Hammett noted, was leather-bound and on the topic of medieval coats of arms. He wondered if she had a magazine hidden inside. The lady’s demeanour seemed slightly less frosty this morning. A hint of a smile creased her lips rather like a cat lucky enough to have cornered a particularly dumb mouse.
It was as cold inside as it was hot outside. Hammett shivered involuntarily. He put on his best lady killer smile, the one that had them falling at his feet, never. Sandra Robins was now on her feet and walking around the desk to greet him.
‘Mr Audubon, so good to see you again.’ She almost seemed to mean it. The owner of the shop obviously had as much respect for her intelligence as he did and hadn’t let her in on the joke.
’Hello,’ said Hammett brightly. ‘Is Mr Goodman in?’ For a moment Hammett considered speaking with a lisp; but decided against it. She motioned him to follow her. They walked past her desk in the middle of the store to a door concealed behind a marble bust of Venus. Hammett almost stopped to admire the lovingly-created figure. Business called, however.
‘This way,’ said Sandra Robins, pointing rather pointlessly at the door. Where else was there to go from here, thought Hammett? In fact, he was about to find out.
-
The office of Sidney Goodman was large, about a third the size of the store out front. Commercially, this struck Hammett as being suicidal. However, the business of Sidney Goodman was not out front. By Hammett’s estimate, the shop at the front plus Goodman’s office accounted for around two thirds of the store’s size. This meant a large storeroom was also part of the building, no doubt where the real business was conducted. As the store was located on a hill, there was likely to be a basement also.
The office itself was decorated, as far as Hammett could tell, tastefully. The style was Art Deco, minimal, just a desk with a large cubist painting behind and a sofa with two armchairs and a coffee table between. The desk was large, with a small Tiffany lamp at one corner.
Sidney Goodman rose slowly from his seat. The first two things that struck Hammett as Goodman rolled towards him was his size: he really was fat. In addition, he was dressed like a relic from a Henry James novel. He was wearing tails, a grey waistcoat and a blue silk cravat. When he finally spoke, it was with an English accent.
‘Mr Audubon, at last we meet,’ his hand was outstretched, his voice a treacherously seductive purr. The smile seemed warm, but the eyes were as grey as cold steel. Hammett was under no illusions: this was a dangerous man. For a moment he wondered what had made him come here. ‘Please take a seat,’ said Goodman, softly as if talking to a small child.
Hammett went to the sofa and sat down while Goodman moved to the other side of the coffee table, extravagantly swiping his tails to either side of the seat. Sandra Robins was still in the room. She seemed to be waiting to be dismissed.
‘May I offer you a drink, Mr Audubon, or a coffee?’
Hammett was desperate for a whisky, so he said, ‘Coffee would be great, thanks.’ Goodman nodded and Sandra Robbins left the room. As the door clicked shut Goodman’s attention returned to Hammett rather as a shark might contemplate its next meal, deliberately and with no small relish.
‘Well, sir, I must confess I enjoyed your little joke. Audubon, yes, very witty. Gad, sir, it’s so rare in my line of work to be able to enjoy a moment of humour. I see you are a man who enjoys such moments also. I like that sir.’
‘I thought you’d enjoy that,’ said Hammett, smiling to hide his nervousness.
‘Capital,’ said Goodman, drumming his hands on his knee and smiling. ‘I think I’m going to like you, Mr...?’
‘Hammett.’
‘Now, Mr Hammett, you mentioned something about a bird. I’m intrigued,’ said Goodman. Hammett’s senses were tingling like a spider meeting a scorpion on its way back from lunch. Goodman’s eyes, previously slits hidden behind puffy pink cheeks had widened. It did little to improve his looks, heightening instead the threatening aura surrounding the man.
‘I’m sure you are. Me, too.’
The smile broadened on the fat man’s face. It was benevolently chilling. He said, ‘I can see you are a man who plays his cards close to his chest. I admire that. It suggests character, a quality I find to be in decreasing supply these days, sadly. Now, sir, what do you know of this bird?’
Hammett was confused. It almost seemed as if Goodman was talking about a real bird. Some, but not too much, clarification was badly needed.
‘The girl,’ said Hammett.
Now it was the fat man’s turn to look confused. For a moment he seemed unsure of what to say in response. Then he replied, ‘I’m at a loss, sir.’ Hammett sensed that he genuinely was at a loss.
Perhaps further prompting was needed. Hammett leaned forward, looked Goodman in the eye and said, ‘The one you took the taxi with. The one your boy has been guardian angel to.’
Recognition grew in the eyes of the fat man, and menace also, cloaked behind a smile. Just at that moment Sandra Robins appeared with a tray containing two cups of coffee. She placed the two cups on the table and received a Thank You from both men for her trouble.
‘You were saying, Mr Hammett.’
‘Dain Collins,’ said Hammett getting to the point. ‘Who is she and where is she?’
Goodman put two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and smiled, somewhat embarrassedly.
‘As you can see, sir, I am man with some vices,’ he said patting his large stomach, ‘But, Gad, I can’t help myself. Well, sir, you have laid your cards on the table and I appreciate you for doing so. I shall respond likewise. Miss Collins is a friend of mine, I admit. She is to marry a young man named Algernon Aston. I understand the young lady has had second thoughts. The wedding was arranged hastily. You know how it is with young love. She simply desires to have more time. So, to this end, she has returned to her family. I believe they are in New York.’
Hammett reached down and sipped his coffee. It was a decent cup. He nodded to Goodman his appreciation.
‘Life is too short to compromise, don’t you think?’
Hammett didn’t respond but asked instead, ‘Why did she come to you? Where can I reach her?’
Goodman drained the rest of his cup, with evident relish. He looked at Hammett and said, ‘Gad sir, you are direct. I like that in a man. Well, as to the former, she saw me as an impartial, disinterested even, friend. Why this should be so I cannot say. You would have to ask her. As to the latter, I cannot say either. Even if I knew her address, and I do not, I would be, as a friend, loathe to share such intelligence with someone I do not know. You understand, don’t you?’
‘I understand plenty, Goodman,’ snarled Hammett angrily. ‘I understand you picked her up at Lehane’s. I understand you probably set her up in that apartment. I understand you’re probably feeding her dope. For all I know, your boy may even have killed Dan Cowan. Yeah, I understand plenty, Goodman. What I don’t understand is why.’
Hammett felt the blood rushing to his head. He was angry; angrier than he thought he would be. It felt strange. He felt strange. The fat man was smiling at him now. Staring at him. Strangely. The room began to turn like it was a carousel.
‘Mr Hammett,’ he said. Goodman’s vo
ice sounded like he had moved to another room. ‘Mr Hammett,’ repeated Goodman.
And then everything went black.
The blackness lasted for seconds, seemingly, and then he felt his face being slapped. Gently at first. Was that water being dabbed on his cheek? Let me sleep a bit longer, thought Hammett. But the person trying to wake him was persistent. He tried to turn away, but the gentle slapping continued. He heard a voice say Wake up. Seemed like an English accent. Wake up, it said. Are you alright? No, I’m sleeping you damn fool, leave me the hell alone.
The voice with the English accent was stronger, clearer now.
‘Wake up.’
23
The telegram arrived around ten in the morning. Algy and Kit were still upstairs when it arrived. Agatha and Alastair sat at the end of the garden drinking tea when Ella-Mae arrived and handed the note to Alastair. The misadventure of the night before appeared to weigh more heavily on host than guest. Agatha was positively chipper, so much so, in fact, it began to grate on her brother. He looked up irritably at his housekeeper when he read the name on the envelope.
‘It’s for Lord Christopher Aston. Can’t you read?’
Ella-Mae glared at Alastair, ‘I didn’t want to disturb him.’
This was a good point, not that Alastair was about to admit as much, ‘Yes, well, very good.’
‘Thank you, Ella-Mae,’ said Agatha, ‘The tea was lovely by the way.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Ella-Mae pointedly. She left the two siblings to their tea. Agatha looked at the telegram and then at her brother, ‘Well, aren’t you going to read it?’
Alastair looked aghast at the idea. Agatha stared back at him as if there was nothing more natural in the world than opening someone else’s mail. Such was the state of play when Algy arrived. He had shaved and seemed better for it.
