by Jack Murray
Joel Israel nodded to Sandra Robbins and she walked to Goodman’s office door and knocked. A moment later she walked in and told the esteemed owner of the new arrivals.
Goodman filled the doorway. He looked at his two guests and smiled beatifically. Contrary to Mary’s assumptions, he had a love of beautiful objects. It was clear to Mary a compliment was headed her way and girded herself accordingly.
‘Mr Aston and Lady Mary. What a great pleasure.’
‘The pleasure’s all yours,’ remarked Algy. ‘What have you done with my dad and Kit?’
‘They’re quite safe, I assure you, and you will meet them in a moment. Lady Mary,’ said Goodman, walking up close. Get on with it, thought Mary. She looked at him in the eye. Goodman smiled and then turned away. The intensity of hatred was such Goodman realised immediately a compliment would be redundant.
He turned back to the two young people and said to Joel Israel, ‘Put them with the others.’ His voice was harsh as it was hurt. Such beauty, he thought. For a moment he wondered what it was like to be loved by a woman such as this. What glimpse of heaven must the English nobleman experience every day of his life? The resentment rose in him swiftly. He had to hold onto a nearby bust of Augustus to stop himself lashing out. Who was she to look at him so? Once she would have seen him differently. A lifetime ago. And one hundred pounds, admittedly.
Algy and Mary had no choice but to do as they were told. Goodman watched them all the way out of the office. His mood had been upset by the exchange. He needed a drink. A large one.
-
Kit heard Mary’s voice at the door. Relief surged through his body. Then he heard Algy make a remark to a man who was obviously the same one from last night. Kit called out to Mary.
‘Kit,’ exclaimed Mary. He heard her clamber down the stairs. She was in his arms before he had time to tell her to be careful. Algy arrived at the foot of the stairs soon after.
‘Kit, old man, where’s dad?’
Kit explained what had happened and then introduced Hammett. Algy managed to find Hammett’s hand in the dark chamber.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Hammett. What brings you here?’
‘I’ve been shadowing your fiancée for the last week,’ said Hammett calmly.
Silence.
‘Sorry,’ said Algy, ‘What did you say?’ There was an edge to his voice. Hammett wasn’t stupid, he’d heard it. And he was stuck in a basement facing an uncertain future because of it. In short, he was heartily sick of the whole deal.
‘You heard. We’ve already met if you remember.’
It was difficult to see Algy square up in the dim light, but nobody was under any illusion that this was what he was doing. ‘Why you low life shamus,’ said Algy, ‘For good measure I’d...’
Algy felt a hand on his arm. ‘Stop, Algy,’ said Kit. ‘He was just doing his job.’
‘Not much of a job if you ask me,’ said Algy, calming down a smidgen.
‘No worse than writing lines like,’ Hammett put on a silly voice and continued, ‘wearers of Arrow shirts enjoy the pleasing distinction imparted by garments that fit.’
Algy leapt forward in the dark towards the voice that was mocking him.
‘What are you doing, Algy?’ said Kit in exasperation. ‘Calm down, man. We’re in a bind. Hammett’s on our side.’
Even Kit found this difficult to believe following the previous exchange but calm thankfully returned, helped by Mary quizzing Hammett on how he had ended up in the basement with them. Hammett briefly covered the same ground he had with Kit.
‘Have you checked if there are any doors?’ asked Algy, lighting a match.
‘Brilliant idea, Galahad.’ said Hammett sardonically. Even Kit was somewhat irritated by Algy at this moment.
‘Yes, Algy, Mr Hammett and I have already checked. There’s only one way out, I’m afraid,’ said Kit before adding, ‘and you’ve just come through it.’
Algy was like a caged lion, at this stage. ‘We can’t just sit here and do nothing. Isn’t there something we can do?’
‘Will you tell him? Or shall I?’ said Hammett sitting down on the ground again.
Then they heard a gunshot.
Algy bounded up the stairs and started banging on the doors, ‘Let us out.’
29
With a gun trained on him by a man whose son was being held hostage, William Cookson realised the man before him would have no compunction about shooting him. He had no choice but to drive. The journey went with less incident than Agatha’s last expedition and the young driver was at the receiving end of a number of questions from Alastair on how the automobile was handling. These were invariably accompanied by pointed glances at Agatha, who merely ignored him.
Notwithstanding the fact that Cookson was an excellent driver, Alastair was and always had been a nervous passenger. This was amplified by the fact that they were driving in broad daylight, passing policemen constantly, whilst training a pair of guns, on the driver and carrying a potentially stolen artefact from Constantinople. This did little for Alastair’s peace of mind. And then there was Algy.
They had parted on bad terms. The guilt he was feeling towards Algy overwhelmed him. Yes, they had parted badly and now his life was in danger. He thought little of the girl. If anything, he found himself blaming her even more for their woes. Without her there would have been no wedding. Kit would not have come over therefore smuggling the damn falcon. Yes, Dain Collins had a lot to answer for and he, Alastair Aston, would make sure she paid the ultimate penalty if they managed to get out of this situation intact.
When they arrived at the store, Alastair’s hopes were boosted by the sight of Algy’s car outside. Whatever happened now, they would be together. Alastair and Cookson exited the car at the same time. On Agatha’s instruction, he was to do exactly what he had done previously: walk behind Alastair with a coat over his arm. Agatha followed a few beats behind.
They arrived at the store door. It was locked.
‘It’s locked,’ said Cookson.
‘I can see that, you young fool,’ replied Alastair irritably. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Bang the door,’ ordered Agatha, stepping back out of the way. It wasn’t part of the plan that she should be seen. Yet.
The banging on the door gained its reward a minute later when Sandra Robbins appeared like a ray of sunshine. She noted Alastair with his hands in his pocket and Cookson carrying the bird. The job was almost done.
She let them in.
To her surprise, an old woman followed them in. Even more surprising was the fact that she was holding a gun. When Alastair removed his hand from his coat pocket and smiled, her shock was complete.
‘Bring me to Goodman,’ he snarled. She suspected he meant business.
-
Goodman and Joel Israel were enjoying a celebratory drink when they heard the banging on the door. When Sandra Robins had looked outside the door and confirmed it was, indeed, Alastair Aston, returned, they clinked glasses to the successful conclusion of a project begun over four months previously in a bar in Constantinople.
The little Egyptian had received word of the existence of an unusual Caravaggio, in the hands of a rich man who had, unquestionably, stolen the object. Even if he, Joel Israel, could then steal it, and there was little doubt, certainly in his own mind, of his capability in this regard; what would he do with the object?
He and Sidney Goodman had first crossed paths two years before the War. Thanks to Goodman, Joel Israel had built up a significant export market for stolen works of art that would have difficulty finding a home in Constantinople where anybody who was anybody knew everybody who was somebody, as Joel Israel had explained to Goodman. The fat man had nodded in understanding although he found himself lost by the time Joel had arrived at ‘somebody’.
Their business relationship had proved profitable for both sides, and Goodman became the market leader in the import of stolen goods from Turkey, or at least would have been had statistics
on such an important area of commerce been kept. The War proved a disaster for the Goodman-Israel business. Transatlantic trade was, quite literally, torpedoed by the U-Boats of Germany.
By the end of the War, Goodman was losing money, if not much weight, and an urgent re-establishment of the lucrative trade with Turkey was as attractive to him, as much as it was for Israel. The latter had spent the War dealing in small scale contraband, mostly army supplies, with his contacts in Eastern Europe. The glut at the end of the War spelled the end of this revenue stream and made the overtures from Goodman very welcome.
The two men looked at each other as the door opened. Cookson walked in first, carrying the small black falcon. This was unusual. Alastair followed him in, and then Sandra Robins.
Goodman was the first to divine something was not quite right. Was it the scowl on his store assistant’s face? Not, in itself, unusual, but still, it was a dampener on what should have been a celebratory moment. Or was it the look on Cookson’s face? A combination of failure and fear. It was not an attractive combination on a man sorely wanting in good looks.
Perhaps it was the semi-smile snarl of Alastair Aston. How well he recognised it. Then he knew. He knew for certain the game had changed. The young fool had messed up somehow. Alastair’s gun was trained on Cookson. He could see clearly now. Joel Israel had also realised what was happening. It was confirmed when Alastair said, ‘Hands up where I can see them.’
Joel Israel immediately did as he was told. Then things happened quickly at this point. Alastair pushed Cookson forward to be alongside the little Egyptian. Seeing a glimmer of a chance, Goodman reached inside an open drawer. Alastair Aston’s attention was diverted by Sandra Robins moving in front of him to join Cookson and Joel Israel. Goodman looked down and reached inside the drawer, quickly extracting the gun.
Moments later a shot rang out.
-
Kit and Hammett followed Algy up the steps. Algy’s best efforts to tear the door off its hinges were doomed to failure, despite a remarkable effort on the part of the young and, evidently, motivated American.
Moments later the sound of a key in the lock echoed in the dark room. The door opened. It was Sandra Robins. Beside her was Alastair Aston. He was holding a gun.
‘Pops,’ exclaimed Algy in delight.
‘Uncle Alastair,’ said Kit with one eyebrow raised. He glanced down at the gun. Mary followed through a moment later.
‘Is everyone alright?’ she asked. This was perhaps the obvious question to ask and Kit smiled at his fiancée for thinking of it. The group trooped through to Goodman’s office. Inside they found Goodman, Cookson and Joel Israel, standing against the back wall. Agatha stood before them holding a gun. Goodman had a handkerchief wrapped around his hand, where Agatha had shot him.
‘You winged him; I see.’
Agatha nodded and said, ‘If anyone had it coming.’
Goodman looked very unhappy but, clearly not seriously injured. He said, ‘You haven’t changed, Agatha. Gad, you always were a nasty ...’
A wave of the gun from Agatha interrupted Goodman’s flow. Agatha smiled, not without a degree of smugness, and said, ‘You should be thankful I’m such a good shot. A few inches to the right and that would have been very painful indeed.’
The grimace from Goodman suggested it was already fairly painful. Algy strode forward toward Goodman. A molten rage erupted in his eyes and it was clear Goodman’s day was about to get worse.
‘Algy,’ shouted Kit. ‘Stop.’
Algy hesitated, looked at his cousin and stopped. He adored Kit. Hero-worshipped him. They had been close despite the ocean and continent between them. He had always looked up to Kit. The rank, his intelligence. Kit was the leader and Algy was fine with this.
Kit stepped forward and spoke directly to Goodman. Beside Kit, on the desk was the little black falcon. No one was looking at it now. There was only one subject on the minds of Kit and Algy.
‘What have you done with Miss Collins?’
‘Who?’ said Goodman. The voice was a purr again.
Hammett walked up to Goodman. Kit let him go. He knew Hammett would handle matters differently. In the light he was able to take a good look at the detective. He was neither tall nor short. Although probably younger than himself, his hair was turning grey, at least if the tuft on top was anything to go by. The moustache and the eyebrows were dark.
Hammett put his face up to Goodman’s, ‘You know where she is Goodman. Out with it or we’ll leave you in a room with lover boy here and see if he can get you to chat.’ Hammett gestured with his thumb towards Algy.
Goodman looked at Hammett and then at Algy. It was fairly evident that the young man was a nod and two seconds away from turning him into pulp. However, Goodman had survived prison once before, he had created a business buying and selling stolen goods. He had forged a transatlantic smuggling operation. There were ways around situations like this. All it took was the one weapon he had always relied on. The weapon that had kept him safe in prison and opened up a world of relative wealth.
Words.
Just words.
Deployed in the right way they could wound as deeply as any knife. He smiled. Kit immediately felt a tingle. His senses had become attuned to danger many years ago. He sensed Goodman had another card to play. And he guessed, too late, what that card was.
‘You would have me be an informant also?’ asked Goodman reasonably. ‘It seems to me I’ve done you a favour young man. Let’s be honest, Algernon. Your father had enough doubt, or should I say, sense, about this young lady to hire Mr Hammett to look into her past, or should I suggest affairs? Didn’t you, Alastair?
Alastair remained grim-faced. The eyes betray anger, but the heart felt the guilt.
Goodman had his audience now, ‘Yes, I think I’ve done you a favour young man. A man of your position. And Lord Alastair, here. What would society think if it were discovered you had married a prostitute?’
‘It’s not true,’ screamed Algy, taking a step forward. His eyes were wild. Had Hammett not stepped in between him and Goodman, there would have been only one outcome.
‘Believe what you want, young man. The plain fact of the matter is you don’t know. You only have her word that she wasn’t looking after Mr Lehane’s customers in the bedroom as well as on the floor of his nightclub.’
‘Enough, Goodman,’ snarled Hammett. He’d heard enough. He didn’t think much of Algy Aston, but this was like a cat playing with a mouse it intended killing. ‘You’ve made your point. But I think you’ve told me all I needed to know.’
‘Really?’ said Goodman.
Hammett walked up to Goodman and looked him in the eye. ‘Yes. I think I know who is holding Dain Collins.’ He walked over to the falcon, ‘I think it’s the same person who wants to buy this.’
Hammett picked up the bird and looked at it. It was shiny, less than a foot high. Surprisingly light. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want it, least of all kidnap or kill for it. He turned to the rest of the group and said, ‘She’s at a place called Lehane’s, just outside town. It’s a night club of sorts. Caters for a certain type of rich clientele who want to meet a certain type of young woman.’
Algy flinched at this. Hammett didn’t much care. He set the bird down. Kit walked over to it. He felt it in his hand. Its heft, or lack of, in this case. He tossed it around from hand to hand. Then, a cold rage came into his eyes, without warning he smashed it on the edge of Goodman’s table.
‘Kit,’ exclaimed Mary and Alastair in horror.
The black bird exploded into hundreds of fragments. ‘Keep your gun on our friends,’ warned Kit as he bent down to retrieve something that had fallen on the ground.
‘What have you done?’ asked Agatha, still in shock.
Kit stood up. He held a roll of paper in his hand. Inside, rolled up, was a canvas. Kit put it gently on the table and slowly revealed a painting. He held it up for the others to see.
‘This, I believe, is
an original Caravaggio. Created, as Mr Goodman said, on the island of Malta in 1607.’
It was a painting of a small black falcon on a perch, no more than nine inches by seven. A third of the painting was yellow ochre mixed with brown umber; the rest, aside from the falcon, was dark. The shadow cast by the falcon was enormous. A malevolent gleam of light in its dark eye.
‘It’s beautiful,’ whispered Mary.
Alastair was less impressed, ‘A bit dark for my tastes.’
‘No one asked you,’ pointed out Agatha.
Hammett looked at Kit and then back to the painting and shook his head. He had to know how Kit knew. So, he asked him.
‘When we travelled over on the Aquitania, I found the package. At first, I ignored it. I thought it was a present from either Mary or Aunt Agatha. After someone broke into the cabin, I had another look. The wrapping paper was dreadful. I credit Mary and my aunt with more taste.’
Goodman glared at Joel Israel. The latter kept his eyes well away from the big antique dealer. ‘
‘Idiot,’ snarled Goodman, angrily.
Kit smiled at this and continued, ‘I opened the package and found our friend here. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, so I sent a telegram to Reggie Pilbream, an archaeologist friend of mine who’s in Malta as we speak.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Mary, genuinely interested, and slightly put out that Kit had not said anything.
‘He’d no idea. Wasn’t much help if truth be told.’
‘I told you he’s a fathead,’ responded Agatha with exaggerated patience.
‘Anyway,’ smiled Kit, ‘I knew about the falcon long before we came to your store, Goodman. Your story made some sense even if you were clearly trying to mislead us. I mean a cheap piece of tat like this, an artefact made by the hand of Caravaggio?’ Kit laughed. And then the smile left his face. While he had been speaking the door to the office opened. A man was standing in the entrance.
