The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Bit late now,’ pointed out Agatha, before draining the rest of her gin.

  Alastair looked at his new guests. Noting their glasses were full he asked them, ‘So what news of our friends?’

  ‘They’re in the caboose,’ answered Mulroney.

  Mary looked to Kit mystified. He shrugged.

  Agatha shook her head and said in exasperation, ‘Prison for goodness sakes. Don’t you young people read anything?’

  Alastair looked delighted at the news regarding Goodman. At last some good was going to come from this sordid affair. He said as much.

  Mulroney explained, ‘Apparently Goodman and Joel Israel stole this painting from a rich guy in Constantinople. They killed some ship’s captain as well. With a harpoon if I understood correctly. Mr Goodman is going to spend a long time in a Turkish prison.’

  ‘Well, it just gets better,’ announced Alastair with a wide grin. However, he noted that neither Mulroney nor Hammett seemed quite so overjoyed by the news. But no matter, he thought.

  Kit, too, had picked up on the mood of the two detectives from the moment they arrived. He felt uneasy as it chimed with his own thoughts of the last few hours.

  ‘So, all’s well that ends well,’ said Alastair, hoping to raise the mood of the party. He could see it was doomed to fail.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Hammett.

  ‘Why?’ asked Alastair.

  ‘We still have the death of Dan Cowan to consider.’

  Kit noted he didn’t say murder. He also noted Hammett was looking at him again. The longer the conversation went on, the heavier his heart felt. But this was something else. Alastair was asking the two detectives what they meant. He was becoming irritable. Kit recognised the signs.

  ‘Uncle Alastair,’ said Kit, which immediately silenced the elderly man. ‘I think Mr Hammett and Mulroney aren’t on a social call.’

  Algy looked up and became aware that Kit and Hammett were both looking at him intently. He ran his hands through his hair once more. A look of desolation on his face. He looked up at his father. There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘I killed him, father,’ said Algy. ‘I killed Cowan.’

  ‘No, Algernon, stop at once,’ said Alastair, a note of desperation in his voice.

  ‘No, pops, it’s true,’ said Algy resignedly. ‘It was an accident. You must believe me. He was blackmailing Dain. I confronted him. He said some awful things. Terrible things. Anyway, I lost my temper. He pulled a gun on me, but I was past caring. I just wanted to...’

  ‘Kill him?’ asked Hammett.

  Algy glared at Hammett, ‘Yes, I wanted to kill him. But that’s not what happened. I swiped the gun out of the way. The gun went off. I smacked him. I smacked him hard. He fell down and hit the back of his head against the table. He was dead. I couldn’t believe it.’

  Algy collapsed into tears, repeating I killed him, over and over again. Alastair went over to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry son, I think the gentlemen can see your story is true. And we have Saul. This is a clear case of self-defence.’

  ‘Saul Finkelstein?’ asked Mulroney, his face sinking.

  Alastair almost grinned at this point. He nodded and said ‘Yes, Saul Finkelstein.’

  A few minutes later, Algy was taken away by Mulroney to be charged. Alastair was already on the phone to his lawyer. When he came back to the group, he seemed in better spirits.

  ‘Saul will meet them down at City Hall. Somehow, I don’t think this will end so badly. It sounds as if Mr Cowan was a bigger gangster than Lehane.’

  Hammett could not disagree with this assessment but felt an uneasy sense of loyalty if not to Cowan then to the idea of what a colleague is. He said nothing to this. He looked up at Alastair Aston.

  ‘Your son will do time, however good Finkelstein is, and I‘ve heard he’s good.’

  Alastair looked away. He knew this also. There was little chance Algy could escape some form of incarceration. What was left was the hope that the justice system would see the circumstances, the individuals involved and mitigate their sentence accordingly.

  ‘What about Dain Collins or Danielle Masters? Will the same happen to her?’ asked Mary.

  ‘No, I think that the story of the maid makes it clear that Miss Masters, and the maid also, were in danger of being killed. It’s a much stronger case for self-defence.’

  Kit looked at his uncle. His stomach tightened as he felt the guilt slowly envelop him. The overwhelming feeling that he should have done more to protect Algy. His uncle returned his gaze. Mary held her breath. Would he see Kit’s actions as betrayal? She hoped not. The two men were standing a few feet apart.

  Silence.

  A light wind licked against Mary’s face as she looked at her fiancé and his uncle.

  ‘Uncle Alastair,’ started Kit. He paused. What could he say? Sorry for helping jail your son?

  But there was no hatred in his uncle’s eyes, just understanding. Tears also. As much as he believed his son, as much as he trusted Saul, the future was uncertain. He shook his head and put his hand on Kit’s arm.

  ‘My boy, you did the right thing. I would ask no less from you.’

  My boy thought Mary. She heard it again. My boy. A thought, an idea. An unsayable truth. Mary was aware of Aunt Agatha’s eyes on her. The two ladies locked eyes for a moment.

  My boy.

  Families have secrets.

  Mary turned to Kit. His face could not hide the despair he was feeling. There were no words of comfort, though. They would come later. For now, she held him.

  ‘What will happen to Danielle now?’ asked Mary, after a while.

  It was Alastair who answered, ‘She stays here until Algernon returns. The poor girl has been through enough.’

  His manner had changed. Gone was the haunted gaze. He stood erect, a fire in his eyes. He turned to Hammett.

  ‘How long do you think it will take to cure her of this terrible illness?’

  ‘A week, no more than two,’ said Hammett. He seemed satisfied by what he’d heard. He added, ‘All she’s known are men out to use her. She needs help.’ Hammett paused for a moment and looked at Alastair. ‘Will you look after her?’

  The two men faced each other. Alastair nodded. Hammett exhaled then nodded also. Then Alastair turned and shouted, ’Ella-Mae.’

  ‘Yes,’ said a voice behind him.

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t do that, anyway...’

  ‘I’ve made up her bedroom,’ interrupted Ella-Mae.

  ‘Oh, well, very good,’ said Alastair. He went with the housekeeper, giving instructions that, apparently, had already been carried out. At last Mary felt able to smile as the two elderly combatants’ voices receded into the distance.

  Hammett turned to Kit, ‘At least there’s one decent man in this city.’

  Kit looked at Hammett and smiled.

  ‘I think there are two, Mr Hammett.’

  -

  The job was finished. It was time to write it up for the company files. Time to get Geauque back on his case for writing such elaborate summaries. They were meant to be reports, he would say, not fiction.

  Hammett stood up. The moment had come for him to leave. Kit and Mary rose and accompanied him through the mansion to the entrance hall.

  ‘How did you know it was Algy, by the way?’ asked Kit. Hammett smiled and shook his head.

  ‘The hat: Cowan wasn’t wearing his hat. It meant the body had been moved. I guessed someone like Algy would have had the strength to do this, certainly not Dain Collins. After this it was more of a feeling. He had the motive. He’s a strong kid, so he certainly had the wherewithal. And he had the temper. How about you?’

  Kit grinned, ‘Normally I’m in favour of facts and evidence.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Hammett laughing.

  ‘Rather like you, I had a bad feeling. Then when I saw how you were ragging him...’

  ‘Sorry?’ asked Hammett, smiling. ‘I don’t speak English
so good.’

  ‘You don’t do too badly if I may say. Anyway, I could see you were goading him. I realised then that you suspected him of the killing.’

  ‘Remind me not to play poker against you.’

  Mary stepped forward and gave the Pinkerton man a peck on his cheek and thanked him. Then she asked him, ‘What will you do now?’

  Hammett shrugged, ‘I have to write the case notes up. I think I’ll call it the Case of the Maltan Falcon. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

  Mary made a face that indicated not. She pointed out, ‘There’s no such word as Maltan, Mr Hammett.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Hammett, a little perplexed and clearly disappointed. ‘What should it be, then?’

  So Mary told him.

  Coda

  His heart was pounding as hard as rain bouncing off the sidewalk. He was soaked. The sooner this case was over the better. He stepped off the sidewalk onto the road. Gutters were overflowing. His foot was submerged in a puddle. He swore. Ahead he could see his quarry. The man he was after had ducked into a pool hall. His heart sank. This would make it difficult. He glanced up at his partner.

  Or maybe not.

  Danny’s Pool Hall was a dive best avoided. Situated in a semi-derelict part of town, only the most hardened of hard cases found themselves here. Even the cockroaches carried knives.

  The letter ‘L’ was missing from the word ‘Pool’ resulting in child passers-by stopping and sniggering. He motioned to his partner to follow him. They were outside the pool hall now.

  ‘Stay here. I’ll go in first and see if I can reason with him. If it looks like trouble, then do what you think best.’

  His partner nodded.

  He pushed the door open and walked in like he was a regular. His throat felt dry and he found breathing difficult. His hand reached inside his pocket seeking something metal to reassure him. Any hope of quietly slipping into the joint was killed quicker than a stooly at a convicts’ convention. Everyone looked up from their pool games. There was a hush, aside from one player who had just played a shot. It clicked against another ball.

  “Lazy-Bones” Larry clapped his hands, slowly. ‘Well, well, well. If it ain’t my old pal Foley. What brings you here?’

  ‘I need you to come with me, Larry,’ said Foley. ‘Now,’ he added with a certainty he wasn’t feeling.

  “Lazy-Bones” started laughing. He was joined by half a dozen other players. Then the laughing stopped and six friends of “Lazy-Bones” picked up their cues and began to advance slowly on Foley.

  The door opened behind Foley.

  ‘This is my friend,’ said Foley. ‘His name’s Harry. He dislikes rudeness. I mean, he really, really doesn’t like rude people.’

  The pool players stopped and looked at one another. Harry was around seven feet of very bad news. None of the players particularly liked “Lazy-Bones” anyway. At that moment the joint’s name accurately reflected the churning stomachs of the six men who knew their next move would be one of the most important decisions of their lives.

  It wasn’t a difficult decision.

  -

  Frank Nelson put the phone down after passing the message to the woman. He felt uncomfortable, however. It hadn’t felt right. A few minutes later he went back and phoned Lehane again. No answer. He tried again ten minutes later. Still no answer. He shrugged. Nothing else to be done. He went home. To bed.

  He arrived at City Hall, around eight the next morning. He exited at eight fifteen minus his badge and gun. All the way out of the building he saw his former colleagues looking at him. They were shaking their heads. He suspected they were not disapproving of him being on the take so much as getting caught so stupidly. They were right.

  At the exit of City Hall, he saw the young policeman, Moore, standing waiting for someone. Nelson’s mood was pretty sour. One last poke at the kid would do his mood the world of good he thought. He walked over to the young man.

  ‘Waiting for your boyfriend?’ asked Nelson.

  ‘No, you.’

  Moments later Nelson was lying on the sidewalk, his nose broken and head ringing.

  ‘Bye, sweetie,’ said Moore, turning and walking back into the Hall.

  -

  Evening at Lake Como was breath-taking from where Comte Jean-Valois du Bourbon was standing. He was just inside the entrance to the villa, a long journey at an end. He removed his cloak and walked through the villa to the terrace. The colour of the sky was cyan blue.

  A man and a woman were sitting on the terrace. A bottle of white wine was open. There were three glasses. Bourbon could think of no better way to celebrate the arrival of their prize. The two people were young, perhaps his age or younger. Both had blond hair. The woman’s hair was a bubbling mass of curls, untamed, untameable. The man’s hair was combed apart from a strand that descended lazily from his forehead. He had a trimmed moustache. Everything about him, his voice, his posture, his clothes suggested nobility.

  Both looked up at the new arrival. They knew one other too well for formalities. The man pushed the seat out, then removed the wine bottle from the ice bucket and poured white wine into Bourbon’s glass as he took his seat.

  ‘Merci, mon ami,’ said Bourbon. He kissed the young woman on both cheeks.

  ‘Good to see you again, Jean-Valois. And congratulations. A job well done. We can’t wait to hear all about it,’ said the man.

  ‘First things first, Olly,’ said Bourbon. From his pocket he extracted a rolled up piece of newspaper. He placed it on the table and unrolled it. Inside was a painting of a falcon.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Olly Lake. ‘What do you think, Kristina?’

  She smiled that enigmatic smile and nodded.

  ‘I said hello to Lord Aston for you,’ said Bourbon.

  A shadow fell over Olly Lake’s eyes.

  Kit.

  Kristina saw the change in mood in her lover. She held his hand. She said in an accent with more than hint of Russian, ‘Strange how your paths keep crossing.’

  Olly Lake exhaled.

  ‘Can’t you persuade him to join us?’ asked Bourbon.

  Lake shook his head, then stopped himself. Was it possible? Could he really do this? How? He thought about the young woman Kit was to marry. An idea occurred to him. An idea so terrible he stopped himself thinking any further about it. Kit was his friend. Had been his friend. A brother almost. But every war had casualties. Friends, enemies, sons, daughters, lovers, husbands and wives.

  Could he do this to Kit?

  One more?

  For the greater good?

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lake. ‘I do know we’ll see him again, though.’ He picked up his glass, it felt heavy in his hand. He forced a smile. The others held their glasses up also. They clinked.

  ‘To the future. A new future.’

  -

  The courtroom was packed. On one side sat the prosecution, looking on grimly as a little lawyer strode backwards and forwards, like an amateur Hamlet, mid soliloquy. This was Saul Finkelstein’s stage. It was his coliseum. He was the lion, and the pasty-faced prosecutor was a sacrificial victim.

  ‘And so, gentlemen of the jury,’ said Saul Finkelstein, ‘this man, this war hero sits before you guilty only of, once more, putting the life of another before his own. He is not a murderer, he is the protector of an innocent, young girl whose life has been a testimony to the exploitative, baser instincts of men.’

  Far from using this as his big finish, Saul Finkelstein, one hour into his summing up, was just beginning to warm to the task.

  ‘Let me tell you about the type of family this man has come from.’

  The opposing prosecutor nestled deep into the cushion he had brought specially. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  -

  Alastair Aston gazed out at the audience. Half a dozen pressmen and another dozen civic politicians, notaries and wives of said public officials looked on at the man and the young woman standing beside him outside the
Christina Alvarez Shelter for Young Women.

  To the ringing applause of all present Alastair said, ‘I hereby declare this centre open.’ He nodded to the young woman holding his hand. She duly cut a ribbon taped across the double doors of the building. He looked at her and grinned, whispering, ‘Don’t stab me.’

  The look of mischief in the grey-green eyes of the young woman suggested he was safe for the time being. She chuckled as she held his hand. Her laughter was the sound of water skipping over rocks in a brook during summer. Alastair’s heart swelled and he felt tears begin to sting his eyes.

  Tears of joy.

  -

  Sidney Goodman also felt like crying. The heat was unbearable. If that wasn’t enough, the food in his new residence was unendurable. He had lost weight. A lot of weight, in fact. Not that many would have noticed.

  It was just after lunch. The prison yard was full. Yet, Goodman stood alone for the very good reason he spoke not a word of Turkish. There were not many English speakers in the Constantinople jail. In fact, to his knowledge, there was only one other.

  Across the prison yard he saw Joel Israel looking daggers at him. They still had not exchanged so much as a pleasantry since Goodman’s mean spirited and, in hindsight, ill-judged criticism of his former partner back in San Francisco.

  The thought of San Francisco was like a corked wine on the palate of this aesthete. He had to escape. This life could not continue. His mind turned over a thousand possibilities, all stumbling at the one inescapable reality. Unless he could communicate with those around him, his only weapon, his one great gift was rendered redundant.

  He felt the presence of another man beside him. Asurman Yildiz was serving life for murdering, amongst others, his wife, her lover and her lover’s family. He had committed the murders thirty three years previously. Goodman looked at the old man and shuddered.

  Yildiz looked at Goodman and smiled a shy, toothless smile. He raised his eyebrows hopefully. Gad, thought Goodman, I must find a way out of this hell-hole. Learn Turkish perhaps? Maybe there was a way of reconciling with Joel. There had to be a way out.

  He felt the hand of Yildiz brush against his own.