Ashton-Kirk, Criminologist Part 1

Ashton-Kirk, Criminologist.

by John T. McIntyre.

INTRODUCTION

It is always a task of much difficulty to select an experience of Ashton-Kirk's from among the many which have been set down in the records under his name.

A maze of episodes in these records attracts the mind, and one finds there a train of singular adventures, any one of which would make a book. The experiences which go to make up the volume "Ashton-Kirk, Investigator" were chosen because they dealt with a rather arabesque murder, the hidden features of which were brought to light in an extraordinary way. In "Ashton-Kirk, Secret Agent," the elements seemed uniquely mixed, and shed an unusual light upon the windings of European diplomacy.

In the third volume, "Ashton-Kirk, Special Detective," the note of horror was rung shrilly, and the confident talents of this extraordinary young man were brought smartly into play. It may be that the appearance in this history of the detective's big, good-natured, strong-handed friend, Bat Scanlon, had something to do with its finding a place in this series. In the present book this engaging personality has again a part in the drama.

But aside from this influence, the episode makes a powerful appeal; the brilliancy of the criminologist's work in the case treated here would surely have compelled a place for it in any list of his experiences.

CHAPTER I

THE GATHERING CLOUD

Impatiently, Ashton-Kirk threw down the last of the morning newspapers.

"Commonplace," said he. "And sordid. I am inclined to agree with De Quincey's 'Toad-in-the-Hole' that the age of great criminals has pa.s.sed."

The man to whom he spoke sat opposite him in the lounging room of Scanlon's Gymnasium; a pair of puffy white hands were folded over a bloated paunch; he had a sodden air of over-feeding and over-stimulation.

"And a good job, too," spoke this gentleman. "We can get along very well without those fellows."

"I am not sure that I quite agree with that," said Ashton-Kirk. He lighted a cigar and its smoke drifted across the high ceilinged room.

"Crimes are growing no fewer; and if we must have crimes I should personally prefer their perpetrators to have some little artistry."

The swollen gentleman grunted.

"You were always an odd kind of fish," said he. "But, you know, every one hasn't your love of this kind of thing."

"They have not given it the same amount of consideration, that is all.

An artist in crime is, in his way, well worthy of a certain sort of admiration. Who could drive a knife in a man's back with a braver air of deviltry than Benvenuto Cellini? And yet he could turn himself from the deed and devote himself to the producing of a Perseus, or to playing the flute well enough to attract the attention of a Pope. And his own countrymen, the Borgias, had as pretty a talent for a.s.sa.s.sination as they had for government."

"Very like," admitted the other. "But ain't we well rid of such bloodthirsty apes?"

Ashton-Kirk smiled.

"I wonder," said he, "if you have ever read an engaging little volume called 'A Book of Scoundrels.' No? Well, I was afraid that would be so.

And you have missed a treat. However, I suppose we can't expect every one to enthuse over such things. It has been said of music that the ability to appreciate it is only second to that of being able to produce it. And this must also be true in the case of crime.

"Stevenson, now, had a magnificent appreciation for a well executed enormity. In his story 'Markheim' he gives a skilful picture of a really deft a.s.sa.s.sination; and in the 'Suicide Club' he has created what I would cla.s.s as a master criminal. The Russian writers have a power in this mood that is truly wonderful. Dostoyeffsky in his 'Crime and Punishment' has conceived a most tremendous homicide--one which would have thrilled De Quincey himself."

The listener held up one pudgy hand in protest.

"Don't," he requested. "Please don't. No more. If you knew what I've gone through you wouldn't dwell on this theme."

Just then a very big man with ma.s.sive shoulders and chest came in; he was about forty-five, but he looked pink and swift and fit; and as he paused at the side of the heavy paunched one, the latter looked physically shabby in contrast.

"h.e.l.lo!" Bat Scanlon, trainer, ex-wrestling champion, and border character, greeted Ashton-Kirk with a pleased look. "Glad to see you.

Come in to dust off the mat with me?"

"I think I will take a turn," replied the criminologist, as he yawned, with widely stretched arms. "I've been going a bit stale lately."

Scanlon turned his glance upon the other man.

"How are you, Mr. Dennison?" he said. "Back once more, eh?"

"Believe me, it's not because I want to," returned Dennison, huskily.

"It's because I have to. I'm not right, Scanlon; I can't stand anything out of the ordinary. Just a little extra tax on me, and I'm done."

Bat surveyed him, valuingly.

"No wonder," said he. "You've got a belt of felt about your waist that only a champion could wear. You must have kept your feet under the table many and many a bitter hour to win it."

"Now, confound it," said the pudgy one, exasperated, "I don't eat so much."

"Maybe not." Scanlon looked his disbelief. "But the pangs of hunger and you are not very intimate. Your most active moments are spent in a limousine or a club window." He winked humorously at Ashton-Kirk. "I'll say nothing against the limousine; it's a fine invention; but legs were made to walk on. And if you think the club window thing will ever reduce the size of your collar, you're bound to be a disappointed man."

"But I ride every day in the park," said Dennison, "and I go to the country club three times a week for my golf."

"Riding is a grand exercise--for the horse," commented the athlete. "And the people who get the most out of a golf course are paid for what they do."

"Well, a fellow's social life must be seen to," said the defective one, a fat white hand stroking an equally fat, but blue, jowl. "He's got to have a bit to eat and drink, and a trifle of leisure to look things over."

A telephone bell rang in another room, and a squeaky voice was heard answering the call.

"If you care to come in every day and work, all right," said Scanlon, carelessly, for he understood the case perfectly. "But the eating and drinking must scale down to what I think is right."

Dennison appealed to Ashton-Kirk.

"The last time he had me here, he made me toil like a day laborer, and feed like his helper," said he, gloomily. "But I've got to stand it, confound the luck. I'm too short in the neck to carry weight and stand excitement. That thing fairly floored me when I heard it this morning."

"What thing?" asked Ashton-Kirk.

Dennison looked at the speaker as though astonished that any one could be for even a moment in doubt as to his meaning.

"Why," said he, "that murder--last night."

"I guess that's one I haven't heard about," said Bat Scanlon, and Ashton-Kirk regarded the man with the paunch steadily, but said nothing.

"Not heard of that!" The man pointed an amazed finger at the discarded heap about the investigator's chair. "Why, every paper in town is just screaming about it. The police are at a standstill. The papers say they don't know what to do."