The St. Lucia Island Club , livre ebook

THE
ST. LUCIA
ISLAND CLUB
THE
ST. LUCIA
ISLAND CLUB
A JOHN LE BRUN NOVEL
by
Brent Monahan
Turner Publishing Company 424 Church Street Suite 2240 Nashville, Tennessee 37219 445 Park Avenue 9th Floor New York, New York 10022
www.turnerpublishing.com
The St. Lucia Island Club, A Novel
Copyright 2016 Brent Monahan.
All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design: Maddie Cothren Book design: Glen Edelstein
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Monahan, Brent, 1948- author. Title: The St. Lucia Island club / by Brent Monahan. Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Turner Publishing Company, [2016] | Series: A John Le Brun novel ; book 5 Identifiers: LCCN 2015047650 | ISBN 9781681620411 (softcover) Subjects: LCSH: Le Brun, John (Fictitious character)--Fiction. | Murder--Investigation--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. Classification: LCC PS3563.O5158 S69 2016 | DDC 813/.54--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015047650
Printed in the United States of America 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Caitlin
CHAPTER ONE
May 23, 1910
JOHN LE BRUN STROLLED INTO Gramercy Park, smiling at the sudden softening of city noise. In the past five years, as automobile and truck traffic replaced the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves and the soft squeal of wooden wheels, the mechanical din on thoroughfares such as Park and Lexington Avenues had become truly annoying to the man who spent most of his life in the sleepy South. After more than a few days on Manhattan Island, he invariably sought out isolated, bosky squares, to remind him of Brunswick, Georgia, his relaxed, refined hometown. He tipped his hat to an elderly couple descending the steps of one of the dignified brownstone residences.
Le Brun had retired from the position of sheriff of the southern seaport in 1906, but a series of opportunities had allowed him to open a lucrative detective agency in New York City. This, and the fact that his wife, Lordis, had been anchored to Manhattan by a solemn promise until only a month earlier, fostered train trips to and from Georgia approximately four times a year.
The periodic shuttling was not in the slightest perturbing to the Southern gentleman; for most of his life he had longed to live where libraries, museums, bookstores, and theaters abounded. He was less enamored of the proliferation of American men s clubs, slavishly based on the London mania, but he was quite proud of the fact that the Player s Club had made him an honorary member. Housed in the converted Gramercy Park residence of departed god of the American stage Edwin Booth, the all-male club was the gathering place of the creative arts elite. The club also accepted accomplished men of other professions who enjoyed rubbing shoulders and hoisting drinks with actors, singers, writers, painters, poets, and the like.
After being vetted by the club s doorman, John descended to the bar, where he encountered one of his favorite members. Henry Fisk Carlton was the author of popular American historical books. Upon spying Le Brun, Carlton flung his arms wide.
John! What a wonderful happenstance! He crooked his fingers to encourage Le Brun s advance. Tugging on the sleeve of his drinking companion, whom John did not recognize, Henry drew him from the bar. Cleveland, this is Mr. John Le Brun, the preferred detective of the New York rich and the solver of several impossibly thorny murders.
Before John could soften the introduction with a bit of self-effacement, the historian said, And this is Cleveland Moffett, editor of the Sunday Herald .
Until recently, the man disclosed, nodding stiffly from the waist. At liberty right now. John noted that he parted his hair high on his head and slightly to the left and that he did not trim his bushy eyebrows. Beneath the twin caterpillars, his fixed stare and protruding lower lip gave him a hawkish demeanor. His starched collar was so wide that he seemed to be wearing a neck brace.
But more appropriate to the wonderful happenstance, Carlton continued, Mr. Moffett is the author of several celebrated mystery shorts. Have you read The Mysterious Card ?
John shifted uncomfortably at the situation his friend Henry had put him in. I m sorry. I can t say that-
I m surprised, given your omnivorous reading habits, Carlton declared. To Moffett he said, But then again, John lives in Georgia, and The Black Cat is published in Boston, is it not?
Correct, said the mystery writer.
A corker of a periodical, Henry Carlton assured. At any rate, Cleveland s unique angle is not revealing the answer to whatever puzzle he poses. The printed speculations and public clamor for solutions have made him quite a literary celebrity. As an afterthought, Carlton said, Like Frank Stockton s The Lady or the Tiger, which you surely have read.
More than once, John responded. The first time was at least a couple decades ago, in The Century . But Stockton did not withhold his solution.
He most certainly did! Carlton insisted. He went to his grave without revealing whether the princess signaled for the young man to open the arena door that exposed her rival or the man-eating tiger.
Cleveland Moffett s eyes narrowed, and the corner of his mouth curled into a slight smile. I was under the same impression as Henry. What makes you believe Stockton revealed the answer to his puzzle?
It s right in the story, as are the solutions to all well- written mysteries, Le Brun replied. If memory serves, Stockton s openin line is somethin like In an ancient time, there lived a semi-barbaric king. Everythin in that first sentence comes right out of fairy tales, epics, and legends. Everythin but the unusual word semi-barbaric, which makes the adjective vitally important. The story is very short, yet semi-barbaric and barbaric are used at least ten times. The king s daughter, who has paid to know behind which doors stand the tiger and the lady, is point-blank told to be barbaric. Such a woman would not allow her assumed rival for the young man s affection to win the day. She nods to the door on the right, behind which waits the tiger.
You re absolutely convinced that he will die, Moffett said.
John caught the eye of the bartender. Bourbon and water, if you please. Then he returned his focus to the writer of mysteries. No, that I cannot determine. Before his response could settle in, he added, Because the author does not tell me if the young man was clever enough to understand that the practices of a land come from the attitudes of the person in charge. Therefore, the child of a man who is barbaric will learn the way of her immediate world from her father s lap.
Hmmph! exclaimed Henry Carlton.
John concluded, That s the reason behind the sayin If you want to kill a snake, chop off its head. I live in a port town, with many warehouses. Over the years, I ve observed that if the owner is nasty, the workforce becomes nasty all the way down the peckin order; if he s kindly, the workers tend to reflect his behavior. Stockton s imaginary land is barbaric all the way down.
Well, it s a pleasure to meet such a thoughtful man, whether you re right or not, said Cleveland Moffett, offering his hand. I shall have to re-read Stockton s story very carefully.

THE HEADQUARTERS OF the John Le Brun Detective Agency was well concealed. It was located on a West Side Midtown block containing several street-level businesses that promoted themselves with large, sometimes-garish signage. The agency, run with no outside advertising, also served as the parlor of Mr. and Mrs. Martin McMahon. Mary McMahon was the manager of the operation, with all other employees working part-time as demand warranted. The investigators were almost all retired New York policemen who enjoyed a periodic infusion of extra cash from investigating the backgrounds of would-be fianc s of the daughters of wealthy families, exposing cheating husbands and wives, guarding the guests and presents at weddings, or protecting masquerade ball attendees from the starving masses who waited for them with rotten produce on hotel sidewalks.
Le Brun climbed the front stoop of the McMahons three-story tenement. The backfire of a passing motorized van caused him to pivot toward the street, drop into a crouch, and reach under his suit jacket tails, where his revolver was holstered. He realized a moment later what had caused the sharp report, straightened up, and continued to the double doors.
When he entered the parlor, John saw from her amused expression that Mary must have witnessed his skittishness from one of the two front windows. He had hired Mary for her sharp mind and eyes and her inquisitive nature, which caused her to check on the busy street beyond the panes of glass far more than surrounding inhabitants were wont to do. Irish lace hung inside the windows, offering ample spaces to allow Mary to use her keen vision even as the lace protected those outside from seeing her.
Listen, John, I don t know that it will bring any money into our till, Mary said as Le Brun hung his hat on the coat tree next to the parlor door, but I was over at Maeve McGillicuddy s this morning and I saw something peculiar.
Do tell, John said, inviting the rest of her tale. He knew that Mary was not the long-winded type, given to holding attention with protracted, one-sided conversations. However, her observational powers and penchant for detail sometimes turned a short report into a novella.
She lives a block south, on Thirty-seventh. The shade side, same as us. So it s easy to observe not only what goes on acr