Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (10 page)

There was no signature and Phryne had no time to puzzle over it. She included the small package in her larger one, wrapped them up and addressed them to Dr MacMillan, with a brief note asking for an analysis, and only breathed a deep breath once the parcel had been stamped and consigned to the mercies of the post office.

Wondering about the Princesse and if she were trying to frame her, Phryne went into a cash chemist and bought a packet of bicarbonate of soda wrapped in white paper and sealed with red wax.

It was only ten in the morning, and Phryne was at a loose end. Eventually, she decided to see a newsreel as a painless way of passing the time, and spent a blameless hour learning about sterile dairies. One never knew when such knowledge might come in handy.

At twelve Phryne walked back to the hotel, to dress for Lydia Andrews’ luncheon party. The weather was brisk and cool, and she chose a linen suit and draped herself in a loose cloth coat in dark brown, and called a taxi, all without waking Sasha, who was sleeping very deeply. Phryne wondered about this slumber, which seemed unnaturally profound, and was minded to jab her hatpin into him to see if it had some effect—but decided against it. One did not jab fauns with hatpins, and she expected it to be a trying afternoon; it was not a good idea to begin it with a bad deed on one’s conscience.

She arrived at the Andrews’ address at ten past one, and saw that two chauffeur-driven cars were waiting outside. This pleased her. A tête-á-tête with Lydia was not an attractive proposition. Three ladies were seated at the luncheon table as she entered the neat, pastel-coloured house and gave her coat to a very small maid in pale blue. Phryne recognised only Lydia, sitting at the table with her back to Phryne. The two
inconnues
stared at her levelly. One was short and plump; one was short and thin. Their combined heights would not have reached the ceiling. They were both of indeterminate colouring, clothing and style, and Phryne had to keep saying to herself, even after they had been introduced, ‘Ariadne is the thin one, Beatrice is the fat one.’

Lydia was overdressed in a pink Fuji dress, silk stockings, and a tasteless costume brooch in the shape of a flying bird that was enamelled in dark green and studded with stones so large that they must have been paste. She was tapping a pink pencil on a row of figures in a small notebook.

‘Tell your husband that I disagree with him,’ stated Lydia firmly. ‘There is no profit to be got from these chancy gold shares. He can obtain three per cent from the companies on this list and I will advise you further should you decide to invest. I put seven thousand into Greater Foodstuffs and the dividends are excellent. I recommend it. And don’t touch any share promoted by Bobby Matthews. He’s a confidence man if ever I saw one.’

‘You’ve always given me good advice,’ murmured Beatrice, ‘I put my little savings into the Riverina scheme and I’ve been very pleased with the result. If you say the Greater Foodstuffs is good, I’ll tell Henry to invest.’

‘You won’t regret it,’ said Lydia. ‘Look at these accounts.’ Beatrice scanned the list of figures. ‘That’s not much of a profit,’ she commented. Lydia glared pityingly at her innumerate friend.

‘Beatrice, that’s the telephone number.’

Phryne coughed, and watched Lydia melt into a poor little girl in front of her very eyes.

‘Oh, Miss Fisher!’ simpered Lydia. ‘Meet my guests . . .’

A cocktail was provided for Phryne, though the others were taking sherry, a drink which Phryne abominated. She attributed this to having got drunk for the first time at the age of fifteen at a dormy feast on cheap sweet sherry; the memory of that hangover would have caused a girl with less courage to swear off alcohol for life. The smell of sherry still made her faintly nauseous.

‘Tell me about your family, Miss Fisher,’ gushed Lydia, and Phryne tried the cocktail—it had been made with absinthe, which she did not drink—and obliged with a full description of her father’s inheritance, his landholdings, his title and his house. Ariadne and Beatrice remained resolutely unimpressed, but Lydia was ecstatic.

‘Oh, then you must have met my father—the Colonel. He’s invited everywhere.’

‘Yes, I believe I may have,’ agreed Phryne. It was never wise to swear that one had never met a person when this could easily be checked.

‘But you are not drinking—is the cocktail not to your taste?’ added Lydia, and Phryne murmured that it was excellent. She was beginning to feel a little dizzy, and decided that one really needed to be in good athletic standing to indulge in Turkish baths. Phryne pulled herself together with an effort; the ladies had changed the subject, and were now discuss- ing the social event at Mrs Cryer’s last night.

‘They said that those Russian dancers were there,’ said Ariadne breathlessly.

‘And that one of the ladies danced a most abandoned tango with the boy,’ confided Beatrice, oblivious of Lydia’s attempts to catch her eye. ‘Disgustingly indecent, but skilful, I heard. I always think that too great a proficiency in dancing shows that a girl is really fast. Who was it, Lydia? Some flapper, I suppose.’

Lydia, at length managing to capture her friend’s attention, pointed circumspectly at Phryne. Beatrice did not turn a hair.

‘I expect that you learned to dance on the Continent, Miss Fisher,’ was her only comment, and Phryne agreed that this was so. To Lydia’s relief, the luncheon was now announced. Lydia led the way into a charming breakfast-room with potted plants and ruffled curtains. Phryne, carrying the cocktail, decanted it unobtrusively into a potted palm against which she had no personal grudge, and hoped that it would not give her away by dying too rapidly.

The luncheon was excellent—light and cool, salads and ham and meringues—followed by cup upon cup of very good coffee. The ladies lit cigarettes and the conversation became personal.

All three of them, it seemed, had unsatisfactory husbands. John Andrews was cruel, crushing and often absent, Ariadne’s husband was persistently unfaithful, and Beatrice’s a habitual gambler.

Lydia hinted, dabbing at her unreddened eyes with a perfectly white, perfectly dry handkerchief, at sexual perversions too grim for words. Phryne pressed a little, hoping that words might be found, but Lydia just shook her head with a martyred expression and sighed.

Phryne attempted to ascertain John Andrews’ nature, but the picture of him gleaned through Lydia’s sighs was curiously unconvincing. Phryne knew that he was crude, cruel and a man who relished power, but she could not envisage him as intelligent enough to invent the complex tortures at which his wife hinted. Mr Ariadne was a banker; Mr Beatrice was an importer and stock-jobber. The litany of misery went on until Phryne could bear it no longer. She was sleepy, after the bath, and it was four o’clock. She stood up.

‘It is my turn next, Lydia,’ she said, patting the stricken woman on the shoulder and receiving that disagreeable frisson one gets from touching a fish. ‘Come to lunch with me at the Windsor tomorrow.’

‘Oh, not tomorrow—I can’t come tomorrow. Besides, I expect that you are very busy. I’ll call you, shall I?’

‘Yes, do,’ agreed Phryne, rather bewildered by this abrupt unclinging of one whom she had diagnosed as an inveterate clinger. ‘Nice to meet you, ladies. Good day!’

She resisted the impulse to run. The three women had seemed to be watching her closely. What was this all about?

‘Do you have any advice as to stocks I could buy?’ she asked, conscious of her speech blurring. She was tired; and Lydia was watching her narrowly.

‘Oh, Lydia is the person to advise you,’ gushed Beatrice.

‘My husband says that she has a mind like a man when it comes to money. Of course, she’s made her fortune in her own right—it’s all her own money, so she can spend it or invest it as she likes.’

This was not in accord with Phryne’s briefing at all. She wondered where Lydia had got her money. From her husband? It did not seem likely. Feeling increasingly unwell, she left.

CHAPTER NINE

To hunt sweet love and lose him Between white arms and bosom Between the bud and blossom Between your throat and chin.

Algernon Swinburne ‘Before Dawn’

Phryne returned to the hotel feeling sleepy out of all proportion to her exertions. She wondered what had been in the bitter tea (of which she had drunk three cups), at Madame Breda’s. She sent a boy down to the kitchen for mustard and mixed herself an impressive emetic. She began to be sure that she had been poisoned. Calmly and coldly, she drank down a large quantity of the revolting mixture, sat quietly until it worked, then dosed herself again.

Phryne began to shiver, and drank down a glass of milk in small sips. Her digestion settled down, after its rude shock, and she was suddenly very awake, purged and cold.

She decided that she was not going to be sick again, cleaned up carefully, and opened the bathroom window to freshen the air. She inhaled several breaths of smoky normality before she shut the window, and decided that the best thing to do was to go to bed until she was back to human temperatures again.

She undressed, dropping her clothes on the floor, and padded barefoot to the huge bed, heaped with covers, dived in and snuggled down. She wanted to think, but fell asleep in a moment, exhausted.

Waking about two hours later to voices in the sitting-room, she heard someone say clearly, ‘That’ll fix her!’ and the outer door shut. The lock clicked. Phryne tiptoed out to the doorway and surveyed the room. Only one thing had been moved: her coat. She picked it up and shook it. Out of the deep pocket flew the third small crunchy packet of the day, and this time Phryne was taking no chances. She opened it, and shook out some powder; touched to the end of her tongue, it had a powerfully numbing effect. She flushed packet and powder down the water-closet.

She surveyed the room helplessly. Nothing else appeared to have been moved. She was sure that the voices had not been there long; she usually woke easily. Perhaps they would not have had time to secrete any more little packages. She noticed that her main door had a bolt, and she threw it, then put herself back to bed, puzzled. The bed was heaped with bolsters and could have slept a regiment.

It was when she rolled over to the centre of the massive bed and encountered a warm human body that she realised Sasha had not gone.

He woke as she touched him, and enfolded her in a close embrace; feeling her instant resistance, he released her and fumbled until he found a hand. This he began to kiss, delic- ately, only stopping in his passage up her arm to answer her questions.

‘Sasha, what are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you.’

‘Why are you waiting for me?’

‘I want you,’ he said in surprise. ‘You are magnificent. I also, am magnificent. We shall be magnificent together,’ he concluded placidly, reaching her shoulder and burying his face in her neck.

This accorded with Phryne’s idea of the situation, and as far as she could see Sasha did not constitute a danger to her life. Her virtue, she felt, could take care of itself.

‘Were you asleep when I went out to lunch?’ she asked, relaxing into his arms and running her hands down his muscular back with pleasure.

‘Certainly. I can sleep anywhere and I had not slept for three nights; therefore I sleep like a dog.’

‘Log,’ corrected Phryne absently, as the skilful mouth crept down toward her breast, and she felt her body beginning to react. ‘Kiss me again,’ she requested, and Sasha kissed her mouth. By the time she came up for air three minutes later, she was so aroused by the beautiful, amoral boy, his well-taught hands and the touch of his soft mouth that she would not have cared if he had lain down with her in Swanston Street.

He rubbed his face across her breasts, catching at the nipples as his mouth passed, and his hands caressed her as she drew him towards and over her, and locked her strong thighs around his waist.

As Sasha sank towards her, she abruptly recalled that his other persona was death, and joined with him in an odd mixture of ecstacy and horror. Their love-making was an encounter of strength. Phryne caught glimpses of them in the long mirror, like small bits cut from an erotic French engraving: Sasha’s mouth coming slowly down onto a nipple which strained to meet him; a flash of thighs conjoined as if welded; the curve of her breast against the upper muscles of his arm, scored across with a long red line.

They finally collapsed, quite spent, into each other’s arms.

‘You see,’ observed Sasha contentedly, ‘I told you. Magnificent.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Phryne.

‘Perhaps you will bear my baby,’ commented Sasha. Phryne smiled. Carried away by passion she certainly was, but her diaphragm had been in place since last night. She had always had a realistic view of her ability to resist temptation. She did not reply. Sasha, having slept so long, was now awake. She threw him a gown and said, ‘Do you wish to bathe? Dot will be back soon.’

‘You are anxious not to offend your maid?’ asked Sasha, puzzled. ‘But I do not wish to bathe. I wish to keep the scent of you on my skin. My sister will be jealous! She wanted you, also.’

‘I’d rather have you,’ said Phryne, and leaned across the bed to kiss him. He really was a darling.

Sasha pulled on the tights and leotard, which Dot had mended and washed. Phryne donned a lounging robe and ordered tea. The tray came, and with it an anxious manager.

‘Excuse me, Miss Fisher, but there’s a policeman below, and he has a warrant to search your room for . . . for . . . drugs! I don’t know whether we can stop him from coming in. So I will bring him to your door in about ten minutes. Perhaps you will arrange matters, if you will be so kind, by then.’

With an economical gesture, which indicated Sasha and the mess of garments, the manager left. Phryne poured a cup of tea.

‘What would you have me do?’ asked Sasha. He was lounging back in his chair, seemingly unmoved by the imminent invasion. ‘Are you still concerned that my presence will shock your maid?’

‘No,’ said Phryne. ‘And here she is at last.’

Dot opened the door, closed it behind her, and leaned on it, as if prepared to defend the portal with her body.

‘The cops!’ she gasped. ‘That snooty manager said the cops are waiting! He’s having a real ding-dong go with ’em in his office. Oh, Miss, what are we going to do?’

‘First, we calm down. Next, we search the rooms for anything that might have been hidden.’

‘What kind of thing?’ stammered Dot, staring wildly around.

‘Small packets of white powder,’ said Phryne. ‘Where would you hide one, in this room, Dot?’

In answer, Dot took a straight-backed chair, stepped up onto it, and scanned the top of the wardrobe. She leaned at a dangerous angle, reached and clutched, and showed Phryne her hand. Another small packet, crunchy and made of muslin.

Phryne lost no time in flushing it, also, into the plumbing, reflecting that if the storm-water mingled at all with the drinking water, the whole of Melbourne would be out on a jag of truly monumental proportions.

‘Dot, you are a brick! Now, quick, a little tidying, so that we shall not shock the policeman.’

‘What about ’im?’ demanded Dot.

‘He stays where he is,’ stated Phryne. ‘I am not going to be involved in a French farce.’

This went right over Dot’s head, but she flew into action, sweeping up armloads of clothes, making the huge bed with a few economical movements, and hanging up coats and dresses. In five minutes the rooms presented a thoroughly respectable facade, belying the frantic activity needed to produce it. Sasha drank tea and smiled.

When the expected knock on the door came, Dot responded. She swung the heavy oak aside, and greeted the manager and his attendant policeman with freezing hauteur. Phryne was impressed.

‘This is the Honourable Phryne Fisher. Miss Fisher, these gentlemen have a search warrant. I have had it checked and there is no doubt that they are policemen, based at Russell Street, and that their warrant is valid,’ said the manager, his eyes darting about the room, seemingly pleased by the transformation from bohemianism.

Phryne uncoiled herself from the sofa, in a stiff tissue brocade which whispered as she moved. She bestowed a nod of appreciation on the manager, who had provided this breathing space on the pretext of checking the warrant and the policemen. He smiled frigidly.

‘Well, gentlemen, might I have your names, and inquire what you are looking for?’ she asked pleasantly.

The taller and older of the two said stiffly, ‘I’m Detective-inspector Robinson, and this is Senior-constable Ellis.’

‘We have a warrant to search this room for drugs. Woman Police-Constable Jones is available to search the ladies, and we will search this gentleman. Your name, sir?’

‘Sasha de Lisse,’ said Sasha politely. ‘Delighted.’ This appeared to disconcert Detective-inspector Robinson. He shook Sasha’s outstretched hand, and then did not quite know what to do with it.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked Phryne again.

‘Drugs,’ answered the senior-constable importantly. ‘On information received . . .’ He desisted as his chief elbowed him in the ribs. Robinson hesitated, but Phryne waved a hand.

‘By all means search everywhere,’ she smiled. ‘Shall I order some tea?’

‘That is not necessary,’ said Robinson. He and the senior-constable began to search, watched by Phryne, Dot and Sasha. They were self-conscious, but they were thorough.

The senior-constable was older than Robinson, whom Phryne assumed to be about thirty. Ellis was short and plump; he must just have cleared the minimum height.

He had black hair, slicked back from a low forehead, and something about his eyes made Phryne anxious. He seemed to be too happy and too smug for one who did not know that he would find anything. She summoned Dot to her, and instructed her to keep a very close eye upon Senior-constable Ellis. Dot nodded, her teeth biting into her lower lip. Phryne patted her hand.

‘Calm yourself, old dear; I don’t take drugs,’ she whispered, and Dot released her lip long enough to flash her a small, tense smile.

They had searched all of the clothes, the bathroom, and the bedroom, and had found nothing. Sasha laughed quietly at some private joke. The manager stood stiffly by the door. Dot and Phryne had accompanied the searchers into the bedroom, and emerged as they began to rummage through Dot’s room and the sitting-room.

As a last move, Constable Ellis took Phryne’s cloth coat down and shook it. A package, done up in white paper with sealing wax at each end, shot out and broke on the parquet flooring. The manager stared. Sasha sat up, his jaw dropping. Phryne therewith acquitted him of any knowledge of the attempted plant. Dot gasped. Only Phryne seemed unaffected.

‘Just as she said!’ exclaimed Ellis, diving for the packet and scooping the powder into his hands. The detective-inspector looked at Phryne.

‘Well, Miss, what is the explanation of this?’

‘If you taste it, you’ll see,’ replied Phryne, composed. ‘I have been attending too many dinners lately. It’s bicarb, man,’ she urged. ‘Taste it!’

The detective-inspector wetted his finger and dipped it in the powder. There was a hushed silence as he conveyed his finger to his mouth. He smiled.

‘It’s bicarb all right,’ he told Ellis. ‘Now, Miss, there’s just the personal search, and then we’ll be on our way.’

‘On one condition,’ said Phryne, standing up. ‘I’ll be searched, and so will Mr de Lisse and Miss Williams, but only if you will be searched, too.’

‘You want me to be searched?’ asked the detective- inspector, puzzled. ‘Why?’

‘Just a whim,’ said Phryne lightly. ‘Come, won’t you allow this small liberty? You have found no drugs, although your information received said that you would. This visit has caused the worthy Mr Smythe, the manager of this excellent hotel, a lot of trouble. He is waiting for you to leave before he asks me to follow, so I shall have to remove to some lesser hostelry.

‘I might also say,’ Phryne continued, ‘that I have never used drugs. Proper investigation beforehand would have told you this. I detest the stuff, and to be accused of using it is wounding to my feelings. Unless you accede to my request, I am going to complain, and I shall continue to do so until I have had you both put back on the beat, directing traffic in Swanston Street. Well?’

‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ said Robinson. Ellis drew his chief aside by the sleeve.

‘But, sir, we’re policemen!’ he stuttered.

‘I know that,’ agreed Robinson. ‘So?’

‘We could arrest them and take them down to the station; search them there,’ suggested Ellis. ‘It isn’t right, us being searched.’

Phryne unbuttoned the brocade robe.

‘If you try to take me to any station,’ she declared in a cold, remote voice, ‘you will have to take me like this.’ She dropped the robe and stood revealed, quite naked, pearly and beautiful. The manager, averting his eyes, allowed a small smile to cross his lips. You couldn’t outmanoeuvre the Windsor’s clients that easily. The policemen were taken comprehensively aback.

‘Very well, Miss,’ agreed Robinson. Ellis was gaping at Phryne open-mouthed, and his chief nudged him in the ribs.

‘Call WPC Jones,’ said Robinson, admitting defeat.

‘The ladies can have the bedroom, and we’ll stay in here. Mr Smythe can search us. If you will, sir?’

Jones accompanied Phryne and Dot to the bedroom. She was a tight-lipped young woman with black hair dragged back into a bun. Dot went first, stripping off each garment with sullen fury, then reassuming them in cold silence.

Phryne had merely to remove the robe again. Outside, they heard Mr Smythe ask politely, ‘What is this, then, Senior-constable?’ A rending noise followed. All three women were pressed to the bedroom door.

‘What do you think has happened?’ asked Dot.

‘They’ve found a little packet of white muslin and paper on Senior-constable Ellis,’ reported WPC Jones. ‘I never did like him, smarmy little hound. But what could have possessed him to do such a lame-brained thing?’

‘Money,’ said Phryne quietly. ‘I thought so.’ The police-woman looked Phryne in the face.