Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (24 page)

‘Bill McNaughton. You might have read about it in the newspaper. Have you no fire in these rooms? I’m perishing.’

Phryne went into Jillian’s office, and ensconced herself in front of a meagre kerosene heater.

‘Tell me all about it.’

Phryne recounted the history and proceedings of the investigation, and Jillian pursed her lips.

‘And you are going to find the real murderer for him, are you?’

‘I’m going to try.’

‘Well, think carefully before you tell me what you find. They have a very slim case against your Bill. His fingerprints are not on the stone, and he says he was in the river valley. Two people are supposed to have seen him.’

‘Yes. And he is definitely not my Bill.’

‘Now, what if you find these two people and they can’t remember seeing Bill? People are very unobservant. I would not trust any eyewitness evidence if it was served up to me on a plate. It is most unreliable. If you don’t find them, I can suggest that they exist but just haven’t been found. If you find ’em and they can be discounted as evidence, the prosecution has a weapon. See?’

‘I’m shocked,’ declared Phryne. ‘Have you no regard for truth?’

‘If you had entered the law, you will know that truth is a very dicey quality. “What is truth?” said Pilate, and I have always thought he must have been a solicitor. However, I’ll apply for bail tomorrow, and see if the police have any objections. It depends on who the prosecutor is, and the informant.’

‘I think the informant must be Detective-inspector Benton.’

Jillian groaned, and made a note. ‘I ought to charge double for dealing with him. He has a theory, I gather?’

‘Yes, that Bill lured his father out onto the tennis-court and hit him with a rock imported for the purpose.’

‘Then he’ll stick to it through thick, thin and soupy. I’ve had some struggles with him. I’ve never met such a stubborn man in my entire life,’ said Jillian, rubbing her hands, and seeming to relish a new conflict. ‘Well, well, good old Benton. This may be fun. Am I definitely retained? You have the family’s authority?’

‘Yes, I do, and you are retained like billy-o. Go to it and the Lord speed your footsteps. Now I’ve got to go and see a sculptor. Miss McNaughton has two thou. in cash—will that cover the surety?’

‘I think so. We may have to go to the Supreme Court tomorrow, if the Magistrate won’t cooperate. Will the old bank account stand that?’

‘It will. Got to go, Jilly. See you tomorrow at ten.’

‘I shall be there,’ said Jillian smugly. ‘And you shall have Bill shortly after.’

Phryne retrieved her taxi and set off for the studio of Paolo Ragazzi.

CHAPTER SIX

I can resist anything except temptation

Oscar Wilde
Lady Windermere’s Fan

The studio of Paolo Raguzzi was on the third floor of a rundown boarding house at the depressed end of Princes Street. Phryne trod slowly up the stairs, the lift being out of order, and knocked on a flimsy wooden door. Something loud and vaguely operatic was playing on a gramophone inside. Phryne knocked again.

The door was flung open by a girl in a coat and hat. ‘Oh, good, dearie, you’re just in time. He’s doing his block in there. I told him that I’d have to leave early but he just keeps going on about his nymph. Good luck, and don’t take no notice. He ain’t bad; just loud.’

So saying, she tripped lightly down the stairs and Phryne was confronted with a burst of what she assumed were swear words in Italian. They proceeded from behind a beaded curtain, and a voice yelled, ‘
Avanti! Vieni, vieni qua, signorina.
I haven’t got all night and you’re letting the cold in. Come along! I won’t bite, whatever Mary told you at the door.’

This sounded promising, and the voice was light and pleasant, so Phryne brushed the beads aside and went in.

The studio was a large, light room, with the winter sun fading through the skylight. At one end was the artist’s living quarters, which were in neat array; at the other a bed, and a model’s throne covered by a worn velvet cloth in Phryne’s favourite shade of green. There was a delightful scent of buttered toast. The artist, attired in a very old shirt and flannel bags, was crunching the last crumb. He was not much taller than Phryne and had fine brown eyes, which smiled. Otherwise he looked just like his portrait.

‘I’m . . .’ began Phryne, and the artist waved his teacup.

‘I’m delighted to meet you,
signorina
.
You have just the limbs that I require. You can put your clothes over there, and call me when you are ready.’

This was interesting. She had been mistaken for a model. Paolo had already retreated behind the screen, and Phryne had often modelled for artists in her days in the apache quarter of Paris. She shrugged out of her coat and boots and hung the rest of her clothes on the hook which seemed to have been placed there on purpose. She took her seat on the model’s throne and called, ‘Ready.’

Paolo, having finished his tea, appeared and flicked the cloth off a small clay model. It was a nymph, hair in disarray, accepting the embraces of a satyr with evident pleasure. The delicate limbs wrapped the hairy goatskin haunches, and she leaned back in delight against the embracing arms. Although the detail of the genitalia was decorously covered by thigh and hand, it was evident that both bodies had just joined. The satyr was crouched, and the whole structure depended upon his cloven feet and the long legs of the nymph, whose toes were just touching the ground.

Technically, it was a difficult piece, presenting intriguing problems of mass and balance. Of itself, it glowed with an innocent eroticism and good humour.

‘It is lovely,’ commented Phryne. The sculptor looked as surprised as if his anatomy textbook had just spoken.

‘Thank you, but the curve of this arm is not right. Will you lean back a little more,
signorina
,
and bend your wrist down . . . no, it does not work. You need something to embrace.’ Paolo left the clay and dived for Phryne, arranging her limbs around him.

‘You see, she is joined to him, thus . . . move that leg a little . . . and his arms are holding her weight . . . thus.’

Phryne’s mouth was near the artist’s, and his arms were very strong. She relaxed a little, and he shook her.

‘
No, no, no!
She is not languid, she is afire with passion. The body is thrust against him, with force, to engulf him. So.’ He leaned forward without warning and kissed one breast, then the other. Her nipples hardened. The Renaissance head bent to suckle. Phryne gasped. Her hands tightened on his back. She arched. For a moment, he held her strongly, and he felt her tremble.

‘Later. Do not move,’ he said, stuffing a big cushion into her arms.

Stunned, Phryne clutched the pillow, frozen with tension into the position she had been placed. Clay flew. She heard it fall with sad little sounds to the floor. She could not see the progress of the figure, but Paolo was pleased.

‘Oh, excellent, excellent . . . now the shoulder . . . do not move.’ Phryne was torn between rage and laughter. The studio was getting very cold. She fell into her model’s dreaming trance and recalled the Paris studios where her dearest friends had been surrealists. She had once been offered a Dada dinner, which consisted of boiled string. She heard the sculptor calling her as if from a long way away.

‘
Vieni, carissima
.
See what you have done. It is finished.’

She untangled herself from the cushion and bent her stiff limbs. Paolo seized her and rubbed her into mobility with his large, strong hands, then led her to the covered model.

‘See,
bella
,
what you have wrought. For weeks I have been trying to capture that curve, that intense clutch—and there it is. It is complete.’

‘What shall you cast it in?’

‘Silver-gilt, nothing else. Nothing else is good enough for such a work. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

He kissed Phryne enthusiastically and she discovered that her aroused passion had been frozen, not absent. It was now thawing.

She beat the sculptor to the warm blankets of his bed by a short half-head, and wrapped them both. The blankets were clean, as was the sculptor. He smelt delightfully of clay and leather and tobacco and something vaguely herbal. She continued to kiss him, caressing the pointed ears, the mobile mouth and the long, beautiful line of muscle from back to buttock. He laid his head upon her breast and sighed with pleasure.

‘Ah,
bella
,
how fortunate I am to find you. Sure a pure line; so delicate, so true.’ He rubbed his face across her breasts, catching at the nipples as his mouth passed. ‘And now, do you want me?’

Phryne, who had always been a woman of strong passions, was decided. ‘I do,’ she answered, then clutched him close.

Paolo was a good lover; deft, sensitive and passionate. What woman could ask more? As he lay with her he breathed praises into her ear;
bella, bella, bellissima
.

Satisfied, Phryne kissed her lover firmly, got up, and donned her clothes.

‘You must go? But I do not even know your name,’ he cried.

‘You are coming too. I’m taking you to dinner. Is there anything good around here? My name is Phryne Fisher. I’m investigating McNaughton’s murder.’

‘Then you are not a professional model,’ concluded the artist in triumph. ‘I knew it. No model could have made me finish my nymph. Only a new young lady could be a sufficient inspiration. Have you seen my fiancée? Is she well? She told me not to come to her, or I should not be here.’

‘Amelia is fine. I have just come from there. I wanted to ask you some questions about the matter. But I was . . . diverted.’

‘Ah,
signorina
,
do not think that I am insensible of the honour. I, too, have been much diverted. But now I shall dress and we shall go to dinner. I thank you for your care of Amelia. As it is not possible for even the most foolish of policemen to think that I had anything to do with the murder of that swine, I shall go to Amelia tomorrow, and I shall not leave her. Especially since I have finished the nymph,’ added Paolo artlessly.

‘Why Amelia, above all the others?’ asked Phryne suddenly. Paolo had found trousers and boots but could not locate his shirt. He searched hopelessly, then found it on the model’s throne, whence he had flung it.

‘Why Amelia?’ repeated Phryne. ‘It is not her money; she gets none under her father’s will.’

‘That I know. It is nothing. She has a little money, but it is not that. I could have had princesses—and have, in my time,’ he added complacently through the folds of the shirt. ‘Look at that shelf, over there,
Bella
.’

Phryne surveyed the shelf. There were five nude statues, each beautifully modelled, and each was of the same woman. Paolo breathed in Phryne’s ear.

‘Look at her. She is perfect. The length of limb, the straight back; for a sculptor she is perfect in every way. You should see her as I do,
bella—
without her clothes. You, now, are pretty—in fact I would say that you are striking. You would never be mistaken for anyone but yourself. If you were modelled as Venus or Diana or St Joan everyone would say, “Ah! Miss Fisher,” because you have the distinctive face. But the body—pure of line, yes, delicate of bone, assuredly. But only that. As you age—I beg your pardon,
bella—
you will sag like every other woman. You will still be beautiful and distinctive. But my Amelia will be a sculptor’s dream; old, sagging, pregnant. She is the universal woman. When I met her she was ashamed—her father was a brute, a swine, a beast. But I coaxed her, I flattered her, I taught her to pose nude and enjoy her body, and now she is complete. I could never find another like her. Money, pah! A body like that you could search a century for and never find. It is undoubtedly due to the special intervention of St Anthony, who has guarded me all my life, that I have found her, and I would not risk losing her for the undoubted pleasure of wiping her detestable father off the face of the earth.’

‘Ah,’ agreed Phryne. ‘Dinner?’

‘We shall go to the Café Royale,’ announced Paolo. ‘If you are paying. You can ask me whatever you like, and I shall answer,
bellisima
.’

He had found all his clothes. He took his hat, keys and cigarettes, and led the bemused Phryne out of the studio.

The Café Royale was the haunt of bohemians and artists. Phryne had always meant to go there. One entered through a small, iron-studded door which led into a cobwebby cellar with many barrels, and then into a large, smoky room with lanterns hanging from the beams. It was a little like the Hall of the Mountain King and a little like the hold of a ship. It smelt delightfully of garlic, roasting meat, Turkish cigarettes and coffee. The log fire had been burning all day and the smoke added to the aromatic, raffish air.

Phryne was escorted to a table with ceremony by three waiters, who took her coat and supplied her with a bottle and a glass. The wine was Lambrusco, a strong, sweet red wine of the Po Valley. It was just what was needed on a frosty night.

Paolo was known in the Café Royale, and the proprietor himself came out of the kitchen to welcome him and his guest.

Paolo leaned back in the wooden chair and raised his glass. ‘I have completed my nymph, with the admirable assistance of this young lady. It has been a severe labour. Therefore, Guiseppe, we require food. What is good tonight?’

Guiseppe smiled a huge smile which revealed a treasury of gold teeth, and began to speak expansively in Italian.

‘Will you allow me to order?’ asked Paolo. Phryne nodded, impressed with his manners.

Guiseppe concluded his address with a wide gesture, and bellowed an order into the kitchen. Paolo poured Phryne another glass of wine.

‘Why did you come to Australia, Paolo?’

‘Ah. I come from
Firenze—
Florence. You have been there?’ Phryne nodded again. The faun’s countenance was fascinating in the flickering light, and she privately congratulated Amelia on her luck, or judgement.

‘Then you know that it is a city filled with art. If one is in the least susceptible, then one must appreciate it. My father makes cement. I believe that it is good cement, and he has made a fortune out of it. I do not like cement, and I have no head for business. When he sent me out on errands, I was to be found gazing with awe at the great gates, or the Roman marbles, or the bronzes in the public squares. This did not please my father. He sent me to oversee the cement works. I could not command the workers, and in any case I discovered Carrara marble was also mined there. When he told me I would never see his face again until I stopped being an artist, ah,
bella.
I thought of all the faces I would create and all the beauty I would have to surrender. My father has not such a compelling countenance to enable me to renounce all the world’s beauties. So he cut me out of his will. He is, in any case, a peasant, and peasants do not appreciate art. My mother was from a minor aristocratic house. She gave me all her money and said, “Go forth, my son, and create beautiful things. Come and see me when your father is dead. But you must leave Italy.” I took half of the money and I was free in the world. Ah. Here is the good Guiseppe with the pasta. This you will enjoy,
bella
.
It is as I ate it in the old country, but better. Here the ingredients are of the quality which one cannot afford in Italy.’

Guiseppe set down a dish of strange green noodles, mixed through with oil, olives, chicken livers, onions and mushrooms. It smelt delicious. Paolo ladled out a plateful then continued.

‘I then asked myself, where should I go? America? I did not like the Americans I had met. I wandered down to the docks in Marseilles, and sat down in a tavern to think. There I met some of the crew of an Australian ship. They were stokers and boiler-minders, and such faces! Such bodies! I speak from an artistic point of view, you understand, I have no sexual interest in men.’ He took several huge mouthfuls of the succulent pasta, and waved his fork for emphasis.

‘They asked me to sit down, and I shared several bottles with them. It enabled me to try out my English on a native speaker, but I could not understand them at first. The accent is very marked, you understand. The ship was leaving that night. They took me on as the keeper of a racehorse, whose stableman had been arrested by the police for an affray in a brothel. Marseilles is a very rough place. I have always been fond of horses, so I agreed to take care of “Dark Day” until we reached Australia. He was going on to New Zealand. A stallion. The struggles I had with him! A beast of great pride; but the spirit of a demon. Later his owner paid me three hundred pounds for the bronze I made of him. I found his cure, though.’