Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (27 page)

Candida wheezed loudly and both men looked at her. She grimaced with pain and turned away from them.

‘I wish Ann would get a move on. The poor little thing will be turning up her toes and then bang goes our chance of five thousand quid. And it’s murder, too. We’ll swing for it.’

‘You take your chances in this game,’ sneered Sid. Mike made a move towards him, then froze. Sid produced a pistol.

‘I didn’t know you had a gun,’ muttered Mike. ‘I thought we said no guns. They only get used. Put it away. I’m not going to hurt you. So what’s the plan for the pick-up?’

‘I’ll take the car and pick up the money. If we decide to loose the kid we just set her down in the main street. She can find plenty of help. We take off to Adelaide, then you give your share to your wife, and I take a boat. There’s still three warrants out for me in Victoria, and the cops would love to get their claws into me.’

‘Yair, I know. I never thought I’d have sunk so low as to work with a child-molester.’

‘You shouldn’t have married a moll who gets you into debt then. And who is dumb enough to borrow from Red Jack. He’ll break her arms and legs if she don’t get him the money.’

‘I know,’ said Mike gloomily. ‘But she likes pretty things—clothes and shoes—and I can’t afford to buy ’em for her.’

‘And you’re afraid that she’ll go off with someone who can if you don’t come up with the mazuma?’

Mike made the same angry, arrested movement. Candida coughed.

‘Here, you sit up, little girl,’ said Mike, shifting her clumsily to lean against his arm. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Candida shook her head. She did not have enough breath to drink. She tugged at the tight strings of the nightgown. Mike loosened them and fetched an old pillowcase to wipe her face. Candida hooked one arm around his neck and laid her hot cheek against the spider tattoo. Mike held her very carefully, as though she might break. He could feel the massive effort which each breath cost the child, and the strain and trembling in all her muscles.

‘Sid, go and get us a blanket,’ he ordered, disregarding the gun in Sid’s hand. Such was the power of Mike’s personality that Sid obeyed. Mike unlatched Candida long enough to wrap her closely and then resumed his place. She cried after him like a puppy if he moved. He had not known that children were like this; intense in their loves and hates, and very brave. Mike admired courage. He sat like that for a long time.

At last there was the sound of the car, and Ann slammed back into the house. She put a bottle of foul, red medicine on the table and rummaged for a glass in the unfamiliar kitchen.

‘I had to wake the chemist up,’ she said. ‘And he charged me three-and-six for the stuff. I hope it works. Here, girlie, drink this.’

She shoved the glass at Candida and the child turned her face to one side. Mike pushed Ann away.

‘Let me do it. Here you are, Candida. Here is the medicine, and soon you will have Mummy and Daddy and Bear and the lollies . . .’

Candida drank the mixture. She was sure that they had given her double the usual dose. It tasted just as disgusting as usual. She leaned back on Mike as though he was a chair, and began to control her breathing. The adrenalin and ephedrine in the elixir had their effect. She paled to the whiteness of marble, and her lips and fingernails took on a bluish tinge. Mike thought that she looked like a tombstone angel. The wheeze faded and she accepted a drink of hot milk grudgingly prepared by Ann.

At last she could speak again. She snuggled against the big man and looked up at him accusingly.

‘You didn’t plan this very well, did you?’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see the horsemen coming?

Charles Perrault
Bluebeard

It was time for Phryne to call in the debts that were owed her after the affair of the Cocaine Blues. Thus she found herself in an office the size of a cupboard sitting opposite Detective-inspector Robinson. He looked quite pleased to see her—‘Call me Jack, Miss Fisher, everyone does’—and offered her a cup of tea. Phryne had tasted police-station tea before, but accepted it anyway.

‘Well, Miss Fisher, what have you been up to? My colleague, Benton, has been quite terse about you.’

‘Oh, has he? Is the man stupid, or just very, very stubborn?’

‘I wouldn’t call him stupid. He’s a good detective. He just has theories, that’s all. And when he has a theory nothing will turn him off it. They even call him “Theory” around here. He’s not a bad chap, though we don’t see eye to eye about a lot of things, one of them being you. I told him to take you seriously or risk public embarrassment, but he wouldn’t listen. If you want a really biased opinion of old Theory, ask WPC Jones. He told her he didn’t approve of women in the police force when she went to get her Gallantry Medal from the chief commissioner.’

‘Gallantry Medal? I must congratulate her. What for?’

‘She was acting as bait for a rapist. We didn’t know that he had a knife—dirty, great cane-cutter. He got Jones down and was about to cut her throat when she rolled out from under him, stepped on his wrist and threw the weapon away; then she dropped on his chest, handcuffed his hands and feet together, and told him what she thought of him. Poor bloke. He was begging us to take him to a nice safe cell by the time the patrol caught up. A lovely job, and he was lucky that she is a restrained lady, or she might have cut his balls off, which was what she was threatening to do. Jones has not liked Theory Benton since. You can’t blame her. He’s an irritating man. Still, if you come up with overwhelming evidence I’m sure that you’ll give him a chance to make a manly confession, before you drop him into the soup.’

‘Of course, but I don’t think it will do the slightest good.’

Phryne sipped her tea, and placed the cup back on the desk. She produced the kidnap note in a larger envelope.

‘Is this what you want me to do?’ asked the detective-inspector resignedly. ‘I didn’t really think you had come just to see me and to drink police-station tea.’

‘Good, because I haven’t. When we were mutually involved in that cocaine affair, you were telling me that you could sometimes get fingerprints off paper. Could you have a go with this? And tell me whether they are on record?’

‘I expect that I could. What’s the paper?’

‘A ransom note. Another thing. A big black car, probably a Bentley, and I have most of the licence number. Can you tell me who owns it?’

‘How much of the number?’

‘The first two digits and the two letters.’

‘Yes, I can do that. But will I?’

‘If I ask you very nicely and throw in a solution to the McNaughton murder?’

‘We already have a solution to the McNaughton murder.’

‘The real solution—and a gang of kidnappers,’ offered Phryne. Robinson leaned forward.

‘Kidnapping is dangerous to investigate and usually ends in the victim getting killed. If you allow that to happen my name will be mud and I will personally prosecute you for interfering with the course of a police inquiry. You know that, eh?’

‘Yes, Jack, I know that.’

‘Has this incident been reported to the police?’

‘No.’

‘So it is between you and me.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you are confident that you can find the gang and wrap the whole thing up neatly?’

‘They shall be delivered to your door in a plain brown wrapper.’

‘And you need my help, eh?’

‘Yes. If you would be so kind.’

‘Right, then, we know where we stand. All right. I trust you, Miss Fisher. Is there anything else that you need?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Good. Perhaps you’d like to have a word with Jones; you’ll find her in Prisoner Reception this week. Give me an hour. If the stuff is on file, I’ll find it,’ Jack said. Phryne shook his hand and went to look for Jones.

She found the short and muscular policewoman engaged in an argument with a prisoner.

‘I tell you I had ten quid on me when they picked me up. Them thieving jacks have robbed me!’ a cross-eyed gentleman was roaring. Jones had been roared at by experts and did not turn a hair.

‘That’s all that was in your pockets, Mr Murphy.’

‘It’s here,’ said Phryne, tweaking the ten-pound note out of an unsavoury watch pocket. ‘Be more careful in future.’

Mr Murphy thanked her in an alcoholic mumble and took his leave.

Jones smiled. ‘Hello, Miss Fisher, you haven’t half put it across old Theory. If only you can show up the old cuss! Do you know what he said to me?’

‘Yes, Jack Robinson just told me. Outrageous. Can you come out for a cuppa?’

‘My shift finishes in ten minutes, if you can wait.’

‘I’ll just find the Ladies. I don’t think that the tea here agrees with me.’

‘It don’t agree with anyone. Even the drunks are complaining.’

Phryne rejoined WPC Jones, who was rather pretty when out of a uniform designed to remove all dangerous allure from the female form. She had curly hair, which Phryne had only seen severely repressed under her cap. Jones led the way to a coffee shop and ordered a black coffee.

‘It’s hard to sleep in the daytime, and I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes propped open. Thank the Lord that I change shifts tomorrow.’

‘I heard about your medal—congratulations,’ said Phryne, gulping down a mouthful of coffee to wash the taste of the tea away.

‘Thanks, but I really didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t cold courage. I lost my temper with the bastard. It was lucky that I threw that knife out of reach or I might have done him an injury. That wouldn’t have done my career much good.

‘Now, tell me about Theory. I know what he thinks happened. Do you think you can bring him undone?’

‘Oh, yes. I can’t prove it yet. But the safe money is definitely on Bill McNaughton’s innocence.’

‘You made an impression on Benton—even though he is sure that no woman could outsmart him, he’s uneasy. He’s asked two DIs to look at the murder weapon. I do hope you can prove him wrong.’

‘There is no doubt.’

‘Well, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the coffee, and if you need anything, just give me a call. Delighted to help,’ said WPC Jones, and Phryne took herself for a walk in the Art Gallery.

She returned and found a note from Jack pinned to his desk.

‘Dear Miss Fisher, there are three sets of unknown prints on the letter. The only one on record is that of Sidney Brayshaw, a child-molester whom we have been very anxious to interview. If you catch him it will warm the cockles of my chief super’s heart (assuming he has one). The only black Bentley with those prefixes in its number plate belongs to one Anthony Michael Herbert, 342 Bell Street, Preston. He hasn’t any form. Hope this is of use. Watch your step. Jack.’

Phryne folded the note, placed it in her bag and went to reclaim her car from the urchin who was minding it. She gave him a shilling and he sped off before she could change her mind.

The address in Preston was that of a rundown boardinghouse. Phryne rang at the bell and it fell into her hand. The door was open in any case. She walked in.

‘Yes, dear? Who do you want to see?’ demanded the raucous voice. The speaker surveyed Phryne’s black suit, silk shirt, English felt hat and handmade shoes. A toff. The woman moderated her tone from that which she reserved for the local tarts seeking custom, to that used to address her bank manager.

‘Give me that bell, dear. It always does that. I’m Mrs O’Brien. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m looking for Mr Herbert.’

‘Mike? Him and his missus have been gone two days, Miss.’

‘Gone? What—gone forever?’ Phryne felt a chill at her heart. She was relying on this clue.

‘No. Just gone for a holiday. Somewhere down the coast. He’s a nice bloke, Mike, but his missus is a trial.’

‘Do you have an address?’ asked Phryne, allowing a five pound note to appear in the woman’s peripheral vision. The red eyes lit up, but the puffy face sagged with disappointment, and the cigarette in the corner of the painted mouth drooped.

‘No, dear, I don’t know where they are. I’m expecting them back soon. They were going to stay with their mate Sid, that’s all I know. They did mention Queenscliff. Beautiful place it is. She always had to have new things—kept him skint for years, and then he lost his job when the factory closed down. He inherited that big car from his uncle but he usually can’t afford the petrol. I’ll keep my ear out, dear.’

‘Could I have a look at their room?’ asked Phryne, idly waving the banknote. The landlady scraped a hennaed curl out of her eyes and temporised, ‘Well, I don’t know . . Phryne produced a ten pound note. Mrs O’Brien led the way up the stairs.

At the door, her remaining scruples came to the fore. ‘You won’t take anything away, will you, dear? They might be back, you know.’

‘I promise. You can stand and watch me.’

Phryne began a systematic search of the freshly painted room. The lino was new and the curtains crisp. A wardrobe, stuffed full of new clothes in the worst taste, occupied one corner. Phryne looked in all the pockets and handbags, stripped and searched the mattress, turned it over and searched all the crannies of the iron bedstead. She went through a pile of magazines and all the male clothes, and sounded the floorboards for a loose one. In all this she found no sign of the destination of Anthony Michael Herbert and his wife Ann. Then a piece of newspaper caught her eye. It had been carefully trimmed out and laid among the illustrated papers. It was the cutting from the
Herald
which announced the Maldon Lottery win.

Phryne handed over the money and asked, ‘How long have they been with you?’

‘Three years, dear.’

‘No children?’

‘No, he often said that he’d like children but she refused to have any until they could rent a house of their own. And I don’t allow them here. Dirty little pests. Anything else?’

‘If you remember their address, telephone me at this number. It will be worth twenty quid to you, but not after Friday. Good morning,’ and Phryne left.

Sidney Brayshaw’s fingerprints on the note, thought Phryne. Gone to Queenscliff with their mate Sid. This was only twenty miles from Geelong. There must be a connection. Phryne drove herself home to lunch.

Bert and Cec parked their new cab in the ‘Inspector only’ section of the yard and marched into the Kew Police Station with determination. Neither of them liked police. While they had escaped legal notice in the past, they both had far too many dealings in dubious property to be entirely comfortable under the gaze of constabulary eyes.

‘Gidday,’ Bert greeted the desk-sergeant. ‘We come to make some inquiries.’

‘Oh, yair?’ asked the desk-sergeant with irony. ‘You know, I thought that we did the asking.’

‘You always that funny? You should be at the Tivoli, you’re wasted in a police station. Just have a look at your daybook for Friday and give a man a go.’

‘I’m not even going to ask why you want me to look at my daybook for Friday. In fact, I’m such a nice policeman that I’m going to do it. What time?’

‘After four in the afternoon,’ growled Bert.

‘Hmm. Friday was a quiet day. Nothing much happened around that time. Except that a fetching young woman in a bathing costume came in and made a complaint.’

‘The tarts often wear bathing togs in the street in this part of Kew, do they? Cec, we’re living on the wrong side of town.’

‘She had a good reason for her lack of attire. The old Undertaker had nicked her clothes.’

‘Well, well, the things that people do. It’s a criminal world.’

‘Yair, luckily you haven’t been caught yet. Undertaker is well known in these parts. He was in that line of business before the grog got him. Anyway, we got her clothes back. Another case solved. That enough for yer?’

‘Where can we find this Undertaker?’

‘Heaven. At least I hope so. Of course, it depends on the kind of life he led.’ The desk-sergeant folded his hands piously.

Bert snorted. ‘If you mean that he’s dead, why not say so? What about the tart?’

‘She, as far as I know, is still with us.’

‘You got her name and address there, ain’t you?’

‘Wild horses would not drag it from me.’

‘How about ten quid?’

‘Ten quid, on the other hand, might.’

He wrote out the name and address on a piece of paper and handed it to Bert. Bert gave him the money.

‘Anything else I can do for you?’

‘Take a long walk off a short pier,’ requested Bert, and he and Cec found themselves in the yard. As they started off again, he growled. ‘Only one thing worse than a clean cop, and that’s a funny cop.’

‘Too right,’ said Cec.

The young lady’s name, it appeared, was Wilson. Her address was close to the river, but she was not at home. Bert consulted the list.

‘Perhaps we should do the searching while the weather’s still clear. It looks like it might rain, eh, Cec?’

Cec considered the sky. ‘Too right.’

They split up, working in opposite directions. Cec found the rope. It was, as Phryne had foretold, of worn hemp, and there were dark stains at regular intervals.

‘Where did you find it, mate?’

Cec indicated a pile of bluestone pitchers. They had been piled carelessly, but under them Bert found a collection of small objects—a whistle, three chewing-gum cards in the Famous Kings and Queens in British History series, the carriage of a toy train and three rings with bright glass stones. There was a licorice block and eleven lead soldiers, overpainted with what looked like white kilts.

‘What do you reckon this means, mate?’

Cec shook his head. ‘Maybe some kids were building a cubby house,’ he suggested. ‘Do we leave ’em here?’

‘Yair. Now to find where they are digging up the street. I reckon they are kerbstones, Cec. Back to the cab, mate. I reckon we have earned a drink. That’s two on the list. Then we look for the kids and go back for this Wilson sheila. I hope she ain’t dead, too.’