Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (29 page)

‘Come in! I’m just cutting up five thousand pounds worth of valuable newspaper. Put them down there on the sofa,’ she directed, and Bert laid down his burden. ‘This is Henry Maldon, the flyer. Tell me about the funny cop.’

‘Pleased to meetcher,’ growled Bert, who did not approve of capitalists. He took a tense hand and shook it. Henry Maldon looked much better than he had two hours ago, but there was enough residual agony in his face to make Bert revise his opinion. ‘He couldn’t help winning the money,’ he told Cec later. ‘And the poor coot looked like he’d been strained through a sieve backwards. Sitting there clutching that teddy bear. Must’a belonged to the kid.’

Bert abated his gruffness instantly and strove to amuse. He made a good story out of the cop, and coaxed a smile out of the distracted flyer. Phryne bound her newspaper bundles with a real note on the top and bottom, and placed a bundle of real fivers on the top. The notes were packed into a cloth bag. There was a strained silence.

‘Come down to the pub, mate,’ offered Bert to his own astonishment. ‘Man needs a beer. Still an hour before time.’

The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece said five. Phryne refrained from hugging Bert and observed, ‘We can’t do anything until it’s dark. You go with Bert and Cec. I’ll come and get you if something happens. Which pub are you going to?’

‘The Railway,’ said Henry, and the two cabbies took him away. This was a relief to Phryne, who had not been able to find Henry an occupation. There was still a couple of hours to go before there was any point in setting out for Geelong.

Phryne heard the voice of the cook raised in comfortable converse with the butter-cream-and-egg man, who was late.

‘What are you coming here at this time of night for?’ she demanded, and Phryne heard the reply from the backyard.

‘Couldn’t go any faster, Missus, not even to woo me old sweetheart. The bleedin’ council have dug up the bleedin’ road and I had to wheel me trike all the way from the shop. My boss is creatin’. So don’t you start on me, there’s a love.’

‘Language,’ cautioned the cook. ‘And don’t come smoogin’ up to me. Them eggs you brought yesterday was mostly rotten.’

‘What? My eggs?’ exclaimed the delivery boy, as outraged as if he had laid them personally. ‘My eggs, rotten? You show me a rotten egg I’ve delivered. You must have got ’em mixed up with them tichy little ones from your own chooks.’

‘The chooks ain’t laying,’ returned the cook, ‘or I wouldn’t have to buy your rotten ones.’

‘Give a man a break,’ complained the boy, who sounded about fifteen. ‘The boss says, “Take them eggs”, so I take ’em. I ain’t got no choice. How many of ’em were off, anyway?’

‘Three out of the dozen, and I had to throw away a whole cake batter with a pound of butter in it. I wouldn’t have offered it to a pig. I ought to get onto your boss, however,’ admitted the cook handsomely. ‘I suppose that it ain’t your fault. Give me a dozen more, and two pounds of butter, no cream today.’

There was a thud as the parcel was placed on the kitchen table. ‘See you temorrer, my old darling,’ cried the boy, and took off quickly, in time to avoid a slap.

‘Not so much of the “old”,’ snarled the cook, and slammed the kitchen door, much invigorated.

Phryne took up the illustrated papers and leafed through them. A characteristic passage met her eye.

‘The recent discoveries at Luxor have sent the whole Empire mad about Egypt,’ it said smugly. ‘Lord Avon, who has been largely responsible for financing the expedition, said that the public interest was most gratifying. “There is a whole civilisation under the sand here,” he said to our special correspondent. “And one of very high standards. The decorative patterns, the linen, the beading and the magnificent tomb painting of the Pharoah are unforgettable and as fresh as the day they were painted. I expect to find many more tombs in this area. It seems to have been a flourishing city. I also hope to find the chamber which I am convinced lies under the great Pyramid, the resting place of Cheops himself. Further interesting discoveries are expected daily.”’

She laid the magazines open at the pictures of the objects discovered in the rock chambers. A dagger inlaid with hunting cats. A diadem for a queen, with lotus flowers in lapis lazuli. A bracelet for an archer inlaid with the Eye of Horus to safeguard his aim. Tomb paintings of the Pharoah hunting lions, and mixing wine, and embracing his wife. Small figurines of gods and slaves and workmen: little women kneading dough, herding cattle, shearing sheep and reaping wheat. They were enchanting. Phryne stared longest at the gold statue of the Goddess Pasht, a graceful cat with an earring in one of her upstanding ears and kittens at her delicate feet.

That is beautiful beyond belief, thought Phryne. I wonder if I could steal it?

CHAPTER TEN

Night makes no difference ’twixt Priest and Clerk Joan as my Lady’s as good i’ the dark

Herrick
No Difference in the Dark

At last it was getting dark. Phryne packed Dot, Molly, Jack Leonard and herself into the Hispano-Suiza. She checked that she had all the impedimenta that had been improvised and collected during the day. Though she and her hosts had eaten an early dinner they added a picnic basket to the load, as well as brandy flask and, of course, Bear.

‘It’s not all that far to Geelong, but I don’t want to hurry,’ she said as Jack Leonard swung the starting handle. ‘Are we clear as to what we are going to do?’

Everyone nodded.

‘Right,’ said Phryne taking a deep breath. ‘Off we go, then.’

She located the Geelong Road without difficulty and soon they were bowling along in the darkness. There would be a moon but it had not yet risen. It was clear and frosty, and the stars were very bright. Phryne hoped that she wouldn’t freeze to death on the escapade which she had in mind. She had already fought a fierce action with Jack Leonard, once he heard what she intended to do.

‘Don’t be silly, Jack. Look at the size of you. I’m five feet three and I weigh eight stone with all these clothes and goods. How much do you weigh?’

‘Twelve stone. I suppose that you are right. But what if you fall off?’

‘Then you shall pick me up,’ said Phryne, and the conversation was at an end.

Dot was talking to Molly Maldon to distract herself from how cold she was, how worried about Phryne, and how fast the car was going. Molly was keyed-up. After what seemed like years of hanging about and worrying, there was now a chance of some action and she was all for it. The afternoon among her possessions had soothed her spirit and she had great faith in Phryne. She was beginning to believe that she would recover Candida. She had the bag of lollies in the picnic basket, though she had an instinctive and superstitious dread of picturing how glad Candida would be to see them, and paid as much attention as she could to Dot’s account of one of Phryne’s previous cases.

‘And this abortionist was her capture, was he?’

‘No, that was a police-lady called . . . Miss, what was the police-lady’s name, that caught that . . . er . . . you know, the chap that operated on women.’

Dot would not say the word ‘abortionist’, any more than she would swear in church.

‘WPC Jones. I saw her today. She got a medal for seizing the Brunswick rapist.’

Dot could feel her cheeks burning. Everything she said seemed to have a sexual meaning.

Phryne, perceiving her embarrassment, launched into flying-shop talk with Jack Leonard.

‘Did you like Bunji, Jack?’

‘She’s a ball of lightning, isn’t she? Bustled in and spent twenty minutes with her head in the engine, and then she and Bill worked out how to mount the light. It’s a drain on the power supply, but I don’t think it’s enough to significantly affect the performance.’

‘Did she argue with Bill?’

‘All day. You could tell that they were both having a lovely time. And she’s a sporting flyer. Took the Alps and even flew over the Himalayas. Said that all you had to do to thoroughly depress the spirits was to look down. Nowhere at all to land—just rocks.’

Phryne laughed, and shifted into top gear.

The Geelong Road was visible only as a tarmac trail that gleamed faintly in the lights of the powerful car. There was no sound but the roar of the engine and the swish of the slipstream. Luckily Mr Butler had managed to put the hood into place or the passengers would have been even colder than they were. The stars shone down like lanterns—no, they were on the road: two swaying lights. An odd noise began to make itself heard. Phryne listened attentively. It was halfway between a clatter and a clop like hooves. She racked her memory, and concluded that she really was hearing a new sound.

‘Can you hear that?’ she asked.

Dot cried out, ‘Slow down!’

Phryne applied the brakes and the car lost momentum. She had almost stopped when the explanation was vouchsafed to her.

A wave of advancing sheep circled the car, their fleeces oddly grey in the starlight. The moon was rising. The lanterns gleamed. A ghostly stockman, looking like a revenant from the past, raised a casual hand. Two jinkers clattered past, with bags slung underneath for the dogs to rest in. A dog barked. The sheep trotted down the road.

‘Thank you, Dot, I might have ploughed right into them. I didn’t know they took sheep along this road. And in the dark. How dangerous! They must be going to Borthwicks—and there’s the cemetery. How convenient. Well, tally-ho, and if anyone sights a flock of flamingoes or a herd of elephants, just let me know.’

‘Where are we?’ asked Molly.

‘About halfway I should think. We have to look out for Bunji and Henry in the Fokker outside Geelong. They should be over on the left side of the road, near the railway bridge. Give me a shout if you see them. Then we have to test the plan. I would feel very silly if I went ahead with it and it turned out not to function. I’d be left on my own with the kidnappers and they are probably armed.’

‘Are you?’ asked Jack.

Phryne nodded. ‘Certainly. But I hope not to have to use it. I do not approve of guns.’

‘Good shot, are you?’

‘Not particularly. At the distance one has the most use for a pistol, however, it makes no difference. A man is too big a target to miss at a range of five feet.’

‘Why five feet?’

‘Any closer and he can grab,’ explained Phryne. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

Jack Leonard obliged with a dissertation on the merits of Rolls-Royce engines which lasted until they were nearing Geelong.

‘They bore their engine blocks, put them out to weather in a field for two years, and then re-bore them. I have never come across a Rolls with cylinder trouble. Marvellous machines . . . Hello! There’s the Fokker.’

Phryne swung the car off the road and drew to a halt on a flat paddock. The flying machine was stopped and had been turned on the grass so it could be got back into the air with the greatest dispatch. Bunji Ross, short and plump in her flying suit and boots, strolled over and grinned at Phryne.

‘Hello, Phryne. You’ll be pleased to hear that the gown was a great success. I only spilt a little tomato soup on it, which is good, for me. I’ve mounted the light, m’dear, and I can cast a fairish light on the road, but only at very low altitude. I can’t make much impression on it over fifty to seventy feet. What’s the landscape from here to where you are going? Any mountains?’

‘Not as long as you follow the road. Leave the road and the ground gets very lumpy away to the left. If you can keep the plane to the right of the road, you’ll be fine.’

‘Good, will do. I’ve got Henry with me. He has a good pair of Zeiss-Ikon binoculars and seems competent in the air. Come and let’s give this idea a try. Run her back towards Melbourne, pet, we don’t want to muddy our trail.’

Phryne dabbed a small drop of paint on the road, then took the car slowly along, dripping a little paint out of the driver’s side. She continued for a quarter of a mile, then took the car off the road and waited.

Overhead, but only just overhead, the Fokker engine roared. The plane circled once above the car. She dipped her wings, and flew off towards Geelong.

‘Good. It works. Bunji really is a brick. We are almost there. Jack, you take the wheel and remember what I said about garters.’

Geelong was a sizeable town, encircled by grain silos and storehouses, with a respectable town hall and wide streets. It did not keep late hours. The only person Phryne saw who seemed to be awake was a strolling policeman. Phryne took note of the moon. It was now bright and full.

‘There’s the park, Jack, stop for a while at that corner near those big elms. Light a cigarette and look bored. Stand there until you finish the smoke, then you can go into the park and stop short of the band rotunda. According to the map, it must be about three hundred yards over that way. Molly takes the money and puts it into the hollow stump. Don’t stop and stare, just drop the bag in and walk away. Then you start the car and give her a lot of high revs in case they are already here. Then get back on the road and wait. We could be here all night, but don’t go to sleep. You wait for the plane, and keep a good way behind it. You’ll be able to see the light for quite a long way. In any case I think that we are going to Queens- cliff. Break a leg,’ said Phryne, and slipped into the darkness. In her black garb she was hard to see, and she stopped at a convenient mud-puddle and smeared her face.

The band rotunda was white wrought-iron, and it stood out under the moon like the bare ribcage and spine of a fabulous monster. Phryne waited until her eyes had got used to the light, then began to creep, sloshing slightly with her bladder of fluorescent paint, across the invisible grass.

Luckily it was not yet frosty, although it would certainly be so before dawn. She told herself that she was as good and ruthless a hunter as the Egyptian cats, and paused with one hand on a tree. She stepped into shadow, rolling her foot carefully forward from the toe; not a twig cracked under her feet. She had reached the rotunda and was about to cross the path when she saw a point of light, and heard someone whistling softly. There was a man, sitting at ease on the rotunda steps and smoking. Phryne’s spirits rose. This did not look like a professional kidnapping. Of course he might not be the one—but what sane man would have been found sitting in a rotunda at midnight in the middle of winter?

She was confirmed in this opinion by his behaviour when the noise of the Hispano-Suiza was heard. He threw his cigarette away and crouched down below the railings.

Phryne also crouched. She heard the crunch of Molly’s feet on the gravel and the thud as the bag dropped into the hollow stump. Molly’s feet moved away again and there was the revving of a big engine.

Don’t get too carried away with my car, Jack Leonard, thought Phryne. Is this my man or not? Damn him, won’t he move? I’m freezing to the spot.

Sid moved at last. He sauntered over to the stump, extracted the bag, and ripped open the top. He stuffed a handful of fivers into his pocket and tucked the bag under his arm. He walked jauntily down the path towards the other side of the park and did not give the slightest thought to the shadow that moved when he did.

He was planning to go back to Queenscliff to eliminate the witnesses, not share the money. He still had five shots in his revolver. That would finish Mike, the woman sitting silently in the car, and the kid. He would leave the pistol in Mike’s hand, then catch a boat from Adelaide bound to anywhere, with five thousand quid in his kick. He licked his lips at the thought of the ten-year-old child slaves he could buy in Turkey, with that amount of money.

The Bentley was warm and he only needed to swing the starting handle before the engine caught. Sidney did not so much as glance at Ann as he got in and drove away.

Phryne had not had any difficulty in ensconcing her slight frame behind the rumble seat. She unwound the line from her waist and lashed herself to the back of the car, using the convenient lugs placed there for tying up luggage. Tonight, thought Phryne, he hasn’t got luggage, he’s got baggage. This feeble witticism amused her as she hung on when the Bentley rounded a corner. She had the bladder of paint in a sling contrived by Dot, placed on her right hip. All she needed to do to drop some paint was to give the bladder a soft thump. The excreted paint would shine on the black surface of the road as soon as the light from the plane touched it.

Phryne had not gone fifty yards before she began to curse her own cleverness. This was ingenious, but couldn’t much the same effect have been obtained by tying the bladder to the car? She supposed not. She had no way of timing because she could not spare a hand to hold her watch. Bear was safe and snug against her chest. Phryne banged the bladder and a drop of paint squeezed out. She began to sing under her breath as the car whizzed along and the cold wind slashed at her hands.

She thumped the bladder at the end of each line. Observing angels would have heard had they been hovering over her in the dark:

John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the
(thump)

John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the
(thud)

John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the
(thump)

But his soul goes marching
(thud)
!

Phryne hoped that by this novel method she could space out the drops of paint so that the plane could follow them. Geelong was fleeting past. Soon they were out into the open paddocks again. The moon was high and the light bright enough for Phryne to read the engine specifications embossed on the Bentley’s rear.

She was exquisitely uncomfortable. She had bound herself as tightly as Andromeda to the rock, as she did not relish being flung off into the night. Struck at thirty miles an hour, the road was sure to be very hard indeed. Her fingers, in their leather gloves, were beginning to cramp. She eased the pressure by leaning into her line, and though it took her weight, it creaked rather alarmingly. Her feet were wedged above the bumper bar, where the maker of the car had decided to make a definite little shelf about ten inches long.

The car surged up and over a hump in the road, and Phryne lost her grip. Her clawing hand met the tail light and she hung on to it as though she had been glued while she scrabbled with her feet for the step. She found it and gave the bladder a hearty thump. Geelong was now not even a glow on the skyline, and the moon was westering. Where was the plane? Had the paint failed to work? That was not disastrous.

Phryne freed a hand to scratch her itching nose and reminded herself that poor little Candida was at the end of this wild ride. If she was still alive. Phryne banged the bladder again.

The grand old Duke of
(thump)

He had ten thousand
(thud)

He marched them up to the
(thud)
of the hill and he marched them
(thump)
again.