Queen of Flowers (27 page)

‘Now, you got the card?’ he asked.

Phryne held it up.

‘And the password tonight is “swordfish”. You got it?’

‘I’ve got it.’

‘You look beaut,’ said Bert, momentarily distracted.

Phryne twirled briefly. Dot, when presented with the twin desiderata, viz, a dress which would look very expensive, elaborate and upper class, and one in which Miss Fisher could, if necessary, swim, had come up with a novel solution. Phryne wore daring but not impossible slinky black silk evening
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pyjama trousers with a loose silk singlet and a beautiful flowing claret-coloured sequinned wrap which could be jettisoned if push came—so to speak—to shove. The lights approached.

The Ace of Clubs was coming in.

‘Good luck,’ said Bert, and faded into the background.

The Ace of Clubs was a stocky, strong little boat in a very high state of polish. She rocked alongside the pier as a gangplank was laid out for the feet of the well-heeled, and Phryne and Lin stepped into line. A large sailor was checking cards and bending a huge head forward to listen to the password before allowing anyone onto the gangplank.

‘Swordfish,’ whispered Phryne into the great ear, feeling like an extra in a Hollywood film, and she was allowed to move past the monumental matelot and onto the deck. It was wood, holy-stoned almost white.

She surveyed the gamblers. Curious. She knew several of them. A barrister famed for his ferocious cross-examination, nicknamed ‘the beast’. He was escorting a giggly lady in cerise who had already dined rather too well. There were two society ladies famed for the scantiness of their attire and the youth of their attendants. A couple of young men, just out of school, Phryne decided, who were finding this all exceptionally exciting and were drawling and smoking gaspers to cover their emotion.

A famously wealthy squatter. A famously poverty-stricken author. A group of gentlemen who looked more horsy than salty. Mr Walker’s clientele, of course, would self-select for the rich and silly. And a fine collection was present this night.

The air was full of expensive scents and the jingle of jewellery almost covered the rumble of the engines. The Ace of Clubs, Bert had explained, was a steam yacht, which gave her plenty of available horsepower in the event of a sudden maritime emergency, like a school of whales or policemen, or
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an attack by pirates or tax inspectors. She was indeed a shipshape and Bristol fashion boat, every line coiled and every rope’s end brailed or spliced. The crew were unobtrusive but seemed chosen for heft.

The Ace of Clubs pulled out into the bay and began to turn, screws rumbling, for the trip across to Williamstown.

The ladies and gentlemen were ushered inside.

The original crew’s quarters had been transformed. There was carpet on the floor, a selection of blackwood furniture which made Lin whistle soundlessly, a large table and a lot of comfortable chairs, and even a chandelier. The walls were white and the extra decorations were gold and it was opulent and just a little stagey, as though it was a film set rather than a real room.

Presumably behind all this there must be the usual offices, and to judge by the quality of the hors d’oeuvres and the quantity of the champagne, a scullery and a kitchen. The attendant dealer was dressed in a spanking white naval uniform, with peaked cap.

‘A nice touch,’ said Phryne to Lin. ‘Who inspires confidence like the navy? I never asked you, Lin dear. Do you gamble?’

‘A little,’ he admitted. ‘But on games of skill, not chance.

I do like bridge,’ he admitted. ‘I’m teaching Camellia. I know you don’t play cards,’ he said defensively.

‘I’m sure that she will be a much better pupil than me. In fact, Jo Jo the Dog Faced Boy would be a better pupil than me.

Well, I suppose I shall have to waste some money,’ sighed Phryne.

She was conducted to a seat on the other side of the table to the naval dealer and the game began.

Baccarat, thought Phryne, as she turned over a three and a five, was the most boring game ever invented. Eight. The dealer had a jack, which counted for nothing, and a king, which also counted for nothing. He dealt himself a ten and
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Phryne won. Two more cards: a king and a ten. Phryne lost.

Two more cards: an ace and a ten. Phryne lost.

This went on for about ten minutes, after which she stood and gracefully yielded her chair to an eager young gentleman with more money than sense.

‘Five pounds poorer,’ she mourned to Lin.

‘Five pounds richer,’ he smiled at her. ‘I bet that you’d win the first round.’

‘Let’s have a chat with the captain, eh?’ said Phryne. ‘Now that we’re even.’

She laid a confiding hand on the huge forearm of one of the sailors. ‘Can you ask Mr Walker if he would spare me a word? Miss Phryne Fisher. He might have heard of me.’

That Mr Walker had heard of Miss Fisher was evident. She and Lin were ushered into the captain’s cabin and the door shut with some speed. A large sailor leaned against it.

Mr Walker was sitting in an armchair. He was beautifully dressed in a handmade cashmere suit which had not been tailored in Melbourne. He was a slick, hard-faced man with a chin on which one could break rocks, and thin red lips. His eyes were as compassionate and kind as chips of flint.

‘The Hon. Miss Fisher,’ he said in an even, icy tone. ‘The society detective. Do sit down. I’m sure that we can clear up any little misunderstanding. One way or the other,’ he added, looking meaningfully at the sailor, who was patting his breast pocket. The air was heavy with menace. Phryne shattered the mood as she stepped forward and shook Mr Walker’s astonished hand.

‘Mr Walker, how nice to meet you. The thing to do in these situations,’ Phryne said, ‘is not to get caught up in cinema expectations. It doesn’t have to go like that. We just write another script, one in which I get what I want and no one gets
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shot. I am investigating an attempted murder and I am not in the least interested in your gambling activities, though I must say you do run a very nice, tight little ship. It must cost a fortune in brass polish alone. I have recently taken advice,’ she said delicately, ‘which indicates that you know all about gambling, which does not interest me at all. But I am vitally interested in whether a girl went overboard from your boat on Tuesday night. Now, I cannot imagine a businessman like yourself allowing such a fuss as a suicide attempt. It might have been an accident. But I need to know. And when I am fully informed, I will go away, and I promise not to darken the doorway of any of your establishments again.’

She paused. Mr Walker shook his head, puzzled.

‘This would be Tuesday night,’ he said slowly.

‘Yes. Rose Weston, a rather unstable girl, was found on the beach about an hour after midnight. Been in the water for some time. Hit over the head.’

‘I heard about it,’ he said. Then he reached a decision. The flinty eyes softened to something like quartz. ‘Very well, Miss Fisher. You may talk to any of my crew, and I will take you all over my boat. I will also give you a lift back to St Kilda.

And after that, we are quits. Right?’

‘Right,’ agreed Phryne. She was pleased that she had not had to disclose the presence of her little gun, in the purse on her lap, aimed squarely at Mr Walker’s well-tailored middle. She rose. Mr Walker opened the door for her.

The steam yacht was a very nice little boat, Phryne decided after an hour’s tour. The engines were in peak condition, kept so by a greasy man and a greasier boy, both of whom had been below and hadn’t seen anything. The kitchen was run by an excitable Swiss, who had informed
Ihre Altesse, gnadige frau
that nothing untoward had happened on his side of the ship
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on Tuesday night except for the terrible discovery that he was down to his last crate of the Pol Roger.

The sailors who were not on guard duty were engaged in sailing the boat and in drinking a nice cuppa. They were sitting on the after deck, out of sight of the punters. They scrambled to their feet as Mr Walker led Phryne and Lin up the companionway.

‘Boys,’ said Mr Walker, ‘I want you to tell this lady anything she wants to know. Then take her back to the main saloon.’

‘Anything, boss?’ quavered a red-capped sailor.

‘Anything. Just answer her questions,’ snarled Mr Walker, reverting to type, and left. There was general relaxation and also general puzzlement. Phryne, in the half-light, twinkled and glittered.

‘What do you want to know, Miss?’ asked the sailor in the red cap.

‘Tuesday,’ said Phryne. ‘On the way out of St Kilda.

Anyone go overboard from this boat?’

‘No,’ said Red-cap. ‘We’ve got Tom for that, anyway.

Some of the mugs lose their shirts and want to jump. Tom retrieves ’em.’

Tom grinned modestly. He was dressed in an airy costume of blue bathers and a fleecy dressing gown.

‘I was a diver in the navy,’ he told Phryne. ‘Couldn’t find a job when I got out. This is a good one. Anyone goes overboard, we ring down to stop engines and reverse, and I go in with the life preserver. Then we empty them out and dry them and send them home. Mr Walker doesn’t like scandals.

I’ve dragged in a few over the years but Tuesday was quiet.’

‘All right. A quiet night. Did anyone see anything, hear anything, unusual in another boat?’

The crew looked at each other. Heads shook.

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‘Nah,’ said a huge Maori. ‘There was more noise than normal because of the carnival. More people around, too. Boss thought takin’s would be down, but they ain’t. One mug punter born every minute. What gave you the idea that we had anything to do with this murder? This is a well-run boat, this is.’

‘I know that when the cops turn up they’ll find that everyone is blamelessly playing bridge,’ said Phryne. ‘But isn’t it rather expensive, throwing all those firearms into the sea?’

The big man grinned. ‘They don’t go in the water,’ he said.

‘They go in the safe in the captain’s office. We’re all members of a small arms club,’ he said. ‘We all got pistol licences. Proper, legal licences.’

‘And you were all on the way home from a pigeon shooting contest?’ guessed Phryne. ‘And put the guns in the safe to make sure that there were no accidents?’

‘That’s how it is, lady, we take our bible oath,’ affirmed Red-cap.

‘That’s very clever,’ said Phryne, genuinely impressed.

‘So why did you think we had anything to do with your murder?’ asked Red-cap.

‘You’re the only boat going this way this late, apart from the big ocean liners,’ said Phryne.

‘And it’s a long way down from them big buggers,’ said Tom. ‘She’d likely be dead when she hit the water, like falling off a building. Water’s hard as concrete when you hit from a height. I should know,’ he added. ‘I dived off the bridge of a sinking ship off the Dardenelles and if I hadn’t had my hands above my head, I would’ve been a goner. Lots of blokes were.’

‘Exactly,’ said Phryne. ‘Did anyone notice any small boats about?’

‘Small like a rowboat?’ asked Red-cap. ‘There were a few
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around. Fishermen. They’re as mad as punters. I didn’t see one with a girl in it, though.’ He leered briefly.

‘Have any of you seen a nasty pair called Simonds and Mongrel around on the beach? Last Tuesday night, for example?’

Red-cap drew in a censorious breath. ‘You don’t want to have anything to do with scum like them,’ he protested. ‘We don’t either.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Phryne gently, ‘they were seen around the pubs flashing large sums of money.’

‘Were they?’ asked Red-cap. ‘Well, well.’ He did not elaborate. He looked around at the rest of the crew. They all shook their heads. ‘No,’ he told Phryne. ‘We didn’t see ’em.

And if we had, we’d have run ’em off, because the boss don’t like Simonds and Mongrel.’

‘Heard they got banned from the Flora,’ said the diver.

‘Don’t be a donkey,’ said Red-cap. ‘No one gets banned from the Flora.’

‘It’s true nonetheless,’ Phryne affirmed. ‘I have it on very good authority. Thank you for your time, gentlemen,’ she added, distributing coins. ‘And I’m so glad I don’t have to swim home.’

The crew laughed politely.

‘You must have impressed the boss something cruel,’ Tom told her. ‘We ain’t never been told to answer questions before.

Just come this way, Miss. Boss wants you to go back into the main saloon, and Hans’ll bring you a drink.’

Settled in a spindle-legged chair with a glass of the Pol Roger, Phryne sighed.

‘Do you believe them?’ asked Lin.

‘Yes,’ said Phryne. ‘I had such a nice little theory about this boat. But one must never cling to theories. Unless Rose was out in a rowboat with a fisherman, which sounds unlikely, she
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didn’t go into the sea from a ship. Which takes us right back to those thugs, and the seashore itself. And the strange involve-ment of that very pretty boy and the dark girl who was clinging to him—Diane. Apparently they knew where Rose was and decoyed her out onto the beach where whatever happened to her happened. Never mind,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘There is still champagne.’

Phryne slept well. She woke at seven with the conviction that Mongrel and Simonds had got into the house during the night and were garrotting her. However, she found, she was merely suffering from Lin embracing her from one side and Ember lying curled on the bedclothes on the other side.