‘It’s a long story. But I think Gordon might know about his involvement in the blackmail. I’ve tried to warn him but I can’t get in touch. He’s disappeared. Just like Jessie did.’
She looked at her ex-boyfriend with his downturned mouth and furrowed brow. ‘Bill?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Please hold me for a moment.’ Joan had begun to tremble.
Bill placed his arms about her. His left hand cupped the nape of her neck and he gave it a squeeze. ‘Listen, Joanie, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, okay? I promise.’
‘Thanks, Bill.’
And then the next train arrived and Joan boarded while Bill looked up and down the platform to make sure that their pursuer was nowhere to be seen. Taking a seat by the window, Joan gave Bill a wave and pointed at her watch. Bill nodded and mouthed, ‘Yes, yes, four-thirty.’
As the train pulled away from the platform, Joan saw the red-faced bloodhound come staggering down the escalators, and stare at the departing train with a look of teeth-grinding humiliation. How Joan itched to get back to her typewriter as the story sped away from her: so much had happened since Monday. And there was another revelation dawning. She realised she could no longer avoid putting Joan Linderman herself—magazine editor by day and would-be crime-writer by night—as a fictional character at the centre of her novel. She was even a police suspect now, a collaborator in blackmail, the target of a death-threat, and up to her elbows in the messy, improbable process that could—who knows?—stumble onto a solution to this case.
When Joan arrived back at Bomora nearly an hour later, she found Bernie well advanced with her packing. She looked shockingly pale and her eyes had a glazed, glittery look about them. She hadn’t snorted coke at this time of the day, had she? Mind you, who could blame her? ‘I rang your office,’ Bernie said. ‘They pulled you in too, then?’
‘Of course.’
‘How much did you tell them about Gordon?’
‘Nothing, Bernie. I’m not about to risk us getting hurt.’
Bernie laughed grimly. ‘Probably a bit late for that. The cops obviously think I murdered Ellie and maybe Jessie too. Christ, I never imagined a body could look like that after days in the water. Poor bitch. Neither of them was a saint but they didn’t deserve to die like that.’
‘Did you tell them about Ellie attending the Ladies’ Bacchus Club?’
‘Yes. But they couldn’t see my point. “You’re the one who recommended Ellie,” they said, “so you can’t have thought it was that dangerous. And what motive could these women possibly have for hurting her anyway?”’ Bernie looked around the room with its anarchic jumble of clothes, books and ornaments. ‘Who could believe it? Everything normal one minute, and then our lives blown apart like someone tossed a bomb in here. I’ve collected the key for the new flat and booked a removalist for five o’clock. I can’t spend another night in this place.’
‘I have something on around five, but I can be all packed by then. Is it okay if the removalist throws my stuff in the van as well? I can meet you over at the new place later.’
‘Of course.’ Bernie clutched Joan’s arm. ‘You believe me, don’t you? I never meant Ellie any harm. I loved her, Joan.’
‘Of course I believe you. Please, Bernie, don’t blame yourself.’
‘But I do. And I got you mixed up in all this.’ Bernie’s face was wan with grief. ‘Save yourself, Joan. Get out now while you can. They can’t pin anything on you. Go back to Willoughby. Or find another flatmate, preferably one who’s not completely mad.’
‘I can’t go back to Willoughby; I’m not that person anymore.’ Joan placed her hands on Bernie’s shoulders and leaned forward so their foreheads touched. ‘And I’m not going to abandon you. You’re my friend, Bernie—my sister. I know there must be a way out of this.’
Bernie looked at her intently. ‘I hope you’re right, love.’
‘Listen, I have an idea. We need to get out of this bloody nightmare of a city for a day. Take a break. I say we go up to Glenbrook tomorrow and visit Zora. I’ll post her a quick note this afternoon.’
‘But the police … ?’
‘If they want to follow us on a day trip to the Blue Mountains, then so be it. We’ll be a lot safer with a police escort if Gordon decides to send one of his thugs after us.’
‘You have changed,’ Bernie snorted. ‘Who the hell are you, Joan Linderman?’
With the window open for the last time on Joan’s favourite rectangle of sky, the two women packed all the accoutrements of their bohemian lives into suitcases, boxes and an old trunk, the last refugees from the haphazard community that had once been Bomora.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Joan had packed and left all her worldly possessions next to the trunk in the bedsit.
She then split her blackmail money in half and shoved the notes beneath the inner soles of her shoes. She could not think of anywhere else safe to keep it right now; the only way anyone would find her stash was by peeling those shoes off her two cold dead feet. A melodramatic image, perhaps, but practical. She also took the photo of Gordon and Ellie, along with Ellie’s lavender-coloured love note to Gordon, put them in an envelope marked Taken from second drawer of desk in Gordon Fielding-Jones’s study, and tucked the envelope inside her brassiere. She did not pray often, and usually only in a desultory, noncommittal way that was more out of habit than conviction, but tonight she prayed fervently for the protection of any higher being who cared to listen to her entreaty.
Meanwhile, she still hadn’t heard a word from Hugh. There’d been nothing in the mail nor had there been a telegram. She’d called both the Communist Party offices and the Worker’s Weekly to see if he’d left a message for her, but he hadn’t. No call had been made to the hall phone downstairs near Mrs Moxham’s flat. He must have some idea how worried she would be. Had he overheard something and gone into hiding? Did he know about Rimbaud’s death and the intimidating note? She would not allow herself to imagine any worse scenarios. Even so, fear refused to release its grip on her throat and chest; there was a constant shadow in her mind, a prickling on her skin.
Joan checked her watch and saw that it was just past four-ten. She left by the front door of Bomora for the last time as a tenant to stride smartly up Macleay Street. Cooking smells, hot and greasy, floated down from the open windows of the flats and terrace houses and there were snatches of radio and gramophone music, chatter and laughter, the cry of a baby and the bark of a dog. Some neon signs were already aglow over the doorways or in the windows of the wine and oyster saloons, the cafes and restaurants. The raucous clamour of male voices spilled onto the pavement from the corner pubs in the riotous countdown of the six o’clock swill. Skinny cats yowled and hissed at each other in side streets.
All this was as usual, as familiar to Joan as her now-lost view of the harbour. But its familiarity did nothing to calm her growing unease. With each step, she heard the echo of footfalls behind her and felt hostile eyes trained on her back. She could not help glancing over her shoulder every twenty yards or so. Was it possible that she was being shadowed by Geoffrey or another New Guardsman as well as by one of Armfield’s colleagues?
Darlinghurst Road was already busy with the rush of city workers picking up the evening meals they’d ordered earlier that morning from delicatessens or heading out for a quick drink at a wine saloon before the curfew. Joan was grateful to have this crowd as protection; surely no one would try to hustle her into an alleyway or manhandle her in full view of all these people. She saw familiar faces in the throng, habitués of the Cross, including the saturnine Professor Brennan in his long coat, abroad early from his flat at Hotel Mansions. Even so, she felt utterly alone.
The Kings Cross Theatre at the apex of Darlinghurst Road and Victoria Street faced the Cross itself, the six-road junction jammed with its discordant daily chaos of cars, trucks, buses and trams, shepherded by the lone figure of a traffic cop. The imposing triangular building contained not
only the picture palace but billiard rooms, a fruit shop, a ladies’ hairdresser, a pharmacy and the Café Eldorado, so there was no shortage of human traffic about there either. From Minton House, crowned with its blazing neon CAPSTAN sign, Joan crossed and entered the cinema under the august scrutiny of the eagle-eyed griffin perched on the gables above.
She purchased a ticket and checked her watch again: four twenty-five. The vulgar faux-marble foyer with its plaster-garlanded walls, potted palms, brass railings and bucolic Italianate murals (daintily clad maidens reclining on swards beside poplars and fountains) was packed with eager young couples filing into the auditorium arm in arm. Joan could not help but think of her last date here with Hugh to see The Cheaters little more than a week ago.
She climbed the staircase to the upstairs lounge (well-worn club chairs, more potted palms, overflowing ashtray stands) and made her way into the dress circle. The stalls were almost full and the resident organist was going through his final flourishes before the lights dimmed. Two chocolate boys in their snappy uniforms were patrolling with their Nestlé trays slung about their necks, loaded with peanuts, lollies and chocolates. As more and more people filed into the dress circle, Joan looked about nervously for red-faced Geoffrey or any other solitary cinema-goer taking a more than casual interest in her presence. There was no sign of anyone, nor any sign of Bill. She placed her handbag on the seat next to hers to save the place.
The lights went down and the heavy ornate velvet curtains parted to reveal the cinema screen as the national anthem began its sonorous introduction. Everyone stood up and the men removed their hats. For crying out loud, where was Bill? She felt the envelope inside her bra glowing like a hot coal, radiating its presence like a bloody lighthouse beam, drawing her predator to her with his rough hands and grim purpose. Even hidden inside its armour of gloves and hat and corset and stockings, her female body felt vulnerable, weak. She despised herself for this weakness and her dependence on a good man’s protection.
The audience resumed their seats and the movie began. In the flickering shaft of light from the projection booth, Joan saw a silhouetted male figure shuffling along the row, drawing closer to her. Her heart began to thump and her breathing grew shallow. Was this a friend or enemy?
At last, the man dropped into the seat beside her. It was Bill. Thank Christ!
They watched the film in silence for some time, barely acknowledging each other’s presence. As the projector’s beam spasmed from brightness to dark, Joan chose her moment to retrieve the envelope from her bra and place it in her lap. Bill discreetly collected it and slipped it inside his suit jacket, all this done without a glance between them.
At intermission, just before the lights came up, Bill leaned a little in her direction and whispered, ‘Remember Harry Cox? He’ll escort you home. You’ll hear from me soon. Take care.’ He then disappeared into the crowd streaming out of the dress circle for their ice-creams and lollies. Bill’s old mate Harry was sitting directly behind Joan. He climbed over the seats and sat next to her. ‘Hiya, Joanie. Let me know when you wanna go.’
They sat through most of another reel. Joan could barely take in any of the film (the usual slapstick comic business between Stan and Ollie) so distracted was she by the whirlpool of emotions churning inside her: relief, dread, hope, terror.
At the next intermission, Harry followed her out to the upstairs lounge and they quickly descended to the foyer. Glancing back, she saw that close behind him was the familiar figure of Geoffrey, accompanied by another middle-aged gent with the martial bearing of a New Guardsman. ‘Hey, stop right there, Miss Linderman!’ yelled Geoffrey as they neared the ticket booth. ‘We know what you stole from your uncle and we’ve come to get it back!’
Joan assumed he was referring to the money obtained through blackmail and not the incriminating contents of his desk drawer—unless Gordon had checked that on his return from the club? Harry turned and confronted the two men who, it was plain to see, were carrying pistols in holsters under their suit jackets. ‘If you have evidence of a crime, mate, you can take it up with the cops.’
Geoffrey took another step towards them. ‘If she just hands over what she took, there’s no need to involve the police.’
Harry stood his ground. ‘Sounds pretty shady to me. I think you’d best fuck off right now!’
Geoffrey grunted his disapproval and then made a desperate lunge towards Joan. Harry’s fist landed with a crack on his face, knocking him off balance, a jet of blood spurting from his nose. His companion drew his pistol. Before he had a chance to finger the trigger, though, another fellow came barrelling down the stairs and across the foyer, his right hand on the gun under his armpit and his left hand holding open his jacket to reveal a police badge. ‘Police! Put that away!’ The two New Guardsmen, wide-eyed with shock, scarpered onto the street quick smart. The plainclothes copper was almost certainly there to shadow Joan, but he could hardly tell her that. Instead, he asked if she knew the two gentlemen. ‘I’ve never laid eyes on them before!’ Joan declared. Did Joan wish to file a report about the assault?
‘No, that’s fine. I think they probably mistook us for someone else.’
Harry and Joan thanked the policeman for his timely intervention; it had been a nasty close call. As they crossed the street, headed for Bayswater Road, there was no sign of the two New Guard thugs. If the copper was following them, he did so very discreetly. When they arrived at the Hampton flats, Joan patted Harry Cox on the arm and thanked him for his gallantry.
‘No worries, love.’
She scribbled her new phone number and street address on the back of a matchbook and handed it over. ‘Can you give this to Bill when you see him? I moved flats today.’
Pocketing the matchbook, he said, ‘Hope you and Bill get this whole thing sorted soon. Cheerio.’ And with a jaunty doff of his hat, Harry Cox sauntered off towards Rushcutters Bay.
Joan took the stairs to the fourth floor of the Hampton and knocked on the door of flat seven.
Bernice opened it, looking relieved to see her. She had begun unpacking but the flat was still crowded with half-opened boxes, their contents migrating slowly in stages to the kitchen cupboards, the bedroom chest of drawers and the wardrobe in the main room. ‘Look at this!’ exclaimed Bernie, taking Joan by the elbow.
She yanked open the venetian blind in the living room-cum-kitchenette. Joan gasped. Laid out before her was an uninterrupted vista over the riot of buildings and rusted-red rooftops of Kings Cross and Woolloomooloo looking towards the golden sandstone city beyond. There, the sapphire-green oases of the Domain and Botanic Gardens and glowing colonial grandeurs of Macquarie Street were becoming radiant in the last fierce flush of sunset. As Joan watched, mesmerised, the twilight retreated from the city skyline and the green parks and the inky harbour where the bridge crouched, its back arched like a glossy cat about to pounce. In the darkling city streets, the flow of traffic became brilliant molten streams while in the Cross the neon poetry—CAPSTAN, PENFOLDS, CHEMIST—began to flash its obscure blue-green-red-blue Morse code.
The shadow city was coming awake. And from her newest favourite rectangle of sky, Joan watched it with an affection that, she realised now, was only really possible from a distance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The hall phone at the Hampton rang on Wednesday morning at eight. It was Zora. ‘I got your note. It would be lovely to have you for lunch. Do you think you can make it by twelve or so?’
‘Yes, that would be great. Can we bring something?’
After finalising the lunch details with Zora, Joan made several more attempts to contact Hugh, but no one had seen him at Communist Hall or the Worker’s Weekly offices. Joan had told Hugh about their hopes to get the new Bayswater Road flat the previous Sunday so if he did try to find her now, he at least knew her most likely new address. Joan kept having intrusive flashes of his body floating face down in the harbour with a gunshot wound to the back of his head. Who would want him dead? Gordo
n, of course, would see his involvement in blackmail as treacherous in the extreme. And if Gordon discovered a deeper disloyalty it would be a devastating blow; he could hardly expect to maintain his position as locality commander once it was known he had chosen a communist spy as his lieutenant. Or maybe Hugh had fallen foul of Phil ‘the Jew’, or Frankie Goldman, for threatening to expose Jeffs’s business ties to Gordon. The only comfort Joan had was that Hugh was smart, tough and a born survivor.
Joan also rang Mr Lofting early that morning and apologised for her prolonged absence the day before. ‘If Olive can take care of the column for just one more day, I would be most grateful. Hopefully this whole business will be over sooner rather than later,’ said Joan, trying to decipher Mr Lofting’s tone of voice in response. She could only hope his old-fashioned code of ethics would keep him as an ally. While she was still anxious about losing her job, she feared for her own sanity if she did not step away from the nightmare for one day. Bernie seemed even more fragile mentally than Joan was.
Had the CIB assigned her and Bernie a different undercover detective from the one at the cinema for their trip to the Blue Mountains? wondered Joan. That bloke had blown his cover to rescue her from violence and she couldn’t help but be grateful for that. Which was why she half hoped he might be the one to get to spend the best part of this cool but sunny Wednesday in the sleepy village of Glenbrook at the foot of the Blue Mountains, a nice break from the squalid inner-city suburbs. With his fedora pulled down low it was hard to identify the gentleman in the shapeless raincoat who, among a handful of other passengers, alighted from their train carriage. But it was not too hard to guess he was no tourist.
Located only a short walk from the station, Zora’s secluded cottage sat nestled among jacarandas and fruit trees and vegetable and flowerbeds. Joan and Bernie were hugged warmly on arrival and followed their hostess under four arches of thickly woven wisteria. There was a flurry of excitement among the buff Orpingtons in their pens at the sight of visitors but they soon settled back down to preening and scratching. With tall eucalypts all along the fence-line, the back garden commanded glimpses of distant green gullies and hazy blue ridges.
Death in the Ladies' Goddess Club Page 22