‘God, it’s so good to see you alive and well.’ Joan kissed Hugh again as if to prove to herself he was still warm-blooded and breathing. ‘Oh, did I tell you about the house-cooling party the Itchies are having this Saturday evening at Bomora? We’re going to demolish the old place room by room before the wreckers come on Monday! Will you come?’
‘Sure, sounds fun. But I was also hoping you and I could be part of the bridge festivities on Saturday morning.’
Joan stared at him in disbelief. Hugh grinned at her as he fished a square of paper out of his jacket pocket and held it up for Joan to inspect. With a tinted illustration of the great arch and the granite pylons of the bridge surmounted by the New South Wales coat of arms in gold leaf, it was clearly a VIP invitation to the opening ceremony. ‘Funnily enough, I stumbled on this sitting on Gordon’s desk just before the cops arrived and while Olympia was still on the phone. It seemed a shame to let it go to waste. You’ll have to frock up a bit to mix with the hoity-toity crowd.’
Joan was genuinely excited. ‘What? This is amazing. We’ll be within spitting distance of the official party. And we’ll get to be in the front of the crowd to walk over the bridge.’ She hugged him. ‘You’re a dark horse, Hugh. I thought you didn’t approve of the bloody thing!’
‘Not much point what I think now it’s built,’ Hugh said with a laugh. ‘And as my days with the New Guard are probably over, I’d also like to see what they get up to on Saturday.’
‘Never a day off from the revolution, eh?’
He kissed her tenderly then. ‘With you, even that can be fun.’
Bernie was indeed glad to see Joan. She was finishing up a bowl of soup before heading out for the dress rehearsal for her play, which was due to open the following Tuesday. ‘Your old boyfriend was over here an hour ago looking for you.’
‘Bill?’
‘How many ex-boyfriends know where you live?’
Bill Jenkins had dropped by to see if Joan had got home safe and sound, and to tell her and Bernie the news about Frankie Goldman. ‘He said he’d tried to call you at the office. He seemed worried that Gordon might come after you.’
Bill had been right to fear that possibility, though it seemed more likely that Geoffrey’s drunken attack was all his own work and not done on his boss’s orders. Joan realised Bernie was in a hurry to leave but she had to share the latest turn of events from her meeting with Hugh.
‘Hallelujah! Can you believe it?’ Bernie laughed. ‘I think that’s what’s known in the classics as a deus ex machina! That Olympia is one hell of a lady. You almost have to take your hat off to your dotty aunt for serving up Goldman’s head in a box. Worthy of Salome!’
The relief on Bernie’s face was palpable. She hugged Joan as she headed out the door. ‘I’m glad I can tell my director that there’s a good chance I’ll make it to opening night alive!’
Joan settled down to her typewriter. Was Bernie right about the deus ex machina of Goldman’s death and Gordon’s involvement in drug dealing? Or was this just the way it appeared to everyone? Who knew what dramas were being played out, possibly over years? Olympia’s resentment of her husband’s (and all men’s) entitlement had evolved into an eccentric then angry rebellion in her Ladies’ Goddess Club, culminating perhaps in an act of bloody justice. Gordon had crossed the line because he had an addiction to danger, born out of his experiences of the Great War. Or was he simply a rich prick who thought playing games with prostitutes and making money any way he could was his birthright?
Like the ‘Joan’ character of her own embryonic novel, Joan may not have solved the entire case on her own, but she had shown some smarts and courage to collect evidence that (hopefully) would prove critical to the police investigation and a prosecutor’s case. Fingers crossed, her part in the story was now drawing to a close. She began to type:
The kaleidoscope had been turned once more. All the disputed facts, the unresolved leads, the fragmentary and circumstantial evidence of the case had resettled into a new pattern. Joan Linderman wondered what Sergeant Armfield was thinking about the case now. Her interrogation of Bernice and Joan had been pursued with such conviction, such meticulous attention to detail, such fervid belief in its truth, Joan wondered how the policewoman could change track so easily to accommodate a new theory, a new set of circumstances, a new imagined scenario.
Joan smiled to think that the sergeant was not so very different to a writer. She showed the same willingness to change course when the storytelling hit a brick wall or her thoughts turned up a more credible version of events. And her passionate belief in the new version of the story did not look back over its shoulder for one minute. This was the story now. Another draft, another lead, another possible ending.
‘Good luck with your writing, Miss Linderman,’ Armfield had said to Joan at the conclusion of their interview. ‘I look forward to reading the finished story.’
Uncle Gordon and Aunt Olympia were in custody tonight. The police and the lawyers would take over now. Hugh had said, ‘I don’t like their chances the way the evidence is stacking up.’
Joan sat down and began to write what she hoped were the closing chapters of her novel. But something still bothered her, some flickering of a shadow at the back of her mind that made her wonder if the story was not in fact over. Not yet …
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Mine are the haunted grottos, dark as jade
In whose mysterious shade
Mossed bones or coral-white sea-fays may hide
And never moves a tide …
Mr Lofting had agreed to open the next issue’s ‘Between Ourselves’ with one of Bernice Becker’s poems, ‘The Sea’. Joan couldn’t wait to tell her. Even after all these years, Bernie was always pleased when her poetry or one of her witty articles appeared in the Mirror. Joan sat back in her swivel chair and slowly worked her way through Mr Lofting’s edits.
When the phone rang at reception around ten o’clock that morning and someone asked to speak to ‘Miss Linderman, please’, the last person Joan expected to be calling was her father.
‘Dad, what a surprise! Is everything alright?’
‘Yes, fine, my dear. I just happened to be in town this morning for an appointment and wondered if you had time to join me for a quick bite for lunch.’
‘Yes, that would be lovely!’
‘Maybe we could meet up at that Sargent’s near Rowe Street?’ The Sargent’s in question was her father’s favourite eatery in Sydney and one of the only places in the whole city to sell roast beef sandwiches. It also did excellent meat pies, of course, and delicious rock cakes, apple charlottes and their popular sponge-and-buttercream cakes called Othellos (chocolate icing with white squiggles) and Desdemonas (white icing and chocolate squiggles). Her father had a sweet tooth that he rarely got to indulge.
‘Of course. I can meet you there at midday.’
‘That’s perfect. I want to browse some of the sheet music at Albert’s before lunch.’
Joan was in a giddy mood since the news of yesterday and following her phone call earlier that morning to a very cocky and happy Bill Jenkins. ‘It took some persuading to get Sergeant Armfield on side about “rediscovering” the evidence you found in Gordon’s desk drawer, but she had to agree no one could easily fake evidence like a handwritten letter and a street photograph. And she was a lot happier when two more love letters in the same handwriting turned up during the search of the apartment.’ The net was tightening around Gordon and Olympia, which meant potential exoneration for Joan and Bernice and justice for Ellie and Jessie.
Joan’s mood was also greatly improved by the morning’s edition of the Daily Telegraph, which carried a story that mentioned Gordon and Olympia by name.
CREAM OF SYDNEY SOCIETY ACCUSED OF SORDID CRIMES: DOPE-PEDDLING, BRUTAL MURDER, SEX PERVERSION
Major Gordon Fielding-Jones, who served with distinction in France and is now a solicitor with the law firm Swanson and Hart on Castlereagh Street, and his wife,
the glamorous socialite Mrs Olympia Fielding-Jones, are regular stars of Sydney high society’s fundraising cocktail parties and balls. It is rumoured that the Major is also a trusted senior commander in Lieutenant Colonel Eric Campbell’s New Guard.
No doubt the socialites of Sydney will be shocked to learn that the Major has been arrested and charged with allegedly trafficking large quantities of cocaine to veterans through a handful of criminal elements inside the Returned Sailors and Soldiers Imperial League of Australia. More arrests will soon follow. The Major has also been charged with the recent murder of his secret lover of some months, Miss Eleanor Dawson, a prostitute who worked for nightclub owner Phil Jeffs. Traces of human blood have been found in the boot of the Major’s Pierce Arrow. Police are working on the assumption the two crimes are linked.
As if these revelations were not enough to scandalise Eastern Suburbs matrons, members of the official Bridge Ball committee will be surprised to learn that their honorary treasurer is not the model of female virtue she pretends to be. It is now known that Mrs Fielding-Jones is the founder and ‘high priestess’ of a debauched sex cult known as the Ladies’ Bacchus Club, which conducts lewd pagan rituals at her penthouse in Kings Cross. It has also been learned that one of the participants in this all-female perverts’ ‘club’ was the murdered prostitute Eleanor Dawson.
A note on Ladies’ Bacchus Club letterhead was found yesterday in the mouth of the decapitated gangster Frankie Goldman. Mrs Fielding-Jones has been charged with the murder of Goldman, which at this stage looks like a revenge killing for Miss Dawson’s murder.
At a brief hearing before Justice Williams this morning, bail was denied for the married couple and they will continue to be detained in custody until a date is set for an initial court hearing.
What a morality tale was this for Depression Sydney, and how it would be relished by all the battlers as they totted up their ha’pennies and threepences for a morsel to eat or a tram ride home, living in terror of the next bill or notice of eviction or of dismissal from their job, assuming they had one. It was not hard to detect the barely suppressed note of glee at the prospect of two goliaths of Sydney’s social elite being brought down for their decadence.
Joan assumed her father’s lunch invitation was issued partly because he was curious to learn if his daughter knew more about these newspaper stories. She did not think it would be fair to burden Horace with anything like the truth, but she would have to reassure him that none of this business involved Hugh, who was as astonished by these revelations as anyone else.
‘Hiya, Dad!’ Joan ran up and hugged her father, dressed smartly for the city in his best suit and tie. When he removed his hat inside the Sargent’s tearooms, Joan could see he had spruced himself up with a proper barbershop haircut and a splash of hair oil. ‘So what brings you into the city? Apart from wanting to see me of course.’ Horace deflected the question until they had collected their trays of sandwiches, cakes and cups of tea at the cash-and-carry and found a quiet table. Once settled, Horace answered Joan’s question.
‘Well, my dear, the honest answer is your mum needs help.’ He sighed. ‘You saw her at her best on Sunday. She was making a big effort to impress you and Hugh. Not a word about James, you might have noticed? She promised me she wouldn’t.’
‘She hasn’t given up on the idea he’s coming home then?’
‘No.’ Horace’s voice grew hoarse and he coughed with the effort of quashing his emotions. ‘Actually, it’s much worse than that, I’m afraid. She’s now convinced he’s back. Says she’s met him over at the park a couple of times. Says that they’ve had long chats and gone for walks. She says he’s horribly injured and doesn’t want anyone other than her to see him.’ Horace choked on a sob. ‘And when Richard and I refuse to believe her, she flies off the handle. Terrible rages. Not like her at all. Richard locks himself in his room or leaves the house. I’m at my wit’s end, Joanie. We can’t survive without Gloria.’
Joan was staggered. Things were so much worse than she could have imagined. She felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She leaned over and placed her hands over her father’s. ‘Who did you see this morning, Dad?’
‘An old colleague of mine recommended a Dr Cameron here on Macquarie Street. He’s very good apparently. I liked him. He wants to see Gloria and thinks there could be some medication to help.’
Joan thought of the remaining four hundred and ninety pounds hidden under a loose linoleum square in her new flat. ‘Listen, I have some money saved up.’ Joan had to talk over her father’s head-shaking and grumbles of protest. ‘Mum should start treatment as soon as she can. And you should hire a nurse. You can’t cope with Richard on your own.’
Her father looked stricken. ‘What? And use up your nest egg? I can’t allow that Joanie! I’m sorry. I should never have told you. I didn’t come here begging for money.’
‘Don’t be daft, Dad. I know that! I told you last Sunday that I’d been paid an advance on my novel and I wanted to give you and Mum some money. So that’s what I intend to do!’
Joan reminded her father how much he had encouraged her to think for herself and stand on her own two feet. He had been her most vocal supporter when it came to her literary ambitions, although he’d always insisted she secure a day job until she got married. ‘I’ll come and visit you on the weekend after next and fix up the money then. Go ahead and make an appointment. I’ll also come with you and Mum to see the doctor in case she gets difficult.’
Horace gave her a teary smile. ‘You’re a wonderful daughter. I hope you know that.’
They ate their lunch and drank their tea. Horace was, of course, intensely curious about the stories in the paper about Gordon and Olympia. ‘I knew they were bad people but I never suspected they were actual criminals. Gordon mixed up with gangsters and cocaine pushers? Who would have thought such a thing possible! I suppose Hugh is terribly shocked.’
‘Yes, he is. As you can imagine.’ Joan had to struggle to hide her smile.
‘And your aunt involved in a sex cult with prostitutes!’ Horace rolled his eyes. ‘I always thought she was strange. But murder? Chopping some fellow’s head off? Of course, I can’t have Gloria reading all this stuff about her sister. She may have a low opinion of Olympia and Gordon, but I’m sure she never imagined for a moment that they were insane. I swear, if that Mrs Parkinson comes anywhere near us with the newspapers, I’ll shoo her away like a bloody dog!’
‘Good idea! Hey, are you and Mum planning to come into town tomorrow for the bridge celebrations? It’ll be really something! They say most of Sydney is going to turn up.’
‘We’ll see how your mother’s doing, I suppose. And Richard, of course.’
Joan glanced at her watch. She was still on a deadline and, with all her absences this week, she dared not return late to the office. Apologising to her father, she rose to her feet. ‘Give my love to Mum and Richard, won’t you? And let me know when you’ve booked that appointment.’ Joan put on her gloves and hat then gave Horace a kiss. ‘Take care, Dad. Love you.’
‘I love you too, Joanie.’
As she headed towards the exit, she glanced to her left as a group of men were taking their seats at the nearest table, their trays of drinks and pastries still in their hands. One of them looked up. She instantly recognised his face. It was Janusz, her incidental lover from Elizabeth Bay House and later Theo’s Club in Chinatown. He smiled a little awkwardly and his eyes flicked away as if he did not want to acknowledge her.
It was then she noticed his lunchtime companions. They looked strangely familiar. And then the penny dropped. Oh, sweet Jesus, no! One was the undercover detective who had saved her at the Kings Cross Theatre while another was the gentleman who had politely doffed his fedora on the platform at Glenbrook. The full catastrophe struck with a flash. They were all coppers. Janusz was a copper. A shadow. Jesus wept! She’d had sex with a bloody CIB detective. This was taking police surveillance a step too far!
Joan
gasped and then fled, her face burning hotly, desperate to get away before her father saw her expression of abject horror. Behind her, she heard the men talking and chuckling, no doubt having a good laugh at her expense. ‘She was up for it so what’s the bloody problem? One of the perks of the job, mate.’
This would be her secret, swore Joan as she hastened down George Street, hoping that the rush of blood to her face would subside before she reached her workplace. She would never, ever tell a living soul.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jack Lang had declared Saturday, 19 March, Bridge Opening Day, a public holiday. On the previous Wednesday, sixty thousand primary school children had been given the chance to march across in crocodile formations with their teachers for one of the most exciting days of their lives, even though it rained steadily, making the roadway slick and shiny and causing umbrellas to blossom amid the happy throng. But today, the weather gods acknowledged the city’s joyful holiday mood with blue skies and brilliant sunlight that turned the harbour into a sea of diamonds.
Bernice had been remarkably gracious about Joan’s good fortune in getting a ringside seat to the greatest day in Sydney’s history. She lent her chum her favourite outfit, a spectacular wardrobe shop bargain that she had splashed extra dosh on for a special occasion: a jaunty Monte Lupo straw hat and a green crepe de chine two-piece suit with lace bodice and flared skirt. ‘You’ll look utterly à la mode, my dear,’ Bernice assured her. ‘The chicest of the chic.’ Bernice intended to drag Laszlo from his studio later to join the hoi polloi who would congregate in their tens of thousands to walk across their bridge at two o’clock that afternoon. ‘I’ll look out for you!’
Hugh dropped by at seven-thirty to collect Joan. ‘The trains and trams will be packed. You wait and see!’
When they arrived at the bridge, Joan could not help feeling a mischievous glow of triumph in taking Gordon and Olympia’s spots among the exclusive company that would watch the opening ceremony from the grandstand along the southern approaches to the bridge. The stewards were so busy ushering guests to their seats, they barely glanced at the gold-leafed invitation. ‘Very good, sir, madam, this way please, thank you so much.’
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