The Gilded Madonna

by Garrick Jones

  “This is the private one I said I’d give you later.”

  “Aww …”

  “Go on open it.”

  He switched on the bedside light on his side of the bed. I’d bought a matching table since he’d started staying over, on which I’d managed to find a twin of the woven cane lamp that sat next to my side of the bed—even the shades were the same.

  “Holy cow!” I said as I removed the last of the wrapping paper. I recognised the leather tooled box and its insignia. “It’s a Mont Blanc!”

  “Well spotted, Dick Tracy,” he said, kissing my ear.

  I couldn’t believe it. A handmade, numbered, and registered fountain pen, top of the line, and the best part of fifty quid’s worth of writing implement. I’d always fantasised about owning one.

  “Harry …”

  “Write me love letters,” he said, turning my chin with his thumb for a kiss on the lips.

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  He laughed and had just settled in for a round of heavy kissing when the phone rang.

  “It’s quarter to twelve on Christmas night. Who the hell—”

  I leaped out of bed, my heart thumping in my chest. A call this late at night could only be bad news.

  “Hello, Clyde? It’s Tom.”

  “Tom, yes, mate, what’s wrong?”

  “I just thought you should know Vince was pulled out of bed fifteen minutes ago. There’s been another one.”

  “Another what?”

  “Another Silent Cop murder.”

  “Why did they call him? Isn’t this Dioli’s case?”

  “That’s the thing, Clyde. Vince was told Dioli’s in Balmain hospital. Fell down the stairs at home on Christmas morning.”

  “There are no stairs at his house, Tom. Clarrie’s son told me it was all on one level.”

  “Well, seems he is pretty knocked about, whatever happened.”

  “So Vince is going to look at the case by himself?”

  “Yeah, there’s been an explosion at the gas works in Anzac Parade, so the Kensington guys are all called out to that. He’s been phoning around, but most of the crew who are on duty are hopeless, or so pissed they can barely stand.”

  “Where’s the body, Tom?”

  “Clyde, this isn’t your business. I’m just ringing because Vince asked me to let you know.”

  “If Vince asked you to let me know, that’s because he needs help, Tom. Now, where’s the body?”

  “Pick me up in ten minutes and I’ll tell you. You’re not going by yourself.”

  “Christ, Tom—”

  “I’m your assistant now, Clyde. Let me assist, okay?”

  I sighed and reluctantly agreed.

  “Who was that?” Harry asked when I returned to the bedroom.

  “There’s been another murder,” I explained, pulling on my underpants.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Vince needs my help.”

  “But surely—”

  The phone rang again. “Dioli’s in hospital,” I called out down the corridor as I raced to answer it.

  It was the chief superintendent, who asked me if I could assist Vince as a special favour. The Silent Cop murders had been my case years back, and he said that seeing they were so limited for manpower, he’d work something out financially and pay me a consultant’s fee for my trouble for the night. I told him to save his pennies, all I needed was his authorisation to be there.

  “Dioli’s in hospital?” Harry asked as he helped me into my shirt.

  “Supposed to have fallen down the stairs, so Vince said.”

  “So Vince said?”

  “There are no stairs in his house, Harry. I think I need to pay that old bastard of a grandfather of his a visit—”

  “Hold your horses, Clyde. Don’t interfere, all right? It’s not your business.”

  “It is when it interferes with public duty, Harry. But, you are right. I’ll keep myself to myself.”

  “How long will you be?”

  “I tell you what. Have you ever been to a crime scene before?”

  “Only the one where you got shot and stabbed and I held you in my arms thinking you were about to die.”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot about that one …”

  “Clyde Smith, are you asking me to drive you and Tom?”

  “Nah, forget it. Stay here and keep our bed warm …”

  “Too late, my friend, Baxter has that job already.”

  “All right then, throw on some clothes. If you get bored hanging around, I’ll ask one of the uniforms to drop Tom and me back home.”

  “Do I get to be an honorary private dick for the night?”

  “Harry Jones, please tell me you haven’t been saving up that line?”

  He laughed and began to get dressed.

  *****

  Baker Park was only a few blocks from the Bishops’ house in Bryon Street, and not far from the Returned Servicemen’s League club, or the R.S.L. as most of us called it.

  I knew the park, we used to play there sometimes when we were kids. There were several large Moreton Bay fig trees and tall, unkempt scrub around the toilet block, which was not more than five or six yards from the street at the end of a concrete path. Dim light from a yellowed street lamp thirty feet away barely illuminated the entrance to the convenience.

  The ladies’ toilet was situated on the other side of a low-fenced football field, which abutted the back of the men’s facility. Sometimes the park was used for cricket in the summer, so the men’s convenience also had a few showerheads protruding from one wall and opposite them a long, slatted bench with clothes hooks above it. The stainless-steel urinal and four cubicles were at the end of the changing room in a separate area. The neon light flickered off and on lazily in the changing area. More off than on. The lavatory section was in darkness.

  “Sorry, I got held up,” I said to Vince. “The chief superintendent rang me just after I got off the phone from Tom.”

  “So you’re here officially?”

  “Yes, as a paid consultant. Everything seems to have gone off tonight all over town. All the stations are understaffed. Have you started yet?”

  “I think he’s ex-R.A.A.F.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Wings tooled into the leather of his wallet, and he’s about your age. No driving licence or I.D. in it, just a few old tram tickets and two ten-shilling notes. Christmas night isn’t the best time to be searching records, but one of the new constables who hadn’t had a skinful is knocking on the door of the secretary of the R.S.L club to ask if he has an address for the man—there’s a numbered membership badge on his keyring.”

  “Same modus operandi?”

  Vince shrugged. “As far as I can tell on a cursory inspection. I’ve only been here a few minutes myself. But pants around his ankles, blood everywhere. I got Jack Lyme out of bed when I called into the station, he won’t be far away.”

  “All right, I’ll have a look after Jack’s done his initial examination. Who was that outside under the tree at the top of the path? Guy sitting on the ground clutching his head with a junior constable standing over him. Obviously not the murderer, that would be too much to hope for.”

  “Possible witness.”

  “A witness?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. A witness? What every investigator loved to hear; someone who was at the scene of the crime and may have seen what happened. Particularly welcome now, after five previous bodies with no leads. I loved putting cases to bed, especially if they’d gone cold. A witness? My inner “you beauty!” gave a little leap in my chest, despite the grimness of our present situation.

  “Tom, go have a quick chat with the man. Be nice, now, eh?”

  “Right you are, Clyde,” Tom said.

  “I’m not sure if Tom …”

  “I’m here on the chief superintendent’s go-ahead, Vince. Tom’s my assistant, and he’s an ex-cop, he’s hardly likely to stuff up a quick interview to
get the basics from a witness. And, if you really want to know, he wouldn’t tell me where the crime scene was until I promised to pick him up and bring him with me. Harry drove us—”

  “You brought Harry with you too?”

  “Harry was in my bed when Tom phoned. What was I supposed to do? Leave him there? It’s Christmas night for fuck’s sake. He’ll stay up near the car and wait for me. He won’t get in the way, I promise you.”

  “Dioli’s nose will be so out of joint when he finds out you and Tom were here, Clyde, it’ll point back over his shoulder—even if you are here on the super’s go-ahead. You know what he’s like about his cases.”

  I patted his shoulder. “I’m just here to help, Vince, and Dioli can take it up with the chief superintendent if he’s got a problem. As far as I’m concerned, it’s your crime scene. I’m just here as a reference tool because the previous Silent Cop murders happened on my watch. Now, let’s go have a quick squiz at this body. I won’t touch it. I promise. I simply want to see the arrangement of the corpse and where it is.”

  I stood in the darkened toilet and wrinkled my nose. It stank. Summer heat, unflushed urinals. It reminded me of piss tins in the desert in North Africa. At least we’d shat in trenches and covered our business over with sand. Urine was collected. It had too many uses. Uses I’d never bothered investigating. I’d just lifted my toe to push open the cubicle door when Jack Lyme arrived.

  “Merry Christmas, Jack,” I said.

  “Hello, Clyde. Thought you might be here.”

  “You did?”

  He smiled at me and waited for me to move to one side before he crouched down with his torch to give a preliminary once-over. “I rang the chief superintendent the moment the news came in, while they were still trying to track down Detective Sergeant Dioli. It was my suggestion to contact Vincenzo and to get you to help him, especially as you were so familiar with this series of killings.”

  “Ah, so it’s you I have to thank for the chief superintendent ruining the perfect end to my Christmas celebrations?”

  “When’s a murder ever spoiled anything for you, Clyde?”

  We chuckled. Gallows humour.

  “Shall I start taking pictures now?” The police photographer, a young woman who was new to me, hovered nervously behind. I guessed Vince had told her to wait until I’d arrived.

  “First murder?” I asked her with a smile, to put her a little at ease.

  “You can tell?”

  I nodded. “It’s the smell isn’t it.”

  She turned her head and pressed her mouth and nose into the fabric of the shoulder of her coat. One never got used to it—even in the war—that metallic smell of blood combined with the stink of urine or faeces. I’d always thought there was another smell hanging around sometimes in the air. I defined it illogically as fear.

  “He’ll only speak with you,” Tom whispered from behind me.

  “Who?”

  “The witness, Clyde. He says he’s a friend of D.S. Telford’s and he recognised you.”

  I caught Vince’s glance and rolled my eyes. “Just what I needed,” I said.

  “Did he give you his name, Tom?”

  “No, Clyde. He asked me if you were the investigating officer, and when I told him you retired last year, he said he wanted to speak with you. I asked him if he wanted me to ring D.S. Telford, but he nearly went crazy. He said, ‘get Clyde, he’ll know what to do’.”

  If someone knew me, but didn’t know I’d retired, it had to be someone from long ago. Why did he say he was a friend of Sam’s and not one of mine? It confused me. There was only one way to find out.

  “Tom, do us all a favour will you?”

  “Sure, Clyde, what is it?”

  “The bulb’s missing from the light fitting above. I noticed the lights are still on in the ladies’ convenience on the other side of the football field. It’s going to be a benefit for everyone if they can see without torches.”

  “Righto, Clyde. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  No more than a few minutes later, Tom arrived breathless, holding the light bulb from the ladies’ lavatory in his handkerchief. I took it from him and reached up and twisted it into the light fitting. Bright, yellowish light flooded the area in which we were standing. The young photographer gagged. We were standing in a pool of vomit and blood.

  “Whose vomit is this?” I asked.

  “Mine,” the young lady said, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry … before you got here. The smell … you know.”

  I patted her shoulder and gave her my handkerchief. She smiled at me wanly and pressed the square of linen to her face. I supposed her own had been soiled already and crammed into a pocket of her jacket, or thrown into the garbage can in the corner of the room. She’d get used to it … well, as much as anyone ever could.

  “I’ll leave you to it, Vince,” I said. “I’ll go see what the witness has to say, all right?”

  Vince nodded, pressing a handkerchief of his own to his mouth. He gave me a thumbs up and then waved me away.

  I made my way across to the large fig tree, under which the witness was sitting, accompanied by one of the junior constables, who I recognised. He’d been an office staff member during my time. I’d heard he’d applied to join up.

  “D.S. Smith,” the young man said, holding his hand out to me as I approached.

  “Not anymore, my friend. Been gone for over a year now. They keep you locked up in a cupboard without the latest news, do they?”

  “Nah, it’s just you’ll always be the one and only detective sergeant at Randwick to me, Clyde.”

  “I’ll have a word alone with the witness, son, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I watched the young man walk away and then turned to the bloke who was sitting with his knees up, his arms around them, and his head down.

  “Smoke?” I asked, offering my packet.

  “Hello, Clyde,” he said.

  “Well, I’ll be fucked sideways! Steve Davidovic, what the bloody hell—”

  Steve Davidovic was one of a trio of young coppers who’d done “artistic poses”, ostensibly for a men’s magazine in the United States. Ray Wilson, the local photographer who’d been pivotal in the crime and corruption investigation we were working on, had bribed the trio to do more than pose in jockstraps, and on more than one occasion, with some well-placed politicians, businessmen, and even gangsters for considerable sums of money.

  “You left the force, Clyde?” he asked.

  “A year ago.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “First of all, Steve. What are you doing here? Last I heard was you threw the police force in, what is it now, four years ago? Started up working as an accountant for your father-in-law.”

  He sat with his head down, playing with a bit of grass. I knew shame when I saw it, even when it was in the dim light of a street lamp off in the distance.

  “Clyde, there’s something …”

  “I know, Steve,” I said quietly, lighting two cigarettes and then passing one to him.

  “Know what?”

  “About what you get up to. I’ve seen the pictures.”

  “Ah fuck me.”

  “Yes, those pictures,” I said. “The ones in which you’re doing what you just said.”

  “Christ, Clyde, I—”

  “Steve, stop! See that tall redhead who’s leaning against the car up on the street?”

  “What of him.”

  “He and me, we’re together, you know what I mean—together, like in bed sort of together. And me and Sam Telford for six years before him.”

  Steve Davidovic gaped. “Wha—?”

  “Yup, guilty as charged, Steve.”

  “I had absolutely no idea, Clyde, and that’s God’s honest truth.”

  “And why should you, mate? I don’t go around with a sign over my head. But always been queer and always will be … is that why you were here, tomcatting around in the dark on C
hristmas night, looking to meet up with other blokes?”

  “I went to see my children today, Clyde. She left me you know, for a fucking train inspector. Took the kids and set up in some shithole out west, Toongabbie or Wentworthville or something. One of those new suburbs, I can’t remember which, they all look the same—I just know how to get there. Anyway, I turned up with presents for my children, expecting to be asked to stay for dinner at least, but she gave me an hour with my son and daughter and then told me to fuck off.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “She and me, we both wanted the same thing in bed, if you get my drift. It never worked. It was a miracle she got pregnant twice. I tried and tried, but it just wasn’t for me. She got sick and tired of it, accused me of having affairs with other women. In the end, I got so fed up with the nagging I told her that it wasn’t her, it was me. I might have been a bit too honest, because she hit the roof.”

  I knew he needed to be comfortable with me, and as anxious as I was to find out about the murder, I encouraged him to explain. “Why, what did you say?”

  “I told her that I didn’t find her sexually attractive anymore. I tried to explain it had nothing to do with her—”

  “I guess that didn’t go down well?”

  “She wrecked the joint, Clyde. Broke everything that wasn’t nailed down. Eventually, she just sat in the middle of the heap of my clothes she’d ripped to pieces and then guess what she said?”

  “She’d been rooting your best friend for years behind your back?”

  “Not quite my best friend, but someone she went to school with.”

  “The train inspector?”

  “The very one.”

  “And after she left you, the job with the father-in-law?”

  He shook his head. “That lasted about another week.”

  “So you didn’t think of going back to the police force? They’re always short of experienced detectives. You were pretty good, Steve. Everyone was sad when you left.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, they were a bunch of lazy shitheads where I worked before. I thought about it, but I got used to coming home at night, putting my feet up, having a few beers with my mates.”

  “So what are you doing for a crust now then?”