The Gilded Madonna

by Garrick Jones

  “I hope you said hello from me.”

  “Of course. He invited us to lunch on New Year’s Day, but I told him we’d be away. That’s when he asked about Luka, said every time he went to introduce himself to him, he seemed to be talking with someone else.”

  “Introduce?”

  “Yeah, more like check out the newest fish in the talent pool.”

  Harry chuckled and then began to kiss the side of my neck with an intensity that I recognised.

  “Harry, I’m still sweaty.”

  “Quick shower then?”

  I laughed and then picked up my watch from beside the bed. Half past two in the morning. We’d only been asleep for a few hours and I was exhausted. Sleep deprivation, they called it in the army. We’d shut our eyes for perhaps six hours over the past forty-eight.

  “You can sleep in my arms if you like, but I need to think, and maybe talk through a few things with you. I could do it by myself, but seeing you’re here, and you have a gift …”

  “Luka’s the one with the gift, Clyde.”

  “But he doesn’t have the gift of seeing how my mind works and steering me to the right conclusions.”

  “Aha! So, I’m the Watson to your Holmes?”

  “No, Harry. If you’re anything, you’re the Alexander to my Hephaestion, the Hadrian to my Antinous, the Achilles to my Patroclus, the—”

  Harry laughed and then kissed me deeply. “Okay, I give in. Shower it is. Lay on, Macduff.”

  *****

  Fifteen minutes later, he lay in my arms, my back resting against the gentle curve of the bathtub, a folded towel behind my neck.

  “The new D.I. who’s coming to take charge of your old nick sounded like he’s okay. I don’t know who he is, but at least you were smiling while you were talking to him on the phone earlier this evening,” Harry said.

  “Who, Brendan? I’ve known him for years. I had no idea he was stationed at Kensington. He’ll be an invaluable addition to the team at Randwick. Just the sort of man to get things squared away. Dioli is going to have to watch his arse …”

  “Watch his arse? Is the new guy … you know?”

  “No,” I replied with a chuckle. “Egyptian parents, migrated here in the twenties. He was born here. They changed their surname to Fox from whatever the word is in Arabic. He’s a great bloke and has more girlfriends than anyone I know. He has an art of juggling them so they all think they’re the special vixen in his life, while he remains a solitary fox.”

  “And?”

  “Well, that explosion in the gas works? Seems like it was a diversion. Three banks broken into while nearly every cop available was recovering bodies from the wreckage.”

  “Holy cow, Clyde.”

  “Yes, and because of that, he can’t drop everything and come over to help out or take charge. Seems like Vince is going to have to carry the Silent Cop murders by himself until Dioli’s back on deck. They might send a few hands from Bondi to help out, but being the holiday period and all, spare cops are as rare as hens’ teeth.”

  “What’s really troubling you, Clyde?”

  “It’s my business card.”

  “The one they found yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d asked Jack Lyme why my card had taken so long to find. He’d told me the victim’s pants had been crumpled down around his ankles and soaked in blood and urine. Picking over the man’s strides hadn’t been high on the list of important tasks, and as it was, they were deep pockets, and the card had been right down at the bottom. That’s why it hadn’t been found earlier during the preliminary examination.

  “I’ve been thinking about that too, Clyde. Did the murderer slip the card into the man’s back pocket before he killed him or after, when the man was already dead?”

  “Steve said he heard the scream, hesitated for a while, thinking it might have been a bit of rough play, but then decided he’d go have a look-see. He said he lit a cigarette first and then strolled down in time to see the murderer run out of the toilet block. Let’s say that’s two or three minutes … plenty of time to incise the cross into the man’s belly, place the marble in the cut, and to put my card into his back pocket.”

  “But he could have also put it in sometime beforehand, while they were fooling around?”

  “Yes, of course, Harry, but I know some little bunny who loves to run his hands around my backside while we’re kissing. It wouldn’t be that hard to slip a thin piece of card into a pocket while you’re ostensibly having a quick feel of someone’s bum.”

  “And you haven’t ruled out the idea that the victim may have been given your card earlier and had just stashed it in his back pocket?”

  “Honestly? That’s way too much of a coincidence. Of course, we’d have to check who the man spoke to at the R.S.L. Maybe the victim had been socialising with his murderer over a beer … but that doesn’t make sense, unless the killer knew the bloke always went off to the park after a few drinks.”

  “Didn’t Jack say he went home and gave himself a shot of morphine, used his douche bag, and then went to the park?”

  “Yes, you’re right. So it’s highly unlikely the card was in his pocket before they met in the dark.”

  “What about … no, you’re right. I’m just inventing possibilities, Clyde.”

  “That’s how investigation works, Harry. I’ll jot down every possible thing imaginable, don’t worry. But to my mind, the card had to be planted in the victim’s pocket on the same night he was killed, and most likely while they were either getting to know each other or after the victim was already dead. Besides, there’s the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “Not every guy in the world likes to, you know …?”

  “What, bend over and take it like a man?”

  “Such an elegant turn of phrase, Jones.”

  Harry turned his head for a kiss. “I try,” he said.

  “So that means—”

  “Yes, the killings are opportunistic. How would he know someone he was chatting to at the R.S.L. was into being penetrated? It’s not the sort of thing that comes up in conversation.”

  “You’re not timid about speaking your mind, Clyde, when you’re up for it.”

  I elbowed his ribs and chuckled before continuing what I was about to say.

  “The other night, at the park, when they were fooling about, there must have come a time when the murderer realised this bloke was going to be his next victim, and that’s why my card ended up in the man’s back pocket. I think we can cross off an earlier meeting. My bet is, as I’ve just said, the killings are a spur-of-the-moment thing, based on the willing­ness of the victim to … how did you say it? Bend over and take it like a man?”

  Harry laughed, and then, after a moment, said, “There’s some­thing else though, Clyde, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me that you know I’m not going to like.”

  “Who me?”

  He gave me one of his looks.

  “Clyde … your proposed visit to the artist with Steve Davidovic isn’t just for the benefit of the police now, is it?”

  “You’ve already figured it out, haven’t you?”

  “It’s the most stupid thing I can imagine, but yes, I think so. You plan to drive around visiting all the local pickup places at night with copies of the drawing you’re getting made of him tomorrow, and ask blokes whether he’s familiar, or whether they’ve seen him or not. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “You see why I wanted you here with me in the shower, Jones?”

  Harry laughed. “That’s one of the reasons you usually want me here, yes. But how will you find men like that? What are you going to do? Jump out of bushes in the dead of night with a photo in your hand? ‘Hey, you, get that thing out of your mouth and tell me if you’ve seen this bloke before!’ I can just see it now—”

  I laughed so loudly I scared Baxter again, who’d pushed the bathroom door ajar and had been sitting curled up in the sink watching us.
He took off and scampered down the hallway.

  “We can ask Luka and Steve if they know anyone. Perhaps they’ll point us in the direction of other men they know who might frequent parks at night.”

  “You’ll have to tread very carefully, Clyde. Men who do that sort of thing aren’t going to want to expose their private activities to the cops.”

  “Ah, that’s the beauty of it, Harry. I’m not a cop anymore, I’m a private detective, trying to find out who’s victimising the queer community. I’m on their side. And …”

  “And what?”

  “I won’t be alone. You’ll be helping me.”

  “Gawd, Clyde. Really?”

  “You said we were partners, Harry. It’s not all Sam Spade and nightclubs, sometimes it’s dark alleys and seedy places.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said. The sarcasm was so thick in his voice I could almost taste it. “Now, can we go back to bed? Any longer under the shower and I’ll turn into a prune … and why are you laughing?”

  “I had a very dirty thought.”

  “Now why doesn’t that surprise me. Go on …”

  “I love to suck the seed out of prunes.”

  “Jesus, Clyde, not only is that innuendo and play on words unworthy of you, but they’re called stones, aren’t they?”

  “I’m good for chewing on stones, too.”

  “Man, oh, man, what am I going to do with you?”

  “I think I may have just given you the teensiest little hint, Harry …”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I told Steve to call him Art.

  It wasn’t his name, but as he’d done time, I didn’t need to muddy the waters. “Art” had been done for forgery. He was one of the best, and after he’d got out, six or seven years ago, had become the man I’d called on to help out when police artists had been too busy, or when I’d needed sketches to go on my crime board to help me sort things out.

  “You look familiar …” Art had said to Steve, when I’d introduced him simply as “my mate”. “Don’t I know you from somewhere—?”

  “No,” I said quickly, overlaid with Steven’s protest of, “I don’t think so.”

  Perhaps Art had seen Steve when he was still a cop, but I wanted this whole thing unconnected to my ex-detective friend, as I’d promised him.

  “Very well, then,” Art said. “Let’s start. I’ve always found it helpful if you could think of a famous movie star and then base my sketch on his or her face. Does anyone come to mind?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact someone does. I thought it at the time. He was taller and skinnier, but at a glance he looked very much like Tyrone Power.”

  “In which movie in particular, anything strike you?”

  “Sure,” Steve said. “There was a scene in Nightmare Alley. He was driving a car with Joan Blondell at his side …”

  “Oh, I remember that scene,” Art said. “I have an eye and a memory for faces and for movies. Did you know that’s how I met your pal, Clyde Smith here? In a movie house? He was on his knees in the dark—”

  “Trying to find a gun I’d knocked out of some thug’s hands after I’d slugged him,” I said quickly, interrupting the story, but not quick enough not to get a smirk from Steve.

  “Well, I thought any enemy of a crook is an enemy of mine, so I took a swing at Clyde … did you know he’s a veteran guerrilla fighter, young fella? You can guess how that turned out.”

  I interrupted Art’s chuckle and wink. It wasn’t the proudest moment of my life, discharging my pistol into the air in a crowded cinema to break up the crowd of well-meaning blokes who thought I was the one up to mischief. “So, Tyrone Power in Nightmare Alley?” I said.

  “It was 1947, if I remember correctly,” my artist pal said and then went to his filing cabinet and searched through it for a moment. “Here we go. Movie Review, Volume six, number seven. He looks so young here.”

  He placed the magazine on a bookstand next to his easel and took up his pencil and rubber. “Do you remember this man you saw in profile or full face?”

  “Front on,” Steve replied. “His head down slightly, looking at me from under his eyebrows, if you get my drift.”

  “I get your drift exactly,” Art said and then began to swiftly sketch Tyrone Power’s face. I couldn’t believe how exact it was, even though he’d been using a quarter profile photograph as his guide.

  “Like that, but his face was skinnier, slightly longer, and the nose more aquiline, the tip covering the indent above his top lip …”

  No more than a few minutes later, Steve stepped back, turned his head to look at me, and grinned, raising both eyebrows. Art was always on the money.

  “Anything else?” the artist asked. “Hairstyle, shape of ears, colour of eyes, any distinguishing features?”

  “It was pretty dark and most of the time … wait a moment, I remember his hair now. It was when the victim was on his knees and this guy had his—”

  “You can spare Art the details, Steve,” I said. “He doesn’t need to know the nitty-gritty.”

  When I’d grilled Steve for any more information he might have remembered, he’d told me that when he’d seen the killer and the victim start to get very amorous he’d been intrigued. Kissing and being passionate out in the open wasn’t the norm in places like that. It was usually more businesslike. Steve had told me the killer had been grinding up against the other man, their lips locked for quite a while. When Steve had seen enough, he’d decided to go back up to the trees near the road. The path through the bushes was fairly narrow, and just as he’d passed by them, he’d seen the killer gently push the victim to his knees. He’d guessed there was some oral action going on, because the killer had tilted his head back, sighing loudly, open-mouthed, to the sky. His hat had fallen off, but he’d caught it deftly with one hand and jammed it back on his head.

  “Yes, of course, Clyde, I understand,” Steve said. He’d forgotten rule number one of being a detective—say little, listen a lot. “As I was saying, his hair was very short at the sides, and long—black, I’d say—cut in that Rudolf Valentino style that’s a bit popular now. You know, pointed sideburns to the bottom of the ear, and hair greased back straight over the head, no parting.”

  “Like this?” Art asked and then sketched in a hairstyle precisely as Steve had described it.

  “Perfect. Can you make the eyebrows more arched? Tipped up at the point where they turn down, closer to the outer edge of the eye?”

  “Real movie villain stuff, eh?”

  “Yeah. That’s how I remember it. He had a smug sort of smile, just the edges of his mouth turned up, as if he was holding in some inner secret. And, yes! I’d almost forgotten, he hadn’t shaved. I’d say about four days’ worth. It was shaped though, neatly shaved on the cheeks, and a clean patch underneath his bottom lip. No, wait, not one patch, two. One on either side of a bit of beard left in the centre, like a goatee … yes, that’s it! What a job you’ve done, Art.”

  I took out my wallet and folded a tenner in my fingers, holding it out to the artist, like I would a theatre ticket to an usher at the cinema. He took it, ran it under his nose, and sniffed deeply. “Ah, I love the smell of red ones at nine in the morning.”

  I chuckled. “Do you mind if I take a few snaps of your sketch, Art?”

  “Only if you brought your own camera, Clyde.”

  “You know me, Art. Only place I don’t use it is in the sack.”

  “Wasted, my boy. I know a few sheilas who’d pay a bob or two for a nicely focused four by six of your sweaty arse cheeks pounding some willing—”

  “Woah!” I said, bursting into laughter.

  “Well, would you look at that?” he said, eyes wide, as I took my camera from its leather case. He whistled and then held out his hand. “May I, please, Clyde? I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  “You can’t afford to pay for a new one if you break it, Art.”

  “A 1955 Leica Model M3? How much did this set you back, mate? Did you r
ob a bank or something?”

  “Had a nice win on the gee-gees, and this was my birthday present to myself.”

  “What happened to your old one?” he asked, somewhat hopefully and none too subtly.

  I chuckled. “I guess you pawned yours?”

  He raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

  “I’ll drop it ‘round one day, mate. You owe me one.”

  “I owe you a good dozen, Clyde, and God bless your soul. I’ll look after it, I promise.”

  *****

  I dropped Steve off at my office. Tom was waiting for us to arrive, having retrieved the collection of photographs of the man we wanted Steve to identify.

  “Your assistant, Tom. Is he …?”

  “No, Steve, he’s not. But he’s incredibly discreet, and he’s the least judgemental kid you’re likely to meet. He won’t say a word. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m just going to be embarrassed about going through photos of myself copping a root with him watching, that’s all.”

  “Tell you what, Steve. How about we put you in Harry’s office to go through them by yourself. When you’ve finished, just tell Tom, and if you can identify anyone in the photos, just write the serial number from the back of the print and the man’s name in the shot.”

  “How many photos are there, Clyde?”

  “Close to sixty, Steve. You were quite the popular lad it seems.”

  *****

  I poked my nose into the nurses’ room before I went to visit Mark Dioli. It wasn’t just to say hello to Shirley, I was procrastinating. There was stuff I needed to tell him and I was trying to summon the courage. If I hadn’t known what he’d been through, I would have put my old “cop hat” on and just been blunt. But, as we’d be working the same patch for the next however many years, I didn’t want to make things rough for either of us.

  “Hello there,” I said, after knocking and having been invited to enter.

  “Oh, hello, Clyde. Forgive me, just taking the weight off my feet,” she said. “You look all calm and collected.”

  I snorted. “It’s all an illusion, Shirley. I’ve had about six hours sleep since Christmas Day.”