‘Randolph Walker, at your service.’ The man’s face seemed to be frozen in a perpetual half-smile that allowed a glimpse of the gold molar in his lower jaw. ‘What can we do for you?’
Jack stripped off his gloves, putting them on a marble counter. ‘As Miss Palmer told your staff, we are exclusively interested in the best.’ Frances had never heard him use this haughty drawl before.
‘I don’t know if you’re an Adelaide man yourself …’ Jack went on.
Did she imagine it or was that a faint sneer on Walker’s face? ‘Sydney. I’m the original cornstalk, born and bred in New South Wales.’
‘Right,’ Jack said. ‘Well, in case you haven’t been around long, you may not have heard of Miss Bardon, the star attraction of my establishment. I want to get her something that complements her beauty.’
‘And the lady likes?’
Jack addressed Frances. ‘Didn’t you tell them?’ He faced Walker again. ‘Miss Bardon wears diamonds, diamonds, and rubies, in the style of,’ he fluttered his hand in a languid gesture, ‘Cartier or Tiffany. She loves her jewellery modern, but sophisticated. That’s why we’re here. I was told Petty’s should be the first place to go to.’
‘Indeed. We have prepared a selection of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings.’
Jack nudged Frances forward. ‘The young lady is a close friend of Miss Bardon’s and as such, knows her taste better than I do.’
Mr Walker acknowledged her with a tiny nod. ‘If you’ll follow me? We don’t have that kind of merchandise on display, as you can imagine. We keep it in a safe.’
‘Very wise. By the way, my condolences to the loss of your employer.’
‘It was a terrible shock, I’m not ashamed to admit. Things like that,’ he sounded as if he had tasted something bad, ‘you don’t expect them to happen in a nice suburb. But, alas, life goes on.’
He led them into a room of generous proportions. Four club chairs sat around a low glass table. A stack of magazines awaited perusal. Two chairs flanked a dresser, with an oval mirror on top.
A golden-haired woman, dressed in tight-fitting black stood staring into the mirror. Her heavily powdered face was tight, and she flinched when Walker’s glance met hers in the mirror.
‘Mrs Petty?’ Jack lifted her hand to his lips. ‘My deepest sympathy.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sullivan.’ She gave him a wan smile that left her eyes as cold as a glacier. Frances received the barest glance which she returned with more civility than she felt.
Mr Walker said, ‘Mrs Petty has offered to show you the most suitable pieces, in case you’d prefer to see them modelled.’
Jack’s drawl became melting. ‘I wouldn’t have dared to ask. If you’re sure it’s not too painful.’ He drew out a chair for the widow, clasped both of her hands and made her sit down.
Frances sat down too, positioning herself so she could watch in the mirror without appearing to do so.
‘It’s what Michael would have wanted.’ Mrs Petty dabbed at her kohl-lined eyes with a wisp of a handkerchief. ‘You may not remember him, Mr Sullivan, but he was a great admirer of Dolores Bardon. Me too, of course.’ She lowered the dry handkerchief.
Jack gave the widow’s hands a tender squeeze before he released them. ‘It’s Jack to you, and although I can’t say I remember Mr Petty, I sure haven’t forgotten you, Madam.’
‘Call me Ella-Mae.’ A white hand fluttered to her throat. Frances was reminded of a third-rate silent picture actress.
Mr Walker cleared his throat as he lowered two satin-covered trays on to the dresser. Ella-Mae opened a dresser drawer and took out another tray. Mr Walker stiffened.
Jack lifted a necklace in form of a white-gold snake biting its own tail. Diamonds studded its back, the eyes were made of rubies.
Ella-Mae draped it around her neck. She leant closer to Jack. ‘Do you like it? We’ve also got the matching bangle.’
His eyes were fixed on her throat. She practically drooled as she slid on the bangle and dangled her wrist under Jack’s nose. Frances sat up straighter, trying to read Jack’s expression.
He gazed at the widow. ‘What a crime.’ Ella-Mae’s eyes flickered for the barest moment. Mr Walker sucked in his breath with a hiss. Even Frances felt a stab of unease at Jack’s tasteless remark.
Jack traced the snake’s head on Ella-Mae’s wrist with a fingertip. ‘A crime, to let another woman have these pieces. They were made for you.’
‘What about this one?’ Ella-Mae pointed out a necklace made of a strand of interwoven filigree leaves, leading to a cluster of diamonds forming a rose.
Frances heard another sharp intake of breath. She lowered her lids and glanced at Mr Walker. He stood motionless, arms at his side, hands clenching and unclenching.
Raised voices from the sales room announced more customers. Frances sank deeper into her chair, trying to catch a few words. No, they were too muffled by the door to be audible.
Jack moved his left hand over Ella-Mae’s to let her admire his ring, scraping his watch hard over the bangle in the process.
‘How stupid of me,’ he said, still gazing into the widow’s eyes. ‘My dear, would you be an angel and fetch my gloves? I forgot them on the marble counter.’
Frances slipped out of the room before Mr Walker could interfere.
The male shop assistant was busy singing the praises of a silver hip flask, while the girl rang up the till for an elderly lady.
Frances retrieved the gloves, thankful they still sat on the counter, and ambled around, examining the rings in the case next to the silver flasks. No. The voice was all wrong for Croaky’s boss. The man on the phone had sounded flatter, more nasal, and without the slight stutter the shop assistant displayed.
Jack got up as she entered the room, kissing Ella-Mae’s hands once more, whispering a few words as he raised his head. Her smile was strained.
So was Mr Walker’s as they took their leave. He shook Jack’s and Frances’ hands, saying Petty’s would be delighted to hear from them once Jack had made up his mind. His voice sounded smooth, but Frances saw the tendons in his throat tighten as he stared at Ella-Mae with barely concealed fury.
22
‘Where do you want to go now, boss? Home?’ Danny asked as they got into the car.
‘No. Take us to the next expensive jeweller’s, please. I told Mrs Petty that I’d arranged to see some more before I decided. We’d better keep up appearances.’
At the next store, they simply did a quick tour of the sales room before Jack ushered Frances out again. They were walking. He’d sent Danny away, to pick up Dolores’ seamstress and deliver her to the flat. Frances experienced a pang of envy. Diamonds, a chauffeur, beautiful dresses, and, on top of that, Jack to fulfill her every wish – that lady had it all. Then she remembered Dolores’ face when she spoke of Simon, and the envy disappeared like mist in the sun.
‘That was a big sigh,’ Jack said.
‘Yes. None of the men was the one I heard, I’d swear to that. That was a complete failure.’
‘Don’t say that.’ His arm shot out between her and an old man pushing a billy-cart stacked high with sacks of kindling. ‘We learned a lot.’
‘Like what? That dear Ella-Mae isn’t overwhelmed with grief. Her hankie was dry. And that she’s got expensive tastes?’
‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘She didn’t mourn her husband, as you said yourself, but her hands were icy, her pulse in her neck twitched, and under those thick layers of paint she had black circles under her eyes. She’s afraid of something.’
‘Or someone.’ She mentioned the hate-filled glare Ella-Mae had received from Randolph Walker.
‘Or someone. Can you walk to the club in these heels, or shall we take the tram? I can’t wait to get home and change. This collar’s so stiff it’s killing me.’
She winced.
He made a rueful grimace. ‘Sorry, wrong choice of words, kiddo. But I swear I’ll always keep you s
afe, no matter what it takes.’
∞∞∞∞
Frances nibbled a biscuit while she waited in Jack’s drawing room. She didn’t mind being here on her own, because it gave her the opportunity to explore without appearing nosy.
She turned her back on the alluring painting, or else she’d still be engrossed in it when Jack had finished changing his shirt. Instead, she studied the book shelves.
The books covered a wide range, from popular detective fiction to classic novels, philosophy, art, and poetry. Cracks in their spines showed they had been read a lot. She tilted her head to the right, to decipher the faded title of a particularly hard-worn book.
‘Don’t squint,’ Jack said, putting a hand on her shoulder. He opened the book case door and pulled out the volume. ‘The Great Gatsby,’ he said. ‘Wonderful book. If you want to, you can read it, but it’s not a story to be emulated.’
‘Uncle Sal has got a copy.’
‘He would.’ He put it back on to the shelf and motioned to her to sit down.
‘What do you think Ella-Mae’s afraid of?’ she asked.
‘It could be a few things. What is interesting is that she admitted she’d been to the Top Note recently, with a girlfriend to accompany her.’
‘What’s so astonishing about that?’
‘My sweet, the Ella-Maes of this world don’t have many girlfriends except for their own kind, and they’d rather stay at home than be seen without a swain by their side. Plus, she told me she usually frequents the Ginger Cat which is renowned for its spicy entertainment and colourful clientele.’
Frances was puzzled. ‘Well?’
‘She also said the visit wasn’t planned, because they’d intended to go away for a few days.’
‘Maybe her friend wanted to go to the Top Note.’
‘True, but still interesting.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Another possibility is that her old boyfriend is back in town, and she didn’t want to see him or be seen with him in a club frequented by the criminal element.’
‘Do you know the man?’ She hoped he’d say no. She didn’t want Jack to be acquainted with a real gangster.
‘It’s more a case of I know of him. But I’d recognise his pretty face if that’s what you mean. And no, we’re not going to look for him in any of the places where you find the bigger fish. It’s too dangerous.’
Her pulse faltered. ‘You believe that he and Ella-Mae are behind the murder.’
‘It is possible. Or maybe she blabbed to him about when her husband would carry the most valuable of his jewels, and he thought it’d be nice to nick the stuff and have a rich widow as his best girl. That would make me twitchy too, in her shoes.’
Oh yes. ‘It’s too bad we can’t prove it.’
‘Kiddo, we can’t prove anything. We don’t need to. All we have to do is put a name on the culprit.’
‘Then he’ll break down and confess?’
‘Then I’ll tell Phil that due to a certain conversation I happened to overhear in the club, he might want to have a good look at certain people. That’s called acting on information received, in official jargon.’ He paused. ‘The police know their job, Frances, once they’re on the right trail. They’ll find plenty enough evidence.’
He gave her shoulder a light squeeze. ‘As soon as Phil claps the killer in irons, we’ll break open a bottle of French champagne that sailed home with me in 1919. Until then, I’ll have one of my men watching your home and your back, when you’re out. And, Frances?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t forget I’m taking you out to the pictures tomorrow night. If it’s all right with you, we can say hello to Bluey’s and Marie’s newest addition first?’
Her mind raced. ‘I’d like that,’ she said, ‘and I’d love to see the baby, if Marie’s up to it.’ Could she finish a pair of baby bootees by tomorrow night if she took everything along to the telephone exchange? She did have a foolproof pattern that she’d used when her nephew was born. Now where had she put it?
∞∞∞∞
The wool was not as soft as she’d liked, because she had to make do with the leftover material from Uncle Sal’s scarf and a bit of yellow wool her mum had used for Frances’ winter jumper, but the result was better than expected.
She hummed to herself as she put the finishing touches on the second bootee, all the while keeping a watchful eye on both the for once silent switchboard and the clock. The needles clicked in a steady rhythm that only changed when Frances dropped the needles to take a bite of her banana. After all, it was her lunch break.
Two knit, two purl, two knit, two purl – she held the bootee up to the light, admiring its regular stitches. Two knit, two purl – the door was jerked open, making her drop the needles. Several stitches slipped off. Frances jumped off her chair.
‘You’ve got to help me!’
‘Pauline?’ Frances picked up her knitting and put it aside to sort out later. She hugged her wailing friend, fear rising in her. Pauline had never barged in on her at work. She made her sit down. ‘You wait here while I get us a cup of tea and then you can tell me.’
Pauline’s lips quivered. Fresh tears welled up in her already red-rimmed eyes.
Frances found a few biscuits to go with what was left in the tea pot. She groaned. A few weeks ago, she’d wished for a bit more excitement in her humdrum routine. Well, now she had a bellyful.
Pauline took her cup with shaking hands, spilling a few drops on her coral dress. Her head was hatless, her usually carefully arranged hair hung limp.
Frances perched on the edge of her chair, waiting for Pauline to break the silence.
‘It’s Tony.’
Frances clapped her hand over her mouth, dreading what was to come.
‘I did what you and Miss Bardon told me, write him a letter asking if he wants to be rid of me. How could I ever be so stupid?’ A sob escaped her throat.
‘Oh Pauline.’
A new wail erupted. ‘What am I going to do now?’
Frances’ heart went out to her friend. This was all Jack’s fault. He’d put the idea of confrontation in her mind, and now Pauline had lost Tony.
‘You’ll forget him,’ she said, swallowing a big lump in her throat. ‘If he prefers his swag to settling down, it’s too bad for him. Why, you’re so pretty you can have any man you want.’
Pauline’s eyes grew round. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘What are you talking about, yourself?’
‘Tony, of course.’
‘But you just told me that he broke off with you.’
‘Broke off with me?’ Pauline nearly shrieked. ‘He wouldn’t do such a thing.’
Frances wiped her forehead, all the while watching the switchboard. Two minutes until her lunch break ended. It had been ominously quiet all day; this couldn’t last. ‘Tell me again, Pauline, before I get all muddled, but this time from the beginning.’
‘I tried to keep a brave front, I really did, but Miss Bardon noticed and she asked what was wrong.’ She sniffed. ‘Then I told her all about Tony, and how clever he is, with his technical draughtman’s skills and his brick making and bricklaying, and like you, she said I should write to him.’
Frances held up a hand as the switchboard sprang to life. ‘Give me a moment.’ She grabbed her headset and answered the call.
For once, the connection came through as smoothly as she could wish for. She turned her attention back to her friend.
Pauline hadn’t written straight away, because she’d struggled to find the right words. ‘Miss Bardon came and told me that there might be some part-time work needing to be done on the building. She wanted a few changes to her apartment, and Mr Jack owns a couple other places that need looking after. So, she said if Tony should happen to be around, he and Mr Jack could have a word.’
Frances moved to the edge of her chair, waiting for the pieces to fall into place. ‘And?’
Pauline clutched the neckline of her dress, twisting it. ‘I wrote to him, four d
ays ago, and now he’s sent a telegram. Mum nearly fainted when the postman knocked on the door. She thought it was a rent collector, and that we’d be thrown out of the house because the rent money had gone astray again.’ Frances gave her an encouraging nod.
Pauline’s lower lip trembled. ‘Oh Frances, he’s coming home on the next train, and he wants to get married if he gets the job.’
‘But that’s what you wanted.’
‘I know. But not that fast. I don’t want to mope around at home and be a good little wife when it’s so much fun working for Miss Bardon.’ She pouted like a small girl who’d been denied a sweet.
Honestly, Frances thought, it could be very trying to be Pauline’s friend. All that fuss about nothing. She rolled her eyes. ‘Tony wouldn’t make you quit.’
‘No, but Mr Jack will. You said yourself, he solely keeps staff when they’re the breadwinner.’ She twisted the neckline of her dress harder. ‘You of all people should understand. Remember when Tony and I first walked out together and his mate George was sweet on you? You told him that night at the Floating Palais you didn’t want to get married too young and give up your pay-check. And he could have supported a family, easy.’
Frances’ cheeks grew warm. She’d forgotten all about smooth-talking George. She didn’t even remember his face, although at that time she had felt very flattered by his attention.
She shrugged off the memory. ‘Why don’t you talk to Miss Bardon first? I can’t imagine Jack making you go if Dolores wants you to stay.’
Pauline’s face lightened up. ‘That’s true. He does everything she wants.’ She slid off the chair and straightened her neckline. ‘I’ll talk to Miss Bardon.’
She gave Frances a questioning look. ‘You might tackle Mr Jack.’
Frances picked up the knitting, hoping her face didn’t turn crimson. ‘Again? Why?’
‘He listens to you.’
A Matter of Love and Death Page 20