by Peter Corris
“I was.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“That’s true of a lot of things. You don’t like military men?”
“Not especially, but I like you. And do you realise you haven’t had a drink for two hours?”
“Yeah, I’ll have to do something about that soon, my brain has almost seized. I need something from you love.”
“What?”
“A note from you introducing me to Haines and instructing him to introduce me to whoever handles your executives’ expense accounts, travel warrants and such. There is such a person?”
“Yes, it’s a delicate job actually, taxes involved.”
“Don’t tell me. I think this could throw a scare into Haines as well as being useful for itself.”
“It’s all right with me, I hope he shits himself.”
I gave her a pen and some instructions and she set to work on a pad that carried the hospital’s letterhead. The result was a signed note that authoritatively introduced me to Haines, without any reference to our earlier meeting of course, and directed him to arrange an air ticket to any part of Australia and the Pacific and expenses of up to one hundred dollars a day.
“This will make Ross furious,” Ailsa said.
“That’s too bad, I’m weeping.”
I took the note, folded it up and put it away in my breast pocket. The only advantage I’ve ever found to wearing suits is the number of pockets you get with them, but it still doesn’t swing me in their favour. I sat with Ailsa for a while and we said the things you say early on in an affair when the words are new and the feelings are mint fresh and shining bright. She told me to be careful. I said I would be. I called for the nurses and they wheeled her back to her room. I gathered up the bits of paper in the conference room and stuffed them into my pocket. I was desert dry and wrung out from the afternoon’s work.
CHAPTER 25
I was at the reception desk of Sleeman Enterprises at 9.30 the next morning. The same girl was behind the desk but at first she didn’t associate my denims and shirt sleeves with Mr Riddout. When it dawned on her, her face took on a sickly look and she started to cast about her for help.
“Yes Mr Riddout?” she stumbled over the words. She’d giggled about Mr Riddout to her friends and now she was embarrassed to see him again in the flesh.
“Hardy’s the name Miss, I want to see Mr Haines.”
“But I’m sure you’re the man I saw yesterday. You looked around . . . interior decorator.”
I made a non-committal gesture and handed her Ailsa’s note. She read it quickly despite her agitation and got up from her chair.
“I’ll tell his secretary,” she said.
I reached over, took the note and eased her back into her chair by the shoulder.
“Calm down,” I said. “I’ll tell her. I just let you see that so you’d let me go through. That’s OK?”
“Oh yes, yes, the door you want is . . .”
“I know where it is.”
I gave her a small salute and a grin and went down the passage. I knocked on the door and went in before the blonde answered. She didn’t like it and got ready to high hat me. Her hair dominated her, it was fine and yellow and swept up into a beehive arrangement that defied belief. Her voice rasped slightly and I suspected that the hair would be harsh to touch from silicone spray.
“Can I help you? Sir.”
The last word just got into the sentence and hung there looking as if it might lose its place. I took out the note, unfolded it and put it on the desk. I put my licence card down on top of it and gave her my strong, silent look. Her reaction to the name Sleeman nearly cracked the mask of make-up on her face and had the same effect as on the other girl. It brought her to her feet, sharp.
“I’ll tell Mr Haines, he’s in, you can see him . . .” She was practically stammering. God knows what would happen if Ailsa herself walked in. They’d probably start fainting and this one would spill her nail polish all over the copy.
“That’s nice,” I said, “I’m glad he’s in, but couldn’t you just buzz him?”
She looked down at the intercom as if she’d never seen one before and didn’t know whether to talk into it or put a coin in it. She sucked in a breath and flipped the switch.
“Mr Haines, a gentleman to see you. It appears to be important, he has a letter from Miss Sleeman.”
“Five minutes.” Haines’ voice had a nice timbre and pitch even over the furry intercom.
I collected my papers and walked across to the connecting door. The blonde jumped up and moved towards me with beckoning hands.
“You can’t go in,” she said breathlessly. “He said five minutes.”
“I’m not afraid,” I said and opened the door.
Haines got up looking surprised and I looked him over carefully. He wasn’t as big as he’d seemed the first time I’d seen him, but he was taller than me and he was noticeably heavier. It was all wrapped up in an expensive linen shirt with epaulettes and the latest thing in gabardine slacks—a high-waisted production with narrow belt loops and deep cuffs. He had thick dark curly hair and even this early in the morning his beard was making his chin blue and shadowy. He looked a bit loud, a bit florid. My mind jumped about trying to register a firm impression of him before giving it up. He bore a close resemblance to a picture I’d seen in the papers of Mark Gutteridge, twenty years back, accepting a racing cup after one of his horses had carried off a major event. Others might have missed the similarity but Mark Gutteridge, who was probably a two shaves a day man like this one, could not have.
It seemed to be everybody’s day for getting up abruptly from their chairs. Haines was nearly clear of his when he checked himself and moved back to its padded leather comfort. He was sharp, he’d recognised me immediately I’d stuck my face in and he didn’t like it a bit.
“Don’t get up,” I said, “this won’t take long. Your boss has a little chore for you.”
I handed him the note, he read while trying to work a big chunk of flesh out of his lower lip. When he finished he put the paper down on the blotter and slid one of its edges under the leather envelope corner that held the blotter in place. I went up to the desk and repossessed the note. He didn’t object and I was beginning to wonder if you had to spit in his face to make him act as aggressive as he looked. He made himself comfortable in his chair without looking at me: I thought he might feel he had an edge sitting down so I perched on the end of the desk. That still left quite a space between us. He reached out for a cigarette from the open box in front of him. He flicked one out and lit it with a gold desk lighter.
“What’s the nature of your business with Miss Sleeman?”
I was listening for a South Australian accent. I didn’t pick any up but maybe there’s no such thing.
“Sorry,” I said, “didn’t catch it.”
“What is your business with Miss Sleeman?”
I paused while he blew smoke around and tried to think of something to do with his left hand.
“I don’t think you’re too bad,” I said. “Just much too young for what you’re doing and a bit out of your depth. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I asked you a question.”
“It doesn’t deserve an answer. The business is private, confidential, that’s all you have to know. Now do as you’re told.”
He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him off. “And don’t say ‘You can’t talk to me like that’ because I just did.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“What were you going to say?”
“Never mind.” His voice was firmer and he seemed to think he was making up some ground. “I can see that you’re trying to push me around as much as you can short of hitting me again. I wonder why
?”
He was making up ground. He let go a smile that crinkled up the fine white scars around his eyes and mouth in a way that was probably very attractive to women.
“How is Ailsa?” he said suddenly. He’d dropped the hurt look and the probing look, now he was mild and charming. He was a chameleon.
“She’s OK,” I said gruffly. It seemed inadequate.
“Bloody awful business,” he said, “I got the gist of it from Sir John Guilford, and I read about Bryn. Dreadful. A chapter of accidents.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t want to sit here exchanging chummy gossip with you, Haines. I don’t like you, you don’t like me. But since we’re at it, did you hear about Susan Gutteridge? She’s in hospital too.”
He looked and sounded surprised. We were talking about his mother although he didn’t know that I knew it. Nothing like filial concern showed in his face but there was no way it would—his feelings about his own flesh and blood were unique to him.
“God, no. What’s the matter with her?”
“Hit and run.”
“How bad?”
“Broken legs, she’ll live.”
He shook his head. It was a bad moment for me because, despite myself, I believed what I saw—a man who apparently didn’t know a thing about events he was supposed to have engineered. It was time to get on with it before I found myself giving away too much for this stage of the game. I got off the desk and made impatient movements with my feet. He looked at me curiously for a second and then flicked the intercom button. He told the secretary he’d be with Mr Kent for a few minutes and we went out of the office.
Mr Kent looked like just the sort of man for tax dodges, he faded into the background without a trace. He had wispy hair, a grey suit and a general air of not being there at all. Like everyone in the place he was smart and efficient. He read Ailsa’s note, reached into his desk for a manila folder and wrote my name on the top of it. He went to pin the note inside the folder but I stopped him and told him I wanted to keep it. He smiled knowingly. “Very wise,” he said. He pressed a button and a girl appeared in the open doorway about two seconds later. “Photocopy please,” Kent said extending the note to her, “and arrange credit cards for Mr Hardy. The usual things.” The secretary nodded a sleekly groomed head and whispered away. Kent busied himself with a ruled form on which he wrote my name and made some entries in a tight, cribbed hand. There was no love lost between him and Haines who straightened his cuffs and looked more or less in my direction.
“Satisfied Hardy?” he said.
“Very. Thank you Mr Haines. Don’t fall in any swimming pools.”
Kent looked up bemused but Haines’ face was a bored, non-reacting mask. He inclined his head to Kent and went out, leaving the door open. Kent got up and shut it. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him and he seemed to feel the same way about me. We lingered in silence until the girl came back with the papers. She handed them to Kent who dismissed her with the economical nod that seemed to be his speciality before slipping the photostat into the file. He handed the original back to me.
“A credit card valid for the standard airlines for six months will be ready for you at the desk, Mr Hardy,” he said. “And now, a Cashcard?”
“What’s that?”
He unleashed what appeared to be the whole of his personality in the form of a tight, self-satisfied smile. “It’s at the desk, you can use it to draw a hundred dollars a day for the next calendar month.”
“Wonderful,” I said, “what about taxis, call girls and squaring cops?”
“Your problem, Mr Hardy. To me you are a miscellaneous expense.”
He scribbled the day’s date on the outside of the folder and pulled a bulging, loose leaf file towards him like a long lost lover. I was dismissed, I know a perfectionist when I see one.
The girl at the front desk was having a bad day. She held out two cards, one of them similar to a bankcard, the other plainer with a gold edge.
“Please sign these, Mr Hardy.”
I signed them. She slipped them into plastic holders and handed them to me.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “capitalism is doomed.”
She gave me a brilliant smile. She’d solved it, I was a madman.
I went home, packed a few things into an overnight bag and phone booked an afternoon flight to Adelaide. The credit card worked like a charm at the first bank I came to. I caught a taxi out to the airport and called the hospital half an hour before my plane was due for boarding. I left messages for Ailsa and Susan telling them not to see anyone except their doctors. After buying the Sydney afternoon and the Adelaide morning papers I went through the ticket collection and seat allocation routines and got on the plane. It was half empty which felt strange until I remembered that it was nearly always that way in first class, I just hadn’t had much experience of it.
The plane boomed along for two hours damaging the ozone. I had a couple of gins and tonic because I like the miniature bottles.
Adelaide doesn’t rate too highly with me. It’s flat and there’s no water to speak of. The celebrated hills are too close to the city. It feels as if you could kick a football from the city stadium up into the hills without really trying. When I go there it’s always raining and I’m never dressed for it. The plane slewed about a bit on the wet runway and we all scampered for cover in our lightweight ensembles. The rain was more a spit than a shower, but the only happy-looking people at the terminal were those who were flying the hell out of the place.
I went to the Avis desk and hired a Ford Escort for two days after proving beyond all doubt that I was Clifford Hardy, licensed to drive, and handing over enough money to make it not worth my while to steal it. My luggage came down the chute, I slung it into the back of the car and drove in to what they call the city. I tried to cheer myself with the thought that the Athens of the South is a great place for cheap food and drink, but I only half-succeeded. The buildings were dribbling water down their grey faces and those damn hills were still much too close. I checked in at the Colonial Hotel across the road from the University and ordered a bottle of Scotch with ice and a soda syphon. I settled down with a tall glass, a map and the telephone directory. The orphanage was listed and I called it. I might as well have saved my breath and money. The woman I spoke to wouldn’t confirm that Haines had been an inmate, wouldn’t give out information about past directors of the place and wouldn’t arrange an interview for me with the present boss. She wasn’t interested in sarcasm either, she hung up as I was thanking her. But that was all right. The first dead end in an investigation is a challenge to me, it’s only after one or two more that I feel hurt and start sulking.
They couldn’t conceal the address of the place from me. I located it on the map, poured out and drank a quick neat one, and tucked the ice and soda away in the miniature fridge. I got the car out of the hotel parking lot and drove off towards the hills. The rain had stopped.
It took me nearly an hour to reach the orphanage which put the time at close to five o’clock. The photographs I’d seen of the place hadn’t done it justice. It was straight out of Dickens or maybe even Mervyn Peake; every angle and corner suggested order and discipline. It had no charm; I like old buildings, but I wouldn’t have minded if they pulled this one down. It looked in pretty good shape however, and the grounds were well cared for which suggested a groundsman. Groundsmen and caretakers tend to be long-term employees and I was counting on that now. I parked back up the road from the main gates and set off on a circumnavigation of the grounds which covered about ten acres. The main building stood on a rise more or less in the middle of the land which was enclosed by a high fence of cast iron spears. A paved drive ran from the main gates up to the front of the building and down to a smaller set of gates on the other side. There was a football oval and a fair bit of lawn and garden but too much asphalt and government
issue cream paint.
I scouted around the fence until I found what I was looking for—a small cottage in the northeast corner of the grounds. It would have been a city trendy’s dream, sandstock bricks, double fronted and without obvious signs of later improvements. A man was standing in front of the cottage doing nothing in particular. At that distance he looked old, bent over a bit, and there was a pipe smoking gently in his face. He had his hands and a good part of his arms deep in the pockets of a pair of old khaki overalls. I stuck my head up over the spears.
“Gidday,” I shouted.
He stood like stone. I shouted again with the same result. He might have been deep in reverie, but it seemed more likely that he was hard of hearing. I looked around for something to throw and found a piece of rotten branch. I heaved it over the fence and it landed a bit off to one side of him. He took the pipe out of his mouth and looked at it. Then he put the pipe back and looked at it again. I reached down for another piece of wood to throw when he made a slow turn in my direction. I stood there with the wood in my hand feeling foolish. I gave him another hail and he ambled over to the fence, scuffling his feet in the damp leaves. He made it to the fence in pretty good time given that he wasn’t in a hurry.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” I said.
“You didn’t startle me, mate.” His voice was the old Australian voice, slow and a bit harsh from rough tobacco and a lifelong habit of barely opening his mouth when he spoke. I handed him one of my cards through the fence and brought a five dollar note out into the light of day.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions if you’ve got the time. There’s a quid in it.”
He stuck the pipe back in his mouth. The hair was classical, a brutal short back and sides and his ragged moustache, yellow from tobacco had nothing in common with the modish Zapata model. He was one of the old style of tie-less Australians, one without a collar to his shirt so how could he wear a tie? He inclined one ear towards me, but his faded blue eyes were sceptical.
“How long have you worked here, Mr . . .?” I bellowed.