by Peter Corris
I parked up the street a little and did a slow reconnoitre. The place was enclosed by a brick fence, head high. The front, back and one side abutted streets; on the other side the fence was shared with a house that stood on a deep, narrow lot and a block of flats. The land on which the hospital stood sloped so that it had three storeys in the back and two in front; around two sides ran a balcony which gave the paying patients a good view of the ocean. There was a trellis covered with a vine of some sort on a section of the back wall; otherwise the walls were notable for an abundance of big windows.
I went through the gates and ambled up the drive towards the impressive marble steps in front of the building. For a plan I had the idea to engage an underling in conversation, and maybe hand over a little of what underlings don't have enough of. There were patients and attendants taking the afternoon air on the balcony above me as I walked up the steps; the doors swung open automatically and then I was being watched from the reception desk by a woman in a smart blue uniform. I looked around at the spit and polish as I fronted the desk.
‘Yes, sir?’ She was a thirtyish brunette with good teeth. She looked as if she could head up a cabinet meeting or a commando platoon pretty effectively.
‘I … ah, wanted to know if you have a Mrs Hardy here?’
‘I couldn't say, sir.’
‘No, well my mother is going to have an operation, nothing too serious you understand, but she'll need some care while she's recovering, and Mrs Hardy writes such good things about the place she's in. She's an old friend of mum's and …’
The phone on her desk rang; she said ‘Just a minute’ to me and ‘Reception’ into the mouthpiece. I looked around the lobby which had a spotless parquet floor and a staircase made of the right sort of wood. A set of glass doors swung open and a white-coated man came through talking to a nurse. He was carrying a clipboard and she was listening hard. A woman in a dressing gown was talking on a telephone beside the stairs; a nurse ran in through the front door and bolted up the stairs where she almost collided with Mrs Matthews, who was descending with a stately tread. She checked the nurse and sent her on her way, came down the stairs, looked over or under me, and went out through the glass doors.
I drifted off after her while the receptionist was still occupied; I was hoping to find a cleaning person to charm or an orderly to yarn with but I never got the chance; two big men in white coats appeared at the end of the passage to bar my way. I turned and saw the receptionist making gestures from the other end of the hall. I didn't wait, I marched back and nodded to her as I passed.
‘I don't think mum would like it here’, I said.
At the foot of the outside steps I nearly tripped over a parked wheelchair and then the hospital building seemed to lean down and hit me behind the ear. I opened my mouth to yell and got hit again, in the stomach; and I was slammed down into the wheelchair and was moving. I struggled for wind to yell and move with but a hard arm pinned me back. I heard the wheels of the chair grinding on the gravel and we made a turn; a man said something in a language I didn't understand and then my shirt sleeve was ripped and I felt a prick and a voice started counting: I went with it—one, two, three, four …
I came out of it in a room; it was a very atmospheric room; I mean it had stark white walls that ran down to the floor from a stark white ceiling. It had character that room, even purpose. I was lying on a bed watching a light above me swing just a little, fascinating. I got bored with it after a while and looked around; the room had no furniture to speak of, a metal cabinet by the bed and a metal chair by the window. I stared at the window wondering why it interested me so; I wasn't usually interested in windows, fenetres, so what? Then it came through to me slowly; I hadn't got here by myself and the door to the room had an uncomfortably tight look to it. I got off the bed and fell flat on the floor so I clawed my way back up on to the bed again. It was like climbing Mont Blanc, west face.
I lay on the bed again, but somehow everything was less interesting. I pushed experimentally at the cabinet, bolted down. The chair would be the same. I'd been right about the window though, it did have something to say—the light coming through it was broken up into eight inch squares by the bars. My throat was dry and my eyes felt gritty, love of mankind was not in me.
The door opened and Mrs Matthews and two big men came quietly in. They stood and looked at me and I lay and looked at them. Then I sat up and waited for the feeling of treading water to stop. One of the men spoke in that foreign language again so I concluded that they were the wheelchair kids. The woman was carrying something which she threw on the bed—my wallet; I hadn't missed it because it isn't very heavy.
‘Hardy’, she said. ‘Private investigator, it says. What does that mean in this day and age?’
‘What it says, Mrs Matthews.’
She looked at one of the men who said something I didn't catch; the other man wandered across to the window. I put the odds on my leaping from the bed and knocking them both unconscious at about ten thousand to one.
‘How do you know me and why are you following me?’ Her voice was nicely modulated with a roughness to it, like a radio announcer who was a drill sergeant at weekends.
‘Who said I was following you?’
‘I saw you last night and here you are today. That's why you're in the trouble you're in.’
It sounded like a pop song but I didn't feel like humming along; the trouble was the truth sounded ridiculous—this Amazon needing protection from plump little Charles Herbert? I couldn't think of a good lie, so I told her the truth.
‘Ridiculous’, she said. ‘Charles would never do such a thing. You're lying.’
I shrugged. She said: ‘Dennis’ and the guy by the window moved across and hit me with a backhander behind the ear where it doesn't show. I fell back on the bed and felt him use that hard arm on me again. He pinned me down and forced my head back to one side; it hurt.
‘Tell me’, Dennis said. His breath stank and a drop of sweat from his shiny, red forehead fell into my mouth. I gagged and the pain got worse; I swore at him and he increased the pressure.
‘Stop it!’ She'd moved forward and pulled at his arm. Dennis fell back, breathing heavily. The foreigner watched the show with a pleasant smile. Mrs Matthews said: ‘Inject him again, we can't do anything now.’ The foreigner took a syringe and glass bottle from his pocket and mated them. I faked a collapse and let my breathing go ragged. She came close, smelling nice, and lifted my right eyelid roughly.
‘He's all right.’ She shoved her hand inside my shirt. ‘He's thin though, not too much.’ I was pricked again and went to sleep.
They didn't give me enough, I'm bigger than I look. Coming out of it this time I knew what to expect and didn't make any rash moves. When everything was working properly I went across to the barred window which was now letting in the last few rays of the day's light. The bars were in the form of a one piece grill bolted into the window frame—the worst way to do it. This gives you something heavy to lever against something fragile if you can get any leverage. This depends on the bolts, sometimes they're anchored deep into the wood, sometimes they've worked loose, rusted or are held firm only by an accretion of paint. Here at St Mark's we had the latter kind. I took a few breaths and applied some pressure to the grill, it moved. I applied some more and it moved a lot. It was hard work for one in my condition but I stuck at it; eventually I'd jiggled and lifted the grill loose on one side. It was heavy but that helped; I peeled it back off the frame like unwrapping a slice of cheese.
I lifted the window sash and let the cool night air playing on my sweaty brow stimulate some thinking. I could stay and fight with the element of surprise on my side, or run. That didn't take much thinking; Mrs Matthews' friends were big and at least one of them looked canny, and I still had some kind of drug drifting around in my system that might take the power from my strong right arm. Run then, but where to? I had nothing that would interest the cops and there didn't seem much point in knocking on Mrs
Matthews' door and asking for an explanation. Jacobs? Charles Herbert? The names did set me thinking and prompted action. I re-possessed my wallet, buttoned my ripped shirt sleeve, rubbed my sore ear and climbed out on to the balcony to sniff the air.
It was after eight o'clock, and quiet the way hospitals should be at that hour given that they wake the patients up with the sparrows. I sidled along the balcony to the back wall and gave the vine I'd noticed before a tentative tug—solid like the Country Party vote. I trusted the vine and the trellis all the way down to the ground.
I slunk along in the shadows, made it across to the fence and followed that along to a back gate. A dog barked across the street as I swung myself over the locked gate, but I toughed that out. Hardy rampant; I tested the physical equipment by jogging back to my car.
I stopped for some medicinal brandy and it was near enough to nine o'clock when I reached Jacobs' place of business and abode. I cruised around a bit sizing it up; there was a section at the back that looked like the flat Mrs Wetherell had mentioned. I parked up the street, put my .38 in my pocket and walked back. There were lights on in the flat; behind that was a garage big enough to house the Jag and-a couple of hearses. I rubber-soled it along the side of the garage and looked in. Some street light fell on the Jag gleaming like a butler-polished tea pot.
‘What're you doing?’ It was the goon I'd seen here before; he was in short-sleeves and bare feet now and he held a hammer. He didn't look in any mood for discussion and I didn't feel conciliatory myself. I felt strong enough and angry enough at the mistreatment I'd had at the hospital to take it out on him. I charged and hit him in the chest with a dropped shoulder; he went back against the concrete wall of the garage and bounced off it swinging the hammer. I kicked a leg out from under him and he went down hard. He'd lost wind when he hit the wall and he fell awkwardly, his head thumped the ground, the hammer clattered away and he lay still. I waited in the shadows but nothing stirred in the flat. I bent down by the man and checked him over in the half light. His breathing was okay, and his eyes looked normal under the lids. I slid him up into a sitting position by the wall—tongue free, nothing constricting neck or mouth, no blood to speak of.
At closer range I could hear music coming from the flat, something classical and relaxing. I imagined Jacobs with brandy and Beethoven—good. I took out the Smith & Wesson and rapped on the door with it. After a while another light came on inside, and a voice came from behind the door.
‘Herb?’
I grunted something affirmative-sounding imitating Herb's voice as best I could. The bolt slid back and the door swung open. I crowded him and put the muzzle of the gun into the fold of flesh between his first and second chin.
‘There's nothing here’, he gulped. ‘No money, nothing.’
‘I'm glad to hear it’, I said. ‘You're going visiting.’
He was wearing a dressing-gown over his shirt and trousers, his feet were in slippers and he passed his hand over his hair while he looked down at himself. ‘Now? Like this?’ It struck me forcibly that vanity was his middle name; just possibly he was vain enough to tackle the gun. I prodded his neck.
‘Now. Come on.’
‘I can't go out like this.’
‘You look wonderful; don't make me put blood all over you.’
He came out and I pulled the door shut behind him.
‘Where's Herb?’ he said.
‘Sleeping.’
I urged him across the street and up to the car; as he lowered himself on to the torn vinyl in the passenger seat he looked like a bedouin without his camel.
Jacobs put a few questions to me as I drove to Charles Herbert's address but I ignored them. He jumped when I checked the .38 over before getting out of the car. It was a street that treated its cars to garages and car ports, but there was a big Fairlane station wagon outside Matthews's place. There were two letter boxes on the front gate and the number one stood out irridescently on the house's front porch. Matthews had given his address as flat two. I opened the gate quietly and we went up the drive towards the back. When we were almost there we stopped as a sound cracked sharply inside the house. It came again, and then there was a long, thin howl like a cat trying to sound human. A voice was raised, then I heard a laugh and the sharp crack sounded again. I pushed Jacobs ahead of me and I could feel him shaking; I felt a bit shaky myself.
The commotion kept up, and I moved fast around the back of the house to a door at the top of a short flight of steps. I motioned to Jacobs to stand still, he watched the muzzle of the gun like a roulette player watching the ball and nodded quickly. The crack again, the howl again, only going up this time, hanging mid-way and breaking. I went up the steps, wrenched the door open and stepped inside with the gun ready and my teeth bared too.
I was in a long, narrow kitchen that had a sink, dresser, table and chairs. Charles Herbert Matthews, with his pants down and his fat, white bum showing, was stretched across the table. The foreigner held his arms and Dennis was standing behind him with a thick leather belt, studded like a dog collar, in his hand. Mrs Matthews, the angel of St Mark's, was sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. I pointed the gun at Dennis.
‘Drop the belt.’
He looked at Mrs Matthews, who shrugged, and he moved towards me with the belt swinging. I let him come. He whipped the belt at me clumsily, and I moved inside it; I set the catch on the .38 with my thumb and smashed the gun against his cheekbone; he grunted, sagged, and I ripped him hard and low with my left. He went down and dropped the belt. I picked it up and let the heavy buckle dangle an inch above his nose.
‘Sit’, I said.
The other guy was still holding Matthews, who'd screwed around to see what was happening; there were three or four broad, red stripes across his buttocks running up to the pads of fat at his waist. I jerked the gun up and the foreigner let go. Matthews crumpled down and adjusted his clothes. When his face came up again it was tear-stained, but by no means unhappy. He was breathing heavily, his mouth was open and moist and he was staring at his mother.
I looked at her too. ‘Assault, kidnapping, conspiracy, you're in trouble, Mrs Matthews.’
She blew smoke at me. ‘Ridiculous’, she said.
Matthews struggled for some dignity. ‘What are you talking about, Hardy?’ he snapped.
His mother gave him a long look. ‘So it's true’, she said. ‘I didn't think you'd have the gumption, Charles.’ She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. ‘Well, Mr Hardy, it seems my son employed you to protect me. Do you think I'm in moral danger?’
I thought of Jacobs outside in his dressing gown and slippers. ‘No’, I said. ‘But others are at that bloody hospital.’
She smiled, she had charm and force of character to spare. ‘I'd say that was outside your brief, wouldn't you, Charles?’
‘Yes, mother.’
‘Jesus Christ! She's been working a deal with Jacobs for years. She fixes it so he gets most of the business that comes out of the hospital. She thought you were on to it, why d'you think you were getting thrashed?’
Matthews said nothing. I looked at the two thugs who had their eyes firmly on the Matron—quite a woman.
‘I wouldn't be surprised’, I went on, ‘if she helps a few of the old, sick ones along.’
‘Ridiculous’, she said again but it sounded as if she was thinking hard. She reached across and pulled Matthews gently down into the chair beside her. She patted his arm. ‘He couldn't possibly have any proof.’
Matthews smiled back at her, thrilled at her touch. I felt desperate, like a man playing a game and not knowing the rules.
‘She's known Jacobs for years, she probably got a special deal on planting your Dad.’
It was just the wrong thing to say; Matthews shrugged and his eyes slid off to look at the belt in my hand. I felt suddenly sick.
‘There's proof’, I said. ‘Jacobs' records will prove it—signatures, names, it'll stink like a sewer.’
Then there was a nois
e outside, and Dennis moved, and I had to talk to him sharply. Matthews was still breathing heavily, still looking at the belt. I wasn't working for him anymore, I was working for myself.
‘I've got Jacobs outside’, I said. ‘He'll talk, I'll make him.’ I lifted my voice and called Jacobs in. Nothing happened. Mrs Matthews laughed.
Out on the street there was no sign of Jacobs or the Fairlane. I drove wearily towards Jacobs' establishment and was passed by a fire engine on the way. When I got there a couple of firemen were running about and a few neighbours were huddled, disappointed. The fire wouldn't even make the morning news. Mrs Wetherell, in her dressing gown, was part of the huddle. I went up to her.
‘Just a little one’, she said. ‘Back of the flat. Office and that.’
I worried about it for a few days and then let it go; they'd had a disturbing amount of aggravation and I felt pretty sure that Jacobs and Mrs Matthews would dissolve their partnership. What the hell business was it of mine, anyway? Then the death certificates came, same cause of death with minor variations, same doctor signing. I put them away in the file and wondered why my mother had never so much as given me a clip over the ear.
Man's best friend
I was walking along Vincent Street in Balmain, down near the soapworks, minding someone else's business, when a brick hit me, then another brick hit me, then another and I lost count; it felt as if a brick wall had moved out of line and wrapped itself around Cliff Hardy.
When I woke up Terry Kenneally was sitting beside my bed. My first thoughts were that my sheets had got very white and my windows very clean and that I'd finally got Terry to stay the night; and then I realised that I wasn't at home, I was in hospital. I've been in hospital before; the first thing to do is to check that you've still got all your bits and pieces and that they haven't mixed you up with the guy who had gangrene. I moved and wriggled and blinked; everything seemed to work.