by Tara Moss
Who is Frank? Was he a confident man? Suspicious?
The sun was beginning to set when the big black car finally slowed and pulled up outside the Kurrajong Heights Hotel, a huge timber building with, Billie guessed, a spectacular view over the valley. She was forced to drive past, knowing that pulling off the road suddenly would attract the man’s attention. She followed the farm vehicle and the other car down the road until the hotel was out of sight, then circled back and managed to drive around the closer side, up a second driveway, to park next to a large truck that concealed the roadster from the hotel entrance. She switched off her headlamps and waited, not knowing whether to get out. Now that she knew ‘Frank’ was the man from The Dancers, she realised that he might recognise her by sight, as clearly as she had recognised him. Was he stopping for refreshments? The telephone? Would he stay for the night? She ran over what she knew about him in her mind as she waited, deliberating whether to enter the hotel or try to spy through the windows to see what he was up to.
Thankfully, only a few minutes later he was striding back to his car, his blanched hair and complexion standing out with a ghostly glow in the gathering dark, exaggerating his almost alien foreignness. Had he spoken with someone? Delivered something? His mood seemed not to have changed, his body language speaking of a confident man, a man who perhaps even felt superior to those surrounding him, a man who did not appear suspicious and afraid he was being followed. He started up the Packard and pulled away, not even bothering to look around him. He . . . travels in a motor car, carrying things to Sydney, Shyla had said. What things, exactly? He’d visited the Hydro Majestic and now this hotel, both places with good reputations. As the Packard’s tail lights faded down the road, Billie eased the roadster into life and followed again with extra care. By the time he turned off the road onto a smaller dirt road signposted ‘Colo’, there was no one between them to provide a convenient buffer, and little light to speak of. In the country, headlamps announced you once the sun was down, but so too did the dusty road telegraph your direction. Billie found it easy to follow far back in the Packard’s dusty wake as it passed small settlements and isolated homesteads. Eventually there were no settlements, no houses. A kangaroo hopped across the roadster’s path and Billie slowed just in time, the other roos in the troop blinking at her in the darkness just beyond. Past the remote Upper Colo church and cemetery, she caught his headlamps as he turned right far ahead.
Windows down and headlamps off, Billie drifted along the narrow, moonlit road, feeling the summer air and taking in the scent of eucalyptus, citrus orchards and the wildness of the bush. She sensed the damp proximity of water, the Colo River, she supposed, probably slow-moving and low in the summer heat. In gaps through the trees to her left she made out a silvery shimmer. Good goddess, I hope this isn’t a trap, she thought, feeling the isolation of the place. Her Colt was strapped to her thigh. She might well need it.
When she rounded a tree-lined bend, creeping slowly, a homestead by an old orchard of citrus trees came into view. Was this the place Shyla had mentioned? It was the only source of light in the area apart from the moon. Billie stopped, then reversed until it was almost out of sight again. Yes, the Packard was driving up to the main building, having entered through a wooden gate. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark and she could make out that it was a surprisingly grand single-level house in colonial style, elevated on short footings, with a long verandah running from end to end. The house was flanked by various outbuildings and backed by a rugged natural ridge of some height, providing cover from the rear. The area of roadside where Billie had stopped was too unprotected for her to remain on, so she pulled away, headlamps still off, and circled back until the bush became dense again and she could conceal the roadster from both the homestead and the road. It would not do to have the man expecting her, after all her careful tailing.
She decided to approach the place on foot and see what she could from the protection of the bush. Reaching into the glove box, Billie grabbed her binoculars and a battered Rayovac torch that looked like it had seen two world wars, not one. Made hyper-alert by the unfamiliar and increasingly heavy rural darkness around her, Billie stepped out of the roadster onto the unlit country road, clicked her door shut quietly and looked around with the watchful presence of a rabbit, straining for sound or movement. Again, she was reassured by the weight of the mother-of-pearl-handled Colt strapped to her thigh.
Her mother had always said you could never tell where the day would take you, and now with Billie’s only leads being a familiar face, a licence plate number and a conversation with Shyla that felt like a lifetime ago, she found herself in quiet moonlit bushland, far from home, far from any police station or even another house, and without much of an idea of what she might find, or even what she might be looking for. What was the precise nature of the concerns about the girls working in the house? Why hadn’t anyone heard from them? Were they okay? And how was this white-haired man, ‘Frank’, connected to it all? Was it mere coincidence that he’d been at The Dancers and the auction house? The little woman in her gut knew the answer to that. There were no coincidences here, just a nasty little circle – one she was about to become more deeply drawn into.
Moving cautiously up the road, Billie replayed what she was able to recall of the conversation with Shyla.
There’s a bad feeling about him. He has some of my mob there – four girls . . . I’m worried, Billie.
Billie swept her eyes from side to side through the darkness and moved steadily along the uneven roadway towards the wooden gate, relying on the light of the moon and not daring to use her torch in case it was visible from the house. She’d worn her quiet, trusty oxfords, and they managed the unsteady terrain with little difficulty, falling soundlessly on dark pebbles and churned-up earth that was a deep maroon in the soft moonlight. She reached the surprisingly dilapidated wooden gate, where two tyre tracks led like a driveway to the house, then started at the sight of a huge, skull-like face.
Death.
Billie brought a hand to her chest.
No, not Death. This was a large, hunching sooty owl, staring at her, its face white, its dark and penetrating eyes almost comically oversized. For its part, the owl said nothing of curiosity and the cat, or of women who wandered to strange places alone in the dark, but flew off, leaving her to it.
The gate was now locked with a chain and padlock, Billie noticed. It clearly broadcast the man’s desire not to be disturbed, but it was little more than a bar for vehicles, as the fencing was so eroded on either side that she could walk straight through it. The big Packard had vanished, doubtless now garaged in one of the sheds.
Was this a trap? Billie wondered again. But what were the chances that the man was expecting her in the mountains that day? Expecting her to follow him? On the other hand, what did she think she would find in this place? The spectre of abuse, particularly against young women, was something Billie did not wish to encounter again after all she’d seen during the war. Despite all the talk of Britain’s ‘finest moment’, the war had seemed to bring out both the best and the worst of humanity, and even the Allies had not been without blemish in that respect. The vulnerable women and children freed from concentration camps had been abused by their Soviet liberators, Billie had heard. Yes, war brought out the worst, and as her mother pointed out, Billie’s work showed it all to her, the worst of human instincts and behaviour. She had seen and heard enough unnecessary suffering and abuse of power for several lifetimes, and her stomach tightened at the thought of encountering more of humankind’s worst, but so also did her focus sharpen.
Step by step she moved up the side of the dirt drive, staying in the shadows of the trees and bushes as much as possible. Lights were on at both ends of the homestead, and as she neared it, she could see that the dwelling was old and not terribly well kept, the verandah sloping to one side, paint peeling. Not quite as grand as it had first appeared. The grounds, too, had been neglected, bush creeping up to the house on
three sides.
Now close to the house, picking her way around the unruly bushes and the remains of what might have once been a garden, Billie sensed movement in one of the rooms and dropped into a crouch, her driving coat sweeping the ground. She listened intently. It sounded like footsteps on a wooden floor. One set of shoes. They sounded too light to belong to the tall, white-haired man. Billie rose a touch to try to see what was happening, but bushy tendrils like clawed fingers clutched at her coat, snagging her. Turning and cutting a hand, she cursed the surrounding Acacia horrida. Some genius had imported it, evidently unconvinced that Australia was sufficiently furnished with things that could claw, stab or bite you. With some effort she unhooked herself, and sucked on her pricked and lightly bleeding hand.
As the sound of footsteps faded, Billie eased slowly to her full height. The window opened onto a sitting room illuminated with candles and a kerosene lamp, and next to it a second window revealed a dining room, darkened and empty, lined with odd shapes. Curious. Billie moved closer to the glass and cupped her hands around her eyes to get a better look, then immediately leapt back as a pair of bright, slanted eyes met hers. Again she brought a hand to her chest, and stifled a laugh. These were not living eyes, but eyes carved of shell. Out of place in this rustic setting, a pair of imposing carved wooden figures, one facing her at the window, the other turned away at an angle, stood as tall as Billie, the closest one rather unnervingly meeting her eye to eye. She again cupped her hands against the glass to better see. What were they? Satyrs? No, it was Satan and his wife, and it was Mrs Satan’s shell-inlaid eyes that glittered in the moonlight and seemed to follow Billie’s movements. The sharp wooden face was set at a downward angle, the mouth upturned in a dark grin. Billie could not see Satan’s face, but his long hand was held out to support a silver dish, in which calling cards could be placed. What exquisite, if unnerving, carvings they were. And how odd to stumble across them in Upper Colo, in this rather ramshackle homestead. She’d seen such a pair in Europe once, and had been told they were Italian and all but priceless.
Next to the Mephistophelian pair were smaller objects, Billie now noticed, of perhaps similar value. A gold candelabra. A china figurine of a woman and a fawn. A small ornate chest. This odd arrangement of valuables was juxtaposed against an assortment of rustic, even rudimentary, pieces of furniture. The dining table, though laid with good silver, appeared to have been knocked together using wood from the property. The surface was uneven. A cabinet in the corner, stacked with more small figurines, looked to have been repurposed from work in a kitchen. The legs were sawn down and Billie noticed small hooks screwed into the shelves from which tea cups or mugs would once have hung.
A figure moved past the open doorway, rousing Billie from her speculation. She slipped back into the darkness and moved carefully through the bush, silently cursing as sharp twigs and thorny vegetation tore her stockings and scratched at her hands.
Now she could see more clearly into the sitting room. It was large, with a fireplace stacked with firewood but unlit this summer evening, though the temperatures here would drop dramatically overnight, she guessed. The figure moved past again, walking into the light, and Billie stiffened.
Shyla!
Shyla who had asked her to find out about this place. Shyla who had warned her about the white man who was a foreigner, and no good. Shyla who’d said she was getting a job in the house. She was already here. Billie drew a breath. It may not have been her who had given the note to John Wilson, then. It could have been someone passing information along a chain. Or maybe she had arrived but a short time ago? Either way, she was inside. Billie bent and picked up a small pebble, and moved to throw it at the window, then paused. It was too risky, the house too quiet. They might be heard. Carefully, Billie moved around the perimeter of the building. Where was Frank? Where were the other girls?
The Packard now came into sight, peeking out from behind a shed, gleaming in the moonlight. Wouldn’t you want to protect such a costly motor car, out here in the bush? Billie mused. If that fine motor car wasn’t in the shed, it meant something else was.
Torch still off, Billie looked over one shoulder, then the next, and strained to hear the slightest sound. Slowly, she approached the closest of the two rundown sheds. Like the front gate, its door was secured with a basic padlock, English-made and the likes of which Billie had picked many times before. She pulled a long, sharp pin from her hat, examined the ornamental pearl on the end, decided she liked it too much, replaced it and pulled out another. She took the chosen pin in hand and with some force bent the end until it formed an L shape about the depth of the lock, then inserted the end into the keyhole. In relative darkness and going by feel, she spent a moment listening for the lever inside the padlock. Come on . . . Got it! She lifted the lever and the padlock fell away. Billie pocketed the hatpin, regretting that it was probably never going to sit quite right again, and quietly pulled the shed door, stepping into the deep darkness, then closed it behind her, shutting out all light.
A strange, musty smell hit her nostrils, and even in the blackness she could tell the shed was tightly packed. There was barely any space to move. Her shoe hit a box or drum of some sort. She took a breath and switched on her torch.
Paintings?
Billie had not been sure what to expect, but this was not it. The shed was packed with oil paintings – portraits, landscapes – and objects of all kinds, some concealed by drop cloths. Some of the paintings appeared quite old. If they were catalogued or arranged in any way, she could not tell. They seemed simply to be stacked for storage. Billie was no art collector, but her mother had been at one point, and some of these looked to be quite good. A stack of frames sat on top of a cluster of oil drums next to her. So that was what she had bumped into. There were a lot of similar drums stored in the shed, she realised, finding the combination of oil and paintings curious. They were not traditionally a good mix. Billie’s torch illuminated a surprising assemblage of dusty objects made of china, of bronze, of gold. Cherubs. A ballerina. An elaborate candle holder. A menorah. How odd to leave these treasures in a shed like this, she thought. So impressive was the array that Billie marvelled that the paintings and objects were not behind glass, proudly displayed for envious acquaintances to admire – and that brought to mind another location: Georges Boucher’s auction house, with all those valuables slipping through the heavy curtains to be gazed at and coveted and bid upon by Sydney’s wealthy set. If this man had come after the war, he had brought a lot with him. That in itself was highly unusual. So many came with barely a suitcase, or only the clothes on their backs.
And then she knew. The little woman in Billie’s belly knew precisely, with horror, what she was gazing at, how it all fit.
Billie found a crowbar on the ground next to one of the drums, cleared the frames away from it and prised the top off without much effort, suggesting that the drum had been opened recently. It was not filled with oil, nor with liquid of another kind, and when her torch revealed the contents, she was not even surprised. The sense of familiarity was like déjà vu. Like a nightmare she’d had many times before. Gold. The oil drum was filled with gold. She reached in and pulled a piece out. It was about the size of . . .
She dropped it.
A gold tooth.
Billie swallowed. The space seemed to get smaller, the shed’s walls closing in. This was an oil drum filled with gold teeth and fillings. Billie’s stomach, which had already twisted as the realisation first struck, knotted further. She dry-retched once, twice, and brought a hand to her mouth. Quickly, she switched her torch off and rushed out of the shed and into the moonlight, welcoming the night air on her face as a world of abstract colour burst behind her eyes, her lids closed tight. She could almost feel Jack’s hand in hers, feel the cold dread that had seized her that day back in Vienna when she’d first seen with her own eyes, first really realised, what they were dealing with.
But now she wasn’t in Vienna. She was in Australia a
nd the war wasn’t over. The war had come to her.
A sobbing cry rose in the air and Billie stiffened, pulled from her memories. She held her breath, listening in the darkness. In this quiet, remote place, there had been crying. Then, as quickly as the cry had reached her there was a murmur of voices, and all was quiet once more. The night was still again. She heard the owl in the distance. A rustle of wind in the bushes. It had not been her imagination, her memory of Vienna, it had come from the house. The distinct sound of sobbing had come from one of the rooms at this end.
It was a room with no curtains, she realised. It was a room boarded shut from the outside.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Cooper,’ the deep voice answered. If Detective Inspector Hank Cooper was tired or had been sleeping, this was not detectable in his voice. It had taken what seemed like ages to drive back to the Kurrajong Heights Hotel, get access to their telephone and secure an operator on the exchange. It was late, but Billie was not tired. She had never been so awake in her life.