The Big Drop

by Peter Corris

  PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see www.petercorris.net). In 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and has lived in Sydney for most of his life. They have three daughters and six grandsons.

  The Cliff Hardy collection

  The Dying Trade (1980)

  White Meat (1981)

  The Marvellous Boy (1982)

  The Empty Beach (1983)

  Heroin Annie (1984)

  Make Me Rich (1985)

  The Big Drop (1985)

  Deal Me Out (1986)

  The Greenwich Apartments (1986)

  The January Zone (1987)

  Man in the Shadows (1988)

  O’Fear (1990)

  Wet Graves (1991)

  Aftershock (1991)

  Beware of the Dog (1992)

  Burn, and Other Stories (1993)

  Matrimonial Causes (1993)

  Casino (1994)

  The Washington Club (1997)

  Forget Me If You Can (1997)

  The Reward (1997)

  The Black Prince (1998)

  The Other Side of Sorrow (1999)

  Lugarno (2001)

  Salt and Blood (2002)

  Master’s Mates (2003)

  The Coast Road (2004)

  Taking Care of Business (2004)

  Saving Billie (2005)

  The Undertow (2006)

  Appeal Denied (2007)

  The Big Score (2007)

  Open File (2008)

  Deep Water (2009)

  Torn Apart (2010)

  Follow the Money (2011)

  Comeback (2012)

  The Dunbar Case (2013)

  Silent Kill (2014)

  This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2014

  First published by Allen & Unwin (Australia) in 1985

  Copyright © Peter Corris 1985

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

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  ISBN 978 1 76011 390 2 (pbk)

  ISBN 978 1 74343 991 3 (ebook)

  Contents

  The Big Drop

  P.I. Blues

  The Arms of the Law

  Tearaway

  What Would You Do?

  The Mongol Scroll

  The Mae West Scam

  Rhythm Track

  The Big Pinch

  Maltese Falcon

  For

  Matthew Kelly

  The Big Drop

  They found my late client, Norman Scholfield, at the bottom of a half-built office block in the city. That is, they found part of him there; the office block is destined to rise twenty-five storeys above our fair city and Norman came off the twentieth which is just a concrete shell. He’d bounced on the scaffolding a few times on the way down and this smeared and scattered him around a little. Still, my card was in pristine condition in his pants pocket, which was why Detective Sergeant Frank Parker was sitting in the client’s chair in my office. The last bum on that chair was the now fairly widely distributed Norman’s, but I didn’t tell Frank that.

  ‘What did you make of him?’ Parker said.

  I shrugged. ‘Man in trouble, real or imagined. He had a delivery to make to an address and he needed protection.’

  ‘What was he delivering?’

  ‘Money, what else? Said he was paying off a bet.’

  ‘You believed that?’

  I shrugged again. ‘People pay on bets, happens every day. Times are tough, Frank. He was a nice guy; I liked him. In this business liking the people who hire you is a bonus. He paid up like a gentleman.’

  ‘I bet he did. Where was the delivery to?’

  ‘Well, that’s another thing—wasn’t as if it was a meeting in a sewer. How about you answer a question or two before I have to give my grandmother’s maiden name?’

  Frank looked interested; that was what made him more agreeable than the average cop—he had more on his mind than charge sheets and beer. ‘D’you know your grandmother’s maiden name?’

  ‘One of ’em, yeah. Come on, Frank. Give a bit.’

  ‘Norman had a few convictions and a few near misses. Nothing big, nothing very bad—fraud mostly.’ He grinned at me. ‘People found him a nice guy.’

  I let that pass. ‘I didn’t think he was Fred Nile. So the money was hot?’

  ‘We don’t know, we didn’t find any money; but the thing is, the forensic boys noticed some dye on his hands. You know, the kind that gets on money that men with stockings over their heads take out of banks.’

  I was reaching back for my wallet before he finished talking. ‘He gave me a couple of hundreds; I broke one of them.’ The other hundred dollar note was nestling in cosily with a couple of twenties and some others hardly worth talking about. I pulled it out and handed it to Frank. He looked at it.

  ‘Looks clean to me. Got an envelope?’

  I passed one across and he put the note in it. ‘Want a receipt?’

  ‘Bet your arse.’

  ‘You’ll have to come down to the station to get one.’

  I spread my hands. ‘I’ll trust you. Well, let me know how it checks out.’

  ‘Don’t be funny, Cliff. Norman wasn’t up there for the view, and there’s too much of that tie-dyed money floating around for comfort. This is a serious matter, and I want the address you went to.’

  I looked out the window while I considered it. Scholfield had commented on the view when he was in the office: ‘Water view’, he’d said, meaning the road repair trench that had filled up from the burst main. We’d had a few laughs and he’d paid me two hundred dollars for two hours easy work. I thought I owed him a little posthumous consideration.

  ‘I’ll take you there,’ I said. ‘Unexplained client death is bad for business.’

  Frank said okay, put my hundred bucks away in his pocket and we went downstairs.

  I thought about the pub Scholfield and I had stopped at on our way to Hunters Hill, but I didn’t mention it to Frank; he wasn’t likely to tell me what his boss had said to him about the case or the other leads they might be pursuing, so why should I flap my mouth? The police driver drove like they all do, as if the roads were built for them alone. We made good time to Hunters Hill. The house was a big, white-painted place, almost showy with its lush garden and the ironwork picked out in black on the gates and the driveway being just long enough to have a small, prestigious, bend in it.

  We sat in the car and looked at the house.

  ‘You sure he went in?’ Frank said. ‘He didn’t just hide in th
e bushes for a while?’

  ‘He went in, stayed half an hour, maybe less, came out. I waited out here. He took a bag in—lightweight, zippered thing—and came out with his hands in his pockets.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We were in my car. I drove him back to town. Dropped him in Broadway.’

  Frank snorted. ‘You must’ve had a peg on your nose the whole time. You didn’t see anyone in the house?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Eloquent. Okay, let’s take a look.’

  The three of us got out of the car, crossed the street and didn’t bother trying to look inconspicuous. It was an unusual experience for me—pushing open a gate and marching up to a front door without having to think about pretending to be someone else or how to prevent the door being slammed in my face. I tried to enjoy it, but somehow it didn’t seem to be as much fun.

  Frank rang the bell until the chimes inside got boring. Back off the porch and down around the side: the lush garden didn’t look so lush up close. It had been carefully tended in the past but was beginning to look a little dried out at the edges. The back of the house was an extravaganza in glass; double doors were set between ceiling-to-floor windows; cane blinds shaded cork-tiled floors. The driver looked enquiringly at Frank and when he got the nod he pulled out a bunch of keys and started on the lock. I glanced across at the big garage with its double roller-door and heard the lock open before I could look back. None of us pulled his gun; we’d all been inside empty houses before and we were not afraid.

  It was a lot of house to be standing empty—four bedrooms, two bathrooms, big modern kitchen and rooms for sitting and eating in. All the relevant activities could’ve been done there with considerable comfort, but it didn’t look as if much of anything had gone on for some time. There was a layer of dust over a lot of the surfaces: a trained observer might have detected more; as for me, I’d say the odd person or two had had a snack and a drink and a wash of the hands lately. The toilet had been used, too. The power and water were on and the phone was connected; there was food in the cupboards and more plus beer and wine in the refrigerator. Like all snoopers, we began by creeping and ended by stamping our feet. We didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. Re-grouped at the back door, we looked to Frank for leadership.

  ‘Let’s try the garage,’ he said.

  ‘Funny,’ I whispered. ‘That’s what I was going to say.’

  The driver looked enquiringly at Frank again; with a different superior he might’ve got a chance to practise his kung-fu, but Frank was used to me. He closed his eyes and mimed counting to ten. ‘Cliff,’ he said. ‘I wish I could have you on the force, with me out-ranking you, just for a little while.’

  We were walking towards the garage. ‘What would you do, Frank?’

  He stopped and looked back at the house. ‘Right now, I’d send you to look up in the roof and down into the foundations.’

  ‘Messy,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope we find the money and the bodies and the confessions in the garage.’

  The driver was an artist—the roller-door came up just like it does in the commercials and we stepped into a space big enough to hold three cars and light enough to play table tennis in. But there were no cars and no table tennis table—instead, there were a couple of benches covered with jars and retorts and plumbed for hot and cold water. There were bottles and brushes and magnifying glasses and a microscope. There were powders and pastes, tubes of goo and glass plates with metal clamps. I followed Parker as he ranged along the nearest bench; the biggest bottle had a screw top and Parker spun it off.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Can’t be sure,’ he said. ‘But I think it’s the blue stuff that gets onto the money.’

  ‘You know what that makes this set-up, then?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he growled. ‘Looks like this is where they try to get it off.’

  And that was the way it looked a few days later when a microscopic examination of my hundred dollar note had been made. Frank Parker rang me with the good news.

  ‘Serial number checks with a run stolen from a bank in Parramatta last month. Traces of the dye—not visible to the naked eye. Someone’s found a way to take it off.’

  ‘What about my money?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. Evidence.’

  ‘Great. What about the house?’

  ‘Nothing. Clean as a whistle. Leased under a phoney name, paid for in cash.’ His laugh was a harsh bark. ‘Cash?’

  ‘Don’t be bitter. You must have something to go on.’

  ‘Not a bloody thing. Looks like they just cleared out after your pal Scholfield went for the jump.’

  ‘Are you looking for people who’ve turned blue lately?’

  ‘Have you got any other helpful comments, Cliff?’

  ‘Can’t you just take a photo of it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My hundred bucks.’

  That finished the conversation with Parker and left me wondering what to do next. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a case on hand; I was on a retainer from a security firm to check on some of their employees who were suspected of not rattling the doors they were supposed to rattle and not shining their torches where and when they were supposed to shine them. It was night work mainly, but not exclusively. I had the job for a month and was only half way through. The company didn’t expect a perfect record from its men, apparently that was unheard of; it was a question of ‘acceptable levels of non-performance’. I ran over some of the results I’d got so far, but I couldn’t keep my mind on the job. I kept getting pictures of Norman Scholfield trying to cope with worry in a good-humoured way. I didn’t like the idea of someone throwing him off a twenty-storey building—that was too much for good humour. Then I remembered the pub.

  Balmain has lost a lot of its good pubs to the bulldozer and to solicitors who’ve wanted interesting-looking buildings for their offices in which they can arrange the conveyancing of other interesting buildings. But this one was a survivor, and Scholfield had directed me there with a note in his voice like pride. It was down by the water with a balcony that gave you a good view of the container terminal; but there’s something agreeable about drinking while other people work. We had a beer in the sun and he’d borrowed my pen. I saw him ring directory enquiries, scribble on the phone book and then make a quick call. He gave me back the pen—a thick-writing ballpoint with purplish ink.

  It was much the same time of day again when I got to the pub and I bought a beer and retraced my steps. The water was still there and the container terminal; the directory was there too and the numbers stood out clearly on the page in thick purple backhand.

  I sipped the beer and thought how unprofessional I was being, but then, that’s one of the advantages of my non-profession. I dialled the number and heard a heavily accented woman’s voice on the line.

  ‘Yes? Yes?’

  ‘Norman Scholfield, please.’

  There was a pause and then the voice came through slowly and emotively. ‘He is not here. Who is calling, please?’

  In this business you make all sorts of half-arsed judgements; I took a punt now that this voice belonged to someone who wasn’t glad that Norman had free-fallen without a ‘chute. ‘I’d rather not say on the phone. I have something that might interest him. Could you ask him to meet me? Are you in touch?’

  ‘Yes. Where should he meet you?’

  I named the pub. ‘I’ll be up on the balcony, he knows the place. We had a drink here a few days ago. I’ll have a can of Fosters all ready for him. Umm . . . I take it he’s just stepped out or something? I would like to see him soon.’

  ‘Yes. An hour?’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’

  I went for a walk around the streets, wondering what was going to happen next. It was a mild winter day; the sunshine was fitful and the water turned from a greenish blue to a hard grey in response to it. A small yacht moved along in the choppy water looking incongruous against the backdrop of cargo, machinery and work. Fifty
-five minutes later, I was back on the balcony with a fresh beer and a clean glass and a can of Fosters in front of me.

  She came in. Dead on time. She was tall, with black hair, olive skin and eyes and a nose like a Coptic mask. She was wearing a camel-coloured coat and boots and as she stood in the doorway there wasn’t a man within sight who wasn’t staring at her. She walked over to me and sat down and I could feel and hear breaths hissing out between clenched teeth from all around.

  ‘Norman couldn’t come,’ she said.

  ‘I know. He’s dead.’ I opened the beer can and poured some into my glass. ‘This was his drink, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. That was his drink.’

  ‘And who’re you? I know you’ve got a new phone number lately. I’d say Norman was important to you, and you don’t look like a relative. I don’t know anything else about you.’

  ‘Why did you want to see Norman?’ She tramped right over what I’d been saying as if the words were a minor nuisance.

  ‘I didn’t, I wanted to see you.’

  She made a move to get up but I got my hand across, gripped her arm and pressed her down. ‘Wait. Let’s talk, what harm can it do? Will you have a drink?’

  She subsided and shrugged. In the smooth, brown skin of her face, especially around her eyes, were lines of strain and desperation. Her face looked too strong to ever show unhappiness as we lesser mortals do, but it was there. I got her a gin and tonic, and drank the Fosters while she took a few sips. Her teeth were even and white and she had long. slender hands with pink, polished nails cut short. She had a black turtleneck sweater on under the coat, no jewellery. I told her about my brief association with Scholfield, my scouting about with the cops and then waited for her contribution.

  ‘You didn’t give my number to the police?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know. If he was working with some people at getting dye off stolen money I don’t really care. It sounds like a pretty dumb scheme and he didn’t look dumb to me. I liked him. I suppose I’m just curious. Do you know who killed him, or why?’

  ‘No. If I did, I would kill them.’