The Excluded Exile (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 12)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Tom sighed. "I thought Mum was off somewhere. I figured Willoughby had put her up somewhere. And I didn't want her to know I'd been boffing one of the neighbors." He started crying again. Carter pulled him in close and rocked him slowly while I stood there and suddenly realized who the man in the Holden had been.

  Chapter 12

  2 George Road

  Friday, February 25, 1955

  Around a quarter past 7 in the evening

  "Are you sure you're OK with this?" That was Carter. We were both standing by the door.

  Even though we had Tom's story about where he'd been, I wanted to go to the Long Bar and see if we could find Jimmy Branch. We'd had a light supper of more sandwiches and beer that Murphy had picked up at the local pub.

  "We'll be fine, boyo." That was Captain O'Reilly.

  I said, "I'd really rather you two came with us."

  He shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll not step foot in that place again. Getting thrown out once was enough for me."

  Murphy nodded in agreement. "Besides, we need to be here in case that father comes back."

  Carter sighed. "But what if he's the killer?"

  Murphy walked up to Carter and looked up at him. "You want me to show you how I deal with men who get in my way?"

  Carter backed up a couple of steps and held out his hands. "No, Mr. Murphy. I believe you."

  O'Reilly and I laughed. But Murphy didn't.

  "Fine," I said, "We're leaving. Call the police station if anything happens. I left the number by the phone."

  Murphy turned on me. His eyes were blazing. "Get the fuck outta here." He stared at me hard. He was clenching both his fists.

  I backed up. "Fine."

  He relaxed all over and smiled. "Now do you believe me?"

  Carter reached over and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me through the door as he said, "We both believe you. And we're leaving. Now." Pushing me down the stairs in the rain, he said, "That was the scariest thing I've ever seen."

  I said, "Sure the hell was," as I opened the door to the Holden and let Carter get in so he could scoot over to the driver's side. Once I was in and the door was closed, he started the engine, put the thing in reverse, and got us out of there and fast.

  . . .

  As we were driving along, I said, "Did you notice that other Holden was gone when we got back from the police station?"

  "Yeah." He was keeping his eyes on the road. The going was slow. We were in a line of cars that were creeping along the water-covered road.

  "I'm pretty sure I know who was in it."

  "Who?" asked Carter.

  "Wilkerson. That ass of a manager at the hotel."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Think about it. How did he know about that house being for lease? He said he had a friend who lived nearby. That must be this Jimmy Branch. Wilkerson must have seen that Branch had company so he waited in his car until the visitors left."

  "Now who's stretching things?" The car skidded for a moment. I grabbed the dashboard as Carter turned into the skid and the wheels straightened out.

  "I know it's a stretch. But I have a feeling he has something to do with all this."

  Carter said, "Well, let's find out what this Jimmy knows first. One thing at a time."

  I laughed. "I thought you didn't wanna play cops?"

  He put his left hand on my right knee and squeezed. "After watching Hargrove and you going at it today, I realized I need to get back in the game."

  "Yeah?"

  He nodded slowly and then reminded me, one more time, how things would be happening as soon as we got home. I couldn't wait.

  . . .

  Because of all the rain, Carter left the car, and a ten pound note, with the hotel doorman. As we walked in through the front door, I glanced over and saw Wilkerson at the front desk. It seemed he was working late.

  He saw me and nodded coolly. We walked down the hallway that led to the bar.

  It was a busy night. Every spot at the bar was taken. The room was full of cigarette smoke and the sounds of men talking and laughing. There were no women to be seen. I staked out a high-top table against the wall while Carter went to order beers for us.

  I surveyed the room more closely. It didn't take me long to find Jimmy Branch. He was in a well-cut navy suit with a vest and a sapphire tie. The colors were perfect for his skin tone, which was ruddy, like Carter's. He was athletic and got plenty of sun. His hair was combed back straight and pomaded in place. He reminded me of a taller, thinner Errol Flynn, even though he was fairer. He had, however, the same devil-may-care expression as Flynn and a dimple in his chin that you could drive a Chevrolet through.

  Our table was close to the street entrance. Jimmy was in a group of men about halfway down the bar. As I watched, I noticed that he seemed to know everyone. People would walk by, nod at him or smile, or say something. He was, by far, the center of attention in a room of middling to handsome men. Only Carter was more attractive.

  I looked up as Carter arrived with two large glasses of beer with nice heads of foam. "These glasses are called 'schooners'." I took one. We clinked our glasses and then drank. The beer was fine. It was cold. That was good.

  "You find him?" asked Carter as he licked his lips to get the foam. I was feeling particularly randy and was tempted to do the licking for him but I didn't.

  I nodded. "Have a look. Should take you thirty seconds to spot him."

  Carter did just that. He turned back to me and said, "Tall one with the sapphire tie and pomaded hair at my 4:30?"

  I laughed. "That's the one."

  "What's so funny?"

  "Your 4:30."

  He shrugged. "Isn't that right?"

  "Sure." I looked up and then whispered, "Don't look now—"

  Jimmy, followed by a small group of friends, walked right up to our table and extended his hand to me. "Nick Williams?"

  I shook and nodded. "Yeah."

  "My name is James Branch. My friends call me Jimmy. Your picture is all over the late edition of The Sun."

  "That so?" I asked with a smile.

  A couple of his friends laughed. One of them showed me the paper. There was a picture of Carter and me as we were walking into the police station. The headline read: Notorious Nick On Trail of Dover Heights Murders.

  The story wasn't much. It mentioned Mrs. Tutwiler (as Jenkins), the police sergeant who'd been hurt, and Kenworthy. The main thrust of the story was how, having been kicked out of Hong Kong, I'd whisked into Sydney for some sleuthing. No mention was made of the fact that we'd been staying at the Jenkins house. Nor was any mention made of Carter. He wasn't even named in the photo caption. I handed the paper over to him.

  He scanned it and smiled. "Don't I get a mention?"

  I shrugged as the growing group laughed.

  Jimmy looked at Carter and smiled witheringly. "You're just the boyfriend."

  Carter nodded and took a long drink from his glass.

  A dark-haired man standing next to Jimmy, swayed a bit, had a drink of what looked like whiskey, looked at me, and said, "He's just the concubine, right?"

  Carter began to rub his jaw. I said, "Excuse us, folks, we have some friends we need to meet for dinner."

  Carter nodded again and finished his glass in one long drink.

  With that, we made our way out onto the street as fast as we could. The rain didn't appear to be coming down as hard as it had been for most of the day. We stood under the awning for a moment. Finally, I said, "That went well."

  Carter grunted. "Yeah."

  "Sorry about all that, Chief."

  He shook his head. "Not your fault."

  I said, "Yes, it was. We didn't need to come down here."

  Right then, Jimmy stepped outside of the bar and walked up. "Sorry about all that, mates."

  I shrugged.

  He looked at Carter. "How about we go back to my place for a couple of quiet drinks? Some of my friends will be joining us. You two should come along."

>   I looked up at Carter who nodded and said, "Fine." Without blinking an eye, he asked, "What's your address?"

  Jimmy asked, "Do you have a car?"

  Carter nodded.

  "Best you follow me, then. You might get lost."

  . . .

  The drive back out to Dover Heights was long and slow. Carter and I passed the time by talking about much of nothing. In order to maintain the charade that we weren't staying down the street, we parked behind Jimmy's Renault in his driveway.

  As we quickly walked up the stairs in the rain, Jimmy stood at the top, under the awning and grinned down at us. He opened the front door and said, "Come in, come in. This really is a great pleasure for me. So glad to have met you both. Won't you have a seat?"

  The layout of the house was similar to the Jenkins's down the street. The only thing missing was the sunroom. The living room was a bit longer to compensate and was squared off instead of being rounded.

  "Drinks?" asked Jimmy, as he rolled a portable bar out from the dining room into the living room.

  Carter said, "Beer, if you have it."

  "Beer?" Jimmy rolled his eyes. "Isn't that just a little too working-man for two millionaires like yourselves?"

  Carter was ominously quiet.

  I shrugged. "If you can make a martini—"

  "Oh, my dear! Of course I can make a martini. Now, do you like the old-fashioned kind with gin and vermouth or do you insist on vodka?"

  "Gin and vermouth."

  "Good man." He grinned. "I knew I liked you from the moment I laid eyes on you."

  He began to build the drink. As he did, he said, "Mr. Jones? I'm sorry that I don't keep beer. How about something else?"

  "Whiskey and soda."

  Jimmy nodded. "Perfect. Feel free to smoke, by the way."

  We just sat there. Neither of us said anything.

  "Is it true that you really busted out that half-breed doctor in Hong Kong? Those Chinese communists are something awful. I can't imagine what that poor dear was going through. Of course, with a name like O'Reilly, I'm sure she must be able to take on anything thrown her way. Half Chinese and half Irish is nothing to sneeze at." He stood there, lazily stirring the martini, addressing his audience of two. "On the one hand, you have all the cunning of the orient, and on the other, you have the doggedness of a people long abused by the English. Potato famine and all that. Of course, like most of my countrymen, I'm all English. My mother's people were convicts, I'm afraid. My father's family arrived in the 1890s with my grandparents, already married, here to build a new life for themselves. And I'm glad they did." He walked over and handed the martini off, almost absentmindedly, without looking at me. "I can't fathom what it would have been like to grow up in England during the war, what with all the bombs. Not that we didn't have it bad here but I think we were let off pretty well, all things considered. Of course, poor Darwin was blasted to smithereens, back to the Dark Ages, or so I heard. Just like Dresden. Now, you take those Germans—"

  And he just went on and on for a long time. Carter never got his whiskey and soda. Jimmy seemed to have forgotten about it. As he continued to talk non-stop, I had a couple of sips of my martini and then handed it off to Carter who guzzled down the rest.

  After what seemed like forever, but was probably only fifteen minutes, I stood. "We have to go."

  Jimmy looked over at me with a slight frown. "Oh, no. Don't go. Tell you what, I make a marvelous omelet. More like crepes, if you know what those are. My secret? Well, it's really how you beat the eggs. If you do it right, you can stretch out the proteins and make it just right. Of course, I like to serve mine with a bit of jam so they're really more like a dessert than a main course. I've been told, more than once, that they really are divine. It was my dear, late mother who taught me how to cook them. As a matter of fact—"

  Carter stood and said, "We're leaving." He put his hand on my arm and began to pull me towards the door.

  "No, really, Mr. Jones. I wouldn't." I heard the sound of a hammer being pulled back on a revolver. I turned and saw that he had a Colt .45 in his right hand. It was pointing at me.

  "What do you want?" I asked.

  Jimmy walked around us, positioned himself between us and the door, and then peered out the windows overlooking the street.

  "Two things. I want this damn rain to stop. And I want you to wait until the love of my life arrives."

  "Wilkerson?" I asked.

  He frowned. "Yes. Lucky guess?"

  "Why a frying pan and a wrench but not a gun?"

  He grinned at me. "Not nearly as loud. Doesn't alert the neighbors."

  "Why do it at all?"

  Jimmy sighed. Pointing the gun using his right hand, he folded his left arm over his chest, and struck a casual pose. "For the money."

  "What money?" I asked.

  He grinned. "Mrs. Jenkins." He rolled his eyes. "Or Tutwiler, if you insist. She was simply rolling in it."

  I shook my head. "She doesn't have access to the money."

  He laughed as if I'd just told a funny joke. "That's where you're wrong, Mr. Williams. You see, Kenworthy was the trustee of the Tutwiler estate. He was siphoning off the money and keeping half and giving her half to keep her quiet, I suppose. I never understood that part. To hide what he was doing, he was selling the bonds for cash, which is quite easy to do. Once they're sold, there's no trace of where the money went."

  "How do you know this?" I asked.

  "Simple, really. I work at the bank where he was cashing in the bonds. Main branch of the Commonwealth Bank on Castlereagh by the Australia, as a matter of fact. He'd bring them in, always to me, and then, when we'd meet every other Friday for drinks at the Long Bar, he'd give me a cut. Always ten percent. He was quite good about it. He knew I was keeping score. What he didn't know is that I had bigger fish to fry."

  "Is that why you didn't kill the sergeant?" asked Carter.

  Jimmy laughed again. "So, you're not as dumb as you look. That's good. And, you're right. I just needed him out of the way. I'd taken the day off so I could find the cash. I'd only just arrived when the lot of you pulled in. When they came downstairs, they surprised me, which is unusual. I'm not often surprised. I was there to get the money. I believe it's hidden under all those cartons and that's why I'm waiting for the husband, my husband, to arrive home. We're going to take you over there. You're going to unlock that door that you so inconsiderately locked. We're going to take the money and then, if you're both real good boys, we may let you live."

  "And what if we don't go with you?"

  Jimmy widened his eyes in surprise. "And just when you're about to find out what really happened to your mother?"

  I didn't say anything. I just looked at him coldly.

  "Oh, yes, Francis is quite good at opening other people's mail. It's amazing what you can find when you do. People still send cash by post. Isn't that odd?"

  "Francis?" I asked.

  He smiled sweetly. "That's my husband's name. Francis Xavier Wilkerson. Such a good Catholic boy. Or should I say man? I don't hold that against him, of course. Being Catholic, I mean. I believe you're Anglican? Or, as you call it over there, Episcopalian. My grandparents on my father's side were Methodists. Mother's family weren't much of anything, having lost religion due to being transported, as we like to say."

  He smiled. "Oh, look. Here's my darling now. Be good little boys and don't move. I really don't want to have to shoot you. But I will. I absolutely will."

  Right then, Wilkerson walked in the door. He looked at me as Jimmy leaned over to give him a kiss.

  "They're being so well-behaved. I told them all about it."

  "You did, did you?" asked Wilkerson who was looking very unhappy.

  "Yes. Since we'll be going far away, it won't really matter, will it?"

  Wilkerson said, "If I've told you once, Jimmy, I've told you a thousand times to keep quiet about all this."

  The taller man shrugged. "No matter. We can kill them down in that stora
ge room. No one will hear it."

  "And then you can toss the gun in the ocean."

  Jimmy nodded. "Excellent idea." Looking at us, he smiled. "He's so smart. Don't you think?"

  . . .

  From what I could figure out, they didn't know that Captain O'Reilly and Murphy were at the house. We walked single-file the fifty or so feet down the block in the rain. They only had the one gun, so Wilkerson walked in front. I was behind him with Carter following me. Jimmy brought up the rear with the Colt in his hand.

  As we walked up the stairs, I noticed that the door was closed and the lights were off. That made me wonder if maybe O'Reilly and Murphy had gone for a walk in the rain. They could have walked down to the pub we'd been to. It wasn't 10 yet.

  When he got to the top, Wilkerson tried the door. It was unlocked. If there was a key for it, I'd never seen one.

  He moved inside. As he did, I was right behind him. I watched as he seemed to trip and fall. Someone shoved me away from the door. As I turned, I could see Carter in the very dim light squeeze himself against the wall. Once Jimmy was over the threshold, Carter gave him a chop on his neck. The gun went off as Jimmy fell to the floor, stunned. Then all the lights came on.

  Murphy and O'Reilly were standing there, grinning like two kids who'd caught Santa Claus under the Christmas tree.

  "How'd we do, boyo?" asked O'Reilly.

  I walked over Wilkerson's limp form and hugged the man tightly. "Just fine, Captain. Just fine."

  Chapter 13

  North Bondi Police Station

  Corner of Wairoa Avenue and Hastings Parade

  North Bondi, N.S.W.

  Friday, February 25, 1955

  Half past 11 in the evening

  Chief Inspector Hargrove was sitting across the interview table from both of us. A stenographer had been taking notes as he asked about the night's events.

  Jimmy Branch was in one cell that was in the back, isolated from the rest. Since he'd been the one in possession of the gun, they were treating him like a murder suspect. Wilkerson was in another interview room, waiting. He was just the accomplice.

  Looking past us at the stenographer, he said, "I'll need that statement as soon as you can have it ready to sign."