Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

by Kerry Greenwood

  Sasha stood still, and donned the mask, immediately seeming taller, thinner and infinitely more alarming. His clumsiness became sinister when topped with a death’s head. Even the mask was primitive; not a full skull but the bony frontal ridges and hollow eyesockets, cracked and broken and grey, as if he had been long buried. Under the half-mask was Sasha’s own smooth jaw and soft red mouth, which somehow made it worse. The maiden danced her rustic little dance a few more steps, and Death followed her, now not at all clumsy. Without seeing him, she moved and dodged, eluding his grasp, until she turned and beheld him, and fled with a shriek.

  Death pursued her, slowly, then faster, blocking and obstructing her course, until she ran into his arms. His feral grin chilled Phryne’s spine, especially as she recalled her own wish to kiss that mouth. The maiden shuddered in the arms of Death; her knees gave way, and he bore her into the same peasant pas-de-deux, her feet trailing, her head lolling, pitiful as a scarecrow. Then, as they circled the room, she grew more alert; her hands rose and smoothed back her hair; she began a dance which grew wilder and wilder, until she subsided in Death’s arms. Their close embrace was charged with an energy which was frankly sexual as the light dimmed, and the dancers left the floor, entwined like lovers. The last glimpse Phryne had of them was Death’s mask, grinning back over the maiden’s shoulder as she melted into him.

  It was comic and savage, and as frightening as Balanchine or any of the Russians; it seemed to bear many significances which were necessarily unspoken. The company was rather relieved when a large opera singer took her place next to the grand piano and began an ambitious piece by Wagner.

  Phryne felt the Princesse’s cold, monkey-like hand on her arm.

  ‘They have something, no?’ asked the Princesse proudly, ‘Un petit air de rien, hein? A little bit of something.’ Phryne agreed and the large lady continued to murder Wagner.

  Near two of the morning, and past time to leave, thought Phryne, rendered restless by the company and the boy Sasha, and mindful of her need to arise early and accompany the Princesse to the Bath House of Madame Breda — which sounded a dubious proposition at best. She glanced around for Lydia, but she had gone. Then she looked for Sasha and Elli and the Princesse, but they were nowhere to be seen. She took leave of her hostess, collected her wrap, and refused an offer of a taxi. She felt like walking; it was not far to the city. The streets were still cold, and slick with moisture which would soon be frost, and she had her little gun in her bag in case there should be any trouble from the hungry unemployed.

  There was no one on the streets. Phryne loved the sound of her high heels clicking on the pavement and echoing back to her. She walked briskly up Toorak Road, where she remembered seeing a taxi-stand. It was a clean, pleasant night, and the air was just cold enough to sting, a contrast to the orchid-scented hothouse of Mrs Cryer.

  She turned the corner into the road which would lead her back to the city. There were no taxis. No matter, she did her best thinking on her feet, at night. She sorted out her impressions as the street signs fled past. She had covered almost a mile in complete silence and contemplation when she heard the first disruptive sound. Feet running; many feet. There was a shout, and then a shot bruised the peaceful Melbourne night in a most unexpected fashion.

  Well, thought Phryne, continuing at her even pace, she had walked unharmed through Paradise Street, Soho, and the Place Pigalle; should a small night affray bother her unduly?

  There were more sounds of feet from a side street, then a body almost cannoned into Phryne, who leapt aside to present any attacker with a sight of her small gun. It was cocked and loaded.

  ‘It’s Sasha,’ gasped the body. ‘Pour l’amour de Dieu! Aidez-moi, mademoiselle.’ He was still dressed as Death, with mask and leotard. Phryne dropped her aim so she should not shoot him through the heart, handed him the gun, stripped off her wrap and enveloped him in it. She tore the fillet out of her hair and forced it on his head, removing the mask and stuffing it in her muff. She repossessed herself of her gun, linked arms, and instructed him. ‘You’re tipsy. Lean on my arm and giggle.’

  ‘Giggle?’ asked Sasha blankly, staggering a little, then understanding.

  The feet caught up with them, slowed to a walk, and approached from behind. Phryne threw back her head and crowed with mirth, nudging her companion, who reeled a little more than was theatrically necessary, and giggled a creditable high-pitched giggle. The feet passed, one on either side, and two men stopped in front of them.

  ‘Have you seen a running man?’ asked the smaller of the two in an aggressive Australian accent. ‘He must have passed you.’

  ‘Ooh, cheeky, stopping a couple of ladies on their way home!’ replied Phryne in the same accent, after a certain excursus into cockney. ‘We’re a couple of decent girls, we are, and we ain’t seen no running man. Though we ’ave seen a few of ’em lying down, eh, blossom?’ and she laughed again, bearing Sasha up with considerable effort.

  She was eyeing the two men keenly, so as to know them again. The speaker was a short, thick, bullet-headed individual, with a voice like a file and an aggressive moustache, waxed, and with rather more crumbs in it than fashion dictated; the other was taller and thinner, with patent-leather hair, a supercilious expression, and a thin moustache like a smear of brown Windsor soup. Both had suggestive bulges in their pockets which told of either huge genitalia or trousered pistols. Phryne inclined to the handgun theory.

  Sasha said in French, ‘Who are these rude men, my cabbage?’ and to Phryne’s surprise, the tall one answered in that language.

  ‘Mademoiselle, pardon, avez-vous vu un homme en courant d’ici?’ It was not exactly French as Phryne (and presumably Sasha) knew it, but it argued that some education had been wasted on Thug Two.

  ‘Non, non,’ protested Sasha with another giggle. ‘Les hommes me suivent; je n’ai pas encore rencontré un homme qui me trouve laide.’

  ‘Carm on, Bill, these tarts don’t know nothing!’ exclaimed Thug One, and he and Thug Two crossed the road and retreated down a side alley. The last scornful comment of Thug One followed them up the street.

  ‘And they’re tiddly, too!’

  ‘Sasha, what is wrong? Are you really tiddly?’ asked Phryne, getting her shoulder under his armpit as he began to sink. She heaved him along to a high front step and lowered him onto it.

  ‘One of them,’ said Sasha with perfect clarity, ‘had a knife.’

  With that he sank gracefully into Phryne’s arms and his head lolled on her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ said that young woman ruefully. ‘Now what shall I do?’

  At that moment she heard a car approaching, and stood irresolutely, gun in hand, awaiting it. Blessing on blessings, it was a taxi, though the sign was turned down, and she stepped out onto the road to intercept it.

  ‘Here, you crazy tart, what’s the idea?’ demanded a familiar voice, and Phryne had to restrain herself from hugging the driver. It was Bert and Cec.

  ‘Oh, Bert, it’s about time you arrived, I’ve been waiting for hours. My friend has fainted. Help me get her into the car, and take us to the Windsor. I’ll give you ten pounds.’

  ‘Twelve,’ bargained Bert, dragging the car back on its haunches and flinging open the door.

  ‘Ten — that’s all I’ve got on me.’

  ‘Eleven,’ offered Bert, gathering up Sasha and loading him into the back seat. Phryne followed, and the silent Cec climbed in. Bert started the cab with a certain difficulty, and said, ‘What about twenty not to tell your dad what you’ve been doing?’

  Phryne produced the little gun and touched the back of his neck with the cold barrel. ‘How about nothing at all? I thought we were mates,’ she suggested silkily. Her patience with this pair of opportunists was wearing thin. Ten pounds would buy this cab, and have enough change for a packet of smokes and a glass of beer.

  ‘We’ll just leave it at the round ten, eh, shall we?’ said Bert, not turning a hair. ‘Lucky for you that Cec and me was
passing by.’

  Phryne, who was concerned about Sasha’s condition, and moreover was perched uncomfortably on a pile of what was probably stolen property, was tight-lipped. They made the journey to the Windsor through empty streets, and Bert rang the night bell while Cec and Phryne supported Sasha, who had recovered enough to stand.

  Phryne produced the ten pounds.

  ‘How is the girl you brought into the hospital? Are you looking for this George?’

  Bert spat out the cigarette in disgust. ‘Yair, we’re looking for him, but not a sniff. Cec reckons he’s seen him before, but he can’t remember where. The Scotch lady doctor took us to the cops and they said they’d do something but they don’t know where he is either. But I’ve been collecting numbers — and a mate of mine is givin’ me the drum about another one tomorrow.’

  ‘Numbers?’ asked Phryne, supporting Sasha with difficulty.

  ‘Yair, phone numbers. All we need is a sheila to make the calls.’ Phryne smiled, and Bert backed a pace.

  ‘You got your sheila,’ said Phryne in a flat Australian drawl. ‘Call here, and we’ll have a council of war — no better, I’ll find myself a car, and we’ll do the phoning from a public phone where there is no operator. Meet me at the corner of Flinders and Spencer at noon, day after tomorrow. Goodnight,’ she added, as the night porter opened the door and she swept Sasha inside and up the stairs. The two men stared at the closed door for a while, then made off on their own errand.

  ‘You reckon she can do it, mate?’ asked Cec after a long silence.

  ‘Reckon,’ agreed Bert.

  Phryne succeeded in getting Sasha up to her room without much noise and found that Dot had gone to bed. She lowered the young man on to the couch, removed her fillet and cape, and surveyed the damage. The lassitude was explained by the fact that a razor-sharp knife had slit a long thin wound down the bicep, slicing through the leotard, and although it was minor compared to the wreckage produced by, say, an apache brawl, it was bleeding freely.

  Phryne, aware that blood could not be removed from satin, threw off the beautiful dress, and found a towel and a newly washed stocking in the bathroom. She rang room service and ordered strong coffee and a bottle of Benedictine. Sasha returned to full consciousness to find himself being offered a drink by a young woman clad in black camiknicks, black stockings, high heels and a towel. There was a long smear of bright red across her breast, which he felt was just what the costume needed.

  His arm hurt. He looked down, alarmed at the amount of blood, anxious that the muscles might be damaged; there was a stocking bound tightly around it.

  ‘You are not badly hurt, but to judge from the state of that jerkin you have lost a lot of blood. Your arm isn’t crippled; bend your fingers, one at a time. Good. Now clench your fist. Good. Now bend your elbow. Put your fist on your shoulder and keep it there, and you might stop bleeding. Now, drink more coffee, please, and keep your arm and side still. A young man in one’s hotel bedroom is capable of being explained, but a corpse is always a hindrance.’

  Phryne, noting the young man’s eyes upon her and realising that her costume might be considered scanty, wiped the blood off her breast and wrapped herself in her mannish dressing-gown. Then she poured a cup of coffee, lit a gasper and waited for an explanation.

  Sasha, feeling strength creep back into his weary body, drank coffee, sipped Benedictine and began to talk in French. That language came more easily to him than English.

  ‘It was the Snow,’ he said, investing the term neige, usually connected with French skiing lessons, with solemn horror. ‘I heard that there was to be a drop of the stuff at a certain place, so I went there, without telling my sister or la Princesse. They will skin me alive! Though there is little necessity, I have effectively punished myself. You are sure about the muscle? It is very tender.’

  Phryne reassured him. She recalled that she had some styptic powder, fetched it from the bathroom, and applied it to the arm. She could not help noticing how muscular he was, his skin as smooth as marble. She slit the side seam of the leotard and removed it, wrapping him in the gown which she used as a peignoir. It was of dark green cotton and suited him well. Although he resembled his sister very strongly, Phryne had no difficulty in remembering that Sasha was male, even when clad in female garments. His charm was not at all androgynous. As the Princesse had said, had he exerted all of the charm which God gave him, she would have lain down in his arms and given him anything he wanted.

  He leaned his head back against her thigh as she sat behind him on the arm of the chair, and she ran her hand through the curly hair.

  ‘Continue,’ she ordered. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I hid myself outside the gate,’ sighed Sasha. ‘And the car drew up as they had arranged, and a packet was exchanged. Then they saw me, and I ran, like a fool! Two of them chased me, on foot, luckily. I don’t know what became of the car. Then I realised that the one who had first seen me, who had lunged at me with a knife, he had wounded me. . I was failing. . then I saw you, and flung myself at your feet, and with great wit and a speed of thought to be marvelled at, you hid me and contrived to convey me here. Where is here?’

  ‘The Hotel Windsor. I think that you had better stay here tonight. The Princesse is coming in a few hours to take me to the Turkish bath of Madame Breda. I can smuggle you out with us. What is your address?’

  ‘We are staying at Scott’s; a good hotel, but not luxurious, as this one is. I should like to live here,’ said Sasha artlessly, reaching out his unwounded right hand for the coffee cup.

  Phryne laughed. ‘I daresay you would. But you would shock my maid,’ she added, wondering what Dot would make of the visitor.

  She dragged the quilt off her bed and made Sasha comfortable on the sofa, despite his preferred wish to sleep with her, ‘Like brother and sister, you know.’ Phryne knew that her will to resist temptation was weak. She turned off the lights, pinned a note on Dot’s door that said, ‘It’s all right, he’s a visitor, and anyway he’s hurt. Call me at eight with tea and aspirins, P.’. Then she put herself to bed, resolutely turning the key in her door more as a warning to herself than out of any suspicion of Sasha’s motives.

  In any case, as soon as the lights were off, she slept like a baby.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Come down and relieve us from virtue Our Lady of Pain

  Algernon Swinburne ‘Our Lady of Pain’

  Phryne awoke, feeling unhuman. Dot was tapping on her door. She lurched out of bed, accepted the tray, and sat down to swallow aspirins and tea at top speed.

  ‘Run me a bath, Dot, please, with lavender salts.’

  Dot stayed put. ‘What about ’im?’ she jerked a thumb back over her shoulder. Phryne had forgotten Sasha. It was very early in the morning.

  ‘Sasha? He was attacked in the street, and I brought him back here because it was too late for him to get back into his hotel. He’s hurt, Dot, and I want you to be nice to him.’

  She joined her maid at the door and saw that Sasha had thrown off the covers as he slept and now lay sprawled, like a youthful faun wearied with one orgy too many, naked to the waist, fast asleep and heart-stoppingly beautiful. Phryne sighed.

  ‘But not too nice. Let him sleep, and if he’s still asleep at lunch, leave him here. He won’t do any damage,’ she added. Her private papers were on her person and most of her jewels were in the hotel safe. As for her other possessions, well this might be a good way of ascertaining if Sasha was a thief. Phryne Fisher had a taste for young and comely men, but she was not prone to trust them with anything but her body.

  ‘Run my bath, please, Dot, and remember this is your afternoon off. Are you doing anything interesting?’

  ‘I’m going home,’ said Dot, receding in the direction of the bathroom. ‘Then to the flicks. There’s a new Douglas Fairbanks.’

  Phryne sat down to drink her tea, adding a judicious measure of Benedictine. She decided upon severe black trousers, a white shirt, and a loose, blo
used, black jacket as suitable dress for a visit to a Turkish bath, and she loaded the capacious pockets with the usual accessories. Finding the pouchy velvet bag of the night before, she removed the little gun, surveyed it thoughtfully, and added it to her accoutrements. Her headache began to ease. Sasha rolled over, fast asleep, and moaned. Phryne laid a hand on his forehead, but it was cool. He did not seem to have sustained any lasting damage.

  Dorothy returned with the news that her bath was run, and Phryne subsided into the steam with a deep groan. All of her muscles hurt. She resolved to take more exercise before she danced with Sasha again, and applied some cream to her face. ‘Too many nights like that, m’girl, and you’ll be getting haggard,’ she reproved herself, lathering her pale slender arms and breasts with Parisian soap. Despite the creaking of the tendons, she remained slim as the gunmetal nymph and completely unblemished. She sluiced herself down, dried and dressed, and accepted a light breakfast which Dot had ordered. The coffee completed her recovery. After further deep thought, she gave the small gun to Dot and ordered her to hide it. One cannot take much except intelligence and religious convictions into a Turkish bath, and one’s garments are available to be searched.

  The Princesse arrived at half-past eight, dressed in a shabby linen outfit evidently made for someone who was much taller and stouter. She said little, but stalked off down towards Russell Street, and Phryne followed.

  The streets were windswept and chilly. The only sign of life appeared to emanate from Little Lonsdale Street, where the late-night revellers were eating eggs and bacon in the company of girls far too skimpily clad for the climate. The Bath House of Madame Breda was but a hop, skip and jump from these scenes of bacchanalian fervour, and Phryne, cold and disgruntled, felt that the neighbourhood was hardly salubrious.

  The bath was a large building, running the width of the block between Russell and Little Lonsdale. The stone was respectable and the doorway imposingly austere. Phryne was regretting her bed, possibly with Sasha in it, when the door was opened by a severe maid in black with a white cap. She ushered them in without a smile, and they entered a hall scented with the most ravishing, oriental steam. Phryne, after a little thought and several deep sniffs, analysed it as a heavenly compound of bergamot orange, sandalwood, and something rare and precious — frangipani, perhaps, or orchid — a seductive, slightly sour scent, quite ravishing to the unprepared senses. The Princesse nudged Phryne in the ribs with an elbow evidently especially sharpened for the purpose of compelling attention.