Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

by Kerry Greenwood

  He stepped to the door, gave an order to the doorkeeper, and said to Phryne, ‘She ain’t been used much. And she ain’t been damaged. Much. What will you offer?’

  ‘How much did she cost you?’

  ‘Ten bills.’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Nineteen. Here she is. Say hello to the nice lady, doll.’

  The girl was limp, her gaze vacant. She was dressed in a nightgown far too big for her and her feet were bare. She was bruised over all of her body that Phryne could see.

  ‘She must have had clothes,’ commented Phryne. ‘Can someone bring them? We’ll dress her again, and then I want to see your jazz-man.’

  ‘If you want him, he’s in the kitchen. But I don’t think. .’ Klara pointed, and Phryne went out, past the doorkeeper, into the back of the house where she could smell cooking.

  ‘Shrimps and rice and peas,’ said the thin black man, pointing into a pot. ‘Very nice. What you want, Miss?’

  ‘I want you to take the spell off Gabrielle Hart,’ said Phryne, and repeated it in French. The old man grinned and took off his apron, then reached for a cloth bag and a handful of feathers.

  ‘We had poulet Orleans for dinner,’ he took a little dish that seemed to be full of blood. ‘You know voodoo?’

  ‘A little. I have been to Haiti. Can you do this?’

  ‘Oueh,’ he grunted. ‘You pay me ten silver florins and I do it. Little doll will remember.’

  ‘Who put on the spell? Another voodoo priest?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Ain’t none of my magic, but strong magic. Strong,’ he repeated, hefted the loaded tray, and followed Phryne into the pink-and-blue sitting-room.

  The girl had been clad in her own street clothes again, and Klara had combed her tangled hair and plaited it. She looked now like the schoolgirl she had been when someone snapped his fingers and told her to follow. Her eyes were still glazed. Klara had planted herself on Chicago Pete’s knees and he hugged her very carefully, as though she might break.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ he said uneasily, and Klara patted his cheek.

  ‘It’s worth nineteen bills, Pete,’ she soothed. The priest set down the tray, and stared at the girl, then picked up her wrist and allowed it to drop.

  ‘Strong magic,’ he commented, setting out the blood and the feathers, and laying down a white tablecloth over the Chinese carpet. He removed his shirt and began to anoint himself with the blood, muttering under his breath. Gabrielle stared at him. Her attention had been caught, for the first time.

  Around the old man’s neck swung a bright gold coin. Her eyes fixed on this as he began to dance.

  Three times around the girl the old man moved; then he lit the bundle of feathers and cried out, ‘Erzulie! You captured this soul! You possessed this girl! Erzulie! You took her! I call for the third time, and you release her. You give her back to the world: Erzulie!’

  Neither Chicago Pete nor Klara had moved. The smoke from the chicken feathers filled the delicate room with a farmyard reek. Phryne almost fancied that dreadful, elemental things moved and squeaked in that smoke; she shook herself and pinched the back of her hand hard.

  Gabrielle Hart flinched as from a striking thunderbolt and began to wail. Klara ran to her and hugged the shocked face against her skinny bosom. The old man straightened up, shiny with sweat, and held out a bloodstained hand to Phryne.

  She poured the coins from her purse, and added one extra.

  ‘You come on a Saturday,’ he said to Phryne as he bent to collect the instruments of his magic. ‘We got good jazz. Best in the city.’

  ‘For the love of Mike,’ cried Chicago Pete. ‘Get out of here! And take all that heathen stuff with you!’

  The priest folded the tablecloth and went out. Klara released the girl.

  ‘All right, Mr er. . here is the money, and we must be going. Can your doorman call us a taxi? Thank you so much,’ said Phryne graciously.

  The doorman was dispatched for a cab. Gabrielle Hart sat in her chair and cried and cried.

  ‘You sure you want her?’ asked Chicago Pete, and Phryne smiled.

  Klara and Phryne left the respectable-looking house and waited for the taxi on the front steps. Gabrielle had stopped crying and was now asking questions, some of which Phryne could answer.

  ‘What am I doing here? Who are you? Where am I?’

  ‘I am the Hon. Phryne Fisher, and this is Klara. You are in Gertrude Street, Fitzroy, and only God knows what you are doing here. You had a brainstorm, my dear, and we are taking you home.’

  ‘No, no, someone else said that to me. . someone else said that they were taking me home. . and they didn’t. . they hurt me!’

  ‘Oh, Lord. . all right. Calm yourself. You shall tell the driver where to go. Oh, thank God, it’s Cec.’

  Cec smiled his beautiful smile from the driving seat of the taxi.

  ‘I’m on me pat,’ he told Phryne. ‘Bert’s still about that. . er. . business with the boarding house. Poor old bloke. They said you was out on a case in Gertrude Street and I thought. .’

  ‘You thought right. This young woman is Gabrielle Hart, and she will tell you the address. Take her there and deliver her into the care of her father only. If he isn’t home, wait, but I think that he will be there soon. Give him my card and tell him I shall call on him tomorrow. Hang on to this girl, Cec, don’t let her get out until you are at her house. She’s a little disordered.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Cec, opening the door. ‘Come on, Miss.’

  Gabrielle Hart moved to the taxi, got in, and gave Cec the direction. He looked over at Phryne.

  ‘What about you, Miss?’

  ‘We’ll get another taxi. She’s scared of us. See you later, Cec.’

  ‘We might as well walk down to the rank,’ suggested Klara. They had only gone about three paces before the attack came.

  Two men came quickly, out of an alleyway. They disregarded Klara, brushing her aside, and both grabbed for Phryne. She dropped to her knees under their weight; she heard her stocking tear and felt her knee graze. They had one arm each, and she could not reach her pocket. They did not say a word. Phryne’s breath scraped in her chest. They were taller and heavier than her.

  A master-at-arms had once spent three weeks teaching Miss Fisher the elements of unarmed combat. She was not afraid, only very angry that she should be taken thus off guard. She allowed her fury free rein.

  ‘Crack’ went the first one’s knee as she kicked back, hard, then rammed her high-heeled shoe down on his other foot. He let go. With the impetus from that Phryne flung herself at the other attacker. Her elbow caught his ribs; her knee came up with all her force, and he fell to his knees, dropping a cosh. Phryne, fast and lethal, retreated a pace and kicked again, and felt a rib or two break with a curious, dry sound.

  ‘Bastards!’ panted Klara, standing on the other attacker’s stomach with one foot on his throat. ‘Pete musta changed his mind about the girl.’

  ‘No, not Pete, I think.’

  Phryne kicked over one man and dragged his head up by the hair.

  ‘Who sent you?’ she hissed. The man looked up glazedly into blazing green eyes and winced.

  ‘Who?’ Phryne shook him and bashed the skull against the ground a few times. ‘Tell me or I’ll kill you.’

  The knife was at the attacker’s unsavoury collar. He blinked.

  ‘I just reckoned you’d be rich, dressed up like that,’ he croaked, and fell out of consciousness.

  ‘Fitzroy is so bad for the nerves,’ sighed Phryne. ‘Leave him alone. I owe you a good dinner and a night out, Klara. What shall it be?’

  ‘The Bach concert on Tuesday, and dinner at the Ritz,’ decided Klara. She dusted off her hands and pulled down her gym tunic. ‘I prefer Johann Christian, but I can put up with Johann Sebastian. We can get a taxi at the rank. You all right, Phryne?’

  ‘Fine,’ agreed Phryne, pulling up her t
orn stocking. ‘I’m fine.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Give your evidence,’ repeated the King angrily. ‘Or I’ll have you executed, whether you are nervous or not!’

  Lewis Carroll Alice Through the Looking Glass

  Phryne woke on Thursday morning knowing who had murdered Mrs Henderson, and wondering what she was going to do about it. The method was obvious; the motive transparent, and even the face of the blond guard was beginning to resemble one which she had seen in real life.

  ‘How shall I do this? It will break poor Eunice’s heart.’ Phryne took her morning bath without appreciating the scent and dressed in haste.

  It had to be Alastair Thompson. He was used to disguise. He had a terrible temper. He had no alibi for the night in question. All that he had to do was to chloroform the people, sling a rope around Mrs Henderson, and cast a line over the water tower. He was a rock climber. Then he could haul her up, and himself, and leave no tracks. Whether he dropped her or trampled on her did not matter. All he had to do was to get rid of the mother and Eunice would fall into his arms and give him all her money, of which Phryne supposed that there must be a fair amount.

  Phryne decided to call Detective-inspector Robinson, and when she had established contact with him, found that he had reached the same conclusion.

  ‘I’m bringing him in for questioning today,’ he assured Phryne. ‘I’m of the same mind, Miss Fisher. I’ll let you know.’

  Phryne decided that there was no need to worry Miss Henderson with any news until she could say something positive, and closeted herself with her solicitor, who had drawn up the adoption papers.

  ‘But Miss Fisher, you have kept the girl from her guardian’s care,’ he protested. Phryne grinned and shoved Miss Gay’s ‘documents’ at him.

  ‘She has no legal guardian. Miss Gay is her aunt, but no adoption proceedings were ever taken. Here’s her birth certificate and all. Poor little thing. Have you sorted it all out?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Fisher. If you will just put your finger on this seal and repeat after me, “To this adoption I hereby put my name and seal”—just a legal form, Miss Fisher, you understand — and it is all completed.’

  Phryne complied.

  ‘She’s mine, now?’

  ‘After the judge has approved this, yes.’

  ‘Excellent. When can you get it into court?’

  ‘In due course, Miss Fisher.’

  ‘That won’t do. “In due course” means at least six months.’

  ‘It is a practice court application, so I can probably get it into the list for next week,’ said the lawyer, shocked yet again by Miss Fisher’s disrespect for the law. He bundled up his papers and took his leave.

  Jane tapped at the door of the parlour. ‘Miss, I’ve recalled something.’

  ‘Good. What is it?’

  ‘I remember Miss Gay. She took me and Grandma to her house. It was a horrible place. Grandma. . something happened to Grandma.’

  ‘It will come back. Nothing more about the train?’

  ‘No. Was that your lawyer, Miss Fisher?’

  ‘Yes. I just signed the adoption papers. You’re mine now, Jane, and no one can take you away.’

  Phryne told herself that she should have known better than to say things like that. Jane began to weep, threw herself at Phryne and held her tight, and Ember scratched his way onto her upper arm, balanced like a small black owl, and glared.

  ‘You are quite right, Ember,’ Phryne told him. ‘It was a very silly thing to say. Never mind. Jane, my dear, here is a hankie, and I think that we should sit down. All this emotion is wearying, isn’t it?’

  More emotion was expressed by a horrified client on the telephone.

  ‘Miss Fisher, I must first thank you for retrieving my daughter.’ He began with deceptive calmness. ‘But do you know what they have done to her, those hounds?’

  ‘I have a fair idea,’ admitted Phryne. ‘She has certainly been beaten.’

  ‘Beaten, and. . and. . assaulted, and the doctor thinks that she may have a. . venereal disease.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who were they?’ he screamed. ‘Tell me their names!’

  Mr Hart dropped any pretence of control.

  ‘I don’t know their names, and if I did I should not tell you. Private vengeance is unsound, and moreover illegal. Leave them to me.’

  Some nuance in her voice must have told Mr Hart that he was talking to a very angry woman.

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘I shall know them. And they shall all be very, very sorry. I promise.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Mr Hart, subdued.

  ‘Nothing. They have ravished your daughter, and a thousand offences beside. Leave them to me. Your daughter needs you now. She is an innocent victim, poor thing. She probably won’t remember anything about it, so don’t remind her. I am sure that you can find her the best of care. Then take her right away from Melbourne for six months. Switzerland has some very pleasant scenery.’

  ‘I put my confidence in you, Miss Fisher.’

  ‘So you may, Mr Hart.’

  She hung up the phone. How was she going to find the abductor and avenge poor Gabrielle Hart? But now she was determined. She had given her word.

  Detective-inspector Robinson surveyed the young man in the clutch of two policemen with approval. He was a fighter, this one, and it had taken the combined strength of four officers to bring him in. Even now he was straining in the grip of the station’s two heaviest and strongest officers.

  ‘It is my duty to warn you that you do not have to say anything, but that anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence,’ he said quietly.

  The prisoner demanded, ‘What are you charging me with?’

  ‘The murder at or near Ballan on the night of the twenty-first of June 1928 of Anne Henderson by strangulation,’ said the policeman, and Alastair Thompson laughed.

  ‘Then you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll tell you where I was on the night of the twenty-first of June 1928.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad that you have decided to tell me at last.’

  ‘I was in the city watch house,’ sneered Thompson. ‘Drunk and disorderly. I was fined five bob the next morning. Cheap at the price, considering. Go on. Ask the watchhousekeeper!’

  This was a surprise. Detective-inspector Robinson, however, preserved his habitual calm.

  ‘Book him in, please, Duty Officer,’ he requested civilly, and the young man was forced into a chair to be photographed, stripped of bootlaces, tie and braces, and placed with a certain celerity into a nice quiet cell.

  ‘Get those developed and send across for the drunks book,’ he snapped, and an underling carried off the camera and raced across the road to the watch house, demanding the cell register for the twenty-first of June.

  ‘You can’t have it,’ snapped the sergeant. ‘It’s my current book and I need it. Tell Jack Robinson to come and inspect it himself. What’s all this about?’

  ‘Murder suspect says that he was banged up on the night,’ gasped the cadet. ‘He’ll skin me if I come back without it! Have a heart!’

  ‘You can copy the page,’ said the sergeant, relenting. ‘And you can note at the same time the names of the officers what were on duty on the night of the twenty-first. Who was it?’ He leaned ponderously over the counter. ‘Aha. Sergeant Thomas and Constable Hawthorn. You can have Hawthorn, for all the use he is, but you can’t have Thomas, he’s on leave.’

  ‘When will he be back?’ asked the cadet, scribbling furiously with a spluttering pen on the back of a jail order. ‘This nib is frayed, Sarge, I swear.’

  ‘He’s in Rye on his honeymoon,’ replied the sergeant, grinning evilly. ‘Didn’t leave no address. There you are, son, and take Constable Hawthorn with you. Hawthorn!’ he bellowed.

  A faint voice echoed from the cells, ‘Yes, Sarge?’

  ‘Get across and see if you can identify a prisoner of Jack Robinson’s, wi
ll you, lad? And you needn’t hurry back. Get some lunch.’

  ‘But Sarge, it’s only half-past ten!’

  ‘Get some breakfast, then,’ snapped the sergeant, and the cadet conducted Constable Hawthorn back across Russell Street to the detective-inspector’s office, waving his jail order the while so that the ink would dry.

  The cadet peeped up at Hawthorn. He was very tall — over six feet — and pale, and vague. His mouth had a tendency to drop open and his eyes had the dull, unfocused gaze which the cadet had previously only seen in sheep.

  Hawthorn asked mildly, his voice as bland as cream, ‘What’s this all about, young feller?’

  ‘Please, sir, the detective-inspector has a suspect for the Ballan railway murder, and he says that he was in the watch house that night.’

  ‘And he wants me to identify him?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh,’ remarked the tall constable, and accompanied the cadet to Robinson’s office.

  The copy was laid down on the desk and Robinson scanned it irritably.

  ‘You read it, boy,’ he snarled at the cadet, and the boy read, ‘John Smith, 14 Eldemere Crescent, Brighton.’

  ‘He’s an old customer. . name really is John Smith, too, and no one ever believes him — has to carry his birth certificate around with him. Says he’s never forgiven his father for it. . no, that ain’t him. Go on.’

  ‘John Smith, The Buildings, East St Kilda.’

  Now I don’t know that one. Do you recall that John Smith, Hawthorn?’

  ‘Yes, sir. About. . er, well, smallish, and er. . fair, with. . er. . blue eyes, I think, sir.’

  ‘Could you identify him?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said Hawthorn. ‘I think so.’

  Detective-inspector Robinson grunted, got to his feet, and led the way to the holding cells. A furious face glared up at the window-slot as he drew back the bolt.

  ‘Have a look, son. Is that the man?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ agreed Hawthorn happily. Robinson gritted his teeth, and gave the order to release the suspect from detention.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell anyone that I’d got drunk, so I gave a false name. I believe that this is not unusual. May I go now?’ asked Alastair, with frigid politeness.