by Peter Corris
Brain placed a long, thin finger beside his nose. “As you said, Mr. Hardy, we have talking to do.” He groped among the rubbish by the wash basin. “The glasses!” He held up two streaked and stained glasses and examined them against the dim light. “One is cracked,” he observed. “I shall drink from that, it’s only fitting that I should.”
I hauled up one of the bottles, opened it and poured.
“Aren’t you going to clean up a bit?”
He accepted the whisky. “Many thanks. No, I shall move.”
That might have meant the searchers had what they came for or it might not. Perhaps what they wanted was in his head and he could see that they wouldn’t ask gently. I picked up the nearest book while I thought about it—an omnibus edition of Conan Doyle bought in the Charing Cross Road. Brain’s initials and surname were written inside in flowing purple ink—better days.
Brain raised his glass. “You bring me ill-luck Mr. Hardy, only this compensates.”
“Does anything else matter to you?”
“Not much, not any more.”
“Well it does to me. Your story about the child matters. Is it connected with this, do you think?” I gestured at the mess.
“Bound to be, dear boy. Nothing like this has happened to me for a quarter of a century. I’ve drunk in peace.”
“You’ve done a good job of it. Why?”
He finished his drink and held out the glass. “I lost my calling, my vocation. I lost everything when I married that slip of a girl.”
“She’s no slip now.”
A sound came from him that could have been a laugh. “Nor was she then. Such strength, such will.” He drank. “You’ve seen her recently?”
“Today.”
“How was the dear girl?”
“Drunk.”
He smiled. “As drunk as me?”
“Not quite, different style, but headed the same way.”
“God help the child.”
The remark struck the same confirming note as before. I leaned forward.
“You’re sure there was a child Mr. Brain?”
“I’m sure. I have proof.”
I picked up my glass and drunk. He watched me hawkishly. Expressions were hard to interpret on that desiccated face but this looked like triumph. There was some cunning in it too, maybe.
“Are you sure you still have it?”
“I’m sure Mr. Hardy.”
“What is it, the proof?”
He placed the finger along the nose again. “Ah no, dear boy. Less haste, we have arrangements to make.”
Maybe it was the whisky or just plain slow thinking. It suddenly struck me that I didn’t have a clear run in the game any more. Dully, I considered the angles. For me, interference from other parties unknown was a tough break. For Brain it could represent something much more serious,
“Do you know who did this, Mr. Brain?”
“Don’t change tack,” he said querulously. “I’m an old man and I have trouble concentrating. We must talk terms.”
“There might not be any terms. Someone else wants to know what you know. He might not buy you liquor.”
He finished his whisky and I poured some more to underline the point.
“Drink up while you can,” I said.
“Your attempts at intimidation are crude, Mr. Hardy. I have little to live for. I’m not afraid to die.”
“It’s the manner of dying,” I said quietly.
He gulped some whisky. “True, true, you have a point. You think I’m in danger?”
“I’m bloody sure of it. If I was you I’d go to Melbourne. Get a train. It’s summer, can’t be too bad down there.”
He mimed a shiver inside the coat. “Foul hole, Melbourne, a wasteland. No, I shall rely on you and Lady Catherine for protection.”
“That might be a bit hard to arrange.”
“I confess I can’t see why—supply and demand.”
“Not that easy. I need some indication that you’re speaking the truth when you talk about proof. Protection is expensive.”
“I know. My need is great. It would cost a fortune to rehabilitate me.”
I wondered what he meant—a drying out farm, hormones? It suggested a will to live, vulnerability, but I couldn’t see Lady C. footing the bill without something solid in return.
“The proof will have to be good.”
“It is, I assure you.” He came close, too close; the stink was like standing in the middle of a street with a tannery on one side and a brewery on the other. I pulled back a bit but he grabbed my shoulder.
“Look at this,” he croaked. He pulled a small photograph from the depth of his overcoat pocket. I peered at it, trying to make out the detail. The picture showed two women against an indeterminate background. The photograph was poor quality and it was creased and grubby; the women’s features were indistinct. Brain pointed with his trim, clean fingernail.
“That’s Bettina. See, she’s pregnant.”
It was hard to tell—maybe.
“Who’s the other woman?”
“A nurse. Look on the back.”
I turned the picture over. On the back in the same flowing purple hand was written: B, Nurse Callaghan, Blackman’s Bay. Brain snatched it back as I tried to get my hand around it.
“Took it myself from hiding,” he chuckled. “What do you think of that, eh? Intriguing?”
“Very,” I said. “Is there more?”
“In here,” he tapped the side of his head. “Much more.”
“Well . . .” I began.
Brain hitched his trousers and scratched his crotch.
“Nature calls sir, consider the evidence while I appease the gods . . .” He lowered the rest of his drink and walked unsteadily to the door. I heard his feet shuffling on the lino and a stumble when he reached the stairs. I sat and drank. The room was settling back into its old shape. There was a ragged curtain across the window which had dirt and cobwebs in its corners. The ceiling was mildewed and strips of paint hung from it like stalactites. I tidied some books and reached under the bed for a far-flung one. My hand touched something and I pulled it out—a traveling bag. It was slashed and the bottom had been ripped out but it had been new and expensive not so long ago. That set me to poking among the books; some, dated a few years back, were medium-pricey. Brain had had some money and I remembered his bankroll and wanted urgently to know where the money had come from. I went to the door and looked out into the gloom. I called his name and the house swallowed up the sound.
With the .38 out I went down the passage and the stairs; the toilet was off the first landing giving out a dull gleam and smell of stale piss. I pushed the door open.
Henry Brain had had his last drink. He was sitting on the floor with his head resting against the bowl. A dribble of saliva dropped from his open mouth into the murky water. The back of his head was a soggy red pulp that had spread out and matted his hair and run into his ear. I went in, put the gun away, and let the door close behind me. There was barely room to squat on the seat with the knees drawn up, but it was enough space to die in. I bent over the body and went carefully through the pockets of his coat, shirt and trousers. I ran a finger around the lining but there was no photograph. The front of his pants was wet and the smell was strong. I eased away from the body and let it sag back the way it was. One of the clean, pale hands fell in a strange, crooked fashion—a finger seemed to be pointed at me accusingly.
I went back to Brain’s room, retrieved the whisky and smeared up my glass and the bag and the books I thought I’d touched. I left the house quietly, not letting the bottles clink.
8
It was trouble, lots of it, and too early. It would take no time at all to trace Brain back to the pub and to me. It was an hour’s work for a smart cop or even a dumb one. The question was, when would Brain’s body be found? If the Palmer Street house was full of alcoholics he mightn’t be missed until Saturday morning—there were probably other toilets in the house and wash
basins. I might have twelve hours, I might have twelve minutes.
These profundities came to me as I drove around the streets of Darlinghurst. The comforts of home beckoned but the waves were up and it was no time to be out of the water. I stopped and called the Chatterton residence. Miss Reid answered in a voice full of annoyance but not sleep. I told her I had to speak to Lady C.
“That’s impossible, Mr. Hardy, quite impossible. She has retired for the night.”
“Tell her who’s calling and that I said it was important.”
“I tell you it’s out of the question. She takes two sleeping pills at ten o’clock. She’ll be sound asleep now.”
“Wake her! A man’s dead.”
“It might kill her.” From the way she said it, it sounded as if she was considering the idea. The last thing I needed was for the old girl to peg out now. The phone sputtered.
“Mr. Hardy, Mr. Hardy! Who is dead?”
“No one you’d know.” The words made me do a mental double-take. Maybe, just maybe.
“Miss Reid,” I said urgently, “do those files on Chatterton employees go right back?”
“Yes, I believe they do. I haven’t concerned myself with them recently but my impression is that they go back quite a long way. Why?”
“I’m on my way out there,” I said. “Wait up for me, I want to go through those records.”
She almost wailed. “I’ve been up since six, it’s after eleven o’clock. Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No, it has to be tonight.”
She was stubborn. “I’m not sure I’m authorised to let you look at those files,” she said primly.
“Listen, lady,” I grated, “you’ll be out on your ear if you don’t. I’ll take the responsibility. Be there with your bunch of keys.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“That’s tough. I have to see those files tonight.”
She muttered something about melodrama and hung up. I skipped out to the car and got moving.
The Friday night revellers were out in fair strength. They came cruising up from the eastern suburbs to spend their money in the dirtier parts of Sydney and then purred back for their beauty sleep. The lights of the Volvos and Jaguars and Mercedes were mocking me as I hammered up to the Chattertons. The cars and their owners were safe and well insured, so were the boats that bobbed in the water gleaming under the moon. A soiled man dead in a slum house seemed remote from all this security and money, but the connections were there.
As I approached the Chattertons’ gates a small car swung out onto the road, moving fast. The car looked Japanese, the driver looked big, that was all I got. I drove up the path that led to the house and got out. A second later I was pressed back against the door with the flesh creeping all over me: a big yellow dog was growling impressively and showing me his white teeth about two inches from my kneecap. Then a voice came from the porch.
“Rusty! Down Rusty!”
Rusty! Carl or Fang surely, but down was where I wanted him.
“Call him, Miss Reid, he makes me nervous.”
She did. The dog went up to her like a poodle; she spoke and it went off into the shadows beside the house.
I went up the steps. “Good protection.”
“Yes, it’s necessary. There are many valuable things in the house.”
“Get many night-time visitors?”
She hesitated a split second. “No.”
We went into the house and through the passages to the room I’d seen that morning. She handed me the keys to the filing cabinet.
“I trust you won’t disturb anything.”
I looked her over. The tone was still severe, she was one of those people in the habit of saying cautionary things, usually because they’ve been spoken to themselves in that way often. But she was more obliging, or trying to be. I couldn’t smell any gin and her hair was in military order, but she exuded that glow people usually have after some sort of satisfying experience.
“I was having some coffee to help me stay awake, would you care for some?”
“Thank you, yes, black please.”
She nodded, almost approvingly, and went away. I opened one of the cabinets and started working through the files. They weren’t well kept—more than one person had done the job over the years and it showed in the arrangement. There were business records and papers relating to the management of earlier houses than this one. Bills paid and receipted went back forty years, so did shopping lists and bank statements. At the bottom of the second cabinet I found a folder which contained information on staff prewar. The turnover in maids, cooks, and gardeners was steady.
Miss Reid came back with the coffee and perched on the edge of the desk. It was an unusual posture for her, almost jaunty. Albie would have been surprised. I kept my finger in the file while I drank the coffee and then went back to it. Miss Reid watched me. I found it among the last few sheets. “CALLAGHAN, GERTRUDE” was printed in neat capitals and a date, “8/5/33.” This was when she’d come to work for the Chattertons as Bettina’s nurse, nanny or whatever. Two hand-written references were pinned to the sheet. One was from the matron of a country hospital testifying to Callaghan’s qualifications and competence; the other was from a doctor and expressed unqualified praise for her trustworthiness and abilities with children. Dr. Alexander Osborn had a practice in Blackman’s Bay. I made notes from these testimonials and from the woman’s letter of application. Gertrude Callaghan was a spinster, born in Liverpool, England, in 1905. She left the Chattertons in June 1946—her forwarding address was 11 Yancey Street, Blackman’s Bay.
I straightened up. Miss Reid was still sitting on the desk. She was looking tired but content.
“Finished?” she said. She let go a small, polite, well-covered yawn.
“Nearly. I need the library.”
The old aggression flooded out. “You can’t go there. Lady Catherine is working on the memoirs in there, nothing must be disturbed.”
“I won’t disturb anything. I have to look at a medical register. The Judge must have had it. I have it myself at home but I can’t go there.”
“Why not?”
She came off the desk and moved towards the door; I herded her on and she opened it.
“It’ll sound melodramatic, Miss Reid,” I whispered, “but if I go home the police might be there and if they are they’ll arrest me.”
She was moving, keeping me at a distance. “What for?”
“Murder. One I didn’t do.”
“Who did?” she gasped. “I didn’t . . . don’t believe you.”
I didn’t reply, just kept moving her along and we ended up at the library as I’d hoped. Miss Reid pushed open one of the high, heavily carved doors and fumbled for the light. When it came on it showed a big room with a high ceiling; two large windows were covered by heavy curtains. There was a long desk with papers laid out in neat bundles and some freshly sharpened pencils lined up.
Books dominated the room; there were thousands of them in cedar cases from floor to roof and there were two ladders on wheels ready to go. I thought of Henry Brain and his books in piles on the floor.
“Is this catalogued?” I asked.
“Yes.” She pointed to a wooden cabinet in one corner. I went over and thumbed through the cards. The medical directory was listed and numbered. I read the numbers on the shelves and climbed the ladder. The Judge had six copies going back as far as 1930, the most recent was 1975.
Dr. Alexander Osborn was listed: born in Edinburgh, Scotland in 1899, educated in the same city; medical training interrupted by two years in the army; served in France and Africa, rank of Captain. Osborn was a P & O ships’ doctor in the twenties and settled in Australia in 1929. Since 1939 he had had a practice in Blackman’s Bay. If he was still there what he wouldn’t know about the place wouldn’t be knowable. I noted the address and put the directories back.
“All ship-shape,” I said to Miss Reid.
“You look pleased with yourself.”
I was surprised and not pleased. “Do I? I shouldn’t be, this is just the start. But I’ve started to earn your boss’s money.”
“I suppose that means something,” she said acidly. “I wonder if I could go to bed now?”
I could have said something smart but didn’t. I don’t always. I wasn’t sure how to handle her. She probably didn’t know what I’d been hired to do, but there was her park assignation to consider and the half-lie I’d caught her in that night.
It seemed like the right time to do some work on her. She moved to open the door but I took hold of her arm.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped.
“I’d like to know what you plan to do about Rusty.”
“Oh.” There was relief in the sound. “I’ll call him.”
“Is that what you do when your boyfriend visits? I mean the big guy in the blue car, the one Lady Catherine forbids you to see.”
“I see who I like. Get out!” She was a sabre fighter, not a fencer; it was all beat-down-the guard and thump for her. I decided to play the same way.
“What’s his game, Miss Reid? Is he a chauffeur, a footman, what?”
The slur got straight to her. “He’s a property developer,” she spat. “He makes more in a day than you’d scratch in . . .”
She knew it was a mistake and she hated herself, the hand that came up to her mouth almost delivered a slap. I let go her arm and opened the door.
“Thank you Miss Reid,” I said. “Be sure to call the dog.”
I heard her do some heavy breathing that seemed to characterise her anger; she didn’t call the dog and my flesh crept until I had my bum safely on the seat of the car.
I wanted a drink, a shower and a sleep. I had the drink, of Jameson’s Irish whisky. I still wanted the shower and sleep. Instead I drove south and stopped at the first open coffee bar. I drank two cups of black coffee and looked at the posters of Greece on the walls. Greece, that’d be nice. I like ouzo and I could run off the fatty food along the beach. I could lie in the sun, find a girl and learn Greek in bed. I pulled myself back to the here and now. For a trail thirty years old and not fresh lately it wasn’t so bad. But whoever had taken the photograph from Brain would be on the trail of the Callaghan woman too. If she was still alive. It was time for some night driving.