The Serpent's Sting

by Robert Gott

  ‘He was a soldier?’

  ‘Yes. He said he was from Ohio, and that he’d never been out of the state before. He certainly seemed unsophisticated.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘The same age as Private Dervian. Callow, almost cornball, as you Americans say.’

  Lieutenant Masterson left the room. Captain Holtz stood up, and walked a few paces back and forth before sitting down again.

  ‘I have a bad back,’ he said. ‘Harlen Quist isn’t a name I’ve heard before. There are a lot of men at Camp Pell, but it’s odd that that name doesn’t ring any bells in relation to Private Anthony Dervian.’

  ‘I think I’d have noticed if he was putting on an accent. I’m an actor, after all.’

  Captain Holtz looked at me with frank dubiousness.

  ‘He was wearing a uniform,’ I said, ‘and cologne.’

  ‘Neither is impossible to come by, Mr Power. I suspect he either gave you a false name, or that he wasn’t an American soldier at all, but someone playing dress-ups.’

  Lieutenant Masterson came back into the room.

  ‘There’s no soldier by the name of Harlen Quist at Camp Pell, or here at Camp Murphy.’

  I gave them as complete a description of Harlen Quist as I could. Unfortunately, his greatest protection was the nondescript nature of his features. It was only his accent that was distinctive, and although I doubted it, it was possible that this was fraudulent. Without much confidence (which had been eroded over the course of this evening), I said, ‘I have a good ear for accents, and I’m certain that the man calling himself Harlen Quist was an American. Which makes me wonder, why would Anthony Dervian use his real name when his friend was using an alias?’

  ‘I’m guessing,’ Captain Holtz said, ‘because he had no reason to lie, and his companion did.’

  He stood up, and so did Lieutenant Masterson, and without so much as a by-your-leave, they left the room. I felt calmer, and allowed myself the luxury of annoyance at being treated like a criminal. I was alone for less than a minute, and the person who broke my solitude was the person who occupied a place near the top of the list of persons I’d met who I never wanted to meet again. I’d been charmed, flattered, and exploited by this man in the recent past. His name was James Fowler. He was the man who’d recruited both Brian and me to work for Army Intelligence, and he represented everything I loathed about that organisation. I understood that you had to have a certain mindset to work effectively in Intelligence, but it was a mindset I found utterly repugnant. It could be dressed up as a fierce sense of noble purpose. It was, however, just licensed callousness and vicious indifference to the sensibilities of others. He sat opposite me, and I thought about the distance that had grown between us in such a short time.

  ‘You really are very accident-prone, Will,’ he said, needlessly indicating my black eye, and offering me a smile that anyone who didn’t know him would describe as warm. He was expensively dressed. He’d always dressed well, and again as always, the vulpine shade of his hair was darkened slightly by the hair oil that kept it immaculately in place. His general air of wry detachment was as I remembered it. On one of our first meetings he’d tried to engage me by talking about football, and he’d learned quickly that this was a pointless exercise.

  ‘What are you doing here, James? I’d hoped that the last time we met would in fact be the last time we met.’

  ‘I know that you don’t have a high opinion of me, Will.’

  ‘I seem to recall you telling me that the only person I had a high opinion of was myself.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Words to that effect.’

  ‘I think what I also said was that your opinion of others wasn’t based on race, colour, or creed. That’s a rare and admirable quality, and it’s a quality Army Intelligence values.’

  I laughed.

  ‘Are you seriously trying to get me to work for you again?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no. You’re considered a liability, not an asset. I mean, Will, come on. Look at the mess you’re in here. Do you know how many civilians are currently being questioned by the United States army? One. You.’

  I repeated my initial question.

  ‘Why are you here, James?’

  ‘I’m here to help you, Will.’

  He bestowed another of his well-practised smiles on me. ‘And I think at this point even you might acknowledge that you could use a little help.’

  Despite the fact that I despised James Fowler, his presence made me feel strangely calm, as if I was now out of danger. I ought to have known better.

  ‘A dead American soldier doesn’t represent a threat to national security, surely,’ I said. ‘I’m assuming you’ve been brought up to speed on this, so you know it’s a grubby drug matter. Are things so quiet in Intelligence that you’re doing police work these days?’

  Fowler crossed his legs and folded his arms, betraying a satisfying twinge of exasperation.

  ‘Relations with the Americans are a delicate balance of shared and withheld intelligence, and things get complicated when our soldiers and their soldiers decide to go at each other like stags on heat. Were you here when they rioted at Flinders Street Station a few weeks back? Yes, you must have been. No one was badly hurt, but it looked bad, and it isn’t in anyone’s interest for this sort of tension to provide fodder for lazy journalists. We’d prefer it if the general public believed that all was sweetness and light.’

  ‘It isn’t, as anyone trying to rent a house will tell you, and it’s the Yanks who’ve pushed prices up to a level only they can afford.’

  ‘Let’s not get distracted by housing issues, Will. Inflated rents are the least of your worries. Private Anthony Dervian’s death is what should be your major concern. It’s certainly mine.’

  It suddenly occurred to me that I’d been reading this situation in the wrong way. The veiled threats of public exposure would never be realised, because a dead American soldier would create unwanted publicity and perhaps exacerbate existing tensions between us and them. I took a chance and played this card.

  ‘You’re here to ensure no leaks, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m here to protect you. We owe you that much. We know that you didn’t murder Private Dervian. The Americans are willing to accept our word on this, although very reluctantly.’

  ‘How do you know this? Why are the Yanks being so compliant?’

  I felt tumblers falling neatly into place.

  ‘Oh my lord,’ I said. ‘Geraldine Buchanan is one of yours!’

  James Fowler neither confirmed nor denied this, which amounted to a confirmation. He stared blankly at me in an attempt to suppress any surprise he was feeling at my discovery.

  ‘How else could you know anything about this?’

  ‘You’re not being held overnight, Will, and you’ll be free to perform tomorrow. However, between now and then, we’ll be working out how you can return the favour. And believe me, it is a favour. The Americans want to put you in the brig. You seem to have rubbed them up the wrong way.’

  I suppose I ought to have been grateful — and I was grateful. I was reluctant to show that gratitude to James Fowler. However true it might have been, I simply couldn’t bear the idea that I needed his help. It was churlish of me, and I’m a little ashamed to admit it. I hope my admission goes some way towards excusing my failure to acknowledge Fowler’s assistance in an appropriate way.

  ‘I can go — is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  It was that simple. I didn’t see Captain Holtz or Lieutenant Masterson again that night. I walked with James Fowler through corridors busy with neat uniforms — every soldier was wearing a tie — and out into Brunton Avenue, where Fowler’s car was parked. On the way home, we said very little. I ought to have asked after his sister, Nigella Fowler.
I’d been in love with her — at any rate, I thought I’d been in love with her — and she’d saved my life, and in doing so she’d killed a man. At the time, I’d wondered about the wisdom of entering into a relationship with a woman who could pull the trigger of a gun and send a bullet straight and true into a man’s heart. As it happened, saving my life was part of her job, and not indicative of any feelings she had for me. There was nothing between us now except bitterness on my side, and professional indifference on hers.

  Before I got out of the car at Mother’s house, Fowler said that the absence of a body worked in my favour, and that if it turned up the Americans might not be able to preserve Private Dervian’s current status as AWOL. He’d do his best, but he couldn’t guarantee that higher authorities would not insist on my being arrested.

  ‘Someone will come and talk to you tomorrow, after the matinee,’ he said. ‘You’ll co-operate, won’t you, Will?’

  What choice did I have? Feeling slightly giddy with sudden nausea, I said, ‘Yes, James. I’ll co-operate.’

  He probably nodded and smiled. It was too dark to tell. He’d driven away before I’d reached the front door. It was very late, so no one was up, and I made it to my bedroom without having to talk to Mother or Brian. I checked, as I automatically did each night, that the blackouts were in place, and turned on my bedside light. There was Gregory Marlow’s autograph book. I’d forgotten Mr Marlow. I sat on my bed and put my head in my hands. There’d been stiff competition recently, but this day was surely among the top-five worst days of my life. I was exhausted and fell asleep in my clothes, thinking before I did so that the next day things would look better, and get better. They didn’t, on either count.

  Chapter Seven

  NEW YEAR’S EVE

  NEW YEAR’S EVE OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN A TIME to assess the ups and downs of the year now gone, and to look forward optimistically to better times ahead. When I looked over my shoulder at 1942, I didn’t see much to celebrate. I didn’t expect the soldier at Stalingrad, or struggling through the sucking mud of New Guinea, to have much sympathy for me; but, really and truly, 1942 was the most chaotic, terrifying, dangerous and emotionally eviscerating year of my life. Here, at the tail end of it, it showed no signs of letting up. The satisfaction of finding a modicum of stage success was diminished by the various threats to my freedom. At a time when I should have been revelling in my public acclaim, I was instead obliged to have unwanted contact with two organisations I had no fondness for — Military Intelligence and the Victoria Police, with the United States army thrown in for good measure.

  The household was quiet when I came down for breakfast. That statement seems rather grand, as though breakfast had been laid out by household staff. There was no breakfast, of course, so by breakfast I mean simply a cup of tea. Mother must have been at Drummond Street — she was an early riser, and would normally have been sitting in the front room reading the paper. Brian wasn’t an early riser, so he was probably still in bed. I wanted to speak to him, so when I’d drunk my tea I went back upstairs and knocked on his bedroom door — a courtesy he’d never have extended to me. There was no answer. I knocked again and entered the room. His bed hadn’t been slept in. Had Brian spent the night with Cloris Gilbert? Surely not. If he had, any further investigation into John Gilbert’s death would be compromised. Would he be so stupid?

  Facing two performances this day, I needed to conserve my energy. I’d gone to bed very late — if sleeping in the clothes I’d worn all day could be called going to bed. I felt seedy and in need of a bath. I returned to my room, undressed, and walked unhurriedly to the bathroom. The blackouts were still up in the bathroom window, so I turned on the light to examine my face in the mirror. I needed a shave, and the black eye was still very obvious.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Brian!’ I said as I caught sight of him in the mirror, or rather as I caught sight of his feet protruding over the edge of the bath. ‘Why didn’t you say something when I came in? You scared the living daylights out of me.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Brian?’

  A great geyser of fear rushed through my blood as I scrabbled to rip the blackout down before confirming the appalling horror of Brian’s unseeing eyes beneath a few inches of bath water. I approached the tub and stared down at dead, open eyes, distorted by ripples that shivered across the surface of the water.

  ‘Brian,’ I said again — only it wasn’t Brian in the bath. It was Private Anthony Dervian. Brian was behind me, because he said, ‘What the hell is going on here, Will?’

  It took a moment for my mind to accommodate both shocks to the system. I turned to find Brian standing in the doorway.

  ‘I thought it was you in the bath,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve just got home. Why is there a dead person in the bath, and why are you naked?’

  ‘I was going to have a bath,’ I snapped. ‘It was dark in here, and I didn’t see him at first.’

  Brian moved to the edge of the bath and looked down.

  ‘That’s the bloke who was here on Christmas Day. Private Dervian?’

  ‘Yes. I know who put him here. What should we do? Should we empty the bath water?’

  ‘Are you insane? Don’t touch anything, and for God’s sake, put some clothes on. I can’t think straight with two naked men in the room.’

  I hurried back to my room and dressed in my clothes from the day before, despite the shirt smelling of sweat. When I returned to the bathroom, Brian was still staring down at Private Dervian’s body.

  ‘What did you mean when you said you know who put him here?’

  ‘The police and the United States army already know that Dervian is dead. What they don’t know, yet, is what happened to his body.’

  ‘I’m clearly missing great chunks of this story, Will. God help us, I’m away for one night, and suddenly the US army is involved and there’s a dead soldier in Mother’s bathtub. She’s not going to want to soak in that ever again. She’ll have to replace it.’

  ‘Seriously, Brian? Seriously? This is what you see as the biggest issue here, that Mother will need a new bathtub?’

  ‘Perhaps you could fill in the missing bits. Is this where he died? Did he drown here? Did you drown him here?’

  I needed to preserve my voice for the two performances of Mother Goose (it had not yet occurred to me that these might now be in jeopardy); otherwise, I’d have raised it mightily against this last, grotesque question. With a masterly demonstration of vocal control, I asked Brian to come downstairs with me, where I’d telephone Sergeant Strachan, and where I’d give him, Brian, the details he needed to understand the disturbing appearance of Private Anthony Dervian in Mother’s bathtub.

  I rang Strachan, and spoke tersely and briefly to him. I joined Brian in the front room, and when I’d finished my explanation, he sat wide-eyed in disbelief. I told him everything, including the advice I’d given on how to dispose of Dervian’s body, and also of the unwelcome reappearance of James Fowler.

  ‘I wasn’t as honest with the authorities as I’ve been with you, Brian. I didn’t tell them that I’d dressed Private Dervian, and I certainly didn’t tell them that I’d given Geraldine and Mrs Ferrell a suitable way of disposing of a body. Things looked bad enough for me without piling it on. When Strachan arrives, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let either of those details slip.’

  Barely had I said this when a knock on the door heralded the arrival of the police. They didn’t wait for an answer, and when I left the front room I found half-a-dozen men making their way upstairs. They weren’t policemen. They were American soldiers. Strachan held the door open as more men entered the house.

  ‘Go back into the front room, Mr Power, and close the door,’ Strachan said. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  I did as I was told, which is an indication of how far from a safe harbour I’d felt I’d drifted, or been swept. Strachan
followed a minute later.

  ‘Now, Sergeant,’ I said, ‘you can’t possibly believe that I would so spectacularly incriminate myself as to bring Private Dervian’s body to my mother’s house, to the place where I live.’

  The door opened, and Sergeant Radcliff joined Strachan.

  ‘Give us the essential details without any unnecessary, time-wasting crap,’ Radcliff said. I must have been in a kind of daze. I didn’t challenge his untoward, contemptuous tone. I simply gave him what he asked for, and he took notes. I omitted the incident with Gregory Marlow, as this had no bearing on the matter at hand, and showed me in a bad light, and as far as the police were concerned, the light I was standing in wasn’t particularly flattering as it was. As I was speaking, I could hear feet walking about above.

  I detected an air of indifference in both Strachan and Radcliff, as if each of them had become bored by all this. Radcliff’s note-taking seemed desultory, almost as if he was pretending to take notes instead of actually taking them. After twenty minutes, he snapped his notebook shut and left the room. Strachan, who’d sat down and crossed his legs, stood up, smoothed his suit, and ran his fingers around the brim of his hat. Curiously, neither detective had said a word to Brian until Strachan asked, ‘And you can confirm that your brother’s account of finding Private Dervian’s body is accurate?’

  Brian coughed prettily, and unnecessarily said that when he’d opened the bathroom door, he saw that I wasn’t wearing any clothes.

  ‘Hardly surprising, Brian,’ I said. ‘I was about to have a bath.’

  ‘I was trying to be accurate, Will, that’s all. I’m not suggesting it meant anything. Only you hadn’t mentioned it, and so I thought I ought to.’

  Sergeant Strachan adjusted his hat on his head, barely able to contain his impatience. I’d become so used to being the object of his focussed distaste that his failure to exercise it on this occasion, when circumstances ought to have given it free rein, struck me as inexplicable and even suspicious. Sergeant Radcliff opened the door a few inches and nodded to Strachan who said, ‘Gentlemen,’ in farewell, and who then left without anything further being said. I heard the front door of the house close. There was silence.