by Marele Day
‘Mavis,’ called Eddy. ‘They just say “a body”. How’s a bloke supposed to know whether it’s a man or a woman if they use that non-sexual language?’
Mrs Levack came back into the lounge room carrying a spoon. ‘Well, it wasn’t all that easy to tell. It was wearing women’s shoes—I mean no self-respecting man would wear woven shoes—but it had a boy’s haircut and the face was a bit grubby. You know what, Eddy,’ she whispered confidentially, ‘I think it was one of those travesties.’
‘Those what?’
‘Travesties. You know,’ her voice got even lower, ‘men who dress up in women’s clothing.’
‘Transvestites,’ he corrected her. ‘And why are you whispering? There’s nothing wrong with men dressing up in women’s clothes,’ said Eddy. ‘We used to do it all the time in the army. Just a bit of good healthy fun.’
Mrs Levack had a rather peculiar look on her face. Mr Levack thought it best to get back to the matter at hand. ‘Funny they don’t mention a handbag. You’d think a transvestite would carry a handbag, wouldn’t you?’
‘Handbag?’ Mrs Levack sounded startled. ‘Perhaps a mugger took it. I’ll just go and check the eggs, darling.’ Something was up. Mavis very rarely called her husband darling.
She thought he’d never leave. He always went to the library of a Wednesday morning but this morning he’d wanted kipper with his egg. She didn’t mind the extra cooking but today Mrs Levack had other fish to fry. And they weren’t red herrings.
As soon as he’d gone she left the washing up, got out the vacuum cleaner and pushed it against the door so that Eddy wouldn’t take her by surprise when he came back.
She closed the venetian blinds in the bedroom, then fished the handbag out from under the bed. Eddy would probably take a dim view of her removing evidence from the scene of a crime, but as she’d discovered the body, she thought it was only fair that she got a head start in solving the case.
She’d had a peep in the handbag on the bus on the way home from the Opera House, but when she saw the gun she snapped it shut and remained po-faced all the way back to Bondi, the handbag sitting on her lap like a time bomb. Worst of all she’d had to wait till Eddy was out of the house before she could examine it properly. The suspense was killing her.
Gloves. It was best to wear gloves while examining evidence. She went through the drawers but there was not a glove in sight. Nothing.
Think, Mavis, think.
She sat on the bed absentmindedly stroking the back of her hand. Hands were another thing she prided herself on. Sorbolene every day, and never allow harsh detergents near them. Detergents. Mavis, you silly old duffer, of course you’ve got gloves.
They were still a bit damp despite the fact that she’d rolled them in a tea towel to get them dry. Well, washing-up gloves were better than nothing and she didn’t have all day.
Despite the cumbersome gloves she managed to snap open the handbag. She’d have to be careful taking the gun out in case it was loaded, but at least wearing the gloves she wouldn’t electrocute herself.
It was a gun like the ones in the Dick Tracy comics, it didn’t look real at all. Still, Mrs Levack wasn’t going to take any chances. She didn’t know how to tell whether it was loaded or not, so very gingerly she put it under the pillow. It was safer that way, and if it went off accidentally the sound would be muffled.
Next thing she pulled out of the handbag was a compact. Mrs Levack always used loose powder and a puff. The girl at DJ’s in Bondi Junction had told her that loose powder was more suitable for a mature skin. She hadn’t always cared about her appearance, but things had changed since she’d taken up part-time employment. She got a decent perm and Shirlene gave her a facial once a month. Freda at the club said next thing she’d be taking up aerobics. Working at the flagship of Australian culture meant you had an image to keep up, according to Mrs Levack. ‘Struth,’ said Freda, ‘you’re only doing the cleaning, not conducting the Sydney Symphony Orchestra.’ It didn’t matter, Mrs Levack had told her, it was important for a woman to have a career. Heavens above, you can only play bowls so many days a week.
There was lots of other make-up in the bag but none of it looked like evidence so Mrs Levack just left it.
The next item of significance was an address book, always a mine of information in the television shows. It was difficult looking through it with rubber gloves on, but Mrs Levack managed by blowing on the pages to separate them. One of the pages came loose. That meant only one thing—the opposite leaf had been torn out. That missing page was probably an important clue. It was a disgrace the way people tore pages out of books, no respect for private property.
Mrs Levack stopped. She realised she’d been shaking her head and talking out loud. She felt silly. She hoped she wasn’t getting that disease, what was it called? She couldn’t for the life of her think of the name of it.
Mrs Levack rummaged on through unimportant items. At the bottom of the bag she hit pay-dirt—first, a scrap of paper with a phone number on it; then, nestled in the folds of the lining, one of those paper umbrellas used to decorate drinks.
After a great deal of wrestling with the rubber gloves she managed to get it open. On the black umbrella were muscle-men in various body-building poses. As she turned it round to examine it she noticed that the men appeared to move. Ingenious, remarked Mrs Levack, hopefully to herself. The last detail she noticed about the umbrella was the tiny chain around the edge.
But the links of the chain weren’t links, they were numbers. Mrs Levack had a hunch. She picked up the scrap of paper and compared the numbers on it with the numbers on the umbrella. They matched perfectly.
She went to the phone and dialled. Brr, brr. Brr, brr. She looked at the mahogany clock on the sideboard. Quarter to eleven. Then she remembered. Alzheimer’s. That was the name of the disease. Brr, brr. The phone rang on and on, then it stopped. She waited for someone on the other end to answer but all she heard was an irritating noise.
Then she heard an even more irritating noise—the sound of the door hitting the vacuum cleaner. Eddy! She dropped the phone and raced back to the bedroom. ‘Flamin’ hell!’ she heard. ‘What’s the woman trying to do, cripple me?’
She just had time to whisk the contents back into the bag and fling everything under the bed before she heard him coming. ‘What’s the vacuum—’ He stopped short. Mavis was sitting on the bed with her hand to her chest and she was panting. He rushed over to her. ‘Gawd, Mavis, are you all right? Will I call Dr Mackintosh? Why are you wearing your rubber gloves? Have you gone funny? Mavis?’
All that running around, even in your own home, it wasn’t easy being a private investigator. ‘I just . . . I had a bit of a turn,’ she said between breaths (the gloves, Mavis, the gloves, you’d better explain about the gloves otherwise there’ll be even more questions) ‘. . . while I was doing the washing up . . .’
‘No wonder you had a bit of a turn, woman. The washing up, the vacuuming, you can’t do everything at once. Lie down for a while, come on.’ Eddy went to fluff up the pillows. Mrs Levack looked horrified. The gun! She’d forgotten about the gun. Which pillow was it under? She had to put Eddy off. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, stop fussing!’
But Eddy was not going to be put off so easily. ‘Mavis, do as I tell you, lie down.’ She knew when his voice got that determined tone there was no point arguing. Meekly she lay down and even more meekly did she put her head on the pillow. Mrs Levack lay perfectly still, afraid any movement might trigger off the gun.
‘Better?’
‘Yes, thank you, Eddy,’ she replied, hardly moving her lips.
‘I might as well have a lie down too,’ said Eddy getting onto the bed.
What had got into the man? In all their married life he’d never had a lie down in the morning. Mrs Levack’s breathing had returned to normal, but now it was Eddy who sounded like he was panting.
Mrs Levack continued looking at the ceiling, wondering which one of them had the gun under
their head.
‘You all right?’ asked Eddy after a while.
‘Yes, thank you.’
The next thing, she felt Eddy’s hand stroking her back. What was the man up to?
He cleared his throat and began nibbling her ear. He hadn’t done that since the day the dog died. ‘Ah, I thought we might . . . you know . . . have a bit of how’s your father.’
They hadn’t had a bit of how’s your father since before the dog had died. She’d always been rather partial to it and she didn’t want to pass up an opportunity—heaven knows, with Eddy it didn’t arise all that often—but there was still the problem of the gun. All that heaving and hoing, what if the blessed gun went off and shot one of them? No, she couldn’t take the risk.
‘But, Eddy, what about AIDS?’
‘AIDS!’ Eddy spluttered, ‘AIDS? Where would we get AIDS from? Unless of course you . . .’
‘Of course not, Eddy,’ said Mrs Levack hastily. She thought it wiser not to mention the bowls Christmas party.
‘Anyway, you needn’t worry, you’ve got your rubber gloves on.’
He snuggled up closer to her and Mrs Levack started feeling frisky. His voice got softer now, almost like a pigeon cooing. ‘I got a bit worried about you there for a minute, Mavis. I don’t know what came over me, I thought what if she goes . . .’
‘Oh, Eddy.’ Mrs Levack felt as fluffy as a schoolgirl.
‘Mavis?’ Mavis could feel something pressing against her. It wasn’t soft like Eddy’s stomach, though it was in the same general vicinity.
‘Yes, Eddy?’ she said eagerly.
‘Will you take your teeth out?’
‘Oh, Eddy.’
She hardly gave the gun a second thought. At least if she was going down, she was going down in a blaze of glory.
Mrs Levack could hear Eddy snoring. At least neither of them had died in their sleep. It was a strange thought to wake up to, then she remembered why. She sat bolt upright, getting her head off the pillow as quickly as possible. She turned around and very, very carefully lifted her pillow. There it was. She reached under the bed for the handbag and as she opened it to put the gun back, she noticed again the scrap of paper with the phone number on it. She took that out. It was five o’clock. She put her teeth back in, went to the phone, and dialled.
It answered almost immediately. ‘Big Boys.’
Now what? What would Angela Lansbury do? Keep them talking, see what you can find out. ‘Hello, can I speak to . . . the boss?’ Mrs Levack could hear disco music. It sounded very loud.
‘Frankie won’t be in till nine, can I fix you up, sweetie?’
Mrs Levack pursed her lips. He didn’t even know her and he was calling her sweetie. ‘Well, perhaps you can . . . lover,’ she hesitated. She found it somewhat distasteful to be calling this person she didn’t even know ‘lover’, but in this business you had to be ready for anything. She thought of the paper umbrella. ‘I’ve got some catering items to deliver and I’ve misplaced the order form. Can you tell me your address there?’
He gave her the address. Oxford Street, Darlinghurst. She also asked him the hours of opening. ‘Till the last one passes out,’ is what he said. From his conversation and the noise in the background, Mrs Levack was getting quite a good idea what sort of club Big Boys was. She was not completely unexposed to the kind of goings-on nowadays, she passed through Oxford Street on her way to work and she saw the photos in the newspaper of that Mardi Gras parade they had. Men in brassieres that were coiled like bedsprings. Some of them in tights with their bottoms showing. Chains and funny little leather suspender belts. Special dresses with slits in unusual places. Well at least they knew how to sew. You never saw things like that for sale in the shops.
The next morning Mrs Levack left for work earlier than usual. At Oxford Street she got off the bus and went to the address. It was a set of stairs between a clothes shop and a takeaway food place. There was a man in a big overcoat lying on the bottom step with a trail of some sort of liquid coming from underneath him. Two young people came down the stairs. They both had very short, very white hair. One of them was zippering up her black leather jacket but Mrs Levack had had time to see rather large bosoms. She couldn’t believe her eyes—beneath the jacket the person was completely naked. The two of them walked down the street, got on a big motorbike and roared away. Mrs Levack shook her head. The passenger wasn’t wearing a helmet even though the wearing of helmets was compulsory.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, stepping over the gentleman in the doorway. She went up the stairs and knocked on the door but no-one came. She gave the door a little push and it opened.
The smell! It was like walking into a giant ashtray. When Mrs Levack’s excellent eyes got used to the dark she could make out two figures embracing. Good heavens, it was going on everywhere. She wondered if she’d made this comment out loud because they put their tongues back in their own mouths and looked in her direction.
‘Sorry, darling, members only.’
‘Large members only,’ sniggered the other one.
Mrs Levack sniffed. She had no idea what they were talking about.
‘Is the boss in? I’m the cleaner,’ she said.
The one wearing the most clothes spoke. ‘The boss isn’t in and I’m the cleaner, darling, what do you think this is?’ he said, brandishing the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner.
The sniggering one started prancing around. ‘I’m a bit of fluff,’ he giggled. ‘We all know what vacuum cleaners do to fluff, don’t we?’ He seemed to think it was hilarious. Drugs, thought Mrs Levack. She was sure Angela Lansbury didn’t have to put up with this sort of carry-on.
‘Is this the . . . the . . .’ she said, trying to remember other clubs on the way here, ‘Tool Box?’
‘Big Boys.’
Now it was Mrs Levack’s turn to giggle. ‘What a silly old duffer I am, I’ve come to the wrong place.’
As she turned to leave she saw a large figure looming in the shadows near the far wall. She continued on her way. When she got to the door she turned back. The figure had disappeared. ‘Sorry to have bothered you,’ she said cheerily. ‘Bye-bye.’
Standing at the bus stop she felt very satisfied with herself. She’d cased the joint. Now that she had an idea of the layout she would come back. Tonight. Maybe the boss would be there tonight. Maybe the boss had been there all along. Maybe the boss was that large ominous figure lurking in the shadows. There was something familiar about his shape. Orson Welles? Or was it that other chap, what was his name, Brandon something? Or was it something Brandon?
The bus pulled up at the stop. Mrs Levack showed her pensioner’s card and sat down at a window seat. It was shaping up to be a bright sunny day in Sydney. But Mrs Levack wasn’t thinking about the weather, she had more important matters on her mind.
She was at the steps of the Opera House before it came to her. Of course, Marlon Brando, how could she forget? Must be the Alzheimer’s. Oh dear, she hoped she was going to last the distance. How was she going to organise Eddy if she had the Alzheimer’s? Mrs Levack hurried along to work; her little detour had made her seven minutes late.
Along with the shopping that morning after work, she purchased a few extra items. She worked at the sewing machine while Eddy watched the midday movie. At five past two he called out: ‘Perry Mason’s started.’
‘In a minute,’ Mrs Levack called back, guiding the black fabric through the machine.
‘Mavis? What are you up to?’ yelled Eddy during the first ad break. ‘You’ve missed the murder.’
‘In a minute,’ Mrs Levack called back.
Perry Mason was just about over by the time Mrs Levack had finished on the machine, but it was worth missing it just this one time. She had a nice little black outfit now. One that you wouldn’t see in a shop. It looked nice on, except that it showed the cellulite.
‘Just going round to Freda’s, darling,’ she said. There was that ‘darling’ again.
‘Why’ve you got your ove
rcoat on? It’s not that cold out.’
‘At our age it’s as well to take precautions, isn’t it? Don’t wait up.’ As she bent down to give him a peck on the cheek she felt something slide loose.
‘Hang on,’ said Eddy imperiously from his lounge chair. ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’ asked Mavis. She had that same look on her face she’d had when she called a royal flush and only had a pair.
‘Under your coat.’
‘What coat?’ She could feel the butter in her mouth melting rapidly.
‘I’ve had enough mucking about, Mavis, undo your coat.’
Mavis knew that Eddy had had enough mucking about. She also knew what had caused all the trouble. Reluctantly she undid her coat and exposed the source of it.
‘The dog chain! What the bloody hell are you doing wearing the dog chain round your neck? And you haven’t finished getting dressed! What’s come over you, woman, are you losing your marbles?’
She’d have to reveal all, he had her backed into a corner. Well count your blessings, Mavis Levack, she said to herself. At least if you’re backed into a corner he can’t see the bottom cut out of the fishnet tights.
She thought about Miss Marple and Angela Lansbury. It was all very well for them to carry on sleuthing, she sighed. They didn’t have husbands who wanted to know the whys and wherefores of everything. They could walk out of the house dressed however they liked whenever they liked.
She told Eddy everything, about the handbag, the club and the mysterious figure that looked like Marlon Brando. Probably Orson Welles, commented Eddy when she got to that part; more shadowy, mysterious.
‘So I have to go and see what happens at the club,’ she concluded. ‘It’s the only lead I’ve got. Someone might recognise the handbag and tell me something.’
Eddy, of course, was all for handing the matter over to the police but Mrs Levack thought she had gone too far to backtrack now. They’d ask all sorts of difficult questions, such as why she’d taken the handbag in the first place. Besides, the police were always a bit dumb and everyone, even Perry Mason, did things behind the police’s back.