Raisins and Almonds pf-9

by Kerry Greenwood

  Without a word, he ran down the hall and into the street. Simon Abrahams and Phryne watched the door clap to behind him with astonishment. Even Saul looked up in mild surprise, all the emotion of which this scholarly child seemed capable.

  Mrs Grossman came back into the room, attended by her daughters, in time to hear the door slam. 'That Yossi,' said Mrs Grossman. 'Poor boy, he works all day and then sits up talking all night at the Kadimah, enough to turn his brains. Excuse him, Mr Abrahams. Have some more tea. Then Saul will read for us.'

  'And you sing,' insisted Phillip.

  'No, no, I only know old songs,' protested Mrs Grossman, delighted but making a ritual objection.

  'We insist,' said Simon, and Saul leaned forward to the book.

  His voice was a boy's voice, cracking with manhood, and the tones and cadences of the language were utterly foreign to Phryne's ear. But the image of the boy, tucked in the corner of the workaday kitchen, his curly hair topped with a white and gold yarmulke, the striped tallis around his shoulders, his ink-stained boy's finger running the wrong way along the black letter text, stayed with Phryne as an epitome of the experience of all of Australia's Jews: a people who treasured learning, and who never forgot their past or relinquished hold of their future.

  Saul accepted the boiled lolly he was given with royal condescension. Learning, to him, was sweet. Mrs Grossman sat down and without preamble began to sing, a quavering lullaby in a strange tongue, and Simon whispered the translation to Phryne as she listened.

  In dem bishe micdosh ...

  Beneath my little one's cradle

  Stands a clear white goat ...

  There will come a time, my child

  When you will wander Jar and wide.

  Remember the song I sing today ...

  Schluf-sie, mein kind, schluj,she concluded. Then she sighed, seized her son Phillip and hugged him hard, and summoned a smile.

  'You will give my greetings to your father,' she said to Simon. Phryne shook hands all round, and Mrs Grossman accompanied them to the door. As she was leaving, the older woman pressed a packet into her hand.

  'Just a little tea,' she protested. 'A few biscuits. Nothing.'

  Phryne was touched. 'Thank you,' she said, and went out into the dusty street feeling warmed and a little dislocated, as though she had been away in another country and had come back with unexpected swiftness to somewhere which ought to have been familiar but which looked odd and alien.

  'That's a nice song,' she said, wrestling her coat over her shoulders. Simon caught the edges and bodily wrapped it around Phryne.

  'It's the one lullaby which everyone knows,' he said. 'There isn't a Yiddish child in the world who wasn't sung to sleep with Raisins and Almonds. My own mother sang it to me. Now, Madame,' he bowed, 'are you coming to my father's house to dine?'

  'Yes, I am.'

  'Then perhaps you could drop me in the city, where I can get a taxi, so that I can prepare myself fittingly.'

  'Certainly. Is this white tie—what should I wear?'

  'Just ordinary evening clothes. Mother likes to dress. I don't think Father could care, but he's a merchant at heart, bless him.'

  'Thank you, and what do you make of Yossi racing off like that?'

  'I don't know what to think, Phryne.'

  They had found the big car again, and Phryne tore off the offending coat and flung it into the back before she climbed into the driver's seat. It was such a hot day and the car had not been parked long so she tried the self-starter, and it worked. The engine turned over with a muted roar like an annoyed tiger. Simon, realizing that he was not going to be needed as a wielder of starting handles, climbed up into the seat next to Phryne.

  'Is he usually that jumpy?'

  'Well, no, I would have said that he was calm, like Saul. A lot of study does tend to disconnect one from the real world.'

  'He must know something, Simon, you need to find him again and extract it. Was there anything odd about the words Saul used?'

  'No, it's just the word for primeval, "of earth". Kadmon. Adam as the first man. I never studied the Kabala, so I really can't tell you any more. Are you going to collect that truck?'

  'No,' said Phryne, giving the wheel a deft twiddle. The truck passed, the driver yelling opprobrious epithets. It would not have been fitting for a lady to reply, so she only raised a finger or two in the appropriate gesture.

  'One thing I will say, Miss Fisher,' yelled Simon Abrahams, holding onto his hat as the Hispano-Suiza belted down Swanston Street past the brewery in a cloud of dust. 'Life with you is always very interesting!'

  'Thank you,' said Miss Fisher. 'Here's the station. See you at eight.'

  And because she was both hot and dirty, Phryne beguiled the rest of the afternoon by taking her maid, her adopted daughters and their pestilential new puppy to the beach, where she contemplated the difficulties of the Kabala from one of her favourite thinking positions, neck deep in sea water.

  Six

  The mating of sol and luna is conjunctio.

  Elias Ashmole, Theatrum Chemicum Brittanicum 1689

  Dinner, Phryne thought, might well be sticky in more than just temperature. As she allowed herself to be dressed in a Greek-inspired floor-length gown, she observed, 'Dot, I need you to make me a list.'

  A list, Miss?' Dot fastened the heavy gold necklace. It was made of old French coins, and it had matching long earrings.

  'Yes. Miss Lee said that she sold "some novels" and then had a discussion with a woman about an atlas that morning—call it "the fateful morning"—and then there were a couple of young men buying a book about statistics. We need to find Miss Lee's customers. I want you to go through her order book—Jack left it on the downstairs table—and make a list of what she sold. How many people do we need to find, and how do we do that?'

  'They should have come forward already, Miss,' observed Dot, flinging the filmy dress over Phryne's head so skilfully that not a hair was disturbed on the Dutch-doll head. 'There's been enough about the murder in the paper.'

  'I know, but they haven't.' Phryne surveyed herself in the glass. The dress had an underslip of solid white silk, over which the delicate draperies of the overgown flowed. It was suggestive but not obscene.

  'And how do we find someone who has just come into the Eastern Market on the off chance, they might be from anywhere,' continued Dot. 'They might have just come into the city for the day from—oh, I don't know, Bendigo—and might not read the papers.'

  'Or they might have been run over by a tram just outside, or be deaf and dumb, or living in a cellar,' agreed Phryne. 'es, I know. It's going to be very difficult. But we need to find them. Also, can you call Bert and Cec for me? Ask them to lunch. The Eastern Market is full of carters and labourers. I need to know what happened to that rat poison, and I need someone on the inside. I have a feeling that this all centres on that market.'

  'Why?' asked Dot.

  'Just a feeling. Oh, and Dot dear, make sure that Mr Butler locks all the doors and windows tonight, will you?'

  'Miss ...' said Dot, her brow creasing in a frown. 'Is this case dangerous?'

  'No more than any of the others,' said Phryne airily. 'Now, how do I look?' She turned, watching the draped chiffon fall into place. 'Nice. Very nice. Tomorrow you can go and see Miss Lee again and extract from her memory every detail about her customers that morning, all right? And now I really must go,' she added, patting Dot on the cheek. 'Won't be late. This evening may be something of a trial, I fear. Mrs Abrahams cannot possibly approve of me.'

  Phryne arrived at the Abrahams' East Kew mansion in her big red car and drove it neatly up the driveway to park next to the big Rolls. A driver, collar unbuttoned, leapt to his feet and dropped his newspaper and his cigarette at the sight of one slender leg revealed up to the thigh as she alighted. Phryne grinned at him.

  'Mind her for me, will you?' she asked.

  'Strewth,' said the driver. 'She's a beaut, ain't she? Lagonda?'

  'Hisp
ano-Suiza. Observe the stork on the radiator cap. You're the Abrahams' chauffeur?'

  'Yes, Miss,' he said, self-consciously adjusting his jacket. He was a young man with curly fair hair like fleece and a rural drawl.

  'Been here long?'

  'Three years.'

  'Good place?'

  'Yes, Miss, fair bloke, the Boss, always extra if he keeps me out late, lashings of tucker but foreign, but I like foreign. The Missus is hard to please, but she's a good sort. I'm saving up for a farm, so it suits me to live in. You come for dinner? I'll ring the bell for you, Miss,' he said, escorting Phryne along a garden path and up several steps to an imposing front door.

  Whoever had built this house, thought Phryne, had a lot of money and a burning desire to enrich the working stonemason. It was made of solid dark stone, with bow windows and heavy window ledges under a red tiled roof. Phryne had observed the gargoyles as she came in. The architect had evidently been inspired by a visit to Notre Dame de Paris. The front door was set with gems of coloured glass, complex and beautiful, through which light glowed.

  A butler opened the door, and Phryne farewelled her escort and stepped inside.

  'Miss Fisher? This way, Madam,' murmured the functionary from his starched height. He was perfect right down to the gold studs in his shirt and the sable solemnity of his bow tie, of such a perfect butterfly shape that it must have been either (unthinkably) stitched into place or the product of a long and devout apprenticeship.

  The hall was high and painted in a pale cream to show off a treasury of paintings. Phryne exclaimed in delight, and went over to examine what she was sure was a little Renoir of a child with a cat. The small face smiled out of the canvas, creamy skin against tortoise-shell fur. She was aware of air moving and turned to find herself being examined by a pair of dark unreadable eyes.

  'It is beautiful, yes?' asked the woman.

  'It is,' said Phryne honestly. 'Quite lovely. My name's Phryne Fisher,' she held out her hand. 'Thank you for inviting me to dinner.'

  'My son's friends are our friends,' replied Mrs Abrahams, barely touching Phryne's fingers. 'Do come in, Miss Fisher, we are having drinks in the library.'

  She led the way. There was a faint trace of accent, Phryne thought, following her hostess' rigid back along the hall and through a solid oak door. But Mrs Abrahams was not what she had expected. She was dressed in expensive tailored clothes, certainly—a rich plum silk dress which set off her golden complexion and her black hair. Her legs were clad in silk stockings as fine as Phryne's own. They probably shared the same shoemaker and certainly the same couturiere. Mrs Abrahams was impeccably turned out and even with her black eyes and scraped-back shiny black hair had no flavour of the exotic at all. Mrs Abrahams, in fact, did not look any different from any one of Phryne's acquaintances, and she was oddly disappointed. All the verve and enthusiasm which characterized Mrs Grossman was flattened and quenched. In an attempt to fit in, Mrs Abrahams had lost her flair. But she was very beautiful, and Phryne wondered where she had found the interesting panache of diamonds and feathers which decorated the left side of her sleek head.

  The library was lined with books which looked as though they had been read and contained a gasogene on a tray, an array of interesting bottles, and three male Abrahams. They sprang to their feet when Phryne entered and Simon came forward to take her hand, kissing it with a certain fervour which indicated that he remembered their encounter with pleasure.

  Whatever difficulty Phryne was having with the mother, the son, uncle and husband were instantly explicable. Simon was the picture of a successful, well-loved and confident young man, chafing a little at the restrictions of his father's house and alight with some idealistic purpose. Chaim Abrahams was self-effacing and stout but a little rubbed at the edges, as though time had not treated him well, though his suit was first class and his corporation extensive. Benjamin Abrahams was thick set, strong, middle aged, and prosperous. Phryne looked for the phantom cigar that always hovered in his mouth when convention would not allow him a real one. His handclasp was firm and warm and he beamed on Miss Fisher.

  'The Hon. Detective Lady!' he exclaimed. 'What can we fetch for you? A little sherry, maybe, or would you like a cocktail?'

  'Sherry, if you please,' murmured Phryne. She tasted it with pleasure. It was amontillado, to be sipped with reverence. The company sat down in comfortable chairs which could have been real Chippendale and surveyed Phryne, who surveyed them back with perfect poise.

  'The pictures in the hall are absolutely beautiful.' Phryne opened with a conventional remark. 'Have you been collecting for a long time, Mr Abrahams?'

  'Since I arrived in Paris just after the war,' said Mr Abrahams. 'They are a good investment, and besides they are beautiful, nu? I have a big canvas in the drawing room you will like, I think, if you care for the later Impressionists. Of the earlier I have alas only a few pieces, they were too expensive for me then; now, they are worth thousands, then only hundreds, but I did not have the hundreds, eh? But Toulouse-Lautrec I could afford, the Pissaro and some Sisley, also some rare books and drawings, manuscripts. I brought them with me when we left and came here, also my dear Julia has exquisite taste and she ordered the decoration of this house to set them off.'

  Mrs Abrahams waved off the compliment with a negligent hand. She was good, Phryne considered, a very finished product of some English finishing school, perhaps.

  'Cream walls, yes,' agreed Phryne. 'With just touches of old gold and bronze. Very stylish. But what do you think of the art moderne, then?'

  'Myself, I have no taste for it,' admitted Mr Abrahams. 'But Simon likes it. See, there on the mantelpiece: the bronze girl. Simon dotes on her.' He grinned and Mrs Abrahams stiffened and Phryne reflected that it was going to be a very trying evening if this continued. She got up and examined the bronze.

  It was very fine. The figure was of a young girl caught in a windstorm. Her finely detailed hands and face were made of ivory. She wore a decorated cloche hat and a raincoat which the wind was blowing so that the cloth flattened against her body and billowed behind her like a bell. Under the heavy cloth Phryne saw a froth of lacy bronze petticoat. One hand was holding her hat, and the other was grabbing her rebellious garment. It was innocent, charming and accomplished and Phryne liked it very much.

  A lovely thing,' she said to Simon. He smiled and his mother made a harsh hissing noise. Mr Abrahams patted her arm but he might as well have been patting the slender carved mahogany arm of his chair. Phryne knew the signs. This was a maternal lioness on guard against a predator who was stalking one of her cubs. This could be borne, as Phryne knew that her intentions were honourable. However, if this dinner was not going to be unbearably dull, she needed to get Mrs Abrahams alone. An explanation would either clear the air or expel Miss Fisher from the house—and either would be preferable to this subdued hostility.

  'Mrs Abrahams, perhaps you could show me the paintings in the hall? I should like another look at that Renoir,' she asked, and the lady of the house accepted reluctantly.

  When the door had safely closed on the slightly puzzled male faces, Phryne said, 'What have you got against me, Mrs Abrahams?' and watched the closed face come alive in dazzling rage. Porcelain, she fancied, cracked as Julia Abrahams demanded, 'What do you want with my son?'

  'I just want to borrow him,' said Phryne sweetly 'I'll give him back when you want him. I know I can't keep him and I won't hurt him.'

  Mrs Abrahams cocked her sleek black head and considered her visitor. When she spoke again, her voice had the same lilt as her husband's.

  'You don't want to marry him?' 'No.'

  There was a pause, then Simon's mother demanded, 'What's wrong with him?'

  Phryne released the laugh she had been suppressing, and after a moment Mrs Abrahams joined in. Her finishing school poise slid from her like a cloak from the shoulders and she laughed so hard that she had to lean her immaculate back against the wall.

  Phryne, who had been wonderin
g what a sensual man like Benjamin Abrahams had seen in his stiff cold wife, was enlightened. Her whole attitude had changed, her immobile face was mobile, and she was hiccuping with mirth. Finally she groped for a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

  'Ai, what a pickle I've been in,' she confessed. 'Ever since Simon told us about you. Such a beautiful lady— he's been singing your praises for days, and then Bennie employed you to get the excellent Miss Lee out of jail, so you would be close to my son and you could not fail to notice his ... his ...'

  'Infatuation,' Phryne completed the sentence. 'Don't worry. I can manage him. He is not,' she added, her hand on the door, 'the first young man in that condition that I have seen.'

  'No, he wouldn't be,' agreed Mrs Abrahams. 'You must call me Julia. Come and look at the Renoir, now, and let's not make liars of ourselves. It's a pretty thing, isn't it? I was so angry with Bennie when he bought it, it took all our savings. But he told me he'd buy me a fur coat when he sold it, and he made our fortune just after that with the Michelangelo red-chalk Madonna, so I got my fur coat and kept the girl and the cat as well.'

  'The Michelangelo? Oh, please do call me Phryne, Julia. I have a feeling that I heard about it. I was in Paris, just after the war.'

  'You were? It was the coup of my Bennie's career as a dealer. After that he packed up and moved here, because one cannot count on two miracles in a lifetime. There we were, Bennie and me, I had married against my father's wishes, he did not like Ben because he was so poor and he thought I was wasting my expensive education, but we were in love, and we sold pictures and objets d'art. Ben went to all the auctions of deceased estates, and in one Italian sale, an old man who died without heirs, he bought a big trunk of drawings and etchings for a few francs because he thought it might contain some of the Hokusai screen pictures popular in the nineties—that's what he could see at the top. They were an inspiration to the Impressionists, you know, and I used to remount them as pictures and we could always sell them. It was difficult, because they were printed on very cheap paper. We hauled the trunk home to our atelier, which was freezing, it was the middle of winter, so cold that ice was forming on the inside of our windows, and we upturned it so that all the prints and scrolls fell out onto the oilcloth. And Bennie was unrolling them and sorting them while I was making coffee, and I heard him say a very rude word.'