Raisins and Almonds pf-9

by Kerry Greenwood

  'Bloody beauty,' said Bert. 'I gotta get out of the sun, it's as hot as bloody Cairo.'

  Miss Lee looked up from her book. The hard-faced warder was there.

  'You're to pack up your things, Lee,' she said crisply. 'Governor's waiting.'

  Miss Lee closed the book and reached for her bag. She had been moved from cell to cell over the last four days and was used to packing quickly. She laid the last garment in her case, clicked the latches, and asked, 'Where am I going?'

  'Governor'll tell you,' said the guard. 'Off remand, anyway.'

  That must mean that she was going to trial. Miss Lee followed the wardress through the corridors. The floors in the prison were scrubbed every morning by a special punishment detail; they were so clean that an unwary mouse might skid on them. The walls were an unrefreshing shade of mud. Miss Lee preceded the wardress at the proper distance. In that moment she realized that her body belonged to the State, that she would never be free, and that her days on earth had been numbered by men who would shortly judge her, condemn her and kill her. And that there was nothing at all she could do to affect her fate.

  She would have run if there had been anywhere to run, but she was still Miss Lee, who prided herself on her control.

  Inside her, someone was weeping hysterically.

  The journey seemed to last for years. Miles of disinfected corridors were passed. They reached the Governor's office, and she stood at attention before it as the wardress negotiated entry. It was not until she smelt Nuit D'Amour perfume in the Governor's office that she began to hope. No one in prison smelt of anything but soap. The scent emanated from a small woman with Dutch-doll hair, a jewel-blue dress and cloche and a handful of papers. She was flanked by a plain young woman in beige linen and a policeman with a forgettable face.

  'Miss Lee, I've come to take you home,' said Phryne.

  'You've found the murderer?' Miss Lee fought down elation.

  'We soon will. But the police know that it isn't you. Have you got everything? Good. Here is the order for release, here is Jack Robinson to confirm that there are no charges against you and that you are a pure and stainless soul, and here is my companion, Dot, who is going to stay with you for today I know you would rather be alone, but we still have a few ends to tie up. This way, Miss Lee,' said Phryne.

  Miss Lee found herself holding out her hand to the Governor, and almost thanked her for having her.

  'Goodbye, Miss Lee,' said the thin woman, and smiled bleakly. 'Congratulations.'

  'Thank you,' gasped Miss Lee, who had regained her honorific with her freedom.

  It was not until the last set of prison doors shut behind her that she found herself wondering if she would ever get to the fifth declension—res, fides and spes.

  'Well, you're out of that horrible place and you're a free woman again,' said Phryne. 'Anything you want, just name it.'

  'I want a bath,' said Miss Lee promptly. 'A real bath with real soap. I want a boiled egg and some bread and butter and a cup of real tea. Then I want to go and walk around the city.'

  'It's yours,' said Phryne. 'Dot will look after you. She will also tell you everything that has happened.'

  'Where will you be?' asked Miss Lee, bewildered by the speed of events. An hour ago she had been a condemned prisoner. Now she was sitting in a very expensive red saloon car and the suburbs were speeding past.

  'I have to go and talk to a chemist,' said Phryne.

  Bert put down his empty glass and licked a little foam from his upper lip.

  'That hit the spot, eh, mate?'

  'Too right.'

  The pub was filling rapidly as the temperature outside climbed. The Albion was a spacious pub, built in the days when a public house with any pretensions to gentility had to have fourteen foot ceilings, brass taps and a polished wooden bar you could skate down. It had no floor coverings, but the black and white tiles were cool in the heat. Bert, in his reflective moments, considered that if heaven didn't have a well-appointed pub where a man could sit down over a beer for a yarn with the other angels, then he didn't want to go there.

  'Mate,' Cec nudged him. 'Looks like trouble.'

  Even in Arcadia, thought Bert resignedly, and looked where Cec indicated. A bulky middle-aged man was raising his voice to carry over the hum of peaceful voices. His dark face was flushed with beer. He had been in the pub for a while. Five empty glasses were on his table and his ashtray was full of butts. The fact that these had not been cleared away spoke volumes of the Management's desire not to retain him as a customer.

  'What I mean to say is the rotten cow shouldn't ha' sacked me just like that,' declared the drinker, sharing his grievance with the pub at large. 'Just because I lost his flamin' dustcoat. It was an old rag anyway. It's going against the dignity of the working man to make him wear a dustcoat.'

  'That was six months ago,' said the barman resignedly. 'You gotta get over this, Jack.'

  'I ain't had a job that lasted more than a few days since,' complained Jack. 'This country's going down the gurgler, that's where it's going. Things ain't been the same since the war—that's what done for us fighting men.'

  'You weren't in the Great War,' said a nearby drinker. 'You spent your whole time in the bloody pay corps while we was sweatin' blood at Pozieres.'

  'About now,' said Bert to Cec, and ordered another beer.

  'How will it go?' asked Cec. Bert was never wrong about the progress of a fight.

  'He'll scream at the digger that he was too in the fighting,' predicted Bert.

  'I fought all right!' yelled Jack.

  'Then some other coot will put his oar in ...' said Bert.

  'No, you bloody wasn't. Anyway, Alderton, what's happened to all that money you was flashing around? Lost it on the gees?' asked another drinker, evidently devoid of the sense of self-preservation so essential in tete-a-tetes in Australian hotels, or else fancying his chances.

  'Then Alderton will stand up and offer to fight everyone ...' said Bert.

  'I'll fight any man in this pub!' howled Black Jack Alderton, pulling off his coat.

  'And then someone will king-hit him,' said Bert.

  The soldier from Pozieres rose to the challenge. He was small, with a gamecock walk and big hands, so pale that the inexperienced might have thought that he was afraid. But Bert knew that he was flooded with cold rage. His dad had always told him that the red-faced were blusterers, not to be taken seriously. 'But if you see a bloke who's pale and shaking, son,' Bert's father had instructed, 'then run like blazes, because he might flamin' kill you.' Bert watched with interest, hoping that he would not have to interfere.

  Without any preparation or parley, the soldier walked up to the big man and hit him matter-of-factly on the point of the chin. A beautiful punch, thought Bert. Perfectly placed, delivered with just the right amount of force and exactly what was needed to restore the peace of the Albion. Mr Alderton was jarred off his heels and went down with a crash.

  'Silly coot,' someone remarked.

  'That's our man,' said Bert to Cec.

  'What do you want to do?'

  'I reckon that the barman is about to assist Mr Alderton into the street. Perhaps we can do it for him,' said Bert.

  No one commented as they shouldered through the crowd, lifted Mr Alderton by the heels and shoulders, and carried him out. The barman opened the door for them.

  'What are you goin' ter do with him?' he asked, curiously.

  'Sell him to the white slave trade,' grunted Bert, manoeuvring the body down the worn front steps.

  'Well, I hope you get a good price for damaged goods,' said the barman. 'Don't bring him back, will yer?' he added, and closed the door.

  Bert and Cec placed Mr Alderton gently on the cobbles of the lane next to the hotel. The man was already beginning to stir and groan. Bert knew that he was also about to throw up. This looked like a good place to do it in—the lane had a suitable gutter running down the middle of it and water was available from a nearby tap.

&nb
sp; 'We want you to answer some questions,' he said.

  'Jus' go away and let me die,' groaned the patient.

  'Not yet,' said Bert. 'You get to die later. There might be a quid in it,' he hinted. One bloodshot eye peeled open.

  'How much?'

  An unpleasant interlude followed. The ex-driver was in such a bad way that Cec was forced to go into the pub and buy a hip flask of brandy to bring Black Jack up to his usual operating level, which was not very high.

  'Now go over it for us,' said Bert patiently.

  'More brandy.'

  'Not yet, you'll be seein' snakes, and I want you with us. Do you remember delivering a box to the bookshop in the Eastern Market last Thursday?'

  'No,' said Black Jack.

  'Then you're no use to us,' said Bert, getting up and brushing the knees of his trousers. 'Or anyone else,' he added, looking down at the disgusting figure now sitting on the cobbles.

  'No, wait,' said Alderton, grasping at Bert's knees. 'I didn't deliver it myself. But I know about it.'

  'Yair?' asked Cec with strong disbelief. He had no time for drunks. 'What d'ya know?'

  'I used to work for Gibson, but he sold up and moved out. I ain't found a decent job since then. But when I put on my driver's coat to take this box to the market, from Ballarat it was, bloody heavy.' Black Jack stopped, having lost his thread.

  'You put on your driver's coat,' prompted Bert.

  'Yair, I put it on and found that I had a pad of Gibson's old waybills in the pocket. I hadn't worn the coat for a while. I got to the market and I was unloading in the underneath part, you know, where the trucks go. See, the boss had just sacked me, that box was my last delivery, then I was goin' to be out on the street again, so long, son. I was crook on it.'

  'Yair, life is tough for the working man,' agreed Bert. For the first time in his life, he was sympathizing with a capitalist. 'What happened in the undercroft?'

  'This bloke came up to me, see, and said he was playing a joke on a friend. He wanted to borrow my dispatch book and my dustcoat and cap and gloves. He said he'd deliver the box. Well, what's a man to do when he's got a coot offerin' a pound for a simple little joke? I didn't see no harm in it. He scribbled a name on my own dispatch note, so the bloody boss couldn't say I was half-inchin' his delivery.'

  'So what happened then?' asked Bert. He was revolted. He had no difficulty with or moral objection to most crime—some of his best friends were criminals, and property was theft after all—but he hated liars, and Black Jack Alderton wasn't even a very good liar. Didn't see any harm in it, indeed. Bert wondered if his dive into the bottle had anything to do with the murderous implications of this simple little joke.

  'Why didn't he just take your dispatch book, then?'

  'Dunno.' Mr Alderton's face creased. Cec wondered how many brain cells he had left. He was reaching a working estimate—about six—when Bert asked, 'What did this bloke who liked expensive jokes look like?'

  'Didn't see him clear,' replied Alderton. 'He had to be about the same size as me, I reckon, or me coat wouldn't have fitted him. I thought he talked sort of funny. I'd had a few,' he admitted. 'That's why the boss threw me out. They're always out to do down the honest man.'

  'Yair,' said Bert. Cec was impressed with how much scorn Bert could pack into one syllable. 'Here's your quid,' he added, dropping it into Mr Alderton's spattered lap. 'Don't drink it all at once.'

  Phryne dropped Miss Lee at her own house. Dot, possessed of fellow feeling, insisted on the bath being the best available, and the best bath in Melbourne was certainly Miss Fisher's. The ex-prisoner's reserve was showing signs of cracking under Dot's practical sympathy—had she not herself been on the edge of murder when Phryne Fisher had swanned into her life? Dot knew how hard it was to be rescued.

  Phryne told Dot not to spare the bath salts and to give Miss Lee some clothes if she needed them, and turned the car to Hawthorn, where Jack Robinson's chemist lived. She had expressed her need for absolute confidentiality to that admirable officer, and he had instantly come up with the name. Dr Alexander Treasure, analytical chemist, was her man he said. Robinson had said that Treasure had no curiosity at all and had given him the highest recommendations for honour and integrity.

  Phryne was anxious that Yossi's formula would not be stolen and patented by someone else. Such things had happened. She did not approve of what he and the others intended to do with the money, and she was still undecided as to whether they had other allies who might have robbed Mrs Katz and Phryne herself. But it was Yossi's discovery, made while he could have been doing something which he considered fun rather than slaving over a hot test tube and enduring Mrs Grossman's wrath at her burned table. Phryne made a mental note that if anyone connected with this Treasure of a chemist patented anything vaguely resembling Yossi's compound, she would be very cross and probably litigious.

  Dr Treasure lived in a nice house. It was a standard red-brick building which matched its neighbours, even down to the uniform height of the fences and the tree dahlias peering over them. This was a good sign. He did not practice chemistry for money. She rang the bell and presently a young woman with a baby on her hip opened it. She was trying to tuck back her straggling fair hair and button her dress at the front.

  'I have an appointment with Dr Treasure,' said Phryne.

  'Oh, yes, Miss Fisher, is it? Come in. We're a bit at sixes and sevens, my girl hasn't come in and the baby's fretting. My husband's in the lab. This way,' said Mrs Treasure, hefting her offspring. It was whining in a way that set Phryne's teeth on edge.

  'Ssh,' she said to it. The baby was so surprised it shut up instantly and plugged its mouth with its none-too-clean thumb. The young woman said, 'I wish you'd teach me how to do that. I can't do a thing with him. Takes after his father.' She opened a door. 'I can't do a thing with him, either.' She knocked, then opened the door. Then she grinned ruefully at Phryne as the baby began to cry.

  'Your spell's worn off,' she commented and bore the scion of the house away to continue his interrupted feed.

  'Miss Fisher?' Dr Treasure was tall, lanky and English. He had a mop of brown curls and a shy, endearing smile. He looked much younger than Phryne had expected.

  'Detective Inspector Robinson told you about my qualifications, and you are thinking that I am too young,' he said, and sighed. 'I'm actually thirty-seven, but I can't even convince passport officials about that. Sit down, if you please, Miss Fisher. You aren't the Hon. are you? Duchy of Lancaster, eh? I believe that my father knows your father. Jack said you had a fascinating problem for me. Do tell.'

  Phryne produced the translation, and Dr Treasure spread it out on his bench. He was surrounded by a forest of glass tubes and retorts. Phryne wondered how many of them had derived from alchemy.

  Dr Treasure was groping for something, never taking his eyes off the string of letters and numbers. Phryne put a pencil into his hand. He began to scribble on a notepad, tore it off, screwed it up and threw it onto the floor, paused, scribbled again and laughed.

  'By God, it's so simple,' he said.

  'What is it? And I have to tell you, this is involved in a murder investigation and you cannot have it.'

  'Not my field,' he said absently 'Anyway, wouldn't think of it, old Jack'd have my skin drying on a fence— isn't that the expression? I think I've got butadiene, yes, but this uses styrene, got some potassium persulphate, mercaptan, yes, this is going to niff more than a trifle. Basically we just bubble a couple of gases through cold water and then add all the other things, stir slowly, and—voila. Or not, as it happens. Now, can we make it? No reason why not. Just a moment.

  'We begin by bubbling this gas through nice clean distilled water,' he said, doing so. 'Then we add the soap and other things and might I suggest you put on that mask?' He indicated with an unoccupied finger an ex-army gas mask. Phryne slipped the straps over her head and breathed in a scent of charcoal and rubber. Dr Treasure beamed. 'Good. Mercaptan is the absolute essence of things which stink.
'

  Even through the mask Phryne could scent something reminiscent of old garbage, mixed with a strong overtone of sewers.

  Dr Treasure seemed immune to the stench. He mixed several other fluids and poured them into a large glass vessel over a very weak flame. He took up a stirrer.

  'This is exciting, isn't it?' he remarked in his lilting Cambridge voice.

  'What is it?'

  'Don't know, quite. But don't worry about secrecy, Miss Fisher. I work for the police often, I give evidence in court. My integrity is exceptionally important to me. Hmm. I think we'll give this a bit more of a stir.'

  'Dr Treasure, what is this compound? All I can see is a clear fluid and a bit of paper with letters and numbers.'

  'Ah, yes, well, how am I to explain this? Are you familiar with the term polymerization?'

  'Never heard of it,' said Phryne firmly.

  Dr Treasure did not seem cast down by the lamentable ignorance of his visitor. In fact, he seemed pleased to have an auditor who really wanted to know the answer. Phryne reflected that his wife must be far too busy with the baby to pay proper attention to chemistry lectures and he was probably suffering from audience starvation. And, judging by the way he was now drinking in the sight of Phryne in her close-fitting blue dress, other sorts of deprivation as well.

  'Well, let's start from the beginning. In nature, the polymer process is a biogenesis and we are not too clear about how it works. It's very complex, but it does not seem to induce polymerization by the manufacture of an isoprene monomer as such. Which is what this formula is endeavouring to do, I believe.'

  'It is?' asked Phryne.

  Dr Treasure pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. 'Yes, you see, here—it says -CH2-C(CI) = CH-CH2—times n, and there's an additional CI, that makes it poly-chloroprene. Which is CR. Derived, as you know, from oil, though mine is made out of butyl alcohol, made of fermented grain. Much cleaner, don't you think? And it uses up all that surplus wheat. Yes, the formula is quite clear, though it's strange. Whoever wrote this, wrote it backwards.'