by Peter Corris
‘I did and I would like to speak to you about that.’
‘I suppose you know why I was there. I don’t quite see …’
‘That doesn’t matter. I don’t care about that. I saw what you did.’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘You yelled. You threw something and hit him. You frightened him and you ran towards him. That was very brave of you.’
‘I was just surprised, Miss Shaw. Just reacting instinctively. I might’ve jumped behind a tree next.’
Her voice was low and controlled, like that of a dynamic actress playing a reined-in part. Ava Gardner, say. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re all right,’ I said. ‘I hope the police didn’t give you too hard a time.’
‘Mr Hardy,’ she said. ‘I want to see you. I was told you are a private detective. I want to engage you. I’m very, very afraid.’
Conflict of interest didn’t cross my mind. Mrs Meadowbank didn’t need a divorce anymore. I drove to Rose Bay and parked pretty close to where I’d been just twelve hours before. Everything looked unnaturally clean in the street. A water wagon and the sweepers had been through not long before and any residue of the night’s activity, like cigarette butts and chewing-gum wrappers, had been cleaned away. The steps in front of ‘Lapstone’ had been hosed down, too. The patch of grass had been chewed up by big feet in heavy shoes.
I buzzed for Flat 3 the way she’d told me to and spoke my name into the squawk box.
‘Come up one flight and to the back,’ said that million-dollar voice.
Virginia Shaw must have been standing with her hand on the doorknob because the door opened the instant I knocked.
‘Come in. Come in.’
The flat was much bigger than I’d expected—a sizeable vestibule leading to a wide hallway which led to a large sitting room. There looked to be at least another three or four rooms. The sitting room had French windows opening out to a balcony overlooking the water towards Point Piper. The floors were polished, the furniture was plain and there were paintings on the walls. Virginia Shaw fitted right in. She was tall and slender. Her white dress was simple and looked as if it had been made for her. She looked so cool I felt slightly sweaty. Maybe I looked it, or maybe it was just that she was the kind of woman who knows what a man wants to do.
‘It’s warm in here,’ she said. ‘Would you like to take your coat off? And what can I get you to drink?’
I peeled off my jacket and she took it from me. I asked for beer and she told me she only had Flag Ale, which was fine with me. She excused herself and I flapped my arms to free my shirt. Then I admired the view because there were no books on display to snoop at, no ashtray to invite the smoker and to me furniture and paintings are just things to avoid bumping into or knocking off the walls. The water was a deep blue as if no storm drain or ship’s bilge had ever been emptied into it. The scene left my own water view—a glimpse of Rozelle Bay if you half-climbed the back fence—for dead.
She came back with a tray holding a bottle of beer and a pewter tankard. There was also a tall glass of pale liquid with lemon slices floating in it. She put the tray on the coffee table, expertly poured the tankard full and handed it to me.
‘Iced tea for me,’ she said. ‘I don’t drink, you see.’
‘Or smoke,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘We can go out on the balcony if you want to smoke, Mr Hardy. I’m asthmatic. Please sit down.’
We sat down a few feet apart. I decided that she was too thin and too pale. The skin was stretched tight over her high cheekbones in the approved fashion model style, but I suspected that in her case the look owed something to poor health.
‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ she said. ‘I’m what is known as a callgirl.’
I had difficulty in not choking on the icy cold beer. The effect was like Billy Graham saying ‘Shit’ and lighting up a Marlboro. I said nothing, concentrating on getting air down my windpipe. She took a sip of her iced tea.
‘A very high-class callgirl. A very expensive one.’
I nodded and drank some more beer.
‘I’ve surprised you, Mr Hardy. What did you think I was?’
‘I hadn’t given it much thought, Miss Shaw. An actress perhaps, or a lady of independent means.’
‘Good. I’ve made the right impression. What would you say if I told you that my step-father took my virginity when I was twelve and was my pimp for the next few years?’
‘I’d say that was very interesting and then I’d ask why you wanted to see me.’
‘Because I’m sure that if you hadn’t been there last night I would have been killed as well as Charles.’
That got my attention. I thought back to the event, tried to remember it like a piece of freeze-frame photography. Pascoe had spotted a hesitancy in one of my answers and I knew that something about the sequence of actions had puzzled me. Was this it? Had the gunman intended to kill Virginia Shaw? He’d done a good, neat job. Two head shots at that distance, in that light, with a moving target was no easy trick. Had there been a pause, a split-second adjustment before firing again, interrupted by me? It was impossible to tell.
She sat and watched me think. Her cool assurance was beginning to get on my nerves. ‘Did you tell that to the police?’ I asked.
That got to her. She almost bit her lip then turned the action into something more poised. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘First, do you believe me?’
‘I don’t know.’ I drank some of her beer, I believed in that.
‘I saw it coming.’ She mimed the action; a gold bracelet slid down her lean forearm. ‘He lifted the gun and was pointing it at me. You stopped him.’
‘It all happened so quickly. You can’t be sure.’
‘Quickly? It wasn’t quick at all. I saw it in slow motion. If I close my eyes I can see it again.’
She shut her eyes. She was a lady who liked to move her face around to best advantage and I have to admit it was a great face. Now I could see the subtle eye make-up, the shaping of her eyebrows, the smooth, unlined skin. She was utterly convincing and completely phoney at the same time and I had to laugh. The eyes opened wide and the look that was in them came from a totally different personality from the one I’d encountered so far. The ice maiden had become the stone lady.
‘What are you laughing about? It’s true. That little swine was going to kill me. I know it.’
‘How do you know it?’
‘Because I know why Charles was killed. Or I think I do … Oh, God, I thought you might help me.’
‘I’ll be happy to help you if you’ll knock off the stunts and poses and tell me what’s going on.’
She lifted her hand to smooth back her hair, then dropped it. The smile that came next was the first natural one I’d seen. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve got so used to acting the way I’m supposed to, I hardly know what to do with my hands.’
‘Why don’t you have a real drink and we’ll go out onto the balcony where I can smoke? That’s unless the asthma’s just a story, too.’
‘No, that’s true. It’s all true. All right, we’ll do that. How’s your beer?’
‘Plenty left.’ I got up and opened the French windows. Then I took her glass out onto the balcony and emptied it into a pot-plant. I came back and collected the bottle. I topped up my tankard and filled the glass. We sat down on cane chairs in the shady corner of the balcony. I raised my drink. ‘Cheers, and start from the beginning.’
Miss Shaw told me that she’d been recruited to act as a co-respondent in the divorce of Meadowbank versus Meadowbank with Mrs Beatrice Meadowbank as the petitioner.
‘Recruited by who?’ I said. I’d rolled and lit a cigarette by this time. I’d noticed a few butts in the pot-plant where I’d tipped the iced tea, so I had everything I needed.
She sipped some beer with every appearance of enjoyment but with her, who could tell? ‘By a lawyer named An
drew Perkins who used to be a … client of mine. It happens all the time. Mr A wants to marry Miss B but he doesn’t want her cited as the co-re. Someone like me is found and money changes hands, quite a bit of money in my case. Charles wanted a divorce so he could marry someone else. I don’t know who, but it was tricky in some way.’
‘What way?’
‘I’m only guessing, but I think the woman might have been married herself.’
‘Very tricky, that.’
‘Yes, well we met by arrangement, Charles and I, and we … committed adultery. Well, he did. I’m not married so I don’t know whether I did or not. Do you know?’
I shook my head. ‘Go on.’
‘Charles fell in love with me. He wasn’t a fool, he didn’t want to marry me or anything. But he didn’t want to marry the other woman either. And he didn’t want to go through an expensive divorce.’
‘How did you feel about him?’
She gave me a sample from her catalogue of looks—this one meant, Virginia knows the score. ‘He wasn’t the worst man I ever met, and he was one of the richest.’
‘Okay. What happened next?’
‘Charles got very edgy. I’m pretty good at getting men to open up, but I couldn’t get much out of him. Just hints, you know? He’d say things like, “It’s all a bit of a mess” and “They’re not going to like it”.’
‘Did he mean his wife and her lawyer?’
She drained her glass. I gestured with the bottle but she shook her head. What else could I do? I poured the rest of the Flag Ale out for myself before it got warm, drank some froth and waited for her answer.
‘No. It was more serious than that. I really don’t know how to describe it, but he was frightened. Defiant, but scared. I think he was a brave man. That was one of the things I liked about him. I admire bravery, physical courage.’
She was one of those women who keep you on the sexual hop. Everything seemed to come back to basics—you, me, male, female. I dropped my cigarette butt into the pot-plant mud and cleared my throat. ‘Meadowbank felt physically threatened, you’d say? In danger?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he didn’t take any precautions. The two of you just walked out of here.’
‘He kept a gun in his car. I saw it. He tried to hide it from me, but I knew. He really was a good man in his way, Mr Hardy.’
I made another cigarette and looked out over the blue water and white sails, thinking about good men. I’d known a few here and there, and Virginia Shaw’s description of Meadowbank more or less fitted him into the mould: good men try to minimise the harm they do. I sheltered the flame against the slight sea breeze and got the cigarette lit. Why a couple of lungsful of tobacco smoke helps the mental processes has never been explained to me but I’m sure it’s true. I was convinced now that Miss Shaw had a problem. There were things in her story to check—the gun in the car for one, also some of the arrangements. And she was scared. I noticed that she sat well back from the edge of the balcony and it wasn’t just to stay in the shade.
‘You didn’t recognise the guy with the gun, did you?’
‘No, nothing like that. I’ve moved in some shady circles and known some very unsavoury people, but not murderers.’
‘Meadowbank ran a finance company. That’s almost a recipe for making enemies.’
She shook her head vigorously; the loose brown hair flew about her head. She was intense now, uncaring of the impression she made. ‘No! He was killed because of this divorce business. I’m sure of it.’
‘What do you want from me, Miss Shaw?’
‘You’ll help me?’
‘I’m for hire. If it’s legal, I’ll do it.’
‘Legal?’
I swilled the dregs in my tankard. ‘Arguably.’
‘I want you to escort me to the airport. I’m going away for a while. Then I want you to see Andrew Perkins and tell him I don’t know anything about what Charles was doing or planning. Nothing! I want to be in the clear.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No. I want my bloody fee.’
5
She left me on the balcony and came back a minute later with a cheque. I was collecting cheques like an autograph hunter. Virginia Shaw’s was half the amount of the one I’d got from Menzies, but I had a feeling it was going to involve me in a little more work. She was wearing a jacket that matched her dress. I gathered it was time to go. She went into one of the rooms and came back carrying a suitcase and a handbag.
‘You were packed,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Booked your flight?’
She nodded as she made some unnecessary repairs to her make-up.
‘You were confident I’d help.’
‘Not really. I was going anyway. I just feel better knowing there’s someone here looking after my interests.’
A nice, professional way to put it. She closed the French windows but left the bottle and glasses on the coffee table, telling me someone would be in to clean up. On the drive to the airport she wrote out Andrew Perkins’ number and a phone number where she could be reached in Melbourne.
‘How long do you plan to be gone?’
‘Until I hear it’s safe to come back.’
It was all pretty irregular. I wondered how Detective Pascoe would feel about Virginia Shaw’s absence. Presumably she’d be needed as a witness at the inquest, like myself. It wasn’t exactly my problem but it could become so. Irregular, but interesting. Much more interesting than factory fires and phoney break-ins and disappearing motor vehicles. The arrangement Virginia Shaw had come to with the lawyer was almost certainly unenforceable, but I was curious to see what the shyster had to say when I put it to him.
Miss Shaw had booked a first-class, non-smoking Ansett seat to Melbourne. She checked her luggage through and I accompanied her to the departure lounge. She gave me her hand and I shook it gently.
‘Thank you, Mr Hardy. I have every confidence in you.’
‘What about the inquest? You’ll be called.’
She smiled. ‘That’ll be weeks and weeks away, won’t it? You’ll have everything sorted out by then, I hope.’
It sounds dumb, but I made noises that suggested she had the right man for the job. All I can say in my own defence is that she had a strange ability to convince you that what she wanted was both reasonable and in your best interests as well. I wasn’t a complete innocent, though. I left her well before boarding time to give her the opportunity to duck away and do something different if that’s what she had in mind. I watched her from a discreet distance. She looked at the departure board and her watch. Then she went to the newsstand and bought a magazine. When the flight was called she was one of the first through the door.
It was mid-afternoon. I’d arranged to take Cyn out for dinner so I had a few hours to fill in. I hadn’t heard from Alistair Menzies and it seemed like a good idea to find out how much of his cheque was still mine. I rang the office from the airport and was told that Mr Menzies could spare me ten minutes at 4.30. I agreed. That gave me time for a sandwich and a quick drink in the bar. I was glad I wasn’t a professional if it meant only having ten minutes at 4.30.
On the drive back to the city I decided that my client was suffering from an excess of imagination and caution. There seemed to be no reason why a man would be killed for changing his mind about getting divorced. And the judgement of a woman who’d certainly gone into shock immediately after the shooting was bound to be faulty about the intentions of the assassin. I’d extract a promise to pay from Perkins if I could, and that would be the end of it.
Menzies was subdued and preoccupied. He agreed to the cost of repairing my camera being a justified expense and seemed uninterested in recovering any of his retainer. All he wanted to know was whether the police had mentioned a suspect.
‘Not to me,’ I said.
‘Presumably the murderer was hired?’
I shrugged. ‘Who knows? Depends on what sort of a bloke Meadowbank was. He could
have had a hundred enemies, gambling debts, criminal associates.’
‘He was an eminently respectable businessman as I understand it. Also, unhappily, a philanderer.’
‘How’s his wife taking it?’
‘Calmly.’
The bushy eyebrows moved, but not in a way to convey any meaning to me. Was he worrying about losing his fee for handling the divorce, or did he think she might be charged with arranging the murder? My ten minutes were up but he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to rush me out so I thought I might as well put in a little work on my next case.
‘Was the Meadowbank divorce on the up and up?’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘I mean, was there any arrangement to provide a co-respondent, conveniently?’
His jowls quivered. ‘The Queen’s Proctor can be very hard on that sort of thing.’
Not an answer, but it saved me a hunt through a divorce law textbook. Now I’d be able to go straight to the index. As I got up to leave I said, ‘Do you happen to know a lawyer named Andrew Perkins?’
No mistaking the eyebrow language this time—a scowl of disapproval. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘His name came up in connection with something I’m working on.’
‘If he is a principal, I would advise you not to touch the matter, Mr Hardy. Our profession is famous for reticence with regard to the shortcomings of its members. But take my word for it, Andrew Perkins is a barrister and a double-dyed scoundrel.’
Dinner in the Malaya restaurant in George Street went well. Cyn could eat prawn sambal hot enough to fry your socks and this kind of food always put her in a good mood. Made her randy, too. I drank enough Quelltaler hock to push away the feeling that the Virginia Shaw case was going to lead me into difficult territory. We ate in the Malaya often. Customarily, I was facing a day of office-bound boredom and domestic tension thereafter. Tonight was very different. I snapped into a young-and-devoted mood, squeezing Cyn’s long, firm thigh, joking and keeping my cigarette consumption—something she hated—to a minimum. I ate one of her red-hot prawns and put on my Peter O’Toole voice—the tone he uses when he shows the young airmen how he can snuff out a burning match with his fingers.