Frances cast a longing glance at the dance floor. Jack was the most accomplished dancer imaginable, but they’d agreed to leave him to his host duties tonight. If people saw him with Signorina Francesca in his arms, someone might remember her as his girlfriend, plain Frances Palmer. Uncle Sal too couldn’t risk hurting his ankle when so much depended on his mobility, despite his seated act.
‘Ready?’ Marie pressed a clipboard in her hand and hung a money-tin around her neck. She and Frances would sell the raffle tickets, with the buyers only having to put down their names.
‘Already?’ Frances frowned.
‘After Dolores has worked her magic. But we need to be prepared.’
As if on cue, the lights were dimmed again, and a low, single drumbeat caught everyone’s attention.
People cheered as Dolores came in sight on her swing seat. Frances marvelled at the effect. She’d had to climb on behind the curtain, let herself be raised high, and then lowered again while travelling at least twenty feet.
The spotlight caught her shining shoes, the silk stockings, and the draped, golden lamé dress.
Frances’s breath caught in her throat. She’d never seen Dolores this stunning. Gasps from the audience confirmed that.
‘Wow,’ a voice behind her said.
Frances spun around. Phil winked at her. ‘Later,’ he whispered while he focussed on his girlfriend.
Frances clasped Uncle Sal’s hand. With Phil on their side, they were safe.
Dolores held the audience in the palm on her manicured hands. For thirty minutes she sang, and Frances could have sworn it couldn’t have been longer than five minutes.
She saw Phil and Jack exchange a few words while she beamed at guests and the shillings poured in for the raffle tickets. The crowd squeezed happily together, and she had to move quickly to avoid being jostled. The heat of the room flushed her cheeks under her powder. A flash bulb in a corner announced a press photographer.
Frances giggled. She already knew which picture would make the papers. The photographer might snap away, but nothing could compete with Dolores on her swing seat.
‘Frances.’ Pauline waved at her.
‘One moment,’ she called out as Mr Dunne put his name down for three tickets.
She dashed into the dressing room and put down her clipboard, which now held a dozen sheets of paper with names, and the money-tin. She stepped into her roller skates.
Pauline’s eyes were wide with excitement as she danced onto the stage and allowed Tony, who looked like a fashion plate in a cleverly altered old suit of Jack’s, to help her into position.
Her smile shone brighter than ever as the audience clapped.
Frances pushed herself off and twirled before pushing Uncle Sal and his chair in place. She rolled five yards away.
Tony handed her the set of knives.
The guests fell silent.
The drums beat. Frances curtsied, Uncle Sal lifted a hand, and she threw the first knife over to him. He caught it by the handle, just like the second, third, and fourth.
Frances curtsied again, rolled over to Uncle Sal and counted the beat under her breath. They were at a forty-five-degree angle to Pauline as he threw the first knife. A woman screamed.
Frances faltered for a second, then found her rhythm again. The second knife whizzed through the air, then the third, and the fourth.
The applause made the floor sway. Uncle Sal rose and took a deep bow. Loud whistles greeted him. He held out his hand to Frances, and they bowed together.
Tony helped Pauline down and stepped out of the way. The spotlight moved away from Uncle Sal and onto Pauline, who for one brief moment, was celebrated like a star. She still stood there on stage, shining brightly, as Frances rolled into the dressing room.
She sat down to take off her roller skates as her gaze fell upon the clipboard, with the raffle ticket orders. There was something about Mr Dunne’s signature. Michael Joseph Dunne, with a leftward slant.
The truth knocked her for six. She’d seen that particular handwriting, on the document she’d stolen from the office. Only then the signature had said, Josephine Cowper. Not Mr Lucca, but his boss had falsified the papers for the painted horses.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Frances rushed out of the dressing room, only to catch Gillian stage-whispering her rehearsed lines in Mr Lucca’s earshot. She said to a friend, ‘This is between you and me, but my mate whose brother works at the prison, said they’ll release that vet. The poor bastard’s innocent of murder.’
Frances spun around. Mr Dunne leant against a wall and enjoyed a sandwich, too far away to hear anything.
She frantically searched for Phil and Jack. A warm hand touched her shoulder. She stifled a scream. ‘Everything okay, kiddo?’
‘We’ve got the wrong man,’ she said into Jack’s ear. ‘Mr Dunne is the one.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’ve recognised the writing.’
Jack took her by the hand.
People clapped as she rolled past them, convinced this was part of the entertainment.
Jack gave Marie a discreet sign she seemed to understand perfectly.
‘Let’s get out of the way,’ he said to Frances as he led her again towards the dressing room.
The last thing she heard was Marie tell Andie Miller loud enough for Mr Dunne to hear, ‘I just heard the poor vet they’ve stitched up for that horrible murder didn’t do it after all. I bet there’ll be another arrest tomorrow.’
They left the dressing room door ajar as Frances and Jack listened for steps towards the office. Please, let us be right, she prayed silently.
Shuffling noises alerted them.
Jack inched the door open. They saw a man slipping into the office.
Frances wished she’d had time to take off the roller skates. Every tiny noise seemed magnified.
Jack touched a finger to his lips. She nodded.
They crept into the office. Mr Dunne squatted on his haunches as he rummaged in the open safe. A desk lamp shone directly into the opening.
Jack blew a whistle.
Mr Dunne spun around, a pistol in his hand. It gleamed menacingly in the low light. He rose to his full height.
‘Your girl-friend will join me,’ he said in a conversational tone that made Frances sick. ‘Unless you want to find out what an excellent shot I am.’
Frances moved closer to Mr Dunne, hoping she’d cover Jack with her body.
Mr Dunne grabbed her with his free arm.
‘I guess you’re just as good with a syringe, and a horseshoe,’ Jack said.
‘Clever. Very clever.’
‘You won’t get away with it,’ Jack said.
Mr Dunne waved the pistol from Frances to Jack. ‘I think I already have. And if you two lovebirds have had a little bit too much to drink and crash my car, I’ll be sure to send a wreath.’
Jack applauded.
‘Stop that,’ Mr Dunne said. ‘No unnecessary noise, or your sweetheart here will feel first-hand what I’m capable of.’
Frances swayed. She told herself it was only to convince him that he’d won, and that it had nothing to do with fear. She was sure Jack had tried to cover up any sounds from the passage.
‘If you hurt her …’ Jack clenched his fist.
‘You’re not exactly in a position to threaten me.’
‘I know. If this were an act on the stage -’ Jack lowered his gaze and looked despondent on the floor. And at her roller skates.
She drummed a beat on her thigh. One, two, three. Frances let herself loose control of the skates and crash heavily against Mr Dunne who lost his balance. Jack grabbed Mr Dunne’s pistol hand and twisted it.
The pistol fell onto the floor. Frances scrambled to pick it up.
‘I think we’ll take over from here.’ Phil entered together with Sergeant Miller. The sergeant pulled Mr Dunne to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back.
‘About bloody time,’ Jack said.
�
�I didn’t want to make his trigger finger itch,’ Phil said with an apologetic glance at Frances. ‘And you were so good at making him sing.’
Jack clapped Sergeant Miller on his shoulder. ‘Thanks for pitching in on this job.’
‘My pleasure,’ the policeman said.
Phil picked up the telephone. ‘You go back to your wife, Sergeant, and I wait here for reinforcements.’
‘I’ll wait with you,’ Jack said. ‘Frances, you go and have fun with Uncle Sal.’
‘Are you sure?’
Phil turned around discreetly as Frances leant in and kissed Jack until they both had to come up for air.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘We can continue this conversation later.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cockatoos screeched in the early morning sun. Rob stumbled through the prison gates like a somnambulist afraid of waking up.
‘Rob.’ Frances flung herself into her brother’s arms. Tears rolled down her cheeks. He held onto her like a drowning man.
‘I’m really not dreaming,’ he said. She shook her head. His body felt so skinny to her touch, with his shoulder blades jutting out.
Jack leant against the bonnet of the Ford. They’d been waiting outside the prison since seven o’clock. If he and Uncle Sal had let her have her will, she’d camped here all night, fearful of having Rob find himself all alone.
Her brother climbed into the car, his dazed look unchanged. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Home,’ she said. ‘You’re safe.’
Uncle Sal hugged Rob so hard, Frances thought she heard ribs crack. ‘You sit down, my boy, and have a proper meal.’
Jack left them to their reunion, so Frances and Uncle Sal could give Rob their undivided attention.
He shovelled in eggs and bacon as if he’d been starving. Only when he’d wiped his greasy plate clean with a slice of fried bread did his face lose that haunted look.
‘I am home alright. But I still haven’t the foggiest why the charges were dropped.’ He reached for their hands. ‘What I am sure of is that it was you who got me off. You, and White Jack.’
‘It was Mr Dunne all along,’ Frances said. ‘He’d been running a string of painted horses together with a few people in different cities. They’d use a couple of runners to place bets with bookies, blokes desperate for a bob or two and not likely to ask questions. The police have his ledger, with all the names and dates.’
‘And Brocky? Poor devil, getting murdered for recognising a horse.’
‘They found the poison used to kill him in Mr Dunne’s safe,’ Uncle Sal said.
‘Did anyone else in Morphettville work with him?’ Rob’s hand trembled. ‘I can’t believe it. They all seemed like good fellows, you know.’
‘No-one who had any clue what he was really up to, as far as we’ve been told,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘He might have gotten the idea from his dad, who used to work for the old lady in Hobart he used as a front. We’d have twigged it was him a lot sooner if we’d known the old man’s real name, instead of only hearing about Old Pom with the sticky fingers.’
‘And the other vet? Did he leave me in the soup?’ Rob asked.
Frances hugged him again. ‘He probably had an idea Mr Dunne was up to no good,’ she said. ‘Marie saw a brochure in his new surgery, about Charleston. We didn’t understand until her friend Andie, who grew up there, mentioned the place was founded by a Mr Dunn. Maybe it was supposed to be some kind of security. Like, I’ve left a few clues if something happens to me.’
Rob’s lids drooped.
‘Bath and then bed,’ Frances said. ‘Tonight, we’ll celebrate. But first you ring up Lucy and Mum.’
Frances had difficulties tearing her gaze away from Rob who sat in an upstairs niche at the Top Note with Tony and Pauline.
‘It’s fine if you want to join them.’ Jack smiled into her upturned face. ‘We can always dance another night.’
‘No, he rarely has the chance to talk with Tony. What I’d love though is to repeat a bit of the show for Rob.’
Her brother was dead set on leaving Adelaide as soon as he could, to return to his wife and son. Phil had arranged for his statements to be taken as soon as possible and then it would be good-bye. He might not even have to stand witness against Mike Dunne, thanks to the overwhelming evidence.
‘Sounds good to me.’ Jack held her so close her heart fluttered. ‘Tomorrow night? Dolores is dying to try out her swing seat here, without an investigation to distract us.’
He nodded towards the singer who floated by in Phil’s arms. Her boyfriend had done his best to smooth everything for them, including glossing over the little details like picked locks and borrowed documents. He’d been fair enough to emphasise Sergeant Miller’s part in the arrest, too. With any luck, the officer would receive a promotion, or at least a recommendation.
Rob’s jaw dropped as he watched first Dolores and then his little sister on stage. Frances looked like she belonged there and not in a stuffy telephone exchange.
Jack sat next to him. ‘Impressed?’
‘I’ve seen Uncle Sal in action when I was a youngster, but my sister – wow.’ Rob shook his head in admiration.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after her.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’ Rob swallowed. ‘For everything.’
‘No need. Anyone would have done the same.’
‘I don’t think so, but I’m grateful. Also, for your telling them not to ask too many questions.’
‘I’ve never been in prison,’ Jack said. ‘But I have some experience with bad stuff you can’t talk about, at least not straight away.’
‘Yeah. It’s like a bad dream at the moment.’
‘If you do want to talk and don’t want to burden your wife, we’re here.’
Jack gave Rob’s shoulder a light squeeze.
Bluey came sprinting up the stairs, a telegram in his hand.
‘What on earth?’ Jack asked as he took the telegram and slit it open.
He was still holding on to it as Uncle Sal, Frances and Pauline joined them.
‘You’re quiet,’ Frances said.
‘Just a bit tired,’ he said. ‘I’m not twenty anymore.’
She laughed. ‘As if anyone could keep up with you.’
He pressed a kiss on her head. ‘I’ll leave you to enjoy yourselves. Bluey will drive you home whenever you’re ready.’
Chapter Thirty
Jack dropped in while they were still at breakfast. Frances had to return to work the next day, and she wanted to make the most of these last precious hours.
Rob wanted to excuse himself as Jack entered the kitchen.
Jack waved it off. ‘Please stay. There’s a few things I’d like to talk with you all about.’
Frances dropped her toast. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Probably not. My mother has asked me to visit.’
‘In England?’ Frances voice shook. Having Jack travel to New Zealand had been bad enough. England was on the other side of the world!
‘In England, or France. I couldn’t quite make head or tail of it. The thing is, I’d like you to come along.’
‘Me?’ Frances couldn’t believe her ears.
Jack addressed Rob. ‘If I’m right, your mother would love to help your wife now that another baby’s coming. I assume your Lucy is fine with that?’
‘Too right she is. But we know that Mum has her home here, with Franny and Uncle Sal.’
Uncle Sal’s jaw muscle twitched. ‘If you can go, love, do it. You always wanted to travel.’
‘I thought you’d come along as well,’ Jack said. ‘When I checked in with the travel agent, he asked me if you’d be willing to entertain the passengers on the ship. You and Signorina Francesca. He’d read an article in “The Advertiser”.’
‘They want us?’
‘Well, ideally they’d love to hire Dolores too, but she doesn’t cope well with sea voyages. She got sick on the ferry to Kangaroo Island.’
‘You’ll find something to occupy you. I thought Marie and Bluey could manage the club between them. I’m sure your boss will give you leave, if you tell him it’s a family emergency, and it’s going to be your honeymoon.’
Frances felt her jaw drop.
‘My -’
‘Unless you’d rather wait with our wedding until all our family can be assembled in one place. I might be old and grey before that happens.’
Frances stared at Jack until Rob nudged her. ‘Say something.’
‘You’re not joking.’
‘Never. We’ve got our fair share of entertainers already.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Please, Jack.’
He pulled her close.
Uncle Sal cleared his throat and motioned Rob to follow him.
Frances barely registered them leaving.
‘You’re crying.’ Jack wiped a tear off her cheek.
‘It’s all been a bit much.’
‘It’s all over,’ he said. ‘From now on it’ll all be smooth sailing. I promise.’
‘A little adventure is alright though.’
‘I’m glad to say that. Crossing the oceans end of the year can have its exciting moments.’
She snuggled into his arms.
‘I’ll have you and Uncle Sal to look after me.’
‘You won’t get rid of us.’
Another, slightly daunting, thought hit her. ‘What if your mother won’t like me?’
‘She will.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I’ve ever been. Now, who do want to talk to first, your mother or your boss? And how long does it take you to pack? We can buy everything you still need once we’ve docked in England.’
Her heart sang. ‘We’re really going?’
‘I’ve already booked our cabins,’ he said.
‘What if I had said no?’ She giggled.
‘In that case I’m convinced Pauline would have been only too happy to have another shot at stardom. Although I would decline to marry her. I’ll leave that to Tony.’
Murder at the Races Page 18