She fixed the uncomfortable detective with her eye, and he flinched.
‘That’s right, madam, you are quite correct. Now, tell me all about the man.’
Bert, assisted by Cec, repeated the description, and the detective lost his indifference. He flicked over the pages in the ledger and read aloud, ‘Six feet tall, cropped hair, swarthy complexion, signet ring on his left hand.’
‘Yair,’ agreed Bert. ‘We couldn’t see his hair because he had his hat on, but I reckoned that it was black, or very dark brown, like shoe polish. And a little smear of a moustache, just a line on the upper lip.’
‘That’s him,’ said the detective. ‘He’s been involved in this racket for three years — or that’s as long as we’ve known about it. We call him Butcher George. The first victim was a girl called Mary Elizabeth Allen, found dead in the Flagstaff Gardens, dumped out of a car by a man of that description. Good girl, by the way. The next was a common prostitute known as Gay Lil, real name Lillian Marchent, found dying in a gutter in Fitzroy Street. She said that the job was done by a man called George Fletcher and gave a similar description. Course, you can’t rely on the word of a girl like that. .’
‘O can’t ye?’ demanded Dr MacMillan, her accent becoming more Scottish as she lost her temper. ‘I’ve worked with enough of ’em to know you can trust ’em just as fine as anyone — they’re human women, for the Lord’s sake! Lil’s death is just as much a tragedy as the good little girls’—they all die the same, Detective- inspector.’
Dr MacMillan saw that Bert, Cec and the policeman were all regarding her with the same puzzled stare. She concluded that men were all alike, one side of the law or the other, and held her tongue. The detective-inspector read on.
‘Third was a married woman — eight kids she had — and she got home before she bled to death. Left her husband a note saying that George had charged her ten pounds and she was sorry. Man answering to that description seen leaving the house. That was six months ago. And now your girl — when do you reckon it was done?’
‘Two or three days ago.’
‘And will she live?’
‘I hope so. I can’t tell,’ sighed Dr MacMillan. The detective-inspector leaned back in his chair.
‘We don’t know enough. It’s always hard to find ’em, because their victims protect ’em. To a girl in that situation, even death seems better than continuing pregnant, with social ruin staring her in the face. And some of them are quite competent. Some even use ether and have an operating-room. Some, like this bastard — beg pardon, madam — force themselves on the girls before they do the procedure.’
Cec growled, and Bert demanded, ‘If you’ve got all this proof, why don’t you catch him?’
‘No clues, he gets rid of the ones who die.’
‘And the ones that live won’t say a word. They com- mitted a crime by having the abortion, I understand,’ said Dr MacMillan. ‘We see enough of them at the hospital. Bleeding like pigs, infected, mutilated, torn and sterile for life, they all insist that it was a hot bath, or a horse-ride, or a fall down some steep stairs. Very well, officer. Thank you for seeing us.’
‘Here, you’re going to do nothin’?’ protested Bert. The detective-inspector turned a weary face towards him.
‘Why don’t you mobilise the comrades?’ he suggested tonelessly. ‘This George is somewhere in the city, near where you picked up this poor girl. Keep your eyes open, you may see him again.’
‘I tell you what, mate,’ called Bert as he was ushered out, ‘if I do see him, I’ll run the bastard down!’
Back in the taxi Cec drove and Bert asked questions.
‘Is she going to live?’
‘As I said to that policeman, I don’t know. I’ve cleared the womb of its remaining contents so the source of infection is gone. I’ve stitched up the damaged flesh and disinfected every bit I could reach. She will decide her own fate now. And I must get the almoner to find her relatives, and I have a surgery at four — so shall we stop dawdling?’
Cec ground gears and they picked up speed.
Dr MacMillan was decanted at her hospital, and Cec and Bert resumed their rounds. They did not speak, but patrolled up and down the city, picking up fares, and watching for the tall man with the moustache and the signet ring with the huge diamond. Cec followed Bert and Bert succeeded Cec, until they went home to Carlton at about three in the morning.
‘Wouldn’t it rot your socks?’ exclaimed Bert, kicking at a passing fence. ‘Wouldn’t it?’
Cec said nothing, but that was normal for Cec.
CHAPTER FOUR
Wallace Stevens ‘The Plot against the Giant’
‘You ain’t one of them white slavers, are you?’ demanded Dorothy, stopping dead in Collins Street, and causing a gentleman directly behind her to swallow his cigar. Phryne reached into her pocket, chuckling.
‘If you’re really thinking that, then accept this ten quid and go home to your mother,’ she suggested. The idea of scouting for white slaves in the Block Arcade tickled her fancy. Dorothy looked at the ground so intently that Phryne wondered if she was surveying for the gold which was popularly supposed to pave Melbourne’s streets.
After a little while the girl took Phryne’s hand.
‘I don’t think that really,’ she said in her flat, harsh drawl. ‘Not really. But it was in the
‘Indeed. Come on, Dorothy, it’s not far now.’
‘Slow down, Miss, you walk so fast. I’m wore out.’
‘Frightfully sorry, old dear,’ murmured Phryne, slowing her swift pace and patting Dorothy’s hand. ‘We’ll soon be there; just around the corner at the top of the hill. You shall have a bath, and perhaps — yes, a cocktail, and. .’
Phyrne led Dorothy up the steps into the Windsor and past the magnificent doorman, who did not so much as flicker an eyelash at the sight of the miserable and under-clad Dorothy. His only private comment was to the effect that the aristocracy did have singular tastes.
Phryne conducted Dorothy to the bathroom and shut her in, instructing her to wash herself and her hair thoroughly, pointing out the products to be used for various surfaces. She left her confronting, rather dubiously, the array of jars, unguents, boxes and wash-balls which were laid out upon the skirted table, next to a very naked nymph in gunmetal. Phryne sighed. Clearly the nymph had aroused all of Dorothy’s latent suspicions. However, a certain splashing and puffs of scented steam from under the door indicated that her doubts did not extend to either hot water or Phryne’s cosmetics. The smell of ‘Koko-for-the-Hair’ (as used by the Royal House of Denmark) made itself palpable.
Phryne had few really ingrained fears, but lice was one of them. The very idea made her skin crawl. In her early youth she had spent a miserable day with her head wrapped in a kerosene-smelling towel and she was not going through that again if she could help it. She rumaged in her fourth trunk, and found a very plain nightdress and a dressing-gown in a shade of orange which did not suit her at all, and sat down to check off her visiting list.
She had some twenty people to leave cards upon in the morning, and the prospect gave her no pleasure. She sorted out a suitable selection of cards and wrote, on each, the name of the person who had referred her to the householder. This took about twenty minutes, and at the end of it Phryne began to wonder at the silence in the bathroom. She crossed the room and knocked, the garments over her arm.
‘Are you all right, old thing?’ she called, and the door opened a crack.
‘Oh, Miss, I’ve tore my dress, and it’s the only one I got!’ wailed the hapless maid.
Phryne stuffed the nightwear through the gap in the doorway and ordered, ‘Put those things on, Dorothy, and come out! I’ll advance you enough for a new dress.’
There was a muffled gulp, almost a sob, from the room, and a moment later, Dorothy emerged in a sweep of orange satin.
‘Oh, ain’t it fine! I love pretty clothes!’ she cried. It was the first spontaneous exclamation of pleasure Phryne had heard from the girl, and she smiled. Dorothy, bathed and revenged, was unrecognisable. Her fair skin was
