“Yes, who’s this?”
“It’s Ailsa Sleeman, I found your card. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m frightened.”
“What’s happened?”
“It’s horrible. Bryn just called me, I don’t know why me, I suppose he just doesn’t know anyone else…”
“What’s happened?”
‘It’s Giles. He’s been shot. He’s dead.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t know. Bryn rang me about an hour ago. I’ve been trying to reach you since then.”
“You sound frightened Miss Sleeman. Why?”
“It’s hard to explain. Impossible over the phone. It’s to do with Dr Brave who you seemed interested in this afternoon. I’m afraid of him. I need help, perhaps protection. I’m willing to employ you.”
That was a switch. A few hours ago she was willing to forget me like a bad dream. This would give me two clients on the same case. I wasn’t sure it was ethical, it had never happened to me before. But if Bryn meant me to proceed with the investigation maybe I could work out a package deal. If Brave could carry through with his threat, I’d lose Bryn as a client so it would be convenient to stay with it on La Sleeman’s behalf. I was hooked on the Gutteridge’s now, and I felt that I’d got into some kind of conflict with Brave that had to be seen through. I needed a bit more to go on though.
“I’m interested Miss Sleeman,” I said in my deliberate voice, “but I need a little more information. Did Mr Gutteridge mention Dr Brave?”
“Yes, they’ve had a quarrel.”
“OK. Can you come in to my office in the morning?”
“Tomorrow?” The panicky note was back, “I thought tonight…”
“Miss Sleeman, I’ve driven a hundred miles today, been lied to, had two fights and lost one badly. I’m out of action until 9 a.m. tomorrow.”
All true enough, but what I really wanted to know was whether she was serious about her proposition and alarm, or was just feeling lonely for the night. She could be one of those rich people who think they have everything they need behind their high walls but occasionally have to send out for some help. Or she might still be in touch with the world outside. I also felt a need to do some talking on my own territory after the lies I’d been told so far. There’s something truth-inducing about a hard chair and a smell of phenol in the hall.
“All right,” she said. Her voice was steadier, no drink in it. “I’ll be in at 9 o’clock. You will help, Mr Hardy?”
I told her I would, made sure she had the address right, made a few reassuring noises and she rang off. The phone rang again almost as soon as I’d put it down. I let it ring a few times while I visited my drink and finished my cigarette. I took Bryn’s cheque out of my wallet and spread it out in front of me. It was one of those big, friendly cheques from a big, friendly chequebook. I’d hoped to collect a few more. I picked up the phone.
“Hardy? This is Bryn Gutteridge.”
“Yes?”
“A dreadful thing has happened Hardy.”
I had to decide quickly whether to let him tell it or to tell him I knew what was up and judge his reaction. The first way seemed to leave me more cards.
“You sound upset. Take it quietly and tell me.”
“Giles has been shot. He was in the car, going on an errand for me
… and someone shot him in the head. He’s gone.”
“I’m sorry Mr Gutteridge. You’ve called the police?”
“Yes of course. They’ve been and gone. They were very considerate. I was surprised.”
I knew what he meant but I wasn’t surprised. The Commissioner would have got in on this quickly and he’d have kept the public lavatory prowl squad well out of it. “Do you want me in on this?”
“No!” Sacking people was second nature stuff to him. He did it with no embarrassment.
“The police will be prying into my affairs. That’s enough. When this is over I’m going away, perhaps for a few years.”
“I see. What about your sister?”
“I’ll take her with me. We’ll get out of this. Drop the investigation Mr Hardy. Thank you for…”
“For what? Just for interest, when did you decide to let the investigation drop, before or after Giles’ death?”
“Oh God, I don’t know. Before, I think. I’m not sure. Why does it matter?”
“It matters to me. What did Dr Brave say to you when you saw him this evening?”
“I didn’t see him, he rang.” He broke off confused and annoyed with himself for replying. “This is no longer your affair, Hardy.”
I didn’t have much of his time left. “Did he threaten you?” I said quickly.
“I’m hanging up Hardy. Send a bill.”
“You’ve overpaid me. Have this for free — Giles’ murder and the threats to your sister are connected. You can’t run away from it.” He hung up.
That left me with Ailsa. I took another pill and finished my drink.
I went to bed. The street was quiet, no dog races so my head was spared the roar of punters’ Holdens and the purr of the bookmakers’ limousines. It was too hot for the street fighters and gutter drinkers to be out lending the area colour and Soames must have had the music down low. I drifted off to the quiet hum of my fan. I slid into a dream in which Ailsa Sleeman, standing tall, reached down for my hands and lifted them up onto her massive breasts.
5
I woke with a headache that was partly due to the crack I’d taken the night before. I looked out of the window across the rusting roofs of Glebe. The sky had a dull, leaden look — the day was going to be hot. A Sahara wind was already whipping the ice-cream wrappers and other crap along the gutters. I made coffee but it was bitter and I swilled it down the sink. About the only good thing I’ve ever heard of Mick Jagger is that he likes scrambled eggs and white wine for breakfast. I made my version of scrambled eggs, piled a glass up with ice and topped it up with hock and soda. I put the drink down fast, made another, and took it, the food and The News out to the courtyard, feeling better every minute.
The paper headlined the hunt for Costello, the police expected a breakthrough hourly, and there were pictures of beefy guys in shirt sleeves heavying honest citizens. Giles’ departure from this vale of tears didn’t get a mention. I ran my eye hopelessly over the cryptic crossword and consoled myself with the meteorological report — hot, high winds ahead of a thunderstorm. I skimmed the paper again and was surprised to find an idea forming in my mind. I let it take shape for a few minutes and then gave it another drink in case it went away hurt.
I shaved, took a shower and put on my other suit which is said to be lightweight but always makes me sweat like a pig if I move at a pace above a royal stroll. I was already hot when I slipped into the car. The radio aerial had been broken off just above the mounting and was lying in three pieces across the bonnet in the shape of the mark of Zorro. I swore and swept the pieces into the gutter. Insurance was supposed to cover things like that, but how do you insure yourself against insurance premiums? The car started cheerfully and I moved off towards the city.
I reached my office, two floors up above St Peters Street, close to 9.00. The Cross, or what’s left of it after the developers had their way, is just a block north. The whores were already at work, not doing any business among the winos squatting on the pub steps, but keeping in practice. My office opens straight into the corridor, no ante-rooms for people to wait or die in. I inherited it from a clairvoyant who fell under a train. The desk was covered with astrological signs and cabbalistic symbols in inks of various colours — I never had the nerve to rub them out and confined my own doodling to the blotter.
The knock came at exactly 9 o’clock. I sang out that the door was open and she came in slowly and tentatively like a schoolboy coming into the head’s study. She wore a light blue mottled smock over tight flared
