who’s got a camera.’
She laughed. ‘I can’t go around with a bloody camera all the time. Mind you, I haven’t taken any pictures for a while. It’s a great day. Might be a good idea.’
‘What’ve you got planned for today?’
‘Not much.’ The laughter went out of her voice.
‘I suggest you ring Michael Hickie and talk a bit of business with him. Can you tell me anything about the party Barnes was at?’
‘Yes. It was at a gallery in Paddington. Barnes was considering it for his exhibition. I’ve been to a million gallery parties. I couldn’t face another one. Also I was afraid he’d get violent, and that was the one part of Barnes’ personality I had trouble with. I went to the coast.’
I got the name of the host and the address t from her. I imagined her standing in the phone box or outside a shop. I wanted to see that brown hair in the sunlight. I wanted to see her. ‘I think you should go to this studio of yours tonight. Say before dinner. Leave your car and leave the house looking normal. Leave a light on, or the TV or something.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll tell you tonight when I see you. Will you do it?’
Her characteristic pause again. Then she said, ‘Yes. All right.’
‘What’s the address?’
‘Flat two, 505 Chalmers Street, Redfern. It’s opposite the park. There’s no phone.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can make it. Should I bring anything? Food, or…?’
‘No, it’s well stocked. Just a minute.’
‘What? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m just wondering why I’m letting you order me around like this.’
I drew a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. There might be nothing happening or a simple explanation. I just think it’s wise to take a few precautions.’
‘You’re talking about the break-in and you being followed?’
‘Yeah. And O’Fear’s name coming up.’ Another pause. Then her deep, breathy voice again. ‘All right. I’ll play along for a while at least. See you at the studio tonight.’
I shaved, carefully and closely. I had already shampooed my hair. I found a clean shirt and some cotton pants still wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic. Most of the wrinkles had dropped out of my jacket overnight. I’d pass muster in Paddington and Coogee. I might even get by in Redfern.
I suppose I started at the Paddington end of things because I thought it would be the easiest. Talk to a few arty types, confirm that Barnes hadn’t been drunk at the party and get a sceptical opinion on his chances of making millions as an artist. Bad practice to prejudge the outcome of an enquiry, but I’ve never known an enquirer who doesn’t do it.
The Toby Cornwall Gallery was in Gipps Street. The street bends sharply and the building that housed the gallery was built right on the dogleg, which gave it an odd, ramshackle shape. There was nothing shabby about it, though: outside it was all polished brass and heritage green paint; inside the walls and carpet were the same shade of just off-white. A soft light flooded down from a huge, tinted skylight. There were paintings on the walls and several more were hanging down into the open space, suspended on wires attached to the ceiling. Some sculptures sat on pedestals and there were things in glass cases I couldn’t identify.
A few people were moving quietly around, looking at the exhibits and murmuring their appreciation. It looked like a good place to spend a lot of money, not much of a spot for a party. Felicia had told me that the director of the gallery was one Leon Willowsmith, who had eased out Toby Cornwall some time back. According to her, Willowsmith was a workaholic, never away from his shop. Has to have an office somewhere, I thought. Can’t do business out here. What if he spilled ink on the carpet? I walked purposefully forward, ignoring the art, except when I had to swerve to avoid one of the hanging pictures. At the end of the room was a desk set beside a passageway. The expensive carpet stopped here and some darker, practical floor covering began. The business end, spill all the ink you like. A young, darkhaired woman sat at the desk thumbing through a glossy catalogue.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Yes?’ She looked up reluctantly; the catalogue was about antique jewellery.
‘I’d like to see Mr Willowsmith, please.’ I gave her a card.
She fumbled and dropped the card onto the catalogue. It didn’t look much on top of a gold bracelet with a diamond clasp. ‘I don’t know…’
‘Tell him I’m working for Mrs Barnes Todd.’
She took the card, got up and went down the passageway. Her stiff, full skirt swished and she didn’t hear me moving right behind her. She knocked on a door and opened it.
‘Mr Willowsmith, there’s a private detective working for Felicia Todd. His name’s…’
I pushed the door further open, took the card from her hand and went past her. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
She grabbed my arm. ‘Hey!’
‘Cliff Hardy, Mr Willowsmith. Could you tell her to let me go? She might hurt me.’
The man behind the desk had a pink, cleanshaven face and a pink, clean-shaven skull. He had massive shoulders inside a cream silk shirt. He smiled and something glinted on one of his large, white front teeth. ‘Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘Come in. I’ve been expecting you. It’s all right, Judith. You can go.’
Judith withdrew crossly and I walked towards the desk. Willowsmith held out his hand and I gave him the card.
‘Excellent,’ he said. His voice was a soft purr. ‘Do sit down. A fine entrance-have you ever done any acting?’
I shook my head and sat in an uncomfortable chair made of canvas and tubular steel. The office was sparsely furnished with not an art object in sight. Willowsmith’s desk held the usual clutter of the man who either was busy or wanted to look that way. He was taking all the points so far, which wasn’t the way I’d intended things to go.
His remark had put me off balance. ‘What d’you mean, you were expecting me?’
He waved his right hand; the white, pudgy fingers carried at least three rings, maybe more. ‘You, or somebody like you. I knew Felicia would need some help. How can I be of assistance?’
I looked at him, trying to tell whether or not he was lying. It was impossible to say. His pale blue eyes were very steady and his thin mouth was firm-not that that means anything. He looked like a man who hires people to do things for him. Maybe watch houses and follow cars, but only for a very good reason. ‘I’m investigating Barnes Todd’s death,’ I said. ‘I understand he attended a function here shortly before he died.’
‘Excuse me. Is this an insurance matter?’
‘No.’
‘Then I don’t understand.’
There was something hypnotic about him. I found myself telling him briefly what my business was. He nodded as if he was used to people playing straight with him. ‘I could give you a list of the people who were here, with perhaps a few omissions. I think a couple of my guests were officially elsewhere in other company, if you follow me.’
My turn to nod.
‘Barnes certainly wasn’t drunk. I doubt that he’d had more than one drink, two at most. He left quite late, but only because the argument took up a lot of time.’
‘Argument?’
‘Oh, yes. I wanted to exhibit him. I’d sold some of his things privately. I thought I had the right. He objected to that. He became very angry.’
‘With you?’
‘Yes, and with several other people in the business who tried to put their oars in. He called us the usual things-leeches, bloodsuckers and so on.’
‘You’re being frank, Mr Willowsmith.’
He shrugged those big shoulders and smiled again. The glint came from a small diamond embedded in the
