7
I went back to the Crown, got hold of another glass of dollar red and the yellow pages. Ten years ago I’d have been able to telephone all the marinas on the harbour, but not now. At a rough count there were about a hundred of them. Some weren’t possibilities, of course-glorified boat-sheds where you couldn’t tie up anything much bigger than a dinghy. But there were still too many imposing-sounding ones- ‘Middle Harbour Moorings.’ ‘Peninsula Marina’, ‘Clearwater Luxury Marina’- that could, presumably, accommodate a houseboat, to make a ring-around possible.
Paul Guthrie was a client from a few years back. He’d been an Olympic sculler and later a successful businessman. A satisfied client, as it had turned out, he was quite big in boating circles and might know where you’d tie up a houseboat if you happened to have one. The trouble was I didn’t know whether he was still alive. Too often these days when I ring old clients I get recent widows. But I dredged his address up from my memory and found him still listed in the telephone book. Not proof of existence-some widows never change the listing-but encouraging.
I sat by the same phone as before, fed in the money and punched the buttons. Guthrie’s brisk no-nonsense voice sounded impatient but was just an indicator of his energy.
“Paul Guthrie.”
“Cliff Hardy, Mr Guthrie. You might remember…”
“Of course I remember, Cliff. Of course I do. How the hell are you? You said you’d drop in on us but you never did.”
He was right; I always say it and I never do. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy, I guess. How are the boys?” I referred to his two adopted sons, both in trouble at one time.
“Just fine. Me ‘n’ Pat’re grandparents. But you don’t want to hear about that. I hope you want some help. God knows I’d like to do something for you after what you did for us.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. It’s not a big thing. I’m looking for a houseboat called the Pavarotti. I don’t suppose you know it?”
“No.” There was a lot of regret in the word. “I don’t get out on the water much these days. Getting a bit stiff for it.”
“Sorry to hear it. I wonder if you could tell me the marinas that could take such a thing? I gather it’s pretty big.”
“Sure, I’ve got a pretty good idea, and Ray’s here, he’d have an even better one. Can I call you back, Cliff?”
“No. I’m in a pub. I could call you again in what, fifteen minutes.”
“Make it ten. In a pub, eh? Still no home life? What happened to that woman you met? Hannah…?”
“Helen,” I said. “It’s a long story. Say hello to Ray for me. I’ll ring back in ten minutes.”
I still had an inch of wine left. As I drank it I tried to think about the good things, about helping Guthrie out of his trouble, trying to keep thoughts of Helen at a distance. To deal with those thoughts I’d have needed a good deal more help than an inch of cask red. When Guthrie came back on the line he sounded pleased.
“Ray knows the boat. He’s seen it quite a few times. Says it’s a flashy number with a good deal of rot in the hull.”
“Does he know where it is now?”
“No, but he can find out for you first thing in the morning.”
I gave him the home and office numbers and got a number for Ray in return. We exchanged a few more pleasantries and I promised again to visit him and Pat in Cammeray. Maybe this time I would.
All things considered, it looked as if I was through for the night. But you can’t be too sure. I hung around outside the gambling joint until Lou Campisi staggered out. He had to root around in his pockets for cab fare and since he was drunk this made a pantomime which would have been amusing if you didn’t know that the man had been a good jockey and a good fly half. I tailed the taxi, partly to check whether Lou might have had pangs of conscience or pocket that might take him to see Jackson, drunk and all as he was. Also it never hurts to stay in practice.
But the petrol was wasted. The taxi dropped Lou in Newtown; there was an argument about the fare, and then Lou reeled through the gate and up the steps of a boarding house. After a struggle he got a key into the lock and went inside. Lou was tucked up safe for the night; Jackson was sporting himself in a floating casino and my head was hurting again. I was glad Ray didn’t have the location of the Pavarotti to hand-I didn’t feel up to a row or a swim.
I slept for six hours, which meant that I was up and making coffee as it started to get light. The house was cold and I turned on heaters and waited for the morning paper to hit the front door. I collected it and tore the front page getting the wrapper off. The tear went right through a report on the bad balance of payments figures, which saved me from having to read it. I picked my way through the rest of the paper without much interest until I spotted a small item on page four. It was headed ‘Body found in harbour’. Apparently the body of a man had been fished out of the water at Dawes Point. As yet unidentified, the body was of a middle-aged man of average build with no distinguishing marks. That gave me something to think about while I ate toast, shaved, drank more coffee and waited for Ray Guthrie’s call.
“Mr Hardy?” It was the voice I remembered-private school overlaid by the accents picked up in a working life as a boat charterer and repairer.
“Call me Cliff, Ray. How are you?”
“Just fine. I located that houseboat for you, the Pavarotti. Good name, lousy boat.”
“Where is it?”
“Darling Point.”
I had the yellow pages open again and ran my finger down the listings. “I can’t see a marina there.”
“It’s not at a marina, more of a private jetty. One of the few left around there.”
“It must be a big jetty.”
“Big house, big garden, big jetty. Can you tell me why you’re interested, Cliff? I hope you’re not planning to buy it.”
I laughed. “You wouldn’t advise it?”
“No way. It looks good from a distance, probably looks its best at night, but it’s got lots of problems.”
“I’m told it moves around the harbour a bit.”
“One of these days it’ll move down.” Ray was smart enough to see that I wasn’t going to answer his question, and secure enough not to be offended. He’d married his childhood sweetheart, had a son and a daughter and a good business, why shouldn’t he be secure? Still, he’d had a wild phase once and wild men never completely calm down. “Do you need any help? Like to approach from the water side, perhaps? I’d be happy to…”
I thanked him but refused. He told me that the houseboat had been at Darling Point for two days, and that it generally stayed for a week at wherever it tied up. More thanks from me and a reluctant “See you”, from him. I had to be careful. How did it go again? “A licensed private enquiry agent shall not employ in any way whatsoever in connection with his business as a sub-agent any person who is not a licensed sub-agent.” Section 19(1), or thereabouts.
The day had started cold and wasn’t going to warm up much. The sky was clear, with some cloud over in the west; the wind seemed to be blowing gently from all quarters; anything could happen. I wore a sweater under my jacket and when I tried to stuff a scarf into a pocket I found the gun still there. I put the gun away in the glovebox of the car, but no matter how hard you try you always end up breaking the rules-I wasn’t keeping my notes on the Madden case up to date. I should have made an entry before I set off: “to morgue to view body found in harbour”.
Proximity to the Arundel Street morgue is not one of the reasons I live in Glebe. I’ve visited the liver- coloured brick building more often than I care to remember, and it doesn’t improve on acquaintance: too clean, too smooth, too final. I filled in a form and showed my threatened licence to an attendant, who noted my name down carefully on a list that carried three other names.
