Peter Corris
Beware of the Dog
1
Dan Sanderson cleared his throat, ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to meet Mr Cliff Hardy, who has been a private enquiry agent for…’
‘Longer than some of you have been alive,’ I said.
It got a laugh, but it was true. Some of the bright young faces looking at me didn’t have twenty years on them and that was how long I’d been in the business. We were gathered in a room in the Petersham College of TAFE where I was doing a guest lecturer spot in the Commercial Agents and Private Enquiry Agents course. When I got my licence it was different. All you needed were some solid citizens to vouch for you and an insurance company to give you the appropriate cover. As a former army officer and investigator for an insurance company, I had no trouble qualifying. Now, you have to do a course in small business practice, legal principles and other things. I’m not sure I could pass it. Dan showed me the text books-very thick and not at all racy. But I didn’t have to pass it. Instead, I was on the instructing end.
I talked for about forty minutes, giving them the spiel Glen Withers and I had worked out. I told them about the unwritten rules of confidentiality, the necessity for good relations with the police force, the advisability of having a friend in a newspaper office and various other short cuts to success. I told jokes, like the one about the client who had failed his driver’s licence test ten times and was convinced there was a conspiracy against him. I’d taken him seriously for a time. Then I’d stuck some L-plates on my car and had him take me for a drive. End of case. And I told them about some sad ones, like the man who was sure that he was the father of his younger brother.
‘The main thing to remember,’ I said in the wind-up, ‘is that, as a PEA, you are at the end of a long line. People have been let down by the law, their families, their friends and all the authorities listed in the phone book. Often, you are a last resort. That’s either an opportunity to exploit them, a reason to dismiss them or a challenge. The choice is up to you.’
I got a hand. Then it was question time. Nothing very tough: Did I carry a gun? Sometimes. Did I ever break the law? Not if I could help it. How many men had I killed? Two, one in defence of someone else’s life, one by accident.
‘You should be asking me if I can name all fifty of the United States of America.’
A blonde woman spoke from the back of the room. ‘You mean the work is often boring and that you have to kill time.’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
Many eyes turned towards her.
‘And can you name all fifty?’
‘Usually,’ I said.
Time was up and the students trooped out of the room. Dan Sanderson, usually a restrained type, shook my hand. ‘That went great, Cliff. Will you do the other class?’
Glen Withers had jacked it all up. Senior Sergeant Glenys Withers, that is. She was taking a break from hands-on policing, and teaching at the Sydney annexe of the Goulburn Police Academy. She had a flat in Petersham and spent three or four nights a week there; the other nights, her visits to Goulburn and my work permitting, she was at my place in Glebe. We were being very cautious about the whole thing-I had yet to sleep at Glen’s flat. She had met Dan in a coffee shop and they got talking about their different teaching jobs-he was a lecturer in the commerce department of the Petersham College-and Glen produced a real live private eye for his students.
I’d enjoyed the lecture. Who wouldn’t? Applause, appreciative young faces. ‘Sure, Dan,’ I said.
‘I could probably get you a few tutorials, too,’ he said. ‘Could be the beginning of a new career for you, Cliff. You’re a natural.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. Once was fine, twice might not be so good and after that…’
‘Well, see how it goes. Gotta rush. Thanks, Cliff. Give my best to Glen. The cheque’ll be in the mail.’
‘Better be,’ I growled. He laughed and hurried out of the room. I gathered up the cards I’d scrawled a few notes on and followed him. The College is a grim, redbrick structure that looks forbidding from the street, but the library, administrative offices and classrooms are arranged in a three-storey semi-circle around a small garden, making it all surprisingly bright inside. I walked down the big-windowed corridors enjoying the atmosphere. It had been a long time since my own, brief, university days, and things seemed to have changed enormously. There was an air of informality that had been totally lacking in my time when we wore jackets and ties and tried to look older than we were. The students here were all ages and didn’t care how they looked.
‘Mr Hardy. Could I speak to you?’
The woman who’d twigged about the boredom component of the job was standing under an archway at the top of the steps that led down to Crystal Street. I judged her age as late twenties; she was tall and slim with a pile of blonde hair held back by a couple of combs and a velvet band. Her clothes were studentish-loose top, long skirt, boots. Her eyes were an alarmingly penetrating blue; they seemed to go right through me, out across the street, over the used car yard opposite and up beyond the rooftops.
I stuffed the cards into the pocket of my leather jacket and took the hand she held out. Smart move, to stick out your hand when you want to talk to someone. Takes a double-barrelled rudeness to snub you. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Ms…?’
She laughed. ‘Mrs. I’m old-fashioned. Mrs Paula Wilberforce. Paula.’
She wasn’t as sure of herself as she wanted to be. Her hand was smooth and warm. She looked the type to trick herself out with earrings and bangles, but the only jewellery she wore was a wedding ring.
‘Hello, Paula. What can I do for you?’
‘Are you going to be doing any more teaching in that course?’
‘I don’t think so. It was just a one-off for me. Something I haven’t done before. I’ll do a repeat performance for the other class, but that’ll be it.’
Her nicely-shaped face fell into lines of disappointment. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Come on. At a guess you were the smartest one there. You’re not going to have any trouble getting your ticket.’ I glanced down at the backpack she had on the ground between her boots. It was stuffed with books and folders. ‘You’re obviously a worker.’
‘I am,’ she said fiercely. ‘That’s the trouble. I only enrolled in this course as backup to my PhD.’
I must have started to edge away at that point. There’s something about the intensity of people who want to be doctors of philosophy that disturbs me. ‘Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you.’
She grabbed five fingers’ worth of leather sleeve. ‘You can! You can. You see, I’m doing my thesis on the role of the private enquiry agent in the legal system, and I’m having terrible trouble gathering material.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ I said. ‘We don’t exactly go around shouting about our place in the scheme of things.’
‘No, but when I heard you talk today I thought I might actually get something useful out of this course. You’ve had the experience.’
‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘But…’
‘Will you at least give me an interview? A long, in-depth session to let me get a handle on how experience feeds into the philosophical…’
That was enough for me. I pulled free of her and headed down the steps. ‘Afraid not, Mrs Wilberforce. Professional code’s against it. Sorry. Best of luck with your studies.’
I could feel those blue eyes boring into my spine as I walked along Crystal Street. There was something scary about her. I’d parked my car in a side street and I actually checked to make sure she hadn’t followed me before I drove off.
