and explain. It seemed like the right time to suggest that we weren’t looking at a happy ending.
‘I suppose you hoped I’d find the boy quick and easy, and none of this’d matter?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘something like that. I take it it’s not going to be easy?’
‘Right. Now, tell me about Forbes Realty; do those business negotiations you mention concern it?’
He snorted. ‘No, not at all. That’s a very big deal, Mr Hardy, and I don’t want to discuss it on the phone.’
‘Forbes is small beer to you?’
‘More or less, it’s a useful investment.’
‘Are you actively involved with the company?’
‘No, not really. I paid it some attention after Kenneth made his.. allegations.’
‘Were you satisfied?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t enquire too deeply, other things took precedence.’
I’d heard that before-from parents who wept while children with scarred arms died in hospital, and from husbands who’d come home to empty houses and notes. Silverman broke in on these thoughts: ‘Can you tell me what progress you’ve made, Hardy?’ The Mr had gone, he was asserting himself again, and I wasn’t in the mood for it.
‘No’, I said. ‘I’ll call again when I can.’
It was close to six o’clock when I got to Erskineville; petrol fumes and dust hung in the air and Williamson, a beefy, blonde man, was sitting in his singlet on the front step of a terrace house breathing the mixture and drinking beer. We shook hands and I accepted a can.
‘Evans told me to co-operate’, he said popping another can. ‘What d’you want to know?’
I got out the photostat of the speeding summons and handed it to him. ‘Remember this?’ I drank some beer, it was very cold.
‘Yeah, pretty well. That should have come up by now. What’s going on?’
‘He’s dropped out of sight and I’m looking for him. Can you describe him?’
Williamson took a long suck on the can. ‘He didn’t get out of the car, so I can’t be sure of his height or build-I’d guess tall and slim, maybe, a bit taller and thinner than you. He was dark, narrow face…’ He held up his hands helplessly.
‘Hair?’
‘Not much of it, dark and well back at the sides, peak in front, sort of.’
‘Age?’
‘Forties.’
‘Clothes?’
‘Suit-no shirt and tie, the jacket was on the front seat.’
‘Where did he get the licence from, pocket or glove box?’
‘Can’t remember, sorry.’
‘He was alone?’
‘Right.’
‘Did you see anything in the back of the car-clothes, suitcase?’
‘Can’t be sure, the interior light was only on for a second.’
‘How was that?’
‘Well, when I went up he opened the door as if he was going to get out but then he shut it again, you know those sports cars, they’re short on leg room. Maybe there was something in the back, a bag, a parcel, I don’t know. Why?’
‘Just wanted to know if he was on a trip. You stopped him in Gymea, going south?’
‘Right. He was doing 115, like it says.’ He tapped the document and I reached over and took it back.
‘Drunk?’
‘No, he was driving okay and he looked and smelled okay.’
‘Where did he say he was going?’
‘Didn’t ask.’
‘What was his voice like?’
‘Well, Silverman, I don’t know. He wasn’t Australian, some kind of foreigner.’
I finished the beer and set the can down on the wrought iron rail. ‘Thanks for the help and the drink.’
He waved it aside. ‘What’ll you tell Evans?’
‘I’ll tell him you co-operated.’
‘Fair enough.’
The morning was grey and cool; I showered and shaved and dressed. The Smith amp; Wesson went into a holster under my jacket and I put a couple of fake business cards in my wallet. The wallet didn’t look healthy so I banked Silverman’s cheque and drew out some money in a thick stack of small notes. As I was packing it away I took another look at the speeding and parking tickets. The parking ticket was dated eight weeks back and timed 7.30 am, the speeding ticket was thirteen hours later on the same day.
Norton Street was fairly busy when I arrived but I managed to park exactly where the parking attendant had booked Kenneth’s sports car. The spot gave me a clear view of the Forbes office, which was a converted two- storey terrace house behind a high wooden fence. I could see the windows of the upper level and down a lane which ran beside the building. The parking place was legitimate now, but ceased to be so at 7 am when a clearway came into operation.
I had only the vaguest idea of what I was going to do and I tried to think which of the business cards I had was the least incredible. I decided that I knew something about books and that I might be able to gauge the probity of the firm with the right approach. The small front courtyard behind the fence was covered in bark, and there were flowers in pots on either side of the solid door. I rang the bell and the door was opened by a girl who looked too young to be working; she had big eyes swamped in make-up, a lot of straight blonde hair, five inch heels — and she still looked fifteen. I looked over her shoulder and saw a cigarette burning a hole in a piece of typing paper on her desk.
‘Hey, your desk’s on fire.’
She spun around, shrieked and snatched at the paper which knocked the butt on to the floor, where it started burning the carpet; she also knocked over a vase of flowers and spread water across the desk. She started to cry, and I went in and picked up the cigarette. I eased the big blotter out of its holder and used it to soak up the water. She stood watching me while I dried the desk and dropped the cigarette and sodden blotter into a tin wastepaper bin. I also read the letter-it advised a shopkeeper in Newtown with an unpronounceable middle- European name that his lease would not be renewed. The door had opened into what would have been the hall in the original house, but the wall had been taken out and it was now a fair sized office with two desks and several filing cabinets. The girl was fumbling on the desk for another cigarette. She got it going and sat down.
‘Thanks’, she said. ‘What can I do for youse?’
I handed her the burnt letter. ‘You’ll have to do this again.’
She looked at it. ‘Shit’, she said.
I gave her the card that said I was a secondhand bookseller and asked to see Mr Patrick.
‘You need an appointment.’ She puffed smoke awkwardly and tried to look eighteen.
‘I just prevented your office from burning down.’
She giggled. ‘What do you want to see him about?’
I pointed at the card. ‘I want to open a bookshop; I need premises.’
‘Oh, you don’t need Clive… Mr Patrick for that; Mr Skelton will do,’ she swung around to the empty desk. ‘He’s not here…’
I leaned forward and dropped my voice. ‘Well, you know, I might have to deal with Clive. You see, this is not just an ordinary bookshop, if you get what I mean.’ I did everything but wink, and she got the message. Just then a short, well-stuffed guy in a pale blue suit bustled into the room. He had a high complexion, and pink showed through the thin fair hair which was carefully arranged across his skull. He shouldn’t have been that heavy and thin on top, he wasn’t much over thirty. The girl batted her eyes at him.
