a cut rate.’
I got up. ‘Well thank you Mrs Wetherell, that’s all very helpful, I won’t quote you of course.’
‘Quote away’, she said cheerfully, ‘All true.’
‘We’ll see. Just one more thing, do you know anything about Mr Hornfield, the solicitor?’
She was sharp, suspicious at this development.
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I heard he and Jacobs were partners.’
‘Could be, the little rat.’
‘Have you heard bad reports on him too?’
‘No, not a word. But you should see him, he’s the image of Billy Hughes, image of him. Little rat.’
I thanked her again, and went out to my car thinking that I could probably get more from her if I needed it.
The computer is a terrible thing when it’s misused for bank statements and rates notices, but it beats everything for saving the eyes and legs of private detectives. A phone call to Harry Tickener of The News won me admittance to the paper’s computer room and an introduction to the pimply kid who ran the show. He looked about seventeen, but was probably ten years older. I told him I wanted to ask his friend all about Henry Jacobs.
‘Classifieds or news?’ His hands caressed the buttons on the panel in front of him like those of an archer smoothing the feathers of a shaft.
‘Both.’
He did all the things they do-punched buttons, looked at screens, ripped paper and swore until he handed me a bundle of tabloid-sized print-out sheets. I looked at it doubtfully.
‘More than one Jacobs?’
He nodded. ‘Several, and that only goes back seven years.’ He took a Mars bar out of a drawer, peeled it and chewed. ‘Lucky it wasn’t Smith’, he said through chocolate and caramel.
Back home, coffee and pen to hand I pored over the sheets and the coded summaries and they yielded up some of their secrets at last. One of Henry Jacobs’ hearses had been involved in an accident five years before; Henry had stood unsuccessfully for the local council around the same time; his wife Gladys had been laid to rest aged fifty-four five years ago and Ellen Mary Jacobs, aged fifty-six, had followed her but two years later. R.I.P. Henry was very busy at his trade; there were hundreds of notices of funerals he’d handled-men, women and children. After depressing myself with this data for a while I found a tiny nugget of significance-a high proportion of the folk who came posthumously into Henry’s care had shuffled off at St Mark’s Hospital, Harbord.
I pecked away at the typewriter for a bit, applying for copies of the death certificates of Gladys and Ellen and enclosing the correct fee and S.A.E. as directed to Dr C P Hardy, c/-Associate Professor P J White, Department of History, University of Sydney. Peter was accustomed to the subterfuge, it amused him to assist what he called the forces of reaction. Then I phoned Matthews; it was after six o’clock, definitely time for a drink and I wondered what Matthews was doing in his Manly flat. I had the answer when he lifted the phone-a burst of gunfire and a musical crescendo. He excused himself, turned the sound down, and I told him the gist of what I’d learned. I was hoping that he’d tell his mother and that would be the end of Henry. He was too stunned to reply so I fed this idea to him.
‘No, it wouldn’t work’, he said slowly. ‘She wouldn’t believe me. She thinks…’
‘Thinks what?’
‘That my regard for her is… unhealthy. I hated my father, as I told you…’
Oh, Sigmund, I thought. ‘Well, I’d better press on. How’s your mother’s health?’
‘First class, she’s never been ill to my knowledge. Mr Hardy, do you think she’s in danger, real physical danger?’
‘I doubt it. Still keeping well, is she?’
‘Oh, yes, as ever.’ His voice changed and a despairing, fastidious note crept in. ‘She’s seeing him tonight, they’re going to dinner. Mr Hardy, I don’t suppose you could, sort of keep an eye on them? I’m really very worried.’
I agreed to do some surveillance and pick the happy couple up at her place at 8 pm. I told Matthews to have a few drinks, and not to worry.
‘I don’t drink’, he said.
On that happy note I rang Harry Tickener, who stays at his desk until they turn the lights and air conditioning off.
‘How’d you go with the computer?’ he asked.
‘Great. Would there be a human being around there who could do five minutes work? The person would have to be able to read.’
He sighed. ‘That could be tough. Hold on, Martin’s here.’ I heard him shout away from the phone: ‘You can read can’t you, Martin?’ Martin must have replied heatedly because Harry laughed. Then he said: ‘Okay Cliff, Martin’s ready, what is it?’
I told him and hung up. He called back fifteen minutes later-it’s an efficient, tidy world we die in-Gladys Jacobs and Ellen Mary Jacobs had both been cremated.
I showered, shaved and dressed; dinner, I was thinking, didn’t sound like a bad idea. And a man like Mr Matthews with no discernible vices should be able to afford the tab. I drove back into that alien territory and parked a little way up the street from Mrs Matthews’ solid residence. It had some nice old native trees in the front of its rather wild garden; the front fence needed paint.
At eight precisely, Jacobs arrived in the Jag. He dropped a burning cigarette in the gutter and didn’t bother to step on it with his highly polished shoe. He’d changed from the creeping Jesus outfit into a dark suit; his cuffs and collar gleamed under the street light. He was inside for about five minutes and then he came out to the car with a woman on his arm. She was a surprise; taller than her son and taller than Jacobs, her hair was white but she carried herself well, and her face in profile was handsome. She wore a green dress of some soft material and had a light, lacey thing thrown around her shoulders. Jacobs handed her into the car with an almost professional air and we set off for the city.
The awful truth dawned on me as we crept through the city streets-our destination was the restaurant in the clouds where they charge you for the view, the carpet, the mirrors and the head waiter’s aftershave. I couldn’t face that. They parked, I parked and after making sure that they were strapped into their eating seats, I went across the road to a serve-yourself place and served myself. The steak and wine were good and Matthews saved some money.
It was well after ten when they came out; Mrs Matthews was laughing at Henry’s wit, his colour was high but he looked like a virile, mature man who enjoyed life perhaps a little too much. Mrs Matthews was no weeping widow-her handbag swung jauntily, she exuded style. It hit me that I knew nothing about her other than what her son had told me. I had that floundering feeling, like a man slipping down a steep roof with nothing to grab on to. They walked along the street to the Jag, stopping to look in windows, close together, sometimes touching, like two people who’d known each other a long time. I skulked behind, feeling lonely and voyeuristic. We drove back to Manly; Jacobs piloted the big car well, his wining and dining hadn’t affected his driving. They went into Mrs Matthews house, lights came on; I sat in my car and wished I still smoked. Lights went off, I drove home.
Next morning I phoned Matthews at his business number. A non-committal female voice told me that I’d contacted the Milton Insurance Company. It sent a shiver through me; I’d worked for a series of insurance companies as an investigator, the companies had got seedier and so had I. Matthews answered his phone with one brusque word.
‘Claims.’
‘Hardy, Mr Matthews. How’s business?’
He ignored the pleasantry. ‘I won’t be able to talk on this line, Mr Hardy. Did you… ah…?’
‘Yeah, I tagged along. It was interesting. I don’t think she’s in imminent danger. Tell me, what’s her profession?’
‘Oh, didn’t I mention that? She’s a nurse; well, a matron actually.’
‘Where?’
