I liked the ‘ours’; James has a way of inserting himself into things. ‘And what’s that, Quentin?’
‘Can’t quite put my finger on it. When the penny drops, I’ll let you know.’
That could mean almost anything or nothing at all. I had to hope it didn’t mean that James was dealing a hand of his own. These days, he was too fat and lazy to take the trouble, but he had a reputation for playing both ends against the middle and you never knew.
Kevin Barnes was nearest to home. He lived in a rent-controlled flat in Darlinghurst, one of the few remaining. Barnes’ family had been in crime for three or four generations, stretching back to the days of the razor gangs and before that to ‘the pushes’ of the inner city. James’ fax included brief notes on the subjects. Barnes had served a number of terms for burglary and break and enter, having graduated from shoplifting. He was also an arsonist when the price was right and was not above a little standover work. Bit of an all-rounder, Kevin.
I climbed a creaking iron staircase that was insecurely attached to the building in Riley Street and knocked on the door of the flat. Most of the space on the tiny landing near the door was occupied by cartons containing empty beer cans. Naturally, cats had pissed on the boxes.
The woman who answered the door had a pair of the most tired eyes I’d ever seen. She had dyed blonde hair, a lot of make-up and wore a halter top, bikini pants and white spike-heeled shoes. Her hair, clothes and body put her in her forties; her eyes made her a hundred and ten.
‘You Clive?’
‘No.’ I got my foot in the door before she could close it. ‘I’m looking for Kevin Barnes.’
‘At the pub.’ She put her heel on my instep and pressed down a little. I pulled the foot back and she slammed the door.
She meant the nearest pub and that was the Seven Bells, a block away. It was an old-style Sydney pub: dark and smelly with faded advertisements showing people wearing clothes that had gone out of date about the time I was born, and drinking from glasses of a shape I could barely remember. There were four men drinking in the bar-one pair and two singles. I ordered a middy, paid the correct money, and put a five dollar note on the bar. ‘Kevin Barnes?’
The barman palmed the note and inclined his head at one of the single drinkers. Not a word spoken. I carried my drink across to where he sat on a stool. ‘Mr Barnes?’
He looked at me, raised his glass and took a drink, then picked up his cigarette from the ashtray and had a drag. There was one cigarette left in the open packet. Both hands shook and I could tell that Kev’s burglary and standover days were past. He was big but the flesh was sagging on his bones as if something was sapping him from inside. The ashtray was full of butts and his bleary eyes and slack mouth told me the middy he was drinking was more like his tenth than his first. His woman was on the game and cats were pissing on his doorstep.
‘I’m Barnes,’ he slurred. ‘An’ I wish I wasn’t. Cop?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry to trouble you.’
I moved away and finished my drink. I put ten dollars on the bar and the barman stood ready to pounce. ‘His next packet of smokes is on me,’ I said.
It took me three days to track down Jim Petersen because he was in funds, and when Petersen was in funds he went to racecourses. I caught up with him at Rosehill. ‘Jockey-sized’ was how James’ notes described him, and others had told me about his dressing-New York gangster style, pork pie hat, dark shirt, light tie. I watched him place a large bet and then stroll to the ring to take a look at the horses parade. It was an unimportant race at an unimportant meeting and not many people were about. When I joined him at the railed fence there was no one else within ten metres. I stood slightly to his left, partly blocking anyone’s view, and bent his right arm halfway up his back while clamping his left hand on the rail with my left.
‘Gidday, Jim,’ I said.
‘What the hell’re you doing?’
‘Engaging you in conversation.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Jim, if you don’t cooperate, I’m going to break your right arm, dislocate your right shoulder and break your left wrist all in two seconds flat.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘You’ve climbed your last wall.’
I increased the strain on his arm to just short of breaking point. Sweat broke out on his face.
‘Okay, okay’
I escorted him to a quiet spot under the grandstand and we had a talk. Not much to it. Stevenson had hired him to steal the pearl, helping out by disabling the alarm system and pointing out the most accessible window. Five grand for the job.
‘I figured it was an insurance job, you know how it is.’
‘Where’s the pearl?’
‘I ditched it according to orders.’
‘Jim.’
I was thirty centimetres taller than him, ten kilos heavier, and clearly not in a good mood. He was backed up against a metal post. I flipped his hat away and pushed against his forehead so that the metal bit into the back of his head.
‘It’s in my car. In the upholstery.’
I let him watch the next race and collect his winnings. As we walked towards the car park, the question in my mind was: Why did Stevenson hire me if he didn’t want the pearl to be found? Why not just let sleeping dogs lie?
Petersen dug the pearl on its ribbon, all sealed in a plastic bag, from the back seat upholstery and handed it to me. Then he gave me the answer to my question.
‘Guess I’ll have to do what I said I’d do,’ he muttered.
‘What’s that?’
‘Use the ticket he gave me to fly to Perth. I’m my own worst enemy. Couldn’t resist a flutter against these bloody bookies.’
I don’t like being taken for a ride by a client, so I made another call on Quentin James to talk things over. I’d agreed to pay him a percentage of my bonus, so he had a stake in the matter.
‘Very considerate of you, Cliff,’ he said, turning the pearl over in his pudgy hands. ‘As it happens I’ve worked out what was troubling me. And by the way, the leak about the missing pearl came from Stevenson himself. Quite contrary to what he told you, the publicity would add value to the painting, pearl or no pearl.’
‘Okay, but I still can’t see why he wanted it to go missing.’
James pulled down a book from his dusty shelves. ‘You have to understand how the art business works. At any one time there are three or four versions of a valuable painting in circulation, or out of circulation. They all have provenances, documents and so on. Now here is a photo of that particular Galliard. It was taken over fifty years ago. The picture was in private hands then and now Stevenson claims to have it. No doubt he has proof of its authenticity, but…’
He opened the book to show a high quality photograph of the woman in the black dress. He produced a magnifying glass. ‘If you look closely at your pearl and then at the one in this photograph, you’ll see that they’re rather different. Slightly different shape and colouring. Yes?’
‘Mmm, yeah, I guess so,’ I said. ‘Therefore Stevenson’s picture’s a fake. Or this one is.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ James said. ‘As soon as doubt arises the damage is done. My guess is that Stevenson twigged to the problem and couldn’t afford to display the pearl in case someone made this same comparison.’
‘He won’t be well pleased when he gets it back then.’
‘Correct, but he’ll honour your contract.’
‘Oh, he’ll honour it all right, and you’ll get your cut, Quentin. But aren’t you concerned that he was trying to pass off a fake picture as the real thing?’
James shrugged and lit a cigarette from the butt of the previous one. ‘Not at all. They’re both beautiful
