the light dimmed, and the dancers left the floor, entwined like lovers. The last glimpse Phryne had of them was Death’s mask, grinning back over the maiden’s shoulder as she melted into him.
It was comic and savage, and as frightening as Balanchine or any of the Russians; it seemed to bear many significances which were necessarily unspoken. The company was rather relieved when a large opera singer took her place next to the grand piano and began an ambitious piece by Wagner.
Phryne felt the Princesse’s cold, monkey-like hand on her arm.
‘They have something, no?’ asked the Princesse proudly, ‘
Near two of the morning, and past time to leave, thought Phryne, rendered restless by the company and the boy Sasha, and mindful of her need to arise early and accompany the Princesse to the Bath House of Madame Breda — which sounded a dubious proposition at best. She glanced around for Lydia, but she had gone. Then she looked for Sasha and Elli and the Princesse, but they were nowhere to be seen. She took leave of her hostess, collected her wrap, and refused an offer of a taxi. She felt like walking; it was not far to the city. The streets were still cold, and slick with moisture which would soon be frost, and she had her little gun in her bag in case there should be any trouble from the hungry unemployed.
There was no one on the streets. Phryne loved the sound of her high heels clicking on the pavement and echoing back to her. She walked briskly up Toorak Road, where she remembered seeing a taxi-stand. It was a clean, pleasant night, and the air was just cold enough to sting, a contrast to the orchid-scented hothouse of Mrs Cryer.
She turned the corner into the road which would lead her back to the city. There were no taxis. No matter, she did her best thinking on her feet, at night. She sorted out her impressions as the street signs fled past. She had covered almost a mile in complete silence and contemplation when she heard the first disruptive sound. Feet running; many feet. There was a shout, and then a shot bruised the peaceful Melbourne night in a most unexpected fashion.
Well, thought Phryne, continuing at her even pace, she had walked unharmed through Paradise Street, Soho, and the Place Pigalle; should a small night affray bother her unduly?
There were more sounds of feet from a side street, then a body almost cannoned into Phryne, who leapt aside to present any attacker with a sight of her small gun. It was cocked and loaded.
‘It’s Sasha,’ gasped the body. ‘
‘Giggle?’ asked Sasha blankly, staggering a little, then understanding.
The feet caught up with them, slowed to a walk, and approached from behind. Phryne threw back her head and crowed with mirth, nudging her companion, who reeled a little more than was theatrically necessary, and giggled a creditable high-pitched giggle. The feet passed, one on either side, and two men stopped in front of them.
‘Have you seen a running man?’ asked the smaller of the two in an aggressive Australian accent. ‘He must have passed you.’
‘Ooh, cheeky, stopping a couple of ladies on their way home!’ replied Phryne in the same accent, after a certain excursus into cockney. ‘We’re a couple of decent girls, we are, and we ain’t seen no running man. Though we ’ave seen a few of ’em lying down, eh, blossom?’ and she laughed again, bearing Sasha up with considerable effort.
She was eyeing the two men keenly, so as to know them again. The speaker was a short, thick, bullet- headed individual, with a voice like a file and an aggressive moustache, waxed, and with rather more crumbs in it than fashion dictated; the other was taller and thinner, with patent-leather hair, a supercilious expression, and a thin moustache like a smear of brown Windsor soup. Both had suggestive bulges in their pockets which told of either huge genitalia or trousered pistols. Phryne inclined to the handgun theory.
Sasha said in French, ‘Who are these rude men, my cabbage?’ and to Phryne’s surprise, the tall one answered in that language.
‘
‘
‘Carm on, Bill, these tarts don’t know nothing!’ exclaimed Thug One, and he and Thug Two crossed the road and retreated down a side alley. The last scornful comment of Thug One followed them up the street.
‘And they’re tiddly, too!’
‘Sasha, what is wrong? Are you really tiddly?’ asked Phryne, getting her shoulder under his armpit as he began to sink. She heaved him along to a high front step and lowered him onto it.
‘One of them,’ said Sasha with perfect clarity, ‘had a knife.’
With that he sank gracefully into Phryne’s arms and his head lolled on her shoulder.
‘Oh, Lord,’ said that young woman ruefully. ‘Now what shall I do?’
At that moment she heard a car approaching, and stood irresolutely, gun in hand, awaiting it. Blessing on blessings, it was a taxi, though the sign was turned down, and she stepped out onto the road to intercept it.
‘Here, you crazy tart, what’s the idea?’ demanded a familiar voice, and Phryne had to restrain herself from hugging the driver. It was Bert and Cec.
‘Oh, Bert, it’s about time you arrived, I’ve been waiting for hours. My friend has fainted. Help me get her into the car, and take us to the Windsor. I’ll give you ten pounds.’
‘Twelve,’ bargained Bert, dragging the car back on its haunches and flinging open the door.
‘Ten — that’s all I’ve got on me.’
‘Eleven,’ offered Bert, gathering up Sasha and loading him into the back seat. Phryne followed, and the silent Cec climbed in. Bert started the cab with a certain difficulty, and said, ‘What about twenty not to tell your dad what you’ve been doing?’
Phryne produced the little gun and touched the back of his neck with the cold barrel. ‘How about nothing at all? I thought we were mates,’ she suggested silkily. Her patience with this pair of opportunists was wearing thin. Ten pounds would buy this cab, and have enough change for a packet of smokes and a glass of beer.
‘We’ll just leave it at the round ten, eh, shall we?’ said Bert, not turning a hair. ‘Lucky for you that Cec and me was passing by.’
Phryne, who was concerned about Sasha’s condition, and moreover was perched uncomfortably on a pile of what was probably stolen property, was tight-lipped. They made the journey to the Windsor through empty streets, and Bert rang the night bell while Cec and Phryne supported Sasha, who had recovered enough to stand.
Phryne produced the ten pounds.
‘How is the girl you brought into the hospital? Are you looking for this George?’
Bert spat out the cigarette in disgust. ‘Yair, we’re looking for him, but not a sniff. Cec reckons he’s seen him before, but he can’t remember where. The Scotch lady doctor took us to the cops and they said they’d do something but they don’t know where he is either. But I’ve been collecting numbers — and a mate of mine is givin’ me the drum about another one tomorrow.’
‘Numbers?’ asked Phryne, supporting Sasha with difficulty.
‘Yair, phone numbers. All we need is a sheila to make the calls.’ Phryne smiled, and Bert backed a pace.
‘You got your sheila,’ said Phryne in a flat Australian drawl. ‘Call here, and we’ll have a council of war — no better, I’ll find myself a car, and we’ll do the phoning from a public phone where there is no operator. Meet me at the corner of Flinders and Spencer at noon, day after tomorrow. Goodnight,’ she added, as the night porter opened the door and she swept Sasha inside and up the stairs. The two men stared at the closed door for a while, then made off on their own errand.
‘You reckon she can do it, mate?’ asked Cec after a long silence.
‘Reckon,’ agreed Bert.
Phryne succeeded in getting Sasha up to her room without much noise and found that Dot had gone to bed.
