‘No, Miss, not exactly. She sells coffee and tea and soup and bangers and mash and sly grog on the side. And pies, if you’re silly enough to buy ’em.’
‘She sounds like a remarkable woman,’ said Phryne politely and implacably, and Bert recognised a determined woman when he met one.
‘All right, Miss, what do you want me and Cec for?’
‘Guides and bodyguards,’ said Phryne, as Dot brought out the dessert, a pudding made with raspberries.
‘Miss, me and Cec ain’t got no quarrel but with the capitalists.’
‘Have some pudding. There’s tea in this flask. Think. I must go to this place, and I can’t ask Dot to accompany me — she’s a good girl. It’s a dangerous place, as you’ve just explained. I’ll give you enough to buy a new car. I need your help, gentlemen.’
‘Thanks, but no deal,’ said Bert. Cec said nothing.
‘Think of this, then. Cocaine is nasty. You can get addicted in three or four doses, and then must take ever increasing amounts. It rots the brain and damages the eyes and throat if you sniff it. Withdrawal from it is terrible — you yawn and sweat and convulse and cramp and cry with pain, and you start seeing things and then you start to itch, and rip your skin to rags if you’re not stopped. It’s an evil thing. And somewhere, in a lovely house in a leafy suburb, far away from the noise and the screaming, there’s a fat man with a cigar, raking in the profits and laughing at the world. A capitalist, rolling in cocaine money, with a chauffeur and three housemaids and a sable coat.
‘Also, you want me to do something for you. One good turn, eh Bert?’
Phryne poured a cup of tea, which she felt she had deserved. Cec looked at Bert. Bert looked at the ground for a long moment. Dot filled his cup. He stared down into the steaming depths and fought a battle between his communist principles and his deep instinct for self-preservation.
‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘Me and Cec is on.’
‘Good. I’ll meet you at midnight at the same place as today. Now, back to the business at hand. I have decided on the Footscray Post Office because it is an automatic exchange. We don’t want to have to explain our business to an operator. How many numbers have you got?’
‘Three,’ said Bert, producing a matchbox with writing on the back.
‘And I’ve got one,’ volunteered Dot. ‘Muriel said that it was a nurse, though.’
‘Good work. You shall see that I keep my side of the bargain, Bert. We shall find this Butcher George. Anyone got any pennies?’
Cec grinned, reached into his pocket, and poured pennies into Phryne’s hand.
The two cars made short work of the road to the post office. Phryne parked the Hispano-Suiza and disembarked, leaving Dot in charge.
‘Hoot the horn if you want help,’ she informed her nervous maid, and folded herself, the matchbox and the pennies into the red telephone booth.
The next ten minutes were most trying. The first number rang twelve times before a guarded female voice answered.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m in trouble,’ whispered Phryne in her best Australian accent. There was a silence at the other end.
‘I’ve just moved into this house,’ said the woman. ‘Are you looking for Mrs Smith?’
‘Yes,’ said Phryne. ‘She had a nursing home.’
‘That’s right. I’m afraid she’s gone. She didn’t leave a forwarding address. Sorry.’ She hung up. Phryne dialled again.
‘Yes?’ another woman.
Phryne repeated herself. ‘I’m in trouble.’
The voice became sympathetic.
‘Are you dear? Well, we shall have to do something about that. How far gone are you?’
‘Two months.’
‘It will be twenty pounds. Doctor does them here every Tuesday. All nice and clean, dear, ether and all.’
‘A doctor?’ asked Phryne. The voice became brisk.
‘Certainly, dear, we don’t want any complications, do we? Nothing to eat for twenty-four hours beforehand. Will you take down the address?’
‘No, I’ll have to think about it,’ faltered Phryne. This was not Butcher George’s establishment.
‘All right, dear, but don’t leave it too long, will you? Doctor won’t do them after three months.’
‘Thank you,’ said Phryne, and hung up.
Somewhat shaken, she tried the last number on the matchbox. A man answered. Phryne repeated her whimper.
‘I’m in trouble.’
‘And what business is that of mine?’ snarled the voice. Phryne had a stab at a password.
‘I’m looking for George.’
‘Oh, are yer? Should have said so at once. You’ll be met under the clocks tomorrow at three. Wear a red flower. Bring ten quid. What’s yer name, girl?’
‘Joan Barnard,’ said Phryne, and the voice became unctuous.
‘See yer temorrer, Joanie.’
He hung up. Phryne felt sick. She drew in a deep breath, and pushed another penny into the coin receiver.
‘This is Phryne Fisher. Can you call Dr MacMillan? Yes, it is important. Yes, I will wait.’ She gave a thumbs-up signal through the glass to Bert and Cec. Bert grinned. She returned her attention to the telephone.
‘Elizabeth, I’ve set up a meeting with your abortionist. What was your nice policeman’s name again? Robinson, that was it. I’ll call him. Of course I’ll be careful. Goodbye.’ She lit a gasper and used the last of Cec’s coins to call Russell Street.
After some argument, she obtained the detective- inspector’s ear.
‘If a policewoman wearing a red flower waits under the clocks tomorrow at three, she will be picked up by your Butcher George. I have set this up by phone. The name I gave was Joan Barnard. Is that clear?’
She listened impatiently to his expostulation, and cut in crisply, ‘I used my common sense. You could have done the same. I can’t imagine why you didn’t. Except that you do not use the talents God gave to geese. If you want to know more, you can call me at the Windsor. But this is your best chance of catching him. By the way, it costs ten pounds,’ she added, and rang off.
She extracted herself from the telephone booth and ex- plained the arrangement to Bert and Cec.
‘It was your number, Bert, do you remember where you got it?’ asked Phryne. Bert looked at the ground. Phryne sighed.
‘Well, tell your source that the number is now U.P.’
Bert laughed. ‘When do you want to go to Little Lon., Miss?’
‘Why, tomorrow night, of course. I am dining with an MP tonight. I don’t want to miss the Melba Gala.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Bert. ‘The Melba Gala.’
Detective-inspector Robinson bellowed out of his office, ‘Sergeant! Who’s on duty tomorrow? Women?’
‘Only WPC Jones, sir.’
‘Send her in,’ he grunted, and the sergeant called up WPC Jones and wondered what had got his chief into such a snit.
‘Jones, I want you to come in tomorrow in plain clothes. You want to look poor and as though you’re expecting. We’re out to catch that George who murdered them girls.’
‘Butcher George, sir? You’ve got a lead on him at last?’ asked Jones eagerly. Women were just tolerated in the force, made necessary only by the number of abandoned children and prostitutes who came to the attention of the Victoria Police. She knew that she would never become an officer and that her pay remained lower than that of a clerk, but this might be her chance for promotion. They couldn’t send a male officer to catch an abortionist. Jones loathed this George. She had dealt with the outraged and mutilated body of Lil Marchent. Prostitute or no prostitute, she haunted Jones, and Butcher George would not find her such easy prey.
Her boss, however, did not seem as happy as she would have thought about the prospect of bringing in a notorious murderer.
‘We’ll have a car following the van,’ said the detective-inspector, ‘and a few men on foot. All you have to do is
