It was all lights and surfaces, and Phryne felt it to be intensely uncomfortable. The agency reported that Paolo Raguzzi was known to be sleeping with two of his models, and included names and dates. As a strategy designed to detach Amelia, it had not been any more successful than it deserved. Phryne leafed through several bank statements and cheque books, and a pile of share certificates. The deeds to the house were there, as was the will.
She glanced through it. The bulk of the estate went to the wife, as long as she should not remarry. Ten thousand pounds was left to ‘my daughter, Amelia, as long as she shall not marry’. The old bastard, thought Phryne, trying to hang on to his control of his family even after he was dead.
A firm of solicitors were the executors. The estate seemed to be worth about fifty thousand. This did not include the house, which was freehold. Phryne reflected that Mrs McNaughton could live very comfortably on the interest.
‘Here’s the will, do you know what’s in it?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s left me some money provided I don’t marry. But he can’t stop me from having Granny’s money. It was left to me, but he took it and invested it and wouldn’t give me an allowance. The papers should be there. . yes.’ She plucked an old parchment and probate out of the pile. “To my grandaughter Amelia the sum of five thousand pounds.” That will keep me for life. I don’t want any of my father’s money.’
Fine words, thought Phryne. I wonder if Paolo thinks the same.
‘Did you tell Paolo about the will?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Amelia indifferently. ‘He just said that he would expect such a thing from Father. Well, if that is all, Phryne, your taxi should be waiting, and I’ll put all this stuff back in the safe. I will see you tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I shall be there. Take heart, my dear. I shall get your brother out of prison.’
‘Thanks,’ murmured Amelia. Phryne took her leave and ordered the taxi to take her to Carlton.
At the door of a rather dingy office building she asked her cab to wait and leapt up the stairs, taking the route indicated by the brass plate ‘Henderson, Jones, and Mayhew’. Luckily, the light was still on, although the secretary had gone home.
‘Hello, Jilly, old bean, are you home?’
‘Certainly, come through, Phryne. What brings you to this haunt of probate and miscellaneous offences?’
Jillian Henderson was a short, stout woman of about forty, who had taken her father’s place in his firm. She was still a junior partner, and prone to collect more than her share of divorces and family problems. Nonetheless, she had built up a flourishing little practice in crime and was always on the lookout for a murder, where she thought she would make her reputation.
‘Got a murder for you, Jilly, and you’ll have to apply for bail for him tomorrow morning. Can you manage?’
‘Oh, Phryne, how super! A murder of my very own. What’s his name?’
‘Bill McNaughton. You might have read about it in the newspaper. Have you no fire in these rooms? I’m perishing.’
Phryne went into Jillian’s office, and ensconced herself in front of a meagre kerosene heater.
‘Tell me all about it.’
Phryne recounted the history and proceedings of the investigation, and Jillian pursed her lips.
‘And you are going to find the real murderer for him, are you?’
‘I’m going to try.’
‘Well, think carefully before you tell me what you find. They have a very slim case against your Bill. His fingerprints are not on the stone, and he says he was in the river valley. Two people are supposed to have seen him.’
‘Yes. And he is definitely not my Bill.’
‘Now, what if you find these two people and they can’t remember seeing Bill? People are very unobservant. I would not trust any eyewitness evidence if it was served up to me on a plate. It is most unreliable. If you don’t find them, I can suggest that they exist but just haven’t been found. If you find ’em and they can be discounted as evidence, the prosecution has a weapon. See?’
‘I’m shocked,’ declared Phryne. ‘Have you no regard for truth?’
‘If you had entered the law, you will know that truth is a very dicey quality. “What is truth?” said Pilate, and I have always thought he must have been a solicitor. However, I’ll apply for bail tomorrow, and see if the police have any objections. It depends on who the prosecutor is, and the informant.’
‘I think the informant must be Detective-inspector Benton.’
Jillian groaned, and made a note. ‘I ought to charge double for dealing with him. He has a theory, I gather?’
‘Yes, that Bill lured his father out onto the tennis-court and hit him with a rock imported for the purpose.’
‘Then he’ll stick to it through thick, thin and soupy. I’ve had some struggles with him. I’ve never met such a stubborn man in my entire life,’ said Jillian, rubbing her hands, and seeming to relish a new conflict. ‘Well, well, good old Benton. This may be fun. Am I definitely retained? You have the family’s authority?’
‘Yes, I do, and you are retained like billy-o. Go to it and the Lord speed your footsteps. Now I’ve got to go and see a sculptor. Miss McNaughton has two thou. in cash — will that cover the surety?’
‘I think so. We may have to go to the Supreme Court tomorrow, if the Magistrate won’t cooperate. Will the old bank account stand that?’
‘It will. Got to go, Jilly. See you tomorrow at ten.’
‘I shall be there,’ said Jillian smugly. ‘And you shall have Bill shortly after.’
Phryne retrieved her taxi and set off for the studio of Paolo Ragazzi.
CHAPTER SIX
Oscar Wilde
The studio of Paolo Raguzzi was on the third floor of a rundown boarding house at the depressed end of Princes Street. Phryne trod slowly up the stairs, the lift being out of order, and knocked on a flimsy wooden door. Something loud and vaguely operatic was playing on a gramophone inside. Phryne knocked again.
The door was flung open by a girl in a coat and hat. ‘Oh, good, dearie, you’re just in time. He’s doing his block in there. I told him that I’d have to leave early but he just keeps going on about his nymph. Good luck, and don’t take no notice. He ain’t bad; just loud.’
So saying, she tripped lightly down the stairs and Phryne was confronted with a burst of what she assumed were swear words in Italian. They proceeded from behind a beaded curtain, and a voice yelled, ‘
This sounded promising, and the voice was light and pleasant, so Phryne brushed the beads aside and went in.
The studio was a large, light room, with the winter sun fading through the skylight. At one end was the artist’s living quarters, which were in neat array; at the other a bed, and a model’s throne covered by a worn velvet cloth in Phryne’s favourite shade of green. There was a delightful scent of buttered toast. The artist, attired in a very old shirt and flannel bags, was crunching the last crumb. He was not much taller than Phryne and had fine brown eyes, which smiled. Otherwise he looked just like his portrait.
‘I’m. .’ began Phryne, and the artist waved his teacup.
‘I’m delighted to meet you,
This was interesting. She had been mistaken for a model. Paolo had already retreated behind the screen, and Phryne had often modelled for artists in her days in the apache quarter of Paris. She shrugged out of her coat and boots and hung the rest of her clothes on the hook which seemed to have been placed there on purpose. She took her seat on the model’s throne and called, ‘Ready.’
Paolo, having finished his tea, appeared and flicked the cloth off a small clay model. It was a nymph, hair in disarray, accepting the embraces of a satyr with evident pleasure. The delicate limbs wrapped the hairy goatskin haunches, and she leaned back in delight against the embracing arms. Although the detail of the genitalia was
