Bill looked Phryne in the eye and said solemnly, ‘No. I wish I had. Then I wouldn’t mind being charged.’
‘All right, Now, I shall see you into a taxi.’
‘No fear! I’m going to walk. I need to stretch my legs. I will behave, Miss Fisher. I just hope you can get me out of trouble.’
She watched him stride off down the street in the direction of Kew. She crossed to the police station to find Benton and the murder weapon.
She was directed to his office and sat down while he fetched the rock from the safe.
‘Can’t have important clues lying about. See,’ he said, opening the grey cardboard box and exhibiting a squarish block of bluestone. ‘It was brought down with great force. Much more than any woman could muster. There’s blood and matter on the obverse, but none on the back, indicating the blood did not spurt. The murderer might not have had a spot on him. Seen enough?’
Phryne looked very carefully at the sides of the stone, and especially the blotch of blood on the striking face.
‘Doesn’t that bloodstain fade towards the middle? Have a look. There seems to be less blood in the centre than you would find at the sides. What could cause that, do you think?’
Benton came to look.
‘No, I can’t see that, Miss Fisher. Is that all?’
‘Was there anything on the stone apart from blood and brain?’
‘Hair, Miss, a clover burr, a few hemp strands, a few leaves, a bit of bubblegum. Nothing important.’
‘No. Thank you, that was most interesting.’
‘Here’s the Coroner’s Report. Cause of death: massive head injuries.’
Phryne skimmed through the report. ‘Body of well- nourished middle aged man. . cleft cranium. .’
‘It seems to have fallen on the top of his head rather than the back,’ she observed.
‘Depends on how you look at it. Now I think he was donged from behind. The fact that the rock is a flat surface makes it difficult to say. The cranium is quite cloven through the middle.’
‘Hmm. Well, thanks a lot. Have you found those witnesses yet?’
‘No,’ muttered the detective-inspector, straight-faced.
‘Thank you so much for your time,’ said Phryne politely, and left.
She sat in the car and wrote a hasty note to Bert and Cec, then drove to Carlton to drop it into their boarding house. She wondered what Bert would do when Cec got married at the end of the year, and decided that he would manage. Cec’s intended was a sensible young woman who understood the bond between the two men. There would be no separating Bert and Cec this side of the death which they had so often faced together. They were skilled, if rather direct, investi- gators, and Phryne left her problem in their hands with a certain relief.
She arrived home very tired and ate the lunch served to her by Mrs Butler with relief. A telephone message in Dot’s neat schoolgirl hand informed her that Paolo was with Amelia, that Mrs McNaughton was as well as could be expected, and that Bill had arrived and was behaving like an angel. Phryne decided that she had done enough detecting for one day, and went to take a long hot bath with her
Jack Leonard rolled off the couch in the Maldon’s living-room and strove to unkink his muscles. It had been the most uncomfortable night of his life, equalling in discomfort the Turkish brothel with the bedbugs, but without the compensating atmosphere.
Molly and the baby had retired fairly early. Molly had slept because her husband had poured a sizeable slug of chloral into her chocolate. Jack and Henry had sat up until three, when Henry had been persuaded to go to bed by Jack, who felt unequal to the strain of any more speech.
It was late in the morning — soon even Molly would be up — and no message had yet been delivered.
The Maldons trailed down to face with disgust an unwanted breakfast, and it was while looking a good nourishing fried egg in the yolk that Jack Leonard had an idea. He pushed away the plate and grabbed Henry by the arm. He had just remembered something which his fellow fliers had told him.
‘What you need, old man, is Miss Fisher. Top hole detective, so Bunji Ross says — brave as a lion.’
‘Miss Fisher?’ asked Molly, dropping her cup of tea so that it glugged down onto the breakfast-room rug.
‘Certainly. High-class inquiries, that sort of thing. She’s been retained to get our mutual friend Bill out of trouble. I’m sure that she will be able to help. I’ve put good money on her getting Bill off. Amazin’ record. Never fails.’
Henry seemed uncertain. His wife spoke decidedly.
‘Ring her, Jack. Ring her right away.’
Phryne woke at three o’clock feeling like she had the black death. She dragged her weary body out of bed, ran another bath, and reflected that if she kept using this restorative she had better have her skin waterproofed. She felt better after her bath and decided that coffee would complete the cure.
‘Oh, Miss Fisher, there is a message for you,’ said Mr Butler as she sat down in the parlour. ‘A child has been kidnapped and they want you to investigate. I said that I should not dare to wake you, and that you would call when you arose.’
‘If it is anything like that again, Mr Butler, please wake me. Particularly if it is anything to do with a child. There are some strange people around, and the first five hours are crucial. Ask Mrs B. for some coffee and get me the number, will you? Where is Dot?’
‘I believe that she is in the kitchen with Mrs Butler, Miss Fisher. I shall fetch coffee at once.’
Mr B., rather abashed, gave the order for coffee and the summons to Dot, then rang the number and escorted Miss Fisher to the phone.
‘Hello, Miss Fisher. Jack Leonard here. You remember me?’
‘The airman, of course. What’s this about a child?’
‘I’m at the home of my old friend Henry Maldon. He won all that money in the Irish Lottery at Christmas, you recall. His little daughter Candida has gone missing, and we have a witness who saw her taken away in a big black car.
‘Have you a note?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Sit tight, Mr Leonard, and I’ll be with you soon. What’s the address?’ Phryne scribbled busily. ‘Good. Stay by the phone but don’t tie it up. They might ring. Tell the parents that the child will be perfectly safe until the note arrives — then we might have to move fast. Make sure that they eat some dinner. If someone calls, try to keep them talking. Ask to speak to the child, and say that you need proof that she is alive before you give them anything. And whatever they want, agree. I’ll be with you by four. Bye.’
‘Dot, did you hear any of that?’
‘Yes, Miss. Little girl gone missing. Terrible. Are you taking the case?’
‘Of course.’
‘But, Miss, what about Mr McNaughton?’
‘Oh, I think I know how that happened. I just can’t prove it yet. Bert and Cec will complete it. This is urgent, Dot. Get your coat and hat and come on. I might need you.’
Dot ran upstairs for her outdoor garments. Phryne drank two cups of black coffee and assembled her thoughts. The police couldn’t be brought into the case officially; however, there was a certain policeman who owed her a favour. She checked that she had her address book and her keys and enough cigarettes to sustain a long wait, and joined Dot at the door.
‘Mr B., I’m going out on a case. I don’t know when I shall be back. Ask Mrs B. to leave me some soup, and just have your dinner as usual. I can be reached at this number, but only if it is really urgent.’
She was gone before he could say, ‘Certainly, Miss Fisher.’ He heard the roar of the great car reverberate through the house.
‘She’s a live wire, our Miss Fisher,’ he chuckled, and went back to the kitchen.
Phryne arrived outside the new house just before four o’clock, to be met by Jack Leonard. He was not smiling.
‘She really has gone,’ he confided. ‘We had a phone call. Not a bad little kid, Candida. And her father is an old friend of mine. I hope that you can find her, Miss Fisher.’
‘So do I. This is Dot — you remember her, no doubt. All right, Jack, lead me to it.’
