‘Yes, Jack, I know that.’
‘Has this incident been reported to the police?’
‘No.’
‘So it is between you and me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are confident that you can find the gang and wrap the whole thing up neatly?’
‘They shall be delivered to your door in a plain brown wrapper.’
‘And you need my help, eh?’
‘Yes. If you would be so kind.’
‘Right, then, we know where we stand. All right. I trust you, Miss Fisher. Is there anything else that you need?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Good. Perhaps you’d like to have a word with Jones; you’ll find her in Prisoner Reception this week. Give me an hour. If the stuff is on file, I’ll find it,’ Jack said. Phryne shook his hand and went to look for Jones.
She found the short and muscular policewoman engaged in an argument with a prisoner.
‘I tell you I had ten quid on me when they picked me up. Them thieving jacks have robbed me!’ a cross-eyed gentleman was roaring. Jones had been roared at by experts and did not turn a hair.
‘That’s all that was in your pockets, Mr Murphy.’
‘It’s here,’ said Phryne, tweaking the ten-pound note out of an unsavoury watch pocket. ‘Be more careful in future.’
Mr Murphy thanked her in an alcoholic mumble and took his leave.
Jones smiled. ‘Hello, Miss Fisher, you haven’t half put it across old Theory. If only you can show up the old cuss! Do you know what he said to me?’
‘Yes, Jack Robinson just told me. Outrageous. Can you come out for a cuppa?’
‘My shift finishes in ten minutes, if you can wait.’
‘I’ll just find the Ladies. I don’t think that the tea here agrees with me.’
‘It don’t agree with anyone. Even the drunks are complaining.’
Phryne rejoined WPC Jones, who was rather pretty when out of a uniform designed to remove all dangerous allure from the female form. She had curly hair, which Phryne had only seen severely repressed under her cap. Jones led the way to a coffee shop and ordered a black coffee.
‘It’s hard to sleep in the daytime, and I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes propped open. Thank the Lord that I change shifts tomorrow.’
‘I heard about your medal — congratulations,’ said Phryne, gulping down a mouthful of coffee to wash the taste of the tea away.
‘Thanks, but I really didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t cold courage. I lost my temper with the bastard. It was lucky that I threw that knife out of reach or I might have done him an injury. That wouldn’t have done my career much good.
‘Now, tell me about Theory. I know what he thinks happened. Do you think you can bring him undone?’
‘Oh, yes. I can’t prove it yet. But the safe money is definitely on Bill McNaughton’s innocence.’
‘You made an impression on Benton — even though he is sure that no woman could outsmart him, he’s uneasy. He’s asked two DIs to look at the murder weapon. I do hope you can prove him wrong.’
‘There is no doubt.’
‘Well, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the coffee, and if you need anything, just give me a call. Delighted to help,’ said WPC Jones, and Phryne took herself for a walk in the Art Gallery.
She returned and found a note from Jack pinned to his desk.
‘Dear Miss Fisher, there are three sets of unknown prints on the letter. The only one on record is that of Sidney Brayshaw, a child-molester whom we have been very anxious to interview. If you catch him it will warm the cockles of my chief super’s heart (assuming he has one). The only black Bentley with those prefixes in its number plate belongs to one Anthony Michael Herbert, 342 Bell Street, Preston. He hasn’t any form. Hope this is of use. Watch your step. Jack.’
Phryne folded the note, placed it in her bag and went to reclaim her car from the urchin who was minding it. She gave him a shilling and he sped off before she could change her mind.
The address in Preston was that of a rundown boardinghouse. Phryne rang at the bell and it fell into her hand. The door was open in any case. She walked in.
‘Yes, dear? Who do you want to see?’ demanded the raucous voice. The speaker surveyed Phryne’s black suit, silk shirt, English felt hat and handmade shoes. A toff. The woman moderated her tone from that which she reserved for the local tarts seeking custom, to that used to address her bank manager.
‘Give me that bell, dear. It always does that. I’m Mrs O’Brien. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for Mr Herbert.’
‘Mike? Him and his missus have been gone two days, Miss.’
‘Gone? What — gone forever?’ Phryne felt a chill at her heart. She was relying on this clue.
‘No. Just gone for a holiday. Somewhere down the coast. He’s a nice bloke, Mike, but his missus is a trial.’
‘Do you have an address?’ asked Phryne, allowing a five pound note to appear in the woman’s peripheral vision. The red eyes lit up, but the puffy face sagged with disappointment, and the cigarette in the corner of the painted mouth drooped.
‘No, dear, I don’t know where they are. I’m expecting them back soon. They were going to stay with their mate Sid, that’s all I know. They did mention Queenscliff. Beautiful place it is. She always had to have new things — kept him skint for years, and then he lost his job when the factory closed down. He inherited that big car from his uncle but he usually can’t afford the petrol. I’ll keep my ear out, dear.’
‘Could I have a look at their room?’ asked Phryne, idly waving the banknote. The landlady scraped a hennaed curl out of her eyes and temporised, ‘Well, I don’t know. Phryne produced a ten pound note. Mrs O’Brien led the way up the stairs.
At the door, her remaining scruples came to the fore. ‘You won’t take anything away, will you, dear? They might be back, you know.’
‘I promise. You can stand and watch me.’
Phryne began a systematic search of the freshly painted room. The lino was new and the curtains crisp. A wardrobe, stuffed full of new clothes in the worst taste, occupied one corner. Phryne looked in all the pockets and handbags, stripped and searched the mattress, turned it over and searched all the crannies of the iron bedstead. She went through a pile of magazines and all the male clothes, and sounded the floorboards for a loose one. In all this she found no sign of the destination of Anthony Michael Herbert and his wife Ann. Then a piece of newspaper caught her eye. It had been carefully trimmed out and laid among the illustrated papers. It was the cutting from the
Phryne handed over the money and asked, ‘How long have they been with you?’
‘Three years, dear.’
‘No children?’
‘No, he often said that he’d like children but she refused to have any until they could rent a house of their own. And I don’t allow them here. Dirty little pests. Anything else?’
‘If you remember their address, telephone me at this number. It will be worth twenty quid to you, but not after Friday. Good morning,’ and Phryne left.
Sidney Brayshaw’s fingerprints on the note, thought Phryne. Gone to Queenscliff with their mate Sid. This was only twenty miles from Geelong. There must be a connection. Phryne drove herself home to lunch.
Bert and Cec parked their new cab in the ‘Inspector only’ section of the yard and marched into the Kew Police Station with determination. Neither of them liked police. While they had escaped legal notice in the past, they both had far too many dealings in dubious property to be entirely comfortable under the gaze of constabulary eyes.
‘Gidday,’ Bert greeted the desk-sergeant. ‘We come to make some inquiries.’
‘Oh, yair?’ asked the desk-sergeant with irony. ‘You know, I thought that we did the asking.’
‘You always that funny? You should be at the Tivoli, you’re wasted in a police station. Just have a look at your daybook for Friday and give a man a go.’
