threw herself at Phryne and held her tight, and Ember scratched his way onto her upper arm, balanced like a small black owl, and glared.
‘You are quite right, Ember,’ Phryne told him. ‘It was a very silly thing to say. Never mind. Jane, my dear, here is a hankie, and I think that we should sit down. All this emotion is wearying, isn’t it?’
More emotion was expressed by a horrified client on the telephone.
‘Miss Fisher, I must first thank you for retrieving my daughter.’ He began with deceptive calmness. ‘But do you know what they have done to her, those hounds?’
‘I have a fair idea,’ admitted Phryne. ‘She has certainly been beaten.’
‘Beaten, and. . and. . assaulted, and the doctor thinks that she may have a. . venereal disease.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who were they?’ he screamed. ‘Tell me their names!’
Mr Hart dropped any pretence of control.
‘I don’t know their names, and if I did I should not tell you. Private vengeance is unsound, and moreover illegal. Leave them to me.’
Some nuance in her voice must have told Mr Hart that he was talking to a very angry woman.
‘You know them?’
‘I shall know them. And they shall all be very, very sorry. I promise.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Mr Hart, subdued.
‘Nothing. They have ravished your daughter, and a thousand offences beside. Leave them to me. Your daughter needs you now. She is an innocent victim, poor thing. She probably won’t remember anything about it, so don’t remind her. I am sure that you can find her the best of care. Then take her right away from Melbourne for six months. Switzerland has some very pleasant scenery.’
‘I put my confidence in you, Miss Fisher.’
‘So you may, Mr Hart.’
She hung up the phone. How was she going to find the abductor and avenge poor Gabrielle Hart? But now she was determined. She had given her word.
Detective-inspector Robinson surveyed the young man in the clutch of two policemen with approval. He was a fighter, this one, and it had taken the combined strength of four officers to bring him in. Even now he was straining in the grip of the station’s two heaviest and strongest officers.
‘It is my duty to warn you that you do not have to say anything, but that anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence,’ he said quietly.
The prisoner demanded, ‘What are you charging me with?’
‘The murder at or near Ballan on the night of the twenty-first of June 1928 of Anne Henderson by strangulation,’ said the policeman, and Alastair Thompson laughed.
‘Then you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll tell you where I was on the night of the twenty-first of June 1928.’
‘Well, I’m glad that you have decided to tell me at last.’
‘I was in the city watch house,’ sneered Thompson. ‘Drunk and disorderly. I was fined five bob the next morning. Cheap at the price, considering. Go on. Ask the watchhousekeeper!’
This was a surprise. Detective-inspector Robinson, however, preserved his habitual calm.
‘Book him in, please, Duty Officer,’ he requested civilly, and the young man was forced into a chair to be photographed, stripped of bootlaces, tie and braces, and placed with a certain celerity into a nice quiet cell.
‘Get those developed and send across for the drunks book,’ he snapped, and an underling carried off the camera and raced across the road to the watch house, demanding the cell register for the twenty-first of June.
‘You can’t have it,’ snapped the sergeant. ‘It’s my current book and I need it. Tell Jack Robinson to come and inspect it himself. What’s all this about?’
‘Murder suspect says that he was banged up on the night,’ gasped the cadet. ‘He’ll skin me if I come back without it! Have a heart!’
‘You can copy the page,’ said the sergeant, relenting. ‘And you can note at the same time the names of the officers what were on duty on the night of the twenty-first. Who was it?’ He leaned ponderously over the counter. ‘Aha. Sergeant Thomas and Constable Hawthorn. You can have Hawthorn, for all the use he is, but you can’t have Thomas, he’s on leave.’
‘When will he be back?’ asked the cadet, scribbling furiously with a spluttering pen on the back of a jail order. ‘This nib is frayed, Sarge, I swear.’
‘He’s in Rye on his honeymoon,’ replied the sergeant, grinning evilly. ‘Didn’t leave no address. There you are, son, and take Constable Hawthorn with you. Hawthorn!’ he bellowed.
A faint voice echoed from the cells, ‘Yes, Sarge?’
‘Get across and see if you can identify a prisoner of Jack Robinson’s, will you, lad? And you needn’t hurry back. Get some lunch.’
‘But Sarge, it’s only half-past ten!’
‘Get some breakfast, then,’ snapped the sergeant, and the cadet conducted Constable Hawthorn back across Russell Street to the detective-inspector’s office, waving his jail order the while so that the ink would dry.
The cadet peeped up at Hawthorn. He was very tall — over six feet — and pale, and vague. His mouth had a tendency to drop open and his eyes had the dull, unfocused gaze which the cadet had previously only seen in sheep.
Hawthorn asked mildly, his voice as bland as cream, ‘What’s this all about, young feller?’
‘Please, sir, the detective-inspector has a suspect for the Ballan railway murder, and he says that he was in the watch house that night.’
‘And he wants me to identify him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh,’ remarked the tall constable, and accompanied the cadet to Robinson’s office.
The copy was laid down on the desk and Robinson scanned it irritably.
‘You read it, boy,’ he snarled at the cadet, and the boy read, ‘John Smith, 14 Eldemere Crescent, Brighton.’
‘He’s an old customer. . name really is John Smith, too, and no one ever believes him — has to carry his birth certificate around with him. Says he’s never forgiven his father for it. . no, that ain’t him. Go on.’
‘John Smith, The Buildings, East St Kilda.’
Now I don’t know that one. Do you recall that John Smith, Hawthorn?’
‘Yes, sir. About. . er, well, smallish, and er. . fair, with. . er. . blue eyes, I think, sir.’
‘Could you identify him?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said Hawthorn. ‘I think so.’
Detective-inspector Robinson grunted, got to his feet, and led the way to the holding cells. A furious face glared up at the window-slot as he drew back the bolt.
‘Have a look, son. Is that the man?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ agreed Hawthorn happily. Robinson gritted his teeth, and gave the order to release the suspect from detention.
‘I didn’t want to tell anyone that I’d got drunk, so I gave a false name. I believe that this is not unusual. May I go now?’ asked Alastair, with frigid politeness.
‘You may go, but you are on bail. You may not leave the state or change your address without notifying us of your whereabouts. Do you understand that?’
‘I understand,’ said Alastair, with a smile that showed all his teeth, and he turned and left the police station.
Detective-inspector Robinson lifted the telephone and requested Miss Fisher’s number.
‘I don’t think that it’s disasterous, but it certainly casts a lot of doubt on my theory,’ said Phryne when the exasperated policeman reached her. ‘Have you examined his handwriting? He would have had to sign himself out. And are you sure of the police witness?’
‘No, Miss, that I am not. Boy’s a fool. However, identification is identification.’
‘Wasn’t anyone else there?’
‘Yes, but the sergeant is on his honeymoon, I can’t call him back.’
