Make Me Rich (7 page)

Be home, lady, please
, I thought.

“Yes.” Her voice on the intercom was deep, with no sound of sleep in it.

“Helen,” I croaked. “It's Cliff Hardy—from the other night at Roberta's. Let me in, please, urgent!”

“But …”

“Please, let me in!”

The buzzer sounded loud enough to wake the street; I said “sshh” to it, idiotically, and went through the door and flattened myself against the wall inside.

I waited for the running footsteps; they came and they turned into walking footsteps and lost any rhythm. My breath was a harsh pant, and my eyes suddenly started to stream from the effort I'd put in. The footsteps retreated. I eased off then, and put my hands on my hips to allow my chest to expand, the way runners do after a race. Running away from danger is hard work. Then I looked around.

There was a deep carpet under my feet and a chandelier overhead, two chandeliers. The moisture in my eyes was blurring everything, and my gasping breath was making the images jump. I was in a wide passage which led to a wide set of stairs. The stairs and balustrades were of old wood the colour of blood, highly buffed. The place smelt of wood polish, fresh paint, and money.

Helen Broadway appeared at the top of the last flight of stairs. She was wearing a cream-coloured garment somewhere between a nightdress and a dressing-gown. It came all the way down to her brown, bare feet.

“Don't be frightened,” I said.

“You're talking to yourself. I'm not frightened.”

She came down the stairs in two hops, lifting her legs and making the robe move with her—it was silk and it rustled. She looked good enough to make a full-length movie of, just her coming down the stairs.

“I love this city,” she said. “Always something happening. What's happening now?”

“I'm running away from some men with guns.” I wheezed a bit as I spoke and my legs suddenly felt rubbery. “No, I've got that wrong. I was running, now I'm hiding.” She reached the bottom stair and came across to where I'd gone back against the wall for support. The silk rustled some more and her feet made no sound on the carpet. “How far did you run?”

“I don't know. A mile?”

“You can't be all that fit. You don't jog? I thought a man in your line of work would jog?”

“No, I don't jog. Men in my line of work mostly sit around and drink. That's what I was doing before I started running.”

“We'd better call the police.”

That sent me back against the wall as I tried to laugh and wheeze at the same time. I bent over and convulsed for a bit, then straightened up. She looked at me coolly.

“Finished? Are you going to tell me about it?”

“Sorry. I phoned you yesterday, or was it today? I forget. You were out.”

“I do go out, yes.”

“I'm bloody glad you weren't out just now.”

“What would've happened—if they'd caught you?”

“I hate to think.” Saying “think” made me do it, but slowly and out loud. “They'd be gone by now. They might get to my car, though.”

She moved back toward the stairs. “You'd better come up and do some more thinking in comfort.”

How many invitations was I likely to get to go upstairs with beautiful graziers' wives wearing silk robes? This was my first. I followed her up with legs so shaky I had to think about each step as a separate enterprise. When we reached the top she turned and saw me patting the pocket of my shirt.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Camera. I was taking pictures earlier.”

That didn't sit too well; she made a face. “It's not some nasty divorce thing, is it? I thought that went out with Askin.”

I laughed. “No; it's nasty, but nasty in a different way.”

She grunted and led me down a hallway to where a heavy, panelled door was standing open. She waved me in and shut the door behind us.

“Go right through; the grog is in the kitchen on the left.”

The kitchen was basically old style, but with enough new style in it to make it functional and comfortable. There were cork tiles on the floor and the room was big enough to hold a pine table, a two-door refrigerator and a dish washer easily. My legs weren't good; I pulled out a bentwood chair from the table and sat down.

“D'you mind if I sit down?”

“No, you're not going to faint, are you? I've never fainted myself and I don't know whether I could cope. I can't remember whether you put the head back or down between the knees. I'd probably break your neck.”

I grinned at her. “I'm not going to faint. Don't think so, anyway.” I put my hands on the table; they weren't shaking, I could take pride in that. “Did you say drink, Helen?”

“Yes.” She went to the cupboard above the bench to the left of the sink and opened it. It was high up, and she didn't have to tip-toe. “Whisky, brandy, what?”

“Whisky would be good.”

She reached up for the bottle; the silk rode up over her hips, which were wide, and showed her ankles, which were slim. The bottle of Haig was two-thirds full; she put it on the table and got a couple of glasses from the draining rack.

“Water? Ice?”

I shook my head. She poured two drinks and I put some down my throat quickly, letting it burn. She sipped.

“So,” she said.

“Well, I'm glad I met you the other night; I'm glad you were home; I'm glad you let me in; I'm glad you didn't have anyone with you. What were you doing—up this late?”

“Reading. I'm glad about all that, too.”

“I can't say I'm glad I got chased down your street; but, you know …”

“Why did you go into that fit down there when I asked if I should call the police?”

“They
were
the police. I think.”

“Oh.”

I finished the whisky and she gave me some more.

“Are you going to smoke your Gitane now?” I asked.

“Why?”

“I thought you might blow some smoke in my face—even let me touch it, maybe.”

She laughed. “Is it really that bad?”

“Almost.”

“I've had it already, the Gitane.”

“Ah.”

“But I'll have another just for you. It doesn't do to stick too closely to your principles. Besides, I feel nervous.”

She went out of the room and came back with a soft leather bag with long drawstrings. She fished in it, pulled out the blue packet and lit up.

“Ah,” I said. “That's better.”

That set her off laughing and coughing. She waved the
hand with the cigarette in it helplessly, looking for somewhere to drop it. I got up and took the cigarette, then I patted her on the back and she came out of the coughing fit, laughing softly. The patting turned into embracing; I put my arms around her and we kissed. Her body was big and strong, and we kissed hard. The kiss was short—we were both recovering from loss of breath.

We sat down at the table; I handed her back the cigarette and she butted it immediately. I leaned forward and put my hand under the loose sleeve of her nightgown. Her forearm was warm; I plucked at the dark hairs on it.

“That's nice,” she said. “I liked you the minute I saw you.”

“Same here, me—you.”

She smiled and small wrinkles fanned out from the corners of her eyes; there were faint lines beside her mouth too. I found the lines much more attractive than smoothness. I touched her face.

“Want to go to bed?” she said.

“Yes.”

“You think that's a bit quick? Should we discuss herpes?”

I said “No” and kissed her again. She leaned into it; either we were getting our breath back or getting better at it. The kiss lasted longer and meant more. We stood up and hugged. I felt her hip bones bite in just below mine.

“Not too quick?”

I shook my head and kissed her neck. She twisted free and pulled me by the hand.

“I told you my first six months were nearly up,” she said.

7

I wouldn't say it was anything spectacular the first time. I tend to take my cue from my partners, and my last partner had been the passive, easily pleased type; Helen was energetic, so there were some adjustments to make. She had a queen-sized bed and we used the whole of it trying to find out what each other liked. That involved a good deal of laughing.

She had black satin sheets on the bed and, after the first session, I propped up above her on one elbow and arranged the edge of the sheet exactly halfway across her breasts which were flat as she lay on her back. I smoothed the sheet down around her body and sculptured her into a sort of mermaid shape. She smiled up at me.

“Kinky,” she said.

“No, just tucking you in.”

“Tuck me in some more.”

I did and tucking got to touching and we used our hands on each other urgently which, as it turned out, we both liked.

After, she got us drinks and brought them back to the bed. “Pretty good?” she said.

I nodded. “Very, very good. Tell me about your life.”

The drinks were pretty heavily diluted with water, which is the way I'll always take my second whisky, by preference—especially at 2 a.m. She took a healthy pull on hers and looked up at the high, off-white ceiling.
Good teeth
, I thought, good everything.

“Where to start? Great question though. Ah … my kid's name is Verity. Sorry.”

“So you should be. Poor kid.”

“I bowed to pressure.”

“Uh huh. How long've you been married?”

“Twelve years, nearly thirteen.”

“This the first time you've been allowed out?”

“It's the first time I've been
allowed
out as you put it, yes. It's not the first time I've
been
out.”

“You've had affairs with men before?” I arranged my face to make sure she knew I was joking.

“Affairs and … honourable stand-offs.”

“I won't even ask what that means. Are you going to trifle with my affections?”

“Probably.” She slid her hand under the sheet. “I'm certainly going to trifle with these.”

It went on like that until close to dawn. I slept for a while, and when I woke up I was alone in the big bed. There was a small wardrobe in one corner of the room, an upholstered chair with clothes thrown over it, a low table near the bed carrying a stack of books—no other furniture. The heavy curtains over a big window were only half-drawn and light was coming in strongly through the gap. I got up, jerked the curtains apart and was hit in the eye by the view of Elizabeth Bay. The sky was an intense blue and there was a light swell which kept the boats moving at their moorings in a slow, rhythmic dance. From this distance the Darling Point shoreline looked green and unsullied. I went back to the bed, pulled up the pillows and sat and looked at the dancing boats.

Helen came in carrying a breakfast tray; she was wearing the silk thing again and it only looked better for a few creases. As I watched her it struck me that her features looked very different in the natural light. Her nose was still nicely crooked and her dark eyes deep with the fine lines
ready to appear; but a tightness was gone, and the pugnacity was reduced. Sex and a little sleep seemed to do her a power of good. Her hair was spiky and sticking up irregularly; I wanted to smooth it down, groom her like a cat.

“I thought you'd be a coffee rather than tea man—toast not cereal, honey not jam.”

“Right three times.”

We settled the tray on the bed, kissed briefly and got into the food.

“Did you tell me anything about the job you're on last night? I have this weird memory; I forget almost everything I'm told immediately and remember it all much later.”

“No, I didn't tell you.”

“Are you going to?”

“What's the point?”

She laughed. “Oh, I can react all right at the time I'm being told. My understanding's not impaired.”

“I'll decide according to the quality of the coffee.”

I drank some and she looked at me expectantly.

“Well?”

“The coffee's good—that means I don't have to tell you. It'd be a punishment to be told about it.” She punched me lightly, but a light punch from her was a fair tap.

“All right, all right, I'll tell you.”

“It's just that I saw the gun, you see. Do you really need to carry a gun around with you when you work?”

I shrugged.

“I've never fired a gun in my life,” she said.

“You're not missing much. I thought all country women kept guns in the kitchen. By the stove. Dumb place to keep it, come to think of it.”

She'd drawn away a bit on the bed and she drank some coffee before answering. “I'm not a country woman, originally. I grew up in Sydney and only moved up there when I married Mike.”

“That'd be when you were about twenty-two.”

“Twenty-one; so you really are a detective?”

I grunted. “So-called. Mostly I go along with people when they move money about, or do things like you saw me doing the other night. I look for missing people, too. That's what I'm on now, sort of.”

“You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to.”

“No, I don't mind. He's not really missing. I saw him last night in fact. He's the son of the guy who took me away from you at Roberta's. Remember?”

“I do. I wasn't pleased. I met him, Mr … Guthrie?” “Yeah. Well, he's hired me to find out what's gone wrong with his kid. There's something bloody funny about it, that's for sure. I followed the kid and the people he was drinking with last night, and that's when I ran into the two unfriendly guys I dropped off at your front door.”

I put my cup down, took hers and put it down and gently eased across the bed. I licked my finger and smoothed down her hair.

“I'm not a gunman,” I said. “I'm not a thug.”