The Dying Trade (10 page)

“You should be safe enough if you stick to doing what you say. Take taxis and stay with other people. You can do it all the time if you try.”

“Taxis, OK. That reminds me, what about the police and my car? Will I have to talk to them again do you think?”

“I don't think so, I've squared it for the time being.”

“Fully insured, I'll get someone in the office onto it today. Good car, I think I'll get another one the same.”

“You do that,” I said.

She flared. “Don't be supercilious with me. I employ a lot of people, I spend my money. I do the best I can and I'm not hypocritical about it.”

“Like Susan Gutteridge?”

“Yes.”

“You've got a point. I'll call you about six, maybe we could have dinner, then have some things to do.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, it could be all over tonight if things go right.”

“You're being mysterious.”

“Not really, if I told you all about it you'd think it was so simple you wouldn't feel like paying me.”

She laughed and came up to me. I pulled her in and we kissed and rubbed together for a minute or two. I promised to call her at six, come what may, and left the house.

CHAPTER 10

I took the first drink of the day in an early opening pub at the Quay. My companions in sin ranged from a tattooed youth, who was playing at looking tough and doing pretty well at it, to a grizzled wreck who was mumbling about the Burns-Johnson fight at Rushcutters Bay in 1908. He claimed to have been the timekeeper and maybe he was. I bought him a schooner and he switched to Sullivan-Corbett which was a bit unlikely. A scotch would probably have got me Sayers and Heenan. I had a middy of old and tried to anticipate the results of Tickener's inquiries. The smell of toasted sandwiches interrupted this train of thought and I put the matter aside in their favour. I ate two cheese sandwiches and had a second beer. The rain had cleared and the day was going to be warm. Students and the unemployed would be on the beaches, accountants would be at their desks, private detectives would be peeling secrets off people like layers of sunburnt skin.

I got a shave in the Cross at a barber shop where I'd once seen Gough Whitlam, before he became Prime Minister—I figured he'd know where to get a good shave. The Italian razor man was neat and economical and let me read the paper while he worked. He was coming on strong with garlic and aftershave but I fought back with beer and I guess the honours were about even.
The News
had put Costello on the second page and had splashed a government statement about unions across the front. There was a front page picture of a cricket player kissing a paraplegic girl to remind everyone that God lives and life is still all fun and games.

I got to the office, checked the mail and the incoming calls with the answering service. There was nothing of interest in either. I rang the number which Harry Tickener, newshound and wordsmith, had given me the night before. He must have been sitting on top of the phone because it was snatched up the second it rang.

We established identities, confirmed that we were both in sound health and got down to business. The records branch of the motor registry never shuts down to accredited people and Tickener's contact had got what we wanted during the night. In a voice as thin and reedy as himself, Tickener recited the facts: “The Rover is registered to Dr William Clyde, 232 Sackville Drive, Hunters Hill, the Fairlane to Charles Jackson, 114 Langdon Street, Edgecliff, the VW to Naumeta Pali, Flat 6, 29 Rose Street, Drummoyne.”

“Good. Do you know anything about these people?”

“Not a thing. The only Charles Jackson I know of is a cop, Detective Inspector, CID. I don't know where he lives or what he drives. Never heard of the others, could find out though.”

“Right, you take Clyde, call me in an hour.”

I tidied my desk, throwing away bills and advertisements, and paid a couple of modest accounts with cheques I could cover by lodging Gutteridge money. I phoned Grant Evans at home. It was delicate but I was getting more confident.

“Grant? Cliff, I'm getting closer but I need a piece of information.”

“How big a piece? I'm feeling weak.”

“Not big, but close to home. You have a colleague by the name of Charles Jackson?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Your assessment.”

“No comment.”

“What does he drive and where does he live?”

“A Fairlane, he lives in Edgecliff somewhere.”

That spoke volumes. Evans trusted me but not enough to give out information on anyone for whom he had any regard. I had a character sketch of Jackson from those seven words.

“Anything else Cliff?”

“Not until tonight. You on duty?”

“Yeah, seven to three.”

“Good men with you?”

“Good enough.”

“I'll call you at eight.”

“You'd better come through on this, Cliff. There's a bit of flak about the car bombing and some bright boy has got on to the Gutteridge connection. I'm not sure how long I can sit on it.”

“Just hold the lid on until tonight. What I've got will be big enough to make you smell like a rose.”

He rang off without saying any more. Grant's position in the force was secure, but it would add to his troubles if the promotions didn't keep coming. If he got stuck on a rung too long he'd dry up with frustration and snap like a dead branch. He needed to get up to the top and get there soon. I hoped I could help him make it. Tickener's call came through at 10.00 precisely. It tied things up.

“Dr Clyde's a plastic surgeon,” he said without too much interest. “What about Jackson?”

“He's the cop you've heard of.”

“Yeah?” He sounded keener. “What's it all about?”

Suddenly I had doubts about telling him, not about his honesty but about his control of his tongue. If he went around talking to the wrong people for a day, word could get about and the whole thing could be blown. If Gutteridge's files existed and were being put to use there could be prominent people in all sorts of places treading the high wire and alert to anything in the breeze about Brave and the Gutteridges. I decided not to risk it.

“It hasn't quite come together yet,” I said, “but I expect it to tonight. I'll call you at eight and you can be in on it from the start. Meanwhile I'd dig up all I could on Brave's background if I were you. You're going to need that sort of stuff for your story. And keep quiet about Jackson, he's a small fish. How are you fixed in there? Is Barrett around?”

“No, still in the ACT.”

“Good, do you know Colin Jones, the photographer?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Line him up and be there at eight.”

He said okay and for his ego I told him to be sober and to have a full tank of petrol in the FB. That wrapped things up in that direction as far as I could see. I was sure that Costello was at Brave's clinic. Jackson was covering the police inquiry end and Dr Clyde was doing the face job. They'd been alarmed when I'd blundered into the clinic and seemed to have held some sort of conference the following night. But they hadn't moved Costello yet and perhaps they couldn't. It mightn't be medically advisable. If they were going to move him it would almost certainly happen at night and I had plans to head that off. I wished I had a man to watch the clinic in the daytime but I didn't and there was no use lamenting it.

All this planning was thirsty work and I left the office to repair the damage. Before I took off I put a handful of shells for the Smith & Wesson in my pocket and added a plastic wallet of easily assembled burglar's tools. I had a licence for the gun
but no one has a licence for skeleton keys and lock slides.

CHAPTER 11

I drove to a pub near the University where you can sit in the shade, drink old beer and eat passable rissole sandwiches. I took my street directory into the pub and looked up the addresses of Haines, Pali and Chalmers while I worked on the food and drink. Students around the place were talking in their derivative argot and preparing themselves to fall asleep in the afternoon lectures. One hairy intellectual studied me for a while and then announced that I was obviously in real estate—so much for higher education.

The addresses were more or less on the same side of the city. Geography determined the order of my visits—Pali, Haines, Chalmers. I finished my drink and got up. The pub was emptying but the vocation spotter seemed to be putting off the evil hour. He was rolling a cigarette from makings he'd bludged from one of his fellow seekers after truth. I caught his eye as I stood up and pressed a finger to my lips. As I passed his table I dropped one of my cards, face up, into the beer puddles.

Naumeta Pali's flat was in a six storey red brick building which was a wound in a wide street flanked by neat terrace houses. The flats were built over car parking space and there was a wide expanse of those smooth white stones that are supposed to replace grass around them. The whole set-up was modern, tasteless and medium expensive. The parking area was divided into bays of white lines; each bay had a flat number painted on it and there were a couple of signs around warning the public that this was private space. The space allotted for flat 6 was empty. I went into one of the lobbies in the building and located the flat. It was three floors up. In Glebe there'd have been milk bottles and cats on every landing and you'd have to fight a gang of kids for every inch of territory. Here there was nothing.

I knocked on the door of flat 6 and heard the sound echo about emptily inside. After a second try a woman put her head outside the door opposite.

“She ain't in,” she said.

The voice jarred with everything around and I turned around to take a good look at its owner. She was fortyish, fat and a good advertisement for cosmetics—black circled eyes, rouged cheeks and fire engine red lips. She'd had a few drinks but not enough for her to forget that she had to hold herself together. She had some help from corsets and a bra that pushed her breasts up out of the tight floral dress towards her loose chin. She wore gold, high heeled sandals. I looked closely for a cigarette holder but she didn't seem to have one just then.

“If you're looking for the darkie she ain't there.” Her voice was city slummy with a touch of country slowness.

“Do you happen to know when she'll be back Mrs . . .?”

“Williams, Gladys Williams. Who're you? Is she in trouble?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Well, you know them. She comes an' goes, all hours like. Must be doin' something shady.”

“I see. Do you mind if I ask what you do Mrs Williams?”

“Nothin', not any more.”

I raised an eyebrow and she gave a lopsided grin. “Nah, not that either, not for years. Married now.”

I nodded. “Husband's a bookie,” she went on, “in Lithgow. That's where we live. He comes to the bloody city meetings once a week, bloody dumps me here.”

“Why don't you go with him?”

She shook her head, the frizzy red tendrils danced about like the Gorgon's snakes. “Sick of 'em, rather stay here. Might go out tonight. Hey, why're you askin' all these questions, wanna drink?”

I'd only asked three that I was aware of, but she was ready to open up like a sardine can and her qualifications as an observer of her neighbours were impeccable. I produced a card from the insurance days.

“A drink would be very nice,” I said, moving towards her so she couldn't renege on the offer. “I'm an insurance investigator. Miss Pali isn't in trouble exactly, but any information you could give me might help to clear things up a little.”

She wanted it to be trouble. “Fiddlin' a claim is she?” We moved through the door straight into the living room. It was over-furnished and over-cleaned, the blinds were drawn to enhance the television viewing—the real day closed off to allow the fantasy one fuller rein.

“I'd rather not say Mrs Williams. It's rather unsavoury in some ways.”

That was better. She nodded conspiratorially and went off into the kitchen. She made noises out there and came back with two hefty gin-and-tonics. She handed me one, sat down in a quilted armchair and waved me into another. She tucked her legs up under her and took a long pull at her drink.

“I understand,” she said throatily. “How can I help youse?”

I sipped the drink. It was something to take in slowly over half an hour with a novel.

“What can you tell me about Miss Pali? I understand she drives a red Volkswagen, is that right?”

“Yeah, like I said she comes in at all hours of the day and night. Makes a bloody awful noise that thing.”

“What does she do for a living?” She wasn't stupid, she gave me a suspicious look. “Don't you know?” I cleared my throat and took another sip trying to look guarded. “Well, we're not sure, that is . . .”

“Umm, well I dunno. Seems to have plenty of money to judge by her clothes, not my taste of course but they aren't cheap—slack suits and that. Could be some sorta secretary, 'cept not in an office. She's home a lot an' types for hours. A couple of blokes come and bring . . .” she made a vague gesture with her hand. “Files,” I suggested, “papers?”

“Yeah, somethin' like that. Folders and that.”

“I see. How many men?”

“Couple.”

“Can you describe them?”

“One's a big bloke, bigger 'n you and younger. Other one's dark, not a boong, more dagoey looking, sharp dresser.”

“All business is it?”

She looked sly, “No way, young man stays the night sometimes.”

I took out a notebook and pretended to write in it. “You keep your eyes open, Mrs Williams.”

“Bugger all else to do here. I stay down sometimes see, go to a show and go up to Lithgow at the weekend. Got a coupla relations in Sydney.”

I wrote some more gibberish. “Can you describe them more closely, her visitors?”

“Nah, never looked that close. Both wear good clothes, better 'n Bert's.”

“Bert?”

“Me husband. Bert wears old fashioned clothes, he reckons bettors don't like trendy bookies. I reckon they don't like bookies full stop, but you can't tell Bert a thing.”

The gin was getting to her and she was wandering into the dreary deserts of her own life. I only wanted the spin-off from that—the fruits of her boozy, envious snooping.

“I see. What else can you tell me? Does she have other visitors?”

“Yeah, course she does, other darkies mostly, but they piss off when the white blokes arrive.”

It was time to wind it up. “When did you last see her, Mrs Williams?”

“Yestiddy mornin', didn't come home last night don't think. No sign of her this mornin'.”

“Is that usual?”

“No, always comes home sometime,
he
comes there, see. I dunno, suppose it's all right, black and white and that. She's a funny sort of blackie anyway, not an Abo', comes from some funny place, New . . . somethin', saw the stamp.”

The gin had hit her, she was coming apart and I pressed in for just this last scrap.

“New Guinea?” I prompted.

“No, I heard of New Guinea, Bert was there in the war. Never heard of this place, New . . .”

“Hebrides?”

“No, don't think so.”

“Caledonia?”

“Yeah, that's it, New Caledonia. Where's that?”

I told her, thanked her for the drink and eased my way out. She slumped down in her chair muttering about a cruise.

Strictly speaking, it was a little too late for me to be making another call. I'd meant to give the Pali flat a quick once-over and be on my way, not get stuck drinking gin with a lady whose best days were behind her. Still, I'd learned a bit and this encouraged me to stick to my schedule and tackle Haines next. The traffic would hold him away from home for at least an hour after office hours, if he observed them. If he didn't, then one time was about as good as another for what I had to do. It was a short drive but my shirt was sticking to my back and my throat was oily with the humidity and the almost neat gin when I turned into Haines' street. It was a migrant and black neighbourhood which surprised me a little from what I'd heard of Haines, but perhaps he liked slumming. His flat was in a big Victorian town house, free standing with massive bay windows on both levels. Someone enterprising had made the building over into flats about thirty years ago and it was now in a fair way to return a thousand dollars a month. There was a small overgrown garden in front of the house and a narrow strip of bricked walkway down each side. At the back the yard had been whittled away to nothing to allow four cars to cuddle up against each other under a flat roofed carport. There were no cars at home.

I took this in from a slow cruise around the block formed by the street onto which the house fronted, two side streets and a lane at the back. I parked across the street and a hundred yards down, took the Smith & Wesson from its clip, dropped the keys under the driver's seat and walked up towards the house. My car blended in nicely with the other bombs parked around it. Two black kids were thumping a tennis ball against a brick wall. I gave them a grin and they waited sceptically for me to pass. The iron gate was off its hinges and leaning against the fence just inside the garden. I went in and took the left hand path to the back of the house. It turned out to be the correct side; a set of concrete steps ran up to a landing and an art nouveau door with slanted wooden strips across it and a swan etched into the ripple glass. I coaxed the door open with a pick lock and slid inside leaving the door slightly ajar.

It was what the advertisements call a studio apartment—one big room with a kitchenette and a small bathroom off to one side. A three-quarter bed was tucked into the bay-window recess, and a couch and a couple of heavy armchairs were lined up against one wall with a big oak wardrobe facing them across the room. A low coffee table and a few cushions filled in some of the space and an old wooden filing cabinet stood in a corner away from the light. The rug left a border of polished wood around the room; it had been good and expensive fifty years ago and still had much of its charm.

In the kitchenette were the usual bachelor things and there was no one dead in the bathroom. There were no papers in the filing cabinet, just socks, underwear and folded shirts, all high quality. The drawers of the wardrobe held tie pins, cuff links, a couple of cigarette lighters and some dusty stationery. I flicked through the suits hanging in the long cupboards, four of them with custom labels, nothing in the pockets. Nothing either in the bathrobe, trench coat, duffel jacket or two sports coats. The shoes were in the bottom of one of the cupboards, formally aligned like waiters at a wedding breakfast. There were no bathing suits, no tennis sneakers, no camera, no records or cassettes. There was a small transistor radio, but no television and there wasn't a book in the place.

I found the personal papers in a drawer in the base of the bed—on the side turned to the wall. They occupied one large manila envelope and it took me about two seconds to spread them out on the coffee table. They didn't amount to much: five photographs and five pieces of paper. Unless he carried them around strapped to his thigh, this guy had made a point of not accumulating the usual pieces of plastic and paper that signpost our lives from the cradle to the grave. That in itself was interesting.

If they haven't been kept with any special care, a collection of photographs is fairly easy to arrange from the earliest to the latest and so it was with this batch. The earliest picture, yellowed and a bit creased, was of a building I'd never seen before to my knowledge—a nasty red brick Victorian affair with a wall around it and the look of a women's prison. Next oldest was a muzzy snapshot of a woman in the fashions of twenty years before. A young woman with flared skirts and plenty of lipstick—she looked vaguely familiar but it might just have been the clothes; my sister had looked much the same at the time. Number three, according to my layout, was a careful shot, taken with a good camera, of a landscaped garden—a beautiful job with rockeries and tiled paths and garden beds spreading out over what could have been an acre or more. The fourth picture was a booth print, passport size, of Ross Haines taken about five years ago. He had a dark bushy beard and was slimmer than he now looked; he was wearing a department store shirt and tie and a suit which, to judge from the cut of the shoulders and the lapels, had come off a fairly cheap hook. Haines wasn't smiling or scowling or pulling any kind of face, just presenting his puss neutrally to the camera. The most recent of the photos could have been taken yesterday—it showed Ailsa Bercer Gutteridge, nee Sleeman. She wore light coloured slacks and a denim smock and her eyes were slightly crinkled up against smoke from a cigarette which she was holding rather stiffly in front of her. She looked a bit surprised, a bit off guard, but she wasn't doing anything she shouldn't unless you disapprove of smoking.

The documents, all but one, dated themselves. There was an extract of birth to the effect that Ross Haines had been born on 8 May 1953 in Adelaide, South Australia. It was only an extract so no parents' names appeared. There were two references from employers dated October 1970 and November 1971, both letterheads were of plant nurseries and garden suppliers and landscapers in Adelaide. They established the solid credentials and serviceable talents of Ross Haines in this line of work. The other dated document was a diploma from a Sydney business college. It detailed the creditable performances of Haines at typing, shorthand and commercial principles and practice. A map of the Pacific Ocean completed the personal papers of Ross Haines. It folded four times, down to the size of a ladies' handkerchief. I opened it out. There were no marks, no circles, no pin-pricks; at that scale most of the islands were dots or straggly shapes like ink-blots in a vast and trackless sea.