The Holiday Murders (27 page)

As the three men talked, Clarry thought how easy it had been to kill the Jew in Toorak. He closed his eyes and re-imagined the scene with Mark on the receiving end of the beating. He opened his eyes and stared at Mark’s porcine profile. Who would miss such a creature if he were to die?
I can choose to spare your life, or take it
, Clarry thought, and he was suffused with pleasure. What a gift Jones had given him — the liberating knowledge that he could summon death, and that death would come. But when he moved his gaze to Fred, his confidence evaporated. He didn’t imagine he could ever take Fred by surprise — and he didn’t want to. Clarry saw the point of Fred. He and Jones were similar people, cut from the same cloth. Whatever cloth Mark was cut from, it was shoddy.
Laugh, fat boy
, Clarry thought,
laugh like a drain. Your days are numbered
.

It had been
a long recording session, in which they managed to commit three episodes of
The Red Mask
to acetate. The serial had aired only four times so far, but the response had been better than anyone at 3UZ had expected, and not just in Melbourne — audiences in all the capital cities had loved it. The sponsor, Lifebuoy Soap, was pleased. A representative of the company had even been in the studio watching the cast perform that day.

By five o’clock, Mary Quinn was exhausted. In all three episodes, her character had been in great peril, and she’d been required to produce two blood-curdling screams of terror. Her throat was feeling the effects of this exertion, and Constance Thorpe was keeping an eye on her. She admired Mary’s ability to corral her emotions in such a way that her hideous personal circumstances didn’t encroach upon her work in the studio. That scream had unsettled Constance. Somehow it didn’t feel like Mary Quinn was acting. At the very least, she’d drawn on something within herself to produce it, and that something was disturbing.

Constance noticed, in the course of the taping, that Jack Able’s eye kept settling on Mary Quinn, and that there seemed to have been a change in the rapport between them — a change for the better. Not that there’d ever been any coolness, but now there was a real warmth. She knew that Jack wasn’t committed to the pursuit of a particular sex, and she supposed that Mary wasn’t so naïve as not to have noticed this. If Mary was willing to engage in a romance with Jack under those circumstances, it wasn’t for Constance to disapprove or intervene. She felt great sympathy for Mary, and she liked Jack enormously. He was, Constance thought, a man without malice — a rare-enough quality in the community generally, and beyond price among actors. A real-life romance between her leading man and leading lady would be a publicity boon for
The Red Mask

However, as Constance watched them, she found herself worrying about how Jack would cope with what she could foresee as the inevitable failure of the romance. He was promiscuous with his cock, but not with his feelings. Mary Quinn wasn’t promiscuous, but there was a steeliness in her that hardened her against disappointment. Or so it seemed to Constance. She looked forward to discussing this turn of events with Dora.

Jack invited Mary to join him for dinner. She said she was too tired to bother with dinner, but that he could walk her back to the Windsor Hotel if he liked. On the way there, they spoke about the success of
The Red Mask
, and Jack told her that he’d heard that her performance was the talk of the country. Did she ever imagine when they started this silly serial that it would take off like this?

‘Your Dad would have been very proud,’ he said.

‘No, he wouldn’t,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘He wouldn’t have listened to a single episode; it wouldn’t have mattered to him how successful it became.’

Jack knew instinctively not to suggest that Mary was surely exaggerating, and that Mr Quinn would most likely have come round.

‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to …’

Mary touched his arm and assured him that he’d said nothing offensive, that it was perfectly normal for a person to assume that a father would take pride in the achievements of his daughter.

‘One day, Jack, I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘You know there’s no such thing as the perfect family.’

‘No? What about your family, Jack?’

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t have a father to disappoint. He bolted when my mother got pregnant. I’m a bastard.’ He laughed. ‘Ask anyone.’

‘That’s not in any of the articles I’ve read about you.’

‘Of course not. My father died a hero in the first war, according to the approved biography. I wouldn’t be surprised if in reality he ended up dead in a gutter somewhere. We can’t frighten the horses by telling the people the truth.’

‘Would they really care?’

‘It’s a funny thing, Mary. It actually changes the way people look at you. It’s as if they think illegitimacy is contagious.’

‘How did you know that I wouldn’t look at you like that?’

‘You’re not like everybody else. You’re not like anybody I know.’

He stopped and held her wrist.

‘I think I could tell you anything,’ he said.

He moved towards her. She pulled away.

‘I’m not ready, Jack.’

‘Of course.’

She touched his cheek and said, ‘I’ll keep you in mind, though.’

They both laughed and continued towards the Windsor Hotel.

Ptolemy Jones had
returned from Candlebark Hill that afternoon, having left Magill and company up there, along with Tom Mackenzie. Mackenzie had impressed him, although Fred was still wary. Fred was always wary around new recruits; it took years to win his trust. Fred was right, of course. Mackenzie had yet to prove himself, although Jones had every confidence that he’d do so. Jones didn’t think the same about his friend, Joe Sable. For a start, Jones was sure that there were Jews somewhere in Sable’s past, and not the distant past either. He was a lightweight, anyway, and had more in common with Magill’s girlfriend than with anyone in the fledgling Our Nation party. Sable wouldn’t last the distance; Mackenzie would. Jones was willing to back Mackenzie, but if he let Jones down, he’d regret it.

Jones was turning these things over in his mind as he waited opposite the Windsor Hotel. It was almost six o’clock, still light and still hot, when he saw Mary Quinn arrive with the queer from the other night. He didn’t go into the hotel with her. Instead, they stood talking for a few minutes, and then Mary went in alone. The queer stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at his shoes. Jones moved to where he could be seen if Jack lifted his eyes. When he did so, he didn’t look straight ahead, but to his left. Jones waited. There were a lot of people walking along both sides of Exhibition Street. Jones stood perfectly still so that, when Jack did look straight ahead, Jones’s stillness would catch his attention.

Jack hadn’t been thinking of anything, really, as he looked up and down the street, apart from wondering what to eat for dinner. The tall, still figure opposite him was odd. He seemed to be staring at Jack. Jack stared back. The figure put one hand into his pocket and mimed stroking his cock through the cloth.
Well, well, well
, Jack thought,
talk about brazen, and risky
. Should he cross Exhibition Street and take a closer look? It was still broad daylight. Jack had never been propositioned so daringly before. The bloke looked all right. He was lean, and he looked military, even though he was wearing civilian clothes. He wasn’t a stockbroker or an accountant — not with that haircut. Jack kept his own hands motionless. What harm could there be in just crossing over to get a closer look? He wasn’t committing himself to anything. He could just walk right past him as if he hadn’t been responding to a signal after all.

Jack made a move to cross the street. He waited for a break in the traffic, keeping his eyes on the man all the while.
No
, he decided suddenly. This was too risky, and something didn’t feel right. The bloke was probably a copper, setting a trap for young players, and Jack Ables was no young player. If he engaged with this man in any way, he’d be done for soliciting — and then he could say goodbye to his career. He turned and walked down Bourke Street.

Jones, whose breathing had quickened in expectation of teaching the queer a hard lesson, allowed his excitement to subside before deciding on the most efficient and least obtrusive way of getting to Mary Quinn. He crossed the street and walked into the Windsor Hotel’s foyer.

-18-

Joe Sable sat
opposite Tom Chafer, acutely aware that his dislike of the Intelligence officer was growing by the minute. Joe hadn’t come to Victoria Barracks in a good mood. This was mainly because he’d missed his opportunity to tell Inspector Lambert that Tom Mackenzie had been drawn into the Intelligence side of the investigation. He and Helen Lord had reported to him and had given their opinion that the attack on the Dutchman was a separate crime. In turn, Titus had given them the gist of his interview with Mrs Emerson, including her unprovable claim that her sister’s death had not been an accident. Reopening that case would take resources that Homicide didn’t have, and its link to the Quinn–Draper murders required a leap of the imagination rather than the application of investigative procedures.

Titus had wound up the discussion and left before Joe had had a chance to see him alone. Now, another day of keeping him in the dark had gone by, and Joe felt bad about the position in which Chafer and Goad had put him. He was not, therefore, well disposed towards Chafer and his repellent air of superiority. Matters weren’t helped by Chafer’s obvious disbelief in Joe’s explanation for his black eye.

For his part, Tom Chafer had started off by being annoyed at having to stay back to talk to Joe Sable. Goad had got in first and pleaded a previous engagement. Chafer had no such engagement, but he’d had a long day — now extended by Joe’s request to see him. As it happened, though, the new information that Joe brought him was of sufficient interest to take the edge off his irritation. Joe’s resentment, however, remained unsalved.

Ptolemy Jones was a new name to Intelligence. Joe wondered out loud how someone so menacing could have escaped Intelligence’s notice.

‘The fact that we don’t know him suggests that he’s a minor player.’

‘You might have to rethink that.’

‘You might be shocked by National Socialists expressing their views here, Sergeant, but we’ve been aware of them since the 1930s. There was a disgruntled little clique of German immigrants who used to meet in Belgrave. They had a couple of houses up there that they used to go to, and then they made themselves scarce when the war started. A few of them were interned, not because of their politics so much as their nationality. We have excellent intelligence on all the members of that now-defunct Nazi outpost. This Ptolemy Jones rings no bells with me. I’ll check our records, of course.’

‘They make no bones about their allegiance to Berlin,’ Joe said. ‘Magill is more circumspect about his sympathies, and he seems more interested in their appalling art than in overthrowing the government. Jones and his mate Fred are something else — they’re rabid. I can’t see them working together successfully with Magill. I got the feeling they’d cut him loose as soon as he’d outlived his usefulness.’

‘It all sounds ludicrous, them running around up there, talking about an Australian corner of the Reich.’

‘If I hadn’t been there, I’d agree with you. But I assure you that Ptolemy Jones is an extremely unpleasant man.’

Chafer took down a full description of Jones and Fred. He couldn’t enlighten Joe as to the meaning of “Argument 7”, and showed no concern when he was told that Tom Mackenzie hadn’t yet returned to his normal work.

‘The more information he gets, the better. The air force isn’t going to ground its planes just because Group Captain Mackenzie isn’t at his desk.’

‘He’s made no contact with you?’

‘None. Was there a telephone at this country place?’

‘Not that I noticed.’

‘Well, short of attaching a note to a pigeon, how would he contact anybody?’

Having given Chafer the satisfaction of being able to amuse himself with easy sarcasm, Joe tried to win back some ground.

‘I got no sense at Candlebark Hill that anyone associated with Australia First is nervous about infiltration by Intelligence. Is that because you people are good at what you do, or hopeless at it?’

Tom Chafer didn’t bite.

‘It’s unlikely that anyone would express suspicions about infiltrators to the people who might well be those infiltrators,’ he said. ‘That would be very strange, wouldn’t you agree? If any of these people had anything to do with the murder of John Quinn, if they knew he was working for Intelligence, they’d assume we’d come after them. Now two strangers suddenly show up, eager to join the party. I think they’d err on the side of caution.’

Once again, Tom Chafer’s tone erred on the side of condescension. Joe wondered how this man had got through life without having his nose broken. Perhaps his gaunt frame made people afraid that if they hit him, he’d shatter.

‘But that’s just it,’ Joe said. ‘They weren’t being cautious, were they? They were unguarded and frank about their allegiance to National Socialism. If they thought we were there to spy on them, that little nugget of treasonous belief would have been kept well hidden. That alone would be enough to have them interned, which I presume is your intention.’