Flying Too High (14 page)

‘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, of 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 boarding-house. 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 temporized, ‘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
Herald
which announced the Maldon Lottery win.

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.’

‘I’m not even going to ask why you want me to look at my daybook for Friday. In fact, I’m such a nice policeman that I’m going to do it. What time?’

‘After four in the afternoon,’ growled Bert.

‘Hmm. Friday was a quiet day. Nothing much happened around that time. Except that a fetching young woman in a bathing costume came in and made a complaint.’

‘The tarts often wear bathing togs in the street in this part of Kew, do they? Cec, we’re living on the wrong side of town.’

‘She had a good reason for her lack of attire. The old Undertaker had nicked her clothes.’

‘Well, well, the things that people do. It’s a criminal world.’

‘Yair, luckily you haven’t been caught yet. Undertaker is wellknown in these parts. He was in that line of business before the grog got him. Anyway, we got her clothes back. Another case solved. That enough for yer?’

‘Where can we find this Undertaker?’

‘Heaven. At least I hope so. Of course, it depends on the kind of life he led.’

The desk-sergeant folded his hands piously. Bert snorted.

‘If you mean that he’s dead, why not say so? What about the tart?’

‘She, as far as I know, is still with us.’

‘You got her name and address there, ain’t you?’

‘Wild horses would not drag it from me.’

‘How about ten quid?’

‘Ten quid, on the other hand, might.’

He wrote out the name and address on a piece of paper and handed it to Bert. Bert gave him the money.

‘Anything else I can do for you?’

‘Take a long walk off a short pier,’ requested Bert and he and Cec found themselves in the yard. As they started off again, he growled.

‘Only one thing worse than a clean cop, and that’s a funny cop.’

‘Too right,’ said Cec.

The young lady’s name, it appeared, was Wilson. Her address was close to the river, but she was not at home. Bert consulted the list.

‘Perhaps we should do the searching while the weather’s still clear. It looks like it might rain, eh, Cec?’

Cec considered the sky.

‘Too right.’

They split up, working in opposite directions. Cec found the rope. It was, as Phryne had foretold, of worn hemp, and there were dark stains at regular intervals.

‘Where did you find it, mate?’

Cec indicated a pile of bluestone pitchers. They had been piled carelessly, but under them Bert found a collection of small objects—a whistle, three chewing-gum cards in the Famous Kings and Queens in British History Series, the carriage of a toy train and three rings with bright glass stones. There was a licorice block and eleven lead soldiers, overpainted with what looked like white kilts.

‘What do you reckon this means, mate?’

Cec shook his head. ‘Maybe some kids were building a cubby house,’ he suggested. ‘Do we leave ’em here?’

‘Yair. Now to find where they are digging up the street. I reckon they are kerbstones, Cec. Back to the cab, mate. I reckon we have earned a drink. That’s two on the list. Then we look for the kids and go back for this Wilson sheila. I hope she ain’t dead, too.’

‘Too right,’ said Cec.

***

Having been placated with Mike’s blue singlet tied up to make a doll which substituted for Bear, Candida had fallen asleep. Mike had lain down beside her, to protect the child from any attack, and was snoring gently. Ann looked bitterly at the smooth face of the child and Mike’s peaceful countenance.

‘How can he sleep at a time like this!’ she snarled. Sidney was loading the gun.

‘He don’t have to wake up ever again,’ Sidney suggested. ‘All I got to do is have a little accident with this gun. Then there’s only two ways to split the money and no need to release the child. She’s bright. She’d be able to identify us. And I got nothing to lose. If the jacks catch me they’ll hang me high.’

Ann surveyed Sidney. He was a snivelling little monster, devoid of any attraction, but he could be used. Once he had the money, what was to stop her having the same accident? Then she wouldn’t have to split the money at all. The world owed her some favours. All her life she had longed for money; for furs and jewellery and luxury. Five thousand pounds could buy quite a lot of pleasure. She smiled on the detestable Sidney, who had clearly seen too many gangster films.

‘All right. But first we get the money. Then we deal.’

‘Think about it, honey,’ said Sidney. ‘It ain’t an offer I’ll make twice.’

You horrible little worm, thought Ann. She laid a hand on his, over the revolver.

‘It’s a deal.’

Candida was awake and listening. This rag thing was not Bear. She could not sleep without Bear. She kept her eyes closed.

‘What’s the time?’ asked Ann.

‘Ten…and it’s a forty-mile drive. Better go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Oh, Sidney,’ crooned Ann, both hands on his shoulders, ‘if you don’t come back, I’ll find you, and when I find you, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?’

Sidney’s eyes dropped. ‘I’ll come back, baby,’ he quoted, from the last gangster movie he’d seen.

Ann grabbed her coat. ‘And I’ll make sure of it,’ she agreed. ‘Mike can take care of the kid. You ain’t going nowhere without me, Sid.’

Sullenly, Sid led the way to the car. Candida closed her eyes. It was about time, she decided, that someone came to rescue her.

Chapter Nine

The truth is rarely pure and never simple.

The Importance of Being Earnest,
Oscar Wilde

Phryne got dressed for the long night ahead. She chose black trousers, boots, a tight-fitting cloche hat and a large, loose black wool jacket with several big pockets. As she dressed she gave Dot details of the coming adventure, and received the latest news.

‘Mr Leonard rang twice. Nothing new. Miss McNaughton says that she is having her children’s party on Friday. Miss, how are we going to rescue that little girl?’

‘This one, Dot, we shall have to fly entirely by the seat of our pants.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That I really haven’t the faintest idea. Get me Detective-inspector Robinson on the phone. Here’s his number. I’ve got another favour to ask him.’

When she had the policeman’s ear Phryne said, ‘If you alert the Queenscliff police to the fact that an arrest may be made in their area of a notorious criminal, and that I have your personal authority to direct it, then tomorrow might bring you good news.’

‘I’ll attend to it. I get so little good news in this job.’

Phryne rang off and sat down to think with the aid of a tantalus, a bottle of Napoleon brandy, and a map of Victoria. Dot, tiptoeing, withdrew.

By three in the afternoon she had come to the conclusion that her first theory had been correct. There was only one way to find out where Candida was, and that was to go home with the pick-up man. She put her small pearl-handled revolver in her pocket along with other essential supplies. A box of ammunition went into the pocket on the other side. She also carried a wad of money and a driving licence, a large bag of barley sugar, and a long light rope which she wound around her waist. She included her flying goggles and went to the kitchen to canvass Mr Butler’s opinion on a matter involving paint.

She set out for the Maldon household half-an-hour later, driving the red car, and Dot failed to get a word out of her. After ten minutes, she stopped trying.

‘How are they, Jack?’ asked Phryne, as she stepped through the door. Jack looked at her. She was a slight figure when dressed all in black, even to the cloche which hid her hair. The only colour in the whole ensemble was the bright pink of her cheeks and the grey-green of her eyes.

‘Not too good. They have been arguing about going to the police for hours now. Molly is all for it and Henry’s all against it.’

‘It may not be necessary,’ commented Phryne. ‘I have a plan. But if it doesn’t work we can still call the cops. I have spoken informally to my old friend Detective-inspector Robinson. Jack, can you lay your hands on a ’bus. We need a strong, fairly light plane.’