Murder in the Dark (23 page)
‘I did ask around,’ said Nicholas diffidently. ‘Yesterday I went back to Melbourne. About that snake, you see, they can’t be all that easy to come by. I mean, you can’t just walk into a pet shop with those bunnies and kittens and puppies and ask for a deadly reptile from the Caribbean and can they gift-wrap it for Christmas, please.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Phryne, interested. ‘What did you find out?’
‘The shops were all shut,’ said Nicholas. ‘But I found a collector and asked him. Queer coots, those collectors. This bloke answered the door with, I swear, about ten foot of carpet snake wrapped around his chest. Beastly thing poked its tongue out at me.’
‘It was just tasting the air, dear boy. I can tell that you are not going to become a bosom friend of our reptilian brothers and sisters.’
‘Fair turned my stomach,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘I say, you haven’t got a bottle of anything here, have you?’
‘Sorry, we drank all the cocktails and I haven’t got around to having my flask refilled, such has been the pace of events lately. I’ll get you something directly the bar opens. Go on. You fascinate me.’
Nicholas, recalling the horror of that nose to scaly nose encounter, decided that it had been worth it if he could fascinate Miss Fisher.
‘Well, he went on about how beautiful they were, showed me all sorts of nasty creepy-crawlies and made me say they were very pretty, and finally told me that a Mr Forest had bought his last coral snake. Paid cash. Description: average height, average build, hair sort of brown, eyes didn’t notice.’
‘If Mr Forest had been a snake he would have looked more carefully,’ commented Phryne. ‘Mr Forest, eh? I wonder who that could be. I don’t think we’ve got any Forests amongst the throng, but we can find out. Now, it must be just about lunch time.’ She consulted her watch. ‘And the hunt should be returning soon. My intuition tells me that the bar will be open to supply stirrup cups, and I owe you a drink. This afternoon, furthermore,’ she lured Nicholas into the corridor, ‘Nerine will be singing for your special delectation, and Nerine’s art never goes stale.’
‘But, Phryne, what about the gunman, and the luggage labeller?’ he protested.
‘I am waiting on developments,’ Phryne replied. ‘And there is no rule in the detectives handbook that says I can’t enjoy myself while I am waiting. And if there is,’ she added, ‘it’s silly and I don’t propose to take any notice of it.’
‘Right,’ said Nicholas.
‘And after that, we shall set Syl to conduct more parlour games, and by their charades we shall know them.’
Nicholas surrendered.
They collected their luncheon boxes from the pile on the verandah and took refuge under the hornbeam tree. The weather was almost cool. Phryne had put on a loose, sky-blue cardigan. Suddenly she seemed struck by an idea and left with a brief promise to return soon and a warning that the person who ate her passionfruit biscuits would regret it.
She was back before he’d had time to do more than eye the biscuits lustfully.
‘What have you been doing?’ he asked, as she threw herself down on the grass and grabbed for the thermos.
‘Just took a dress or two and some cosmetics and things to poor Sad Alison,’ she said. ‘I was rather harsh with her, you were right. And it’s cruel to criticise someone’s appearance if they don’t have the means to change it. I borrowed some white vinegar from Mrs Truebody and Amelia promised to help Alison with her hair. That ought to stop both of them from crying anymore.’
‘Interesting,’ observed Nicholas, grinning.
‘What?’ asked Phryne through a gulp of coffee.
‘I didn’t know you had a conscience,’ he said.
Phryne sniffed. ‘Then you really haven’t been paying attention to what Jack Robinson told you about me.’
‘You keep saying that name,’ said Nicholas.
‘So I do. What sort of biscuits did you get?’
‘Orange. Want to swap me for a passionfruit one?’
‘If you like,’ said Phryne, looking at him thoughtfully.
There was a fusillade of guns and a baying of hounds.
‘Ah,’ said Nicholas. ‘The hunt has returned.’
Bert had accepted an invitation to lunch at Phryne’s house with Jack Robinson only because he adored Mrs Butler’s food and he was worried about Phryne. Otherwise he would never have been seen at the same table as a cop, even though this one was quite a decent one as cops go. And neither would Cec, his best mate. They had shared many experiences, including that of a Turkish beach which was the last word in discomfort, and both of them valued luxury. Lunch with Mrs B was always to be defined as a luxury. He settled his lapels and reached for his beer, avoiding Jack Robinson’s policemanly regard.
‘This gunman, he’s bad. The brothers from the Longshoremen’s gave us the office. He’s a stone cold killer. Cec and me met him once so we couldn’t go ourselves, and I sent men I can trust, but still . . .
’ He took a long draught. Mr Butler always kept his beer just at the prime, cold, pub temperature. Just the thing on a hot day—or, indeed, any day.
‘But surely this is exaggerated,’ protested Miss Eliza. ‘This Joker sounds like something out of Sexton Blake.’
‘Stands to reason there must have been someone to copy all those villains from,’ said Dot reasonably.
‘And he’s the original assassin,’ said Jack Robinson heavily. ‘We got word from London. Never had a picture taken since he was twelve. French mother and American father. Speaks a lot of languages fluently. In fact, they said he could have been anything he wanted, but he wanted to be a murderer.’
‘Some blokes are real strange,’ commented Bert, passing his glass to Mr Butler for a refill. ‘Where are the girls today?’
‘I sent them to buy some cakes at the other end of Acland Street. Only the Jewish shops are open. Isn’t there something we can do to warn Miss Phryne?’ asked Dot.
Mr Butler served a small cup of perfectly made beef bouillon. The company sipped reverently. Lady Alice disposed of hers by picking up the bowl and drinking from it.
‘So we don’t have a photo. Do we have a description?’
Jack Robinson sighed. ‘Not really. Moderate height and weight, possibly brown eyes, brown hair.’
‘Looks pretty much like everyone,’ said Cec. ‘Useful, in his profession.’
‘Well, so we know his name?’
‘Last time anyone almost caught him, he was going by the name of Linda. John Linda, travelling in chocolate. That wasn’t his name, of course. But he got into the strongest prison in France and assassinated a prisoner who was going to give evidence which would have locked up a whole drug smuggling ring. And he strolled out again as cool as you please and vanished.’
‘The Yanks say that he killed a union man when he was sitting up in his own chair with a shotgun on his lap,’ said Bert disconsolately.
‘How was he killed?’ asked Robinson, professionally interested.
‘Fine blade to the heart. Stiletto, maybe a hatpin. No one saw a thing. It’s like he really can disappear. Is that fish and chips, Mr B?’
‘Fish and
pommes frites
it is, Mr Bert,’ replied the butler. ‘And a dish of green peas, and some
salade verte vinaigrette
.’
Cec, who despite having worked a six month stint on a trawler really loved fresh fish, decided to squeeze in his bit of information so as to give his appetite free range.
‘The bloke I was talking to said that this Joker had been seen wearing a vicar’s clothes—you know, with a collar on back to front. Flathead, eh? You beaut.’
‘That’s why he’s so hard to describe,’ said Robinson. ‘He can look like anyone and sound like anyone. And sometimes he wears ladies’ clothes.’
‘So who’s to say that he isn’t a woman?’ asked Dot.
Jack Robinson dropped his fork. Mr Butler gave him another without comment. The detective inspector opened his mouth to refute Dot’s comment, then closed it again, and then employed it for eating green peas. Maybe she was right. Who was, indeed, to say that the Joker wasn’t a woman?
‘He was convincing enough in female disguise to . . . er . . . distract a prison guard,’ he admitted. ‘He’s a small bloke with small hands and feet and—yes, all right, Dot, he might be a female. Though I hope not.’
‘Why?’ asked Miss Eliza, set to bristle on behalf of her sex.
‘Because I’d hate to think that a woman could be capable of Joker crimes.’
‘Bad enough that anyone is,’ agreed Dot. ‘Mr Bert, Mr Cec, you say you met this Joker? Why can’t you remember what he looked like?’
‘Just can’t,’ said Cec, who had engulfed several fish and was now picking bones out of his palate. ‘I usually got a good memory and since I heard about him hunting Miss Phryne I been trying real hard to remember. Was it brown eyes or blue eyes? What shape of face? And I can’t recall a thing, not a blo— blessed thing. He must be like that bloke on the radio, the Shadow, that has the power to cloud men’s minds.’
‘Not a lot of power needed there,’ snorted Miss Eliza.
‘Now, Miss, don’t go crook at us,’ begged Bert. ‘We’re all friends here.’
‘So we are,’ said Lady Alice.
Miss Eliza muttered an apology.
‘What sort of men have you sent out to help her?’ asked Dot. She had hardly touched her meal. Mr Butler knew that this would displease Mrs Butler and frowned. Dot noticed this and picked up a token chip and bit into it. It tasted wonderful so she ate another and then started on the toothsome fish in its delicate batter.
‘I sent my old mate Ted. Cec and me was in the army with him. Good bloke, cool under fire. Good hand to hand fighter, too.’
‘And I sent my cousin Rob,’ said Cec. ‘He’s a champion rifle shot and he and Ted are used to working together. They were the best we could find, since we didn’t dare go ourselves and run the risk of giving the show away. This Joker bloke, he gets real indiscriminate when he feels threatened. The Longshoremen brothers said that when he was trapped at the waterfront once he shot five cops and a timekeeper just in order to cover which way he had gone. Shot them dead.’
‘We can’t have the scum of America coming here,’ protested Jack Robinson.
‘You might be a bit late,’ said Bert, sardonically. ‘By about a hundred years. Mind you, we started with the scum of Britain, so we might as well vary the mix.’
‘Oh, very witty, Bert,’ said Robinson.
‘I mean it,’ said Bert. ‘Reason why I never believe the commos when they talk about conspiracies by the state is that the state isn’t any better at conspiracies than the rest of us. Worse, even. The state couldn’t find its backside with both hands—sorry, ladies. There’s always someone who’ll blow the secret, to feel important or because they’re half pi—I mean, full of ink.’
‘The only secret never known is kept by one who’s all alone,’ quoted Dot.
‘That’s right,’ said Cec. ‘Two, if one of ’em’s dead.’
‘Apple pie and cream,’ said Mr Butler.
‘Do we know who the intended victim is?’ asked Phryne.
They had finished their lunch and were idling under the tree preparatory to a field expedition to the bar, which was presently full of hearties and horsemen (and at least one horse).
‘We guess that it must be the Templars,’ said Nicholas. ‘That makes it easier to guard them.’
‘Which we are not doing at present,’ she pointed out.
‘This Joker, he’s got a twist. He likes to kill people in their proper setting. He waited ages to kill a famous painter in the Louvre. The French police said that he had hidden in a niche for at least two days, all to get the perfect shot at the perfect place.’
‘So he isn’t likely to kill the Templars while they are hunting,’ said Phryne. ‘Certainly not characteristic, I agree. What would constitute characteristic?’
‘Karez,’ said Nicholas, blushing. ‘Or maybe the Arab party beforehand.’
‘Likely,’ said Phryne.
‘Of course, he may be after you,’ said Nicholas.
‘Me? Why?’
‘Upset some husbands? Annoyed some wives?’
‘No,’ said Phryne. ‘I made a policy decision a long time ago, no married men. It has served me well in the enemy reducing department.’
‘I see,’ said Nicholas, and was about to add something when, from the bar tent, came a long, loud shriek of dismay and horror.
They were on their feet instantly, and running.
Bosom Caresser
1 part brandy
1 part orange curaçao
yolk of one egg
teaspoon grenadine
Shake together with ice.
A little kindness—and putting her hair in
papers—would do wonders with her.
Lewis Carroll
Through the Looking-Glass
The person who was screaming was Sabine, which was unlike her. The reason for her screaming was immediately apparent. Laid out and nailed to the only timber structure in the tent, the actual frame itself, was a dead fox. Very dead. Dead and mutilated and crucified.
Phryne and Nicholas pushed to the front. Phryne bundled Sabine into Pam English’s arms.
‘Take her away and make her some valerian tea,’ she ordered. ‘Everyone get back, please, we shall have this cleared away in a moment.’
Ted and Rob, summoned by the screams, had materialised at her side. ‘Take this poor creature down,’ she said to them. ‘Keep it carefully. And the piece of paper it is holding in its teeth. Do this fast or we shall have hysterics and tears before bedtime.’
Ted, who was carrying a hammer and a canvas sack, agreed.
‘We were just on the way to fix one of the horse pavilions,’ he said. ‘So we’ve got all the tools we need. You keep the mob back a bit and let the dog see the rabbit.’
Phryne and Nicholas, now assisted by the bar staff and some of the hearties, pressed the shocked aesthetes back.
‘Lots of drinks in just a moment,’ said Phryne soothingly.
‘What? Never seen a dead fox before?’ demanded the hunters. ‘It’s just a dead animal, nothing to get all worked up about.’
‘You saw the paper in its teeth?’ asked Nicholas in an undertone.
‘Yes, but I didn’t want to draw attention to it. Ted and Rob will smuggle it to me. In fact,’ she said, conscious of a discreet tug at her sleeve and opening her hand to receive a folded note, ‘even now it may be winging its way towards me. Good work, chaps,’ she said to the workers as they carried the shrouded corpse out of the tent. ‘Now, what shall we drink?’
