The Bat (20 page)

“Depends on who’s there. And the forest. Some forests are darker than others.”

“And what’s your forest like?”

Andrew put the cigar in the drawer of his bedside table. “Dark. Like a Maduro cigar.” He looked at Harry. “But of course you’ve found that out …”

“I’ve spoken to a friend of yours who’s cast a bit more light over who Andrew Kensington is, yes.”

“Well, then you know what I’m talking about. About not letting yourself be deceived by the illuminated paths. But you have a couple of dark patches yourself, so I don’t need to explain this to you.”

“Meaning?”

“Let’s just say that I recognize a man who’s given things up. Drinking, for example.”

“I suppose everyone does,” Harry mumbled.

“Everything you do leaves traces, doesn’t it. The life you’ve lived is written all over you, for those who can read.”

“And you can read?”

Andrew placed his large fist on Harry’s shoulder. He had perked up remarkably quickly, Harry thought.

“I like you, Harry. You’re my pal. I think you know what things are about, so don’t look in the wrong place. I’m just one of the many millions of lonely souls trying to live on the face of this earth. I’m trying to acquit myself without making too many mistakes. Now and then I may even be on top of things enough to try and do some good. That’s all. I’m not important here, Harry. Finding out about me won’t lead you anywhere. Shit,
I’m
not even particularly interested in finding out too much about myself.”

“Why not?”

“When your forest is so dark you don’t know it yourself, it’s wise not to go on trips of discovery. You can soon find yourself treading on thin air.”

Harry nodded and sat looking at the flowers in the vase. “Do you believe in chance?” he asked.

“Well,” Andrew said, “life consists of a connected series of quite improbable chance occurrences. When you buy a lottery ticket and get number 822531, for example, the odds of you getting that number are one in a million.”

Harry nodded again. “What bothers me,” he said, “is that I’ve had that lottery number too many times in a row.”

“Really?” Andrew sat up in bed with a groan. “Tell Uncle Andrew.”

“On my arrival in Sydney the first thing that happens is I hear you weren’t actually going to be assigned to this case at all, but you insisted on being given the Inger Holter murder and, furthermore, asked specifically to work with me, the foreigner. Back then I should have asked myself a few questions. The next thing you do is introduce me to one of your friends under the pretext of watching a semi-entertaining circus number to kill some time. Out of four million inhabitants in Sydney I meet this one guy on the first evening. One guy! One in four million. The same guy pops up again, by the way, we even make a very intimate wager of a hundred dollars, but the point is he pops up in the bar where Inger Holter worked and it transpires he knew her! One in four million again! And while we’re trying to home in on a
probable
murderer, Evans White to be precise, you suddenly unearth a contact who has
seen
White, one of eighteen million people on this continent, a contact who happens to be in Nimbin of all places on the very night of the murder!”

Andrew seemed to have fallen into a deep reverie. Harry went on.

“So, of course, it’s natural for you to give me the address
of the pub where Evans White’s gang
happen
to be regulars, so that under pressure they can confirm the story everyone wants me to believe: that White is not involved.”

Two nurses had come in and one of them grabbed hold of the bed end. The other said in a friendly but firm tone: “I regret to say visiting time is over now. Mr. Kensington has to have an EEG test and the doctors are waiting.”

Harry leaned over to Andrew’s ear. “I’m at best a man of middling intelligence, Andrew. But I know there’s something you’re trying to tell me. I just don’t know why you can’t say it straight out. Or why you need me. Has someone got a hold on you, Andrew?”

He ran alongside the bed as the nurses swung it through the door and continued down the corridor. Andrew had slumped back onto his pillow and closed his eyes.

“Harry, you said that Whitefellas and Aboriginals had more or less the same story about the first people to live on this earth because we’d drawn the same conclusions about things of which we know nothing, that we had some innate thought processes. On the one hand, that’s probably the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard, but on the other I hope you’re right. In which case it’s just a question of closing our eyes and see—”

“Andrew!” Harry hissed into his ear. They had stopped by a lift and one of the nurses held the door.

“Don’t play bloody games with me, Andrew, do you hear?! Is it Otto? Is Otto Bubbur?”

Andrew opened his eyes. “How—?”

“We’re going to arrest him this evening. After the show.”

“No!” Andrew half sat up in bed, but a nurse pressed him carefully but firmly back down.

“The doctor has told you to lie still, Mr. Kensington. Remember, you have a serious concussion.” She turned to Harry. “This is as far as you go.”

Andrew struggled to get up again. “Not yet, Harry! Give
me two days. Not yet. Promise me you’ll wait two days! Sister, go to hell!” He smacked away the hand trying to push him down.

Harry stood by the headboard holding the bed. He stooped and whispered with a fiery intensity, almost spitting out the words, “For the time being, none of the others is aware that Otto knows you, but of course it’s just a question of time before they find out. They’ll start wondering about your role in all of this, Andrew. I can’t delay this arrest without a bloody good reason.”

Andrew grabbed Harry’s shirt collar. “Look closer, Harry. Use your eyes! See …” he started, then gave up and sank back on the pillow.

“See what?” Harry persisted, but Andrew had closed his eyes and was waving him to stop. He suddenly looks so old and small, Harry thought. Old, small and black in a big, white bed.

A nurse brusquely pushed Harry away, and the last he saw before the lift doors shut was Andrew’s large, black hand, still waving.

A thin veil of cloud had drifted in front of the afternoon sun over the ridge behind Bondi Beach. The sands and sea were beginning to empty, and coming toward them was a steady stream of the types that populate Australia’s famous, glamorous beach: surfers with sun-creamed lips and noses, waddling bodybuilders, girls in cut-off jeans on Rollerblades, sunburned B-list celebrities and silicone-enhanced bathing nymphs; in short, the beautiful people, the young and—at least on the surface—the successful. Campbell Parade, the boulevard where the “in” fashion boutiques and small, plain but expensive restaurants stand shoulder to shoulder, was at this time of day a seething mass of people. Open sports cars moved slowly in the traffic, revving their engines with impatient rutting cries while the drivers observed the activity on the pavements through mirror sunglasses.

Harry thought about Kristin.

He was thinking about the time he and Kristin had gone Interrailing and got off the train in Cannes. It had been peak tourist season and there hadn’t been a single reasonably priced room in the whole town. They had been away from home so long that they were scraping the bottom of their piggy bank, and their travel budget certainly couldn’t
stretch to an overnight stay at any of the numerous luxury hotels. So they inquired when the next train left for Paris, stowed their rucksacks in a left-luggage locker at the station and went down to La Croisette. They promenaded to and fro looking at the people and animals, all equally beautiful and rich, and the crazy yachts, each with their own crew, cabin cruiser moored to the stern as a commuter vehicle and helicopter pad on the roof, which made them swear then and there to vote Socialist for the rest of their lives.

In the end, all the promenading made them so sweaty they had to have a swim. Towels and bathing costumes were in the rucksacks, so they were forced to swim in their underwear. Kristin had run out of clean knickers and was wearing a pair of Harry’s sturdy pants. They plunged into the Mediterranean, among expensive tangas and bulky jewelery, giggling happily in their white Y-fronts.

Harry remembered lying on the sand afterward and watching Kristin standing in a loose T-shirt and removing the wet, heavy pants. He enjoyed the sight of her glowing skin with droplets of water glittering in the sun, of the T-shirt riding up to reveal a long, suntanned thigh, of her gently curved hip, of the Frenchmen’s long stares, he liked how she looked at him, catching him in the act, how she smiled and held his eyes as she lingeringly pulled up her jeans, how she put a hand under her T-shirt to raise the zip, but left it there, leaned back and closed her eyes … then ran her red tongue provocatively around her lips, teetered and fell, hard, on top of him with a snort of laughter.

Afterward they ate at an exorbitantly expensive restaurant with a view of the sea, and as the sun set they were sitting entwined on the sand with Kristin shedding a few tears with the beauty of it and they agreed they would book into the Carlton Hotel and sneak off without paying, and perhaps skip the two days they had planned to be in Paris.

That summer was always the first thing he thought about
when his mind turned to Kristin. It had been so intense, and afterward it was easy to say that there had been separation in the air. But Harry couldn’t remember thinking about it at the time.

That autumn Harry did his military service, and before Christmas Kristin had met a musician and gone to London.

Harry, Lebie and Watkins were sitting at a pavement cafe on the corner of Campbell Parade and Lamrock Avenue. The table was in the shade, it was late afternoon, but not so late that their sunglasses looked out of place. Their jackets in the heat were less satisfactory, but the alternative was shirtsleeves and gun holsters. They didn’t say much, they just waited.

In the middle of the promenade, between the beach and Campbell Parade, was St. George’s Theatre, a beautiful yellow building where Otto Rechtnagel was soon to perform.

“Have you used a Browning Hi-Power before?” Watkins asked.

Harry shook his head. They had shown him how to load and put the safety catch on when he was being equipped at the Firearms Desk, and that was all. It wasn’t a problem; Harry didn’t exactly imagine that Otto would pull out a machine gun and mow them all down.

Lebie checked his watch. “Time we got going,” he said. Sweat was wreathed around his head.

“OK, final run-through: while everyone’s on the stage and bowing after the finale, Harry and I enter by the side door. I’ve arranged that the caretaker will leave it open. He’s also put up a nameplate on Rechtnagel’s dressing-room door. We stand outside until Rechtnagel comes, and we arrest him there. Smack on the handcuffs, no weapons unless there’s an emergency. Out the back door, where we have a police car waiting for us. Lebie will be in the crowd
with a walkie-talkie and will call us when Rechtnagel’s on his way. Also if Rechtnagel should smell a rat and try to make an escape through the crowd to the main entrance. Let’s take up our positions and say a quiet prayer that they have air-conditioning.”

The small, intimate auditorium of St. George’s Theatre was full and the atmosphere was excited as the curtain rose. In fact, though, the curtain didn’t rise, it fell. The clowns stood looking up at the ceiling where the curtain had come loose, then they discussed the matter gesticulating wildly, running around helter-skelter, pushing the curtain off the stage, tripping over one another and apologizing to the audience with doffed caps. All of which was greeted by laughter and good-humored shouts. In the house there seemed to be quite a number of friends and acquaintances of the performers. The stage was cleared and converted into a scaffold scene, and Otto entered to the accompaniment of a heavy funeral march played on one drum.

Harry saw the guillotine and immediately realized this was a variation of the same number he had seen in the Powerhouse. Obviously the Queen was in for it tonight, for Otto was wearing a red ball gown with an immensely long, white wig and white-powdered face. The executioner also had a new costume: a tight-fitting black outfit with large ears and webbing under his arms, which made him look like a devil.

Or a bat, Harry reflected.

The blade of the guillotine was raised, a marrow was placed beneath and the blade fell. With a thud it hit the block as if the marrow hadn’t been there at all. The executioner triumphantly held the two halves in the air as the audience cheered and whistled. After some heartrending scenes, during which the Queen wept and begged for mercy and vainly tried to ingratiate herself with the man in black,
she was dragged to the guillotine with her legs flailing around under her dress, to the audience’s great delight.

The guillotine was raised again and the drumroll started, getting louder and louder as the lights were lowered.

Watkins leaned over. “So blondes get killed on the stage, too?”

The drumroll continued. Harry looked around: people were on the edge of their seats; some were bent forward with gaping mouths, others had their hands over their ears. Generations of people had sat like that for more than a hundred years, allowing themselves to be delighted and terrified by the same show. As if in answer to his thoughts, Watkins leaned over again.

“Violence is like Coca-Cola and the Bible. A classic.”

Still the drumroll continued, and Harry noticed this was taking time. It hadn’t taken so long for the blade to fall before, had it? The executioner was worried; he shuffled forward and peered up at the top of the guillotine, as if there were something wrong. Then all of a sudden, without anyone doing anything apparently, the blade whizzed down. Harry stiffened involuntarily, and a gasp went through the auditorium as the blade hit the neck. The drum stopped at once, and the head fell to the floor with a thud. A deafening silence followed, before a scream rent the air from somewhere in front of Watkins and Harry. Alarm spread around the theater and Harry squinted through the gloom to see what was going on. All he could see was the executioner backing away.