The Butcherbird (17 page)

It was only three years before he could win the chess contest some times and then most times, and then, because he could see the patterns of life, not just those on the board, deliberately lose enough to sustain the other’s dignity. Someday, maybe, his grandson would humour him this way, or some other and he wouldn’t know, the brain cells or the synapses or whatever wouldn’t register the subtler tones of life anymore.

But not now, surely. And yet there was no emerging pattern in this dilemma. What unseen hand was at work in the puppet show of which he was the supposed master? A breakin at Mac Biddulph’s, a stolen computer? There was another predator in the hunt, a grey shadow running fence lines, skirting waterholes, hiding in hollows and rock piles, taking small prey, waiting for something more. He had to flush it out. Apply pressure, beat the bush. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see Maroubra still sitting quietly beside him.

‘It’s not all bad news. I’ve got something for you.’ Maroubra handed him a fat envelope. ‘I don’t know exactly what it means but there’s a lot in there on the Beira Company and a flow of transactions to a Swiss bank. No doubt you’ll work it all out.’

The Pope took the envelope. ‘Thanks. But I’m not sure I will. I think it’s time we got some fresh minds on this. I don’t like the feeling I’m about to lose a game before it’s started.’

They sat in a panelled room with paintings jumbled onto the walls in the Victorian fashion. A landscape of dubious origin was resting askew above a self-portrait by one of Australia’s leading artists, which was in turn dwarfed by a nautical scene of two ships of the line, apparently about to open fire—whether on the landscape or the portrait was unclear. In all, the small dark room was generously adorned with over twenty pictures arranged, if that was the appropriate word, from eye level to ceiling with disdain for the neat and orderly ways of art galleries and, some would say, for the artists.

In truth, the committee of the Colonial Club had disdain for the ways of a great many people, mainly those who were not members of the Colonial Club. It was likely that they would have evidenced these feelings for all but one of this group gathered in the members’ reading room, had they known of their presence, but the room was booked in the name of one of the most respected of their number. Nothing more was required, except appropriate dress. And, of course, appropriate sex—females, however attired, were not permitted on the third floor.

There were only four figures huddled in the gloom, leaning forward intently as their leader, nearly invisible in a charcoal suit, only the extreme whiteness of the shirt directing the sparse light onto a shadowed face, addressed them in hushed tones. The other three had been amazed when the venue for the meeting was nominated. The last place any of them expected the Pope to be familiar with, let alone a member of, was the Colonial Club. But the aforementioned committee was well aware that the name Normile had been entered in its books for three generations and that present member Clinton had served the club in many distinguished, if not publicly recognised, ways. A great deal more than the members’ reading room was available on his request.

‘So there you have it. We’re chasing down alleys trying to pin Mac Biddulph’s colours to the wall and someone else is there before us. I can’t make sense of it, so I’m hoping better brains can see the angles.’

Murray Ingham spoke in his brusque manner. ‘We’re going to need more. It’s a puzzle where you can’t see the pieces so there’s no chance to fit them together. No facts, no story.’

The Pope nodded. ‘Fair enough. You ask me the questions and I’ll answer them as best I can. Maroubra can also fill in a few gaps.’

Tom Smiley’s voice seemed to boom out into the quiet room as he drew his chair forward and loosened his tie. ‘Are you allowed to take your jacket off in this mausoleum or do they behead you at dawn with a cavalry sabre?’ Tom dropped his suit jacket onto the floor as he spoke. ‘Let me put a few questions on two issues: first, the information we’ve gathered thus far that might implicate Mac Biddulph in wrongdoing, and second, on the facts of the robbery itself—yes?’

The Pope gestured assent and the relentless questioning of Thomas Smiley QC commenced its seemingly meandering, purposeless course, like a river twisting through deep gorges, shallow turns, silent valleys, until it straightened its line.

‘So. It seems we have a clutch of theories supported by minimal documentation. The theories fall into three broad categories. First, Mac Biddulph is draining off HOA funds to pay for personal expenses through a company called Beira Proprietary Limited which, you surmise, but cannot yet prove, is controlled by the said Mr Biddulph. Second, and more damning if proven, it is suggested that the accounts of HOA are being falsified or manipulated by the use of financial reinsurance contracts with no actual transfer of risk in order to artificially boost profits. Third, it is suggested that other directors and executives may be complicit in these alleged activities. Is that a fair summary?’

Again the Pope nodded.

‘May I ask if some legal mind other than my own is applying itself to the analysis of whatever you have gathered.’

The Pope responded quickly. ‘There is someone, but I’d rather not say who, if you don’t mind.’

Tom Smiley held his gaze. ‘I do mind. When people start breaking into houses, a line is crossed. Our friend the Judge has already excused himself from any further involvement in this matter and I’m giving serious thought to similar action. We’d all like to help Jack Beaumont, but I want to know who’s running this show and how it’s being run.’

The Pope looked down at the dark oak table and then up again at Tom Smiley. ‘Hedley Stimson.’

There was an intake of breath from the lawyer. ‘Well. And well again. How in God’s name did you bring him out of retirement? Is he planning to appear in court, if it comes to that?’

Murray Ingham broke in. ‘For those of us who don’t spend their waking hours immersed in legal gossip, a little background would help. Who is this new character

in the saga?’

The Pope gestured to Tom Smiley to respond.

‘Let me put it this way: if I was representing a client in court tomorrow, the only barrister I wouldn’t want to see acting for the other side would be Hedley Stimson. If that remark is ever repeated, I’ll deny it.’ He paused. ‘At least we know any improper behaviour hasn’t been intentional.’ He turned to Maroubra. ‘But has it been accidental?’

Maroubra shook his head. ‘No. We’ve been using our sources, but all above board. We had absolutely no involvement in the breakin at Mac Biddulph’s house.’

Tom Smiley nodded. ‘Okay. I’m greatly reassured by both those responses. And that brings us to the breakin. Nothing was taken, I gather.’

Maroubra responded. ‘A computer and a printer.’

Murray Ingham’s gruff voice cut in again. ‘That’s not what the papers said.’

Maroubra smiled. ‘The papers are wrong. A computer and a printer.’

Murray persisted. ‘How do you know that?’

It was the Pope who answered. ‘I think this is an area where we just have to accept the information we’re given as accurate without identifying sources. I do.’

There was a brief silence before Tom Smiley continued. ‘Has there ever been a breakin at these premises before?’ He was now directing the questions at Maroubra.

‘No.’

‘How was entry effected?’

‘A window was unlocked.’

‘So no force was required?’

‘No.’

‘Surely the premises were electronically secured?’

‘Switched off. Never used. I guess they figured there’d be no problem with insurance.’

‘Servants?’

‘There’s only one live-in. The others come in daily. She was given the night off. Mac and his wife were at the museum party.’

‘Ah, yes. The party. So the thief presumably picked this night because of the publicity surrounding the party?’

‘Probably. Although I think most of the publicity came afterwards.’

‘And I assume there were many more valuables lying about for the taking?’

‘Everything you can imagine and a lot of things you can’t. Jewellery by the handful, huge amounts of cash, every electronic gadget known to man, artworks—you name it.’

‘So, hence our dilemma. Someone is searching for the same information we are.’

The Pope spoke. ‘Exactly. If we can figure out who that is, who the thief is, I believe we’d fit in a crucial piece of this puzzle.’

‘Nonsense.’ It was Murray Ingham. ‘You don’t read enough novels, that’s the problem with all you logical analysts. Follow the story. Watch the characters. There is no thief. There is no coincidence. Party, no one at home, no alarm, unlocked window. The one person who couldn’t have stolen the stuff because everyone in the world knew where he was—at the party of the year—was Mac Biddulph. And he’s the one person who did. If anyone comes asking for records—regulators, lawyers, courts—he doesn’t have them. Gone. Stolen. Disappeared in a puff of wind through an open window. Neat as you like, on the record, certified by the police, incident number, and so on. And he probably makes a claim for a new computer. But you won’t find much on that, other than golf games and a letter to his dead mother.’

They all stared at Murray. Finally Maroubra spoke. ‘It makes sense. Those documents I handed over, he knows someone made a copy of them. There was no way we could avoid that and obtain them legitimately. So he decides to clear the decks. I buy it.’

Tom Smiley shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure. It’s all sounding too cloak and dagger for me. Surely someone with Mac Biddulph’s resources would come up with a more sophisticated plan than a fake burglary if he wanted to destroy documents.’

‘People don’t.’ Murray’s thick brows appeared to be pushed up onto his head like an unwanted pair of spectacles. ‘People don’t do “sophisticated” things in these situations. They look for simple, quick solutions. When we’re threatened, we panic. Doesn’t matter who we are. The panic is the autonomic nervous system dealing with the threat, pumping some adrenalin, letting the animal take over from the logical. Mac Biddulph junked the computer. Forget about the spectre of other people ghosting our man. They’re just that—ghosts.’

The Pope pushed his chair back from the table. ‘He’s right. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it. Must be losing my touch. God that’s a relief. This matter is complicated enough without another hunter in the forest.’

They poured coffee from the silver urn on the ornate sideboard and munched thoughtfully, and with some difficulty, on the club’s famous Anzac biscuits. Exactly why these rock-like discs were famous was unclear, but one member had been known to comment: ‘Few survived the battle, none will survive the biscuits.’

Tom Smiley drew the Pope to one side. ‘What does Hedley Stimson say about the evidence you’ve gathered thus far? Where are we heading?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t speak to him; only Jack does, and never at his office.’

Tom rubbed his chin. ‘This is as odd a situation as I’ve ever been in. I can’t see that we’re breaching any ethical codes at the moment, so I’ll hang in there for the time being. Let’s just say I’ll keep a watching brief.’

‘I understand. It’s complex and dangerous—mainly for Jack, I think. His whole life’s at risk and I’m not sure he understands that yet.’

They departed one by one with thoughtful faces and aching jaws, leaving the Pope alone in the panelled tomb. He sat at a small games table by the only window and began to arrange the chess pieces. He remained staring at the board for a long time, moving nothing, and then rose quickly and strode from the room.

It was black as a mine shaft when Jack gingerly picked his way through the gate from the leafy cavern of the liquidambers. The few street lights that hadn’t been pinged into darkness by the accurate stone throwing of private schoolboys in straw boaters were shrouded in dense foliage, and the moon had given up and gone home.

He never left the old lawyer’s house on a Sunday night without conflicting emotions. This time the evening had started with a lecture on the wizardry of the foot pedal that operated the lathe so that both massive hands were available to nurse the wood as the shavings flew and shapes were revealed. It was explained to him, in more detail than he needed to know, that, of course, commercial models of this nature were available for those who had neither the wit nor application to invent their own, but they were crass and insensitive devices that no true artist would consider. Hence the extraordinary contraption that lay like some primeval growth beneath the workbench, constructed, he was told, with pride from old locomotive parts from the Everleigh railway yards. He was made to sit on the tall stool, a product of this very workshop, and operate the pedal in order to experience the hair-trigger nature of the beast. It was true, the lightest touch with his foot caused the high-pitched scream of the lathe to burst forth, but for Jack, the result was more frightening than impressive.

They’d met a dozen times now, and gradually the crusty surface of old Hedley had cracked like crisp pastry and Jack had glimpsed more and more of the complex mixture beneath.

Hedley stood at the workbench like ‘an old stone savage armed’, as Robert Frost described the neighbour in the only poem Jack could ever quote from memory. He looked like the picture of Robert Frost on the dust cover of Jack’s copy of Collected Poems, and seemed to Jack to speak with the voice of a prophet, not a lawyer.

‘Anyone can work a machine, son, anyone can follow a pattern, but only the chosen can see the shapes in the wood before they’re revealed and release them into life. Would you like to try now? I can set this piece for you; it’s beautiful mahogany but only an offcut, you can’t do any harm. Sit here. Take the master’s chair.’ He felt the strong hands holding his shoulders and guiding him onto the stool. As much as he hated the machine, he wanted to try for the man.

Later, when they sat with tea and documents, only the sounds of the pages turning and the scratch of the thick pencil interrupting the Sunday peace, Jack waited for the leonine head to lift and the judgement to be delivered.