The Marvellous Boy (6 page)

“No, pragmatism if you like.”

He looked sharply at me. “Are you intending to be pragmatic here?”

The mild night air was gritty with exhaust fumes and
dust. The Cross was just getting into stride. The footpath was rippling with people, some buyers, some lookers.

“No, we can talk in my car or my office. Both are close by.” Something, some shred of dignity still clinging to him, made me go on: “Or at your place if you like.”

“It so happens that I have a room, a modest place you understand, but my own. We might be more comfortable there. We will need glasses,” he pointed at the bag. “Whisky like that needs glasses.”

“Okay, where is it?”

“In Darlinghurst, not far. We could take your car, I haven't ridden in a car for some time.” He scratched at the brown paper. “Perhaps . . . perhaps a small promise of things to come?”

“No, the car's this way.”

He trudged along beside me with his hands in the pockets of the too-large coat, holding its skirts in to him. The sound of his brogues scuffling the pavement depressed me. The thought of his room depressed me. I was riding a small wave of hope that he could point me to the heir of the Chatterton millions, but it was only a small wave. I was looking forward to the Jameson's, too.

He ate the food as we drove. For all his protests he wolfed it and I heard him masticate and swallow every morsel. We were in Palmer Street when he spoke through a mouthful of potato.

“Here, dear boy, just here.”

I pulled up outside a tumble-down terrace. We got out of the car and I locked it. Brain watched me.

“Very wise,” he said drily. “There's no respect for property around here.”

The gate was missing and a makeshift plywood panel in the front door was flapping loose. The entrance hall stank of cooking and neglect. Brain started up the stairs then stopped and turned. He leaned over me like a gallows.

“Don't let the bottles clink,” he whispered, “or we'll have every denizen of this low house knocking on the door.”

I took a tighter grip on the bag and followed him. We went up two flights and down a passage to the back of the house. He dug into the coat and produced a key with a safety pin attached. He moved to put it in the lock, then drew back.

“Open,” he said. “Odd, I could swear I locked it.” He said something in Latin. “Ovid,” he informed me.

“Open the door,” I said.

He flicked on the light. “My God!”

The room was a mess; it couldn't have been much to start with but now it was uninhabitable. The mattress on the old iron bed had been ripped apart; bits of stuffing were all over the room and tufts still floated in the air like grey snowflakes showing that the damage was recent. A few hundred books were part of the ruin. They were ripped and torn and strewn over the floor, bed, wash basin, and chest of drawers. The drawers were gaping open; a couple had been smashed to matchwood. A wooden box about a foot square and six inches deep was lying upside down on the floor. Brain bent painfully and picked it up; the lock had been broken and the top hung crazily from a fragile hinge. Brain swore and poked around in the mess. He came up with a roll of moth-eaten paper.

“My degree,” he said.

I took a quick look at it. Henry Winston Brain had graduated with honours in Law in 1934 from the University of Sydney. Brain put the document carefully on the bed and began picking up books. He shook his head.

“Ruined,” he muttered, “ruined . . .”

I looked at some at random. There were legal works but also novels, poetry, drama. A nice old dictionary with a thumb index had been savagely dismembered. The search hadn't been expert but looked ruthless and furious enough to have turned up anything hidden in the obvious places.

“What were they after?”

Brain placed a long, thin finger beside his nose. “As you said, Mr. Hardy, we have talking to do.” He groped among the rubbish by the wash basin. “The glasses!” He held up two streaked and stained glasses and examined them against
the dim light. “One is cracked,” he observed. “I shall drink from that, it's only fitting that I should.”

I hauled up one of the bottles, opened it and poured.

“Aren't you going to clean up a bit?”

He accepted the whisky. “Many thanks. No, I shall move.”

That might have meant the searchers had what they came for or it might not. Perhaps what they wanted was in his head and he could see that they wouldn't ask gently. I picked up the nearest book while I thought about it—an omnibus edition of Conan Doyle bought in the Charing Cross Road. Brain's initials and surname were written inside in flowing purple ink—better days.

Brain raised his glass. “You bring me ill-luck Mr. Hardy, only this compensates.”

“Does anything else matter to you?”

“Not much, not any more.”

“Well it does to me. Your story about the child matters. Is it connected with this, do you think?” I gestured at the mess.

“Bound to be, dear boy. Nothing like this has happened to me for a quarter of a century. I've drunk in peace.”

“You've done a good job of it. Why?”

He finished his drink and held out the glass. “I lost my calling, my vocation. I lost everything when I married that slip of a girl.”

“She's no slip now.”

A sound came from him that could have been a laugh. “Nor was she then. Such strength, such will.” He drank. “You've seen her recently?”

“Today.”

“How was the dear girl?”

“Drunk.”

He smiled. “As drunk as me?”

“Not quite, different style, but headed the same way.”

“God help the child.”

The remark struck the same confirming note as before. I leaned forward.

“You're sure there was a child Mr. Brain?”

“I'm sure. I have proof.”

I picked up my glass and drunk. He watched me hawkishly. Expressions were hard to interpret on that desiccated face but this looked like triumph. There was some cunning in it too, maybe.

“Are you sure you still have it?”

“I'm sure Mr. Hardy.”

“What is it, the proof?”

He placed the finger along the nose again. “Ah no, dear boy. Less haste, we have arrangements to make.”

Maybe it was the whisky or just plain slow thinking. It suddenly struck me that I didn't have a clear run in the game any more. Dully, I considered the angles. For me, interference from other parties unknown was a tough break. For Brain it could represent something much more serious,

“Do you know who did this, Mr. Brain?”

“Don't change tack,” he said querulously. “I'm an old man and I have trouble concentrating. We must talk terms.”

“There might not be any terms. Someone else wants to know what you know. He might not buy you liquor.”

He finished his whisky and I poured some more to underline the point.

“Drink up while you can,” I said.

“Your attempts at intimidation are crude, Mr. Hardy. I have little to live for. I'm not afraid to die.”

“It's the manner of dying,” I said quietly.

He gulped some whisky. “True, true, you have a point. You think I'm in danger?”

“I'm bloody sure of it. If I was you I'd go to Melbourne. Get a train. It's summer, can't be too bad down there.”

He mimed a shiver inside the coat. “Foul hole, Melbourne, a wasteland. No, I shall rely on you and Lady Catherine for protection.”

“That might be a bit hard to arrange.”

“I confess I can't see why—supply and demand.”

“Not that easy. I need some indication that you're speaking the truth when you talk about proof. Protection is expensive.”

“I know. My need is great. It would cost a fortune to rehabilitate me.”

I wondered what he meant—a drying out farm, hormones? It suggested a will to live, vulnerability, but I couldn't see Lady C. footing the bill without something solid in return.

“The proof will have to be good.”

“It is, I assure you.” He came close, too close; the stink was like standing in the middle of a street with a tannery on one side and a brewery on the other. I pulled back a bit but he grabbed my shoulder.

“Look at this,” he croaked. He pulled a small photograph from the depth of his overcoat pocket. I peered at it, trying to make out the detail. The picture showed two women against an indeterminate background. The photograph was poor quality and it was creased and grubby; the women's features were indistinct. Brain pointed with his trim, clean fingernail.

“That's Bettina. See, she's pregnant.”

It was hard to tell—maybe.

“Who's the other woman?”

“A nurse. Look on the back.”

I turned the picture over. On the back in the same flowing
purple hand was written:
B, Nurse Callaghan, Blackman's Bay.
Brain snatched it back as I tried to get my hand around it.

“Took it myself from hiding,” he chuckled. “What do you think of that, eh? Intriguing?”

“Very,” I said. “Is there more?”

“In here,” he tapped the side of his head. “Much more.”

“Well . . .” I began.

Brain hitched his trousers and scratched his crotch.

“Nature calls sir, consider the evidence while I appease the gods . . .” He lowered the rest of his drink and walked unsteadily to the door. I heard his feet shuffling on the lino and a stumble when he reached the stairs. I sat and drank. The room was settling back into its old shape. There was a ragged curtain across the window which had dirt and cobwebs in its corners. The ceiling was mildewed and strips of paint hung from it like stalactites. I tidied some books and reached under the bed for a far-flung one. My hand touched something and I pulled it out—a traveling bag. It was slashed and the bottom had been ripped out but it had been new and expensive not so long ago. That set me to poking among the books; some, dated a few years back, were medium-pricey. Brain had had some money and I remembered his bankroll and wanted urgently to know where the money had come from. I went to the door and looked out into the gloom. I called his name and the house swallowed up the sound.

With the .38 out I went down the passage and the stairs; the toilet was off the first landing giving out a dull gleam and smell of stale piss. I pushed the door open.

Henry Brain had had his last drink. He was sitting on the floor with his head resting against the bowl. A dribble of saliva dropped from his open mouth into the murky water.
The back of his head was a soggy red pulp that had spread out and matted his hair and run into his ear. I went in, put the gun away, and let the door close behind me. There was barely room to squat on the seat with the knees drawn up, but it was enough space to die in. I bent over the body and went carefully through the pockets of his coat, shirt and trousers. I ran a finger around the lining but there was no photograph. The front of his pants was wet and the smell was strong. I eased away from the body and let it sag back the way it was. One of the clean, pale hands fell in a strange, crooked fashion—a finger seemed to be pointed at me accusingly.

I went back to Brain's room, retrieved the whisky and smeared up my glass and the bag and the books I thought I'd touched. I left the house quietly, not letting the bottles clink.

It was trouble, lots of it, and too early. It would take no time at all to trace Brain back to the pub and to me. It was an hour's work for a smart cop or even a dumb one. The question was, when would Brain's body be found? If the Palmer Street house was full of alcoholics he mightn't be missed until Saturday morning—there were probably other toilets in the house and wash basins. I might have twelve hours, I might have twelve minutes.

These profundities came to me as I drove around the streets of Darlinghurst. The comforts of home beckoned but the waves were up and it was no time to be out of the water. I stopped and called the Chatterton residence. Miss Reid answered in a voice full of annoyance but not sleep. I told her I had to speak to Lady C.

“That's impossible, Mr. Hardy, quite impossible. She has retired for the night.”

“Tell her who's calling and that I said it was important.”

“I tell you it's out of the question. She takes two sleeping pills at ten o'clock. She'll be sound asleep now.”

“Wake her! A man's dead.”

“It might kill her.” From the way she said it, it sounded as if she was considering the idea. The last thing I needed was for the old girl to peg out now. The phone sputtered.

“Mr. Hardy,
Mr. Hardy!
Who is dead?”

“No one you'd know.” The words made me do a mental double-take. Maybe, just maybe.

“Miss Reid,” I said urgently, “do those files on Chatterton employees go right back?”

“Yes, I believe they do. I haven't concerned myself with them recently but my impression is that they go back quite a long way. Why?”

“I'm on my way out there,” I said. “Wait up for me, I want to go through those records.”

She almost wailed. “I've been up since six, it's after eleven o'clock. Can't it wait until morning?”

“No, it has to be tonight.”

She was stubborn. “I'm not sure I'm authorised to let you look at those files,” she said primly.

“Listen, lady,” I grated, “you'll be out on your ear if you don't. I'll take the responsibility. Be there with your bunch of keys.”

“I don't like your tone.”

“That's tough. I have to see those files tonight.”

She muttered something about melodrama and hung up. I skipped out to the car and got moving.

The Friday night revellers were out in fair strength. They came cruising up from the eastern suburbs to spend their money in the dirtier parts of Sydney and then purred back for their beauty sleep. The lights of the Volvos and Jaguars and Mercedes were mocking me as I hammered up to the Chattertons. The cars and their owners were safe and well insured, so were the boats that bobbed in the water gleaming under the moon. A soiled man dead in a slum house seemed remote from all this security and money, but the connections were there.