Death in the Ladies' Goddess Club

by Julian Leatherdale

  ‘Christ, Joanie, you couldn’t write the story of this bloody weekend and expect anyone to believe it, could you? The look on poor Ruby’s face yesterday when I broke the news!’ Bernice took a deep breath, as if steeling herself against further tears. ‘But that’s a story for another day.’

  ‘What did you want to tell me?’ asked Joan.

  ‘I asked Amelia about bringing you to the Ladies’ Bacchus Club with me and she said yes! She told me she was certain that her mother would agree. They’re having a meeting next Monday. Of course, we’re both sworn to secrecy as a condition of entry.’

  Joan wasn’t sure whether to feel excited or intimidated by the idea of attending her aunt’s eccentric ladies’ club; but her feelings about the prospect were only a secondary concern. Her main concern was Ellie. It was time for Joan to reveal the true reason for her interest in the club, she decided.

  ‘There’s something I have to show you, Bernie,’ she said, ‘and you have to promise you won’t tell a soul.’

  Joan crossed the flat and retrieved the letterhead from its hiding place in her manuscript. Handing it to Bernice, she explained how she had taken it from the crime scene on an impulse and then rung the phone number to discover it was Gordon’s law firm. She did not mention her meeting with Hugh and his plans for blackmail. But she was straightforward about her reluctance to go to the police just yet and the reasons why.

  First, she felt there was no guarantee they would make any serious effort to solve the case. With the war brewing between the communists and fascists, would the police be willing or even able to dedicate the resources needed to track down Ellie’s killer? To find holes in Frankie Goldman’s alibi—corroborated, no doubt, by his employer Phil Jeffs? To take on a cashed-up, well-connected lawyer and businessman like Gordon Fielding-Jones? All for the sake of a dead prostitute? Joan didn’t think so. And, after Frankie’s intimation the night before that he knew what Jess had told the police, it seemed to Joan that the cops couldn’t be entirely trusted.

  Bernice looked thunderstruck by this series of revelations, unable to speak a word for a minute or two. ‘Jesus!’ she said at last. ‘So by taking Ellie to the Ladies’ Bacchus Club I might have introduced her to her killers? I’m going to ring your aunt to tell her we can’t make it after all.’

  ‘Listen, Bernie, if there is any connection between the club and Ellie’s death—and we have no evidence that there is—going to that meeting on Monday is our best chance of finding out.’

  Bernice shook her head slowly. ‘Crikey, Joan, what have we got ourselves mixed up in? This one’s murkier than any story I’ve ever taken on for Truth.’

  And then Joan’s brain—slowed to a painful crawl by lack of sleep and staggering under the onslaught of so much distress—retrieved a memory from the hospital. ‘Oh my God, I almost forgot!’ Joan felt panicky now. ‘What time is it? I have to get back there!’

  ‘Joanie, what is it? What are you talking about?’

  Joan realised she had to be careful about what she said to Bernice. She mustn’t breathe a word about Ellie’s secret lover; she would not break that promise to Jess. ‘Just before Jess faded out on the morphine, she said something about having seen him and knowing who he is. I have to get back there to find out what she meant. She might have been talking about Ellie’s killer!’

  Bernice frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense. There’s no way she could have seen Ellie’s killer that night; she wasn’t even home.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Joanie conceded. ‘But I still have to check.’

  Bernice tried gently to restrain her. ‘Joanie, you’re out of your mind. You need some rest. There’s nothing more you can do now …’

  But despite her friend’s protests, and despite her own overwhelming fatigue, Joan was set on returning to Jess. She washed her face and hands, applied some make-up and got dressed, then headed back to St Vincent’s.

  On the way, she stopped off at the Cairo. The night manager, who was finishing his shift, asked after her friends. ‘They sent Wally home but they’ve kept Jess at hospital overnight,’ Joan explained. ‘But she’s going to be alright, thank you.’

  Joan stepped into the phone kiosk and made a call to her office: ‘Please tell Mr Lofting I won’t be in today as I am not feeling at all well,’ she said to the receptionist. No doubt half the office would know about the murder at the Bomora by mid-morning, so she felt justified in taking one day off to recover from the trauma of the weekend’s events. While it meant Mr Lofting would have to assign one of her colleagues to proofread the final copy for her section before it went to press, she was sure no one—not even the stern editor—could reproach her for her absence under the circumstances.

  Joan made one more phone call, hoping that Hugh might be at the offices of the Worker’s Weekly, where he often worked early on a Monday morning helping to get the paper ready for publication.

  ‘Is Billy Watts in?’ she asked, using Hugh’s cover name.

  To her relief she was told: ‘Yes, he’s here. I’ll get him.’

  A few moments later Hugh came on the line. ‘What’s up, Joanie?’

  Deliberately omitting most of the details of last night’s party, Joan told him how Jess had been attacked by Frankie Goldman and was now in St Vincent’s.

  ‘Where you with her when this happened?’ asked Hugh.

  Joan hesitated. There was no point in lying. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus, Joanie, you could have been killed! These men are ruthless. This isn’t a game, you know.’ Then, as if realising how patronising he must have sounded, he apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I know you want to help Jess and—’

  ‘Listen, Hugh,’ Joan broke in impatiently, ‘I need to get to the hospital as soon as possible.’ She quickly explained how, according to Jessie, Ellie had had a secret lover whom she had hoped was going to save her. Though Jess had glimpsed him only briefly, she thought he looked and sounded familiar.

  ‘Do you think it could be Gordon?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Maybe. Then, a few hours ago, when she was doped up on morphine, she implied that she’d remembered who it was. Maybe she was trying to warn me.’

  There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the phone. ‘How much do you think she knows?’

  ‘I have no idea. But with all the drama over the weekend, I never had a chance to ask if Ellie had told her about her visit to the Ladies’ Goddess Club and if she knew anything that might explain why Ellie had the letterhead. Can you come to the hospital with me, Hugh? To be honest, I’m a bit scared.’

  ‘Of course. I don’t blame you! Have you got the letterhead with you?’

  ‘Yes, I thought it might jog her memory. Do you think it’s safe?’

  ‘No one’s going to try anything in broad daylight. I’ll meet you at St Vincent’s as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thank you, my sweet.’

  Joan made her way up Victoria Street, the incriminating letterhead crackling inside her jacket pocket so loudly it was as if it wanted to broadcast its presence to the world. The sunlight was an assault on her eyes and every step was a struggle against the torpor in her limbs, as if she were wading through cement.

  This daylight version of the Cross and Darlinghurst seemed so ordinary and everyday: the flower-sellers and fruit-and-vegie men setting up their barrows and stalls, the shopkeepers unlocking their security grilles and laying out their goods in the windows, the city workers queuing at the tram stop at the top of William Street. But Joan now knew how this busy village wore two faces. She had spent years as a bystander here, enjoying the vicarious thrill of its nocturnal dramas. But all the victims of those dramas had been other people, not her. Now she was in the thick of it, she could sense the chaos that always bubbled underneath, seeping upwards like tar into this bright, innocent daytime world where every smiling face now appeared a mask to hide viciousness, every man she passed was a thug or a killer in disguise, every woman an easy mark scurrying to seek safety. Even Joan’s ow
n mind was no refuge. In the few hours of sleep she had snatched last night, the scene of love-making in the linen cupboard had been replayed but with an uglier conclusion. When he was done, the handsome stranger had wrapped a garrotting wire about her throat and whispered, ‘Careless fucking bitch,’ in Frankie Goldman’s voice.

  Joan finally reached St Vincent’s just before nine and asked if Jessie was still on the ward. ‘I brought her in last night.’

  The nurse was very obliging. ‘Of course, Miss Linderman, you can go up and see her now.’

  It was probably just the lack of sleep, but Joan felt an unreasonable level of anxiety bordering on anger as she waited for the lift. It seemed like the bloody thing was never going to arrive. She decided to take the stairs. Every muscle in her legs burned in protest. She arrived on the ward and hurried to the room where she had left Jess not so many hours ago. The curtains had been pulled around her bed. Joan assumed that Jess must still be asleep or perhaps was being tended to by a nurse. With an apologetic murmur, in case she was interrupting, she drew back the curtains.

  The bed was empty.

  Joan tried to repress the swell of panic in her chest. No doubt there was a simple explanation. Jess was using the toilet, or having a shower, or she’d gone for a smoko in the patients’ lounge.

  ‘Hello, nurse? Excuse me, hello?’

  Although there were several nurses rushing to and fro on their morning rounds, Joan could not seem to catch anyone’s attention.

  At last one of the sisters stopped.

  ‘Excuse me, do you know where Jessie Simmons is? She’s not in her bed.’

  The nurse looked taken aback. ‘That’s odd. She’s due to be seen by one of the doctors this morning before we release her.’ She took the clipboard that hung from the end of the bed and checked the patient’s file. ‘It says here the police have asked to talk to her before she goes, too.’ The nurse looked at the watch pinned to her blouse. ‘They should be here by now.’

  Joan’s heart almost stopped. The hospital must have reported the assault despite Joan and Jess’s objections. As if on cue, a familiar figure in a long twill skirt and blue jacket came striding through the double doors towards them. It was Special Sergeant Lillian Armfield.

  She raised her eyebrows at the sight of Joan. ‘Miss Linderman, I’m sorry our paths have to cross again so soon, but I’m glad to find you here. The staff said you brought Jessie in last night. Did you witness the attack?’

  ‘Yes. Well, not clearly … it was very dark,’ lied Joan, trying to sound cooperative though she had no intention of putting her life in danger by identifying the attacker. ‘But right now, we have another problem. Jess seems to be missing.’

  The sergeant turned to the nurse at the bedside, who was still holding the clipboard in her hand. ‘When was she last seen?’

  The nurse looked at the file. ‘One of the sisters checked on her two hours ago. She was still asleep. This does happen sometimes, especially with patients under sedation. They go walkabout around the hospital.’

  Armfield glanced at the nurse’s name badge. ‘Nurse McCallister, right now you and I are going to explore every square inch of this floor. And I want your nursing manager to put out a call to every other ward in the hospital. If we don’t find the patient in the next thirty minutes, I’ll have to report this as a missing persons case.’

  Armfield turned back to Joan. ‘Miss Linderman, you don’t appear to have had a wink of sleep. I suggest you go home and get some. I was planning to come to your boarding house this evening to take statements from the landlady and the other tenants, and I’ll need to speak with you further about what happened last night—especially if your friend fails to turn up in the meantime.’

  The nurse and the sergeant then left the room to speak with the senior nurse on duty and Joan was left standing by the empty bed.

  ‘Joan, I got here as fast I could.’

  Looking up, she saw Hugh. He was out of breath, with his jacket coat hastily buttoned the wrong way and his hat jammed on his uncombed head. At the sight of him, Joan could feel all the terror accumulated in her body unwind in a gush of grief. She had never felt so vulnerable in all her life. She fell into Hugh’s open arms and allowed herself to weep shamelessly upon his shoulder as he held her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hugh and Joan sat together, smoking, over a cup of tea and a buttered roll at the Kookaburra Café on Darlinghurst Road. Hugh did his best to calm Joan’s agitation about the disappearance of Jessie from the hospital ward. ‘I understand why you’re concerned,’ he reassured her, ‘but I don’t think even Frankie Goldman has ever tried to kidnap a patient from a hospital with any success. Who else besides yourself even knew she was there?’

  ‘You and Bernie. Poor Wally. Frankie could easily have guessed. The police, I suppose. Oh, and the night manager of the Cairo Guesthouse.’

  ‘Well, anything could have happened. Patients sometimes go wandering off, especially when they’ve been drugged. Or maybe she got cold feet about talking to the cops and decided to go into hiding; I would if Goldman had threatened me. I’m sure your good friend Special Sergeant Armfield will solve the mystery soon enough.’ Hugh was teasing her now, knowing how much she admired Armfield even though he himself had scant regard for the New South Wales Police Force.

  As if Joan needed any additional proof that matters were escalating, Hugh had a purple-yellow bruise blossoming on the left side of his forehead. When she’d asked, he told her it was the result of a glancing blow with a pick-handle at a party meeting in Kings Cross the night before. The gathering had been stormed by some New Guard thugs who had arrived in a fleet of cars. ‘I was lucky that the bloke got distracted when one of the comrades clobbered him with a chair. By the time the coppers finally showed up, the pricks had scarpered.’

  So on the same night that her friend had been razor-slashed by a criminal, her boyfriend was clubbed by a fascist. Joan knew that sleeplessness had wildly distorted her perceptions and exaggerated her fears but, even so, she couldn’t help but feel she had fallen down a rabbit hole into a world of casual and brutal violence.

  ‘Judgement Day’s coming,’ said Hugh, rolling another cigarette between his fingers. ‘Bloody Campbell has raised the stakes. He told a rally last week that he wouldn’t allow Premier Lang to open the new bridge. And he’s promised to present the Governor with a petition asking for the King to dissolve the New South Wales Parliament. Mad as a cut snake, he is!’

  The leader of the New Guard had attracted much publicity during his recent trial at Central Police Court for insulting Premier Lang by comparing him to a bull who should have his head chopped off with an axe. He had received a small fine and was hailed as a champion of free speech. Two weeks later he had addressed three thousand of his armband-wearing troops at a rally in Town Hall amid flag ceremonies and roars of approval; the assembly raised their arms in a fascist salute and swore an oath to see ‘communism completely crushed and the establishment of a sane and honourable government’. The Sydney Morning Herald had applauded from the sidelines while Smith’s Weekly called Campbell ‘a comic-opera version of Hitler and Mussolini rolled into one’ and Truth warned he was ‘fast becoming a threat to public peace’.

  Hugh lit up and exhaled a jet of blue smoke. On the table between him and Joan lay an envelope containing the Ladies’ Bacchus Club letterhead. While Joan realised her fingerprints were already all over it, she had decided to handle it as little as possible.

  ‘So this is it?’ Hugh picked up the envelope, flipped it open and, pinching the top corner between thumb and forefinger, gingerly pulled out the letterhead for examination. ‘Well, well. This will make perfect bait for catching us a nice big fat fish for your folks to fry. Your family’s compensation for being made victims of class bastardry.’

  ‘Do you really think Uncle Gordon will fall for it?’

  ‘I guess we’ll see.’

  ‘How much should we ask for? As—what did you call it?—hush money.’
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  Hugh rubbed his chin. ‘I reckon about eight hundred pounds.’

  Joan spluttered and her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘That’s a lot of money! There’s no way …’

  Hugh smiled as if he had been expecting this reaction. ‘It’s not a lot of money to people like them, Joanie. Rich people like Olympia could easily spend sixty, seventy pounds on an evening dress without blinking. Anyway, it’s a good starting point for negotiation. Let’s find out how serious your uncle is about keeping this under wraps. The tricky bit is the drop-off, where we hand over the prize and collect the dosh. That’ll take some careful planning so we don’t get caught red-handed.’

  Joan was intrigued—and, she had to admit, alarmed—by how well-versed Hugh seemed in the intricacies of blackmail. She listened carefully as Hugh laid out the details of how they should proceed as casually as if they were discussing a shopping expedition or a picnic at the beach. ‘If it turns out your uncle refuses to pay up, then at least, with a bit of luck, we’ll have put the wind up him and created a distraction from his plans for Judgement Day.’

  But if he did pay up, thought Joan to herself, then she and Bernice would have even more reason to go to the meeting of the Ladies’ Bacchus Club the following week and snoop around the Kingsmere flat to find out what her aunt and uncle had to hide.

  Sprawled across her dishevelled divan bed, Joan slept deeply for the rest of that Monday. She was oblivious to Bernice’s snoring from the nearby bedroom and the blast of heat that penetrated the window, even with the blind pulled down. She had not been near her typewriter since Saturday night and yet the characters of her novel—Inspector Phillips and Sergeant Lockwood—made an appearance in her dreams.