Just like Bernie, Joan felt she was in the quiet anteroom of a vast and palatial crisis. Outside, the world lurched towards Judgement Day while in here the wall clock ticked sluggishly and the little fidget-wheels of publishing time whirred fastidiously. Joan’s life outside this office was hurtling comet-like towards a dramatic climax while here it inched forward to the click-click of heels on lino, the tap and ping of typewriters, the throbbing buzz of a dying blowfly on a window ledge. Joan ate her prepacked lunch of fish paste sandwiches in the tearoom, skimming a copy of yesterday’s Sydney Morning Herald. Her eye was caught by a story on the ‘For Women’ page:
The Bridge Ball, the official dance of the evening this coming Saturday, will be held at the David Jones ballroom and proceeds will contribute significantly to the funds of the Tresillian Hospital. Guests of honour will be the Governor-General Sir Isaac Isaacs and Lady Isaacs, and the Governor Sir Philip Game and Lady Game. The ballroom will be taxed to its utmost capacity and it is expected that hundreds will retire to the roof to enjoy the illuminations. The president of the Organising Committee is Lady Clubbe and the honorary treasurer of the ball committee, Mrs Olympia Fielding-Jones, will present the debutantes to the vice-regal guests.
So nothing had yet disturbed that woman’s opulent corner of the universe. The gates held fast at the feudal fortress of Kingsmere with its gold-painted escutcheons and sandstone oak leaves and sunbursts. By Saturday night, Olympia, gowned in black and silver chiffon, would be breathing the same air as the Isaacses and the Games. Gordon would be at her side, all sleek and shiny in his silky black tuxedo, single-breasted waistcoat, red carnation in buttonhole, hair brilliantined to an impeccable sheen. Amelia would also be there: platinum blonde curls, red-painted lips, sheathed in oyster satin or emerald green silk or blue marocain. They were untouchable, indestructible, the Fielding-Joneses and their ilk. And Joan and Bernie would be sacrificed to keep them that way.
The wall clock’s minute hand dragged itself to four forty-five. Joan had finished editing twenty contributions for the column, including three poems (one by Bernice Becker), and deposited them in Mr Lofting’s in-tray. He was on the phone, mercifully, and waved at her approvingly. She put on her gloves, adjusted her hat and put the dustcover on her typewriter. Time to leave.
Would an undercover detective be loitering in the lobby downstairs to follow her home? she wondered. Or maybe he would step out of the shadows and politely ask her to accompany him to the station. Joan imagined Sergeant Armfield even now standing at her desk as an ironclad theory formed in her head that explained why it had to be the two women, Bernice and Joan, who had killed poor Ellie and Jess. There she was in Inspector Richards’s office at this very minute, locking together all the pieces of the mystery. Richards nodded. ‘Very well, Sergeant, take Constable Howard with you and make the arrests. I think we have what we need.’
‘I must talk to Bill, find out if he knows what the coppers are up to,’ Joan muttered to herself as she double-checked her tram fare and flat keys were in her handbag before clipping it shut. ‘But not here.’ She had the right change for the phone booths at the GPO. She would call from there on her way home.
As she stepped into the lift, she heard a phone ring. She pressed the button for the ground floor and, as the doors began to slide shut, saw Olive beckoning her. Probably some last-minute request from Mr Lofting, Joan thought dismissively as the lift began its descent. Whatever it was, it would have to wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Outside, it was still pouring. Joan struggled with her umbrella as the wind came howling down George Street, driving raindrops before it like soft bullets. Heading for the tram stop on King Street, she battled her way through the office-worker stampede in Martin Place. A sudden gust turned her umbrella inside out and she sought shelter under the GPO colonnade. ‘Extra! Extra! Get your evening edition here!’ cried the old wreck of a newspaper-seller who had also retreated from the weather. It was then that the Daily Telegraph headline caught Joan’s eye:
GANGSTER GOLDMAN’S GRUESOME END: SEVERED HEAD IN BOSS’S NIGHTCLUB
Who Sent Phil ‘The Jew’ This Bloody Message?
Christ Almighty! Joan’s heart almost leaped out of her chest. Frankie Goldman dead? There’d be a long list of people happy to hear that news. But decapitated? That was a whole new order of Grand Guignol, even for the razor-gangsters. Was this another turf war erupting between Jeffs and Tilly or Kate, maybe payback for Goldman’s heavy-handed street diplomacy? Or was it something else altogether?
Joan paid for a copy of the paper and hurried to Mockbell’s in Angel Place. In the protective, comforting gloom of the coffee palace, she sat up the back and read the story, her heart beating furiously:
Staff of the notorious Fifty-Fifty Club on William Street were greeted with an unpleasant surprise this morning when they arrived at work: a box labelled PROPERTY OF PHIL JEFFS which had been left at the front door. When opened, the mysterious package revealed its grisly and shocking contents: a man’s decapitated head packed in ice like something delivered from a butcher’s shop.
The dead man has been identified as Frankie Goldman, long-time employee of the nightclub’s owner, the entrepreneur Phil Jeffs. Goldman was well-known to police as a violent standover man, dope dealer and paramour of prostitutes, most famously the peroxided queen of the night, Nellie Cameron.
‘He will not be missed in this neighbourhood,’ said Sergeant Wilkins at Darlinghurst station. ‘He was a nasty piece of work who ran all kinds of rackets and was free with his fists and a razor.’
So why was this ruthless gangster’s career cut so brutally short? The only clue police have at the moment is a sheet of bloodstained paper discovered in the victim’s mouth. It appears to be stationery for an establishment calling itself the Ladies’ Bacchus Club. Typed on the paper are the words ‘For Ellie and Jessie’.
This paper is all too familiar with the lurid and sensational aspects of this city’s crime scene, but this case already has more melodramatic touches than your average pulp detective story. Police believe this note possibly connects Goldman’s death with the recent murder of Eleanor Dawson and suspicious death of Jessica Simmons, both prostitutes and employees of Mr Jeffs. Inspector Richards of CIB told this paper that while Goldman’s murder appeared to be a revenge killing, the police would need to investigate this Ladies’ Bacchus Club before drawing any firm conclusions.
As the people of Sydney await the ceremonial opening of their new bridge in two days’ time, symbolising the beginning of a new chapter in our civil history, this grotesque execution is a sorry reminder of a sordid chapter we had all hoped was well and truly behind us.
Joan’s mind was reeling. She’d heard Olympia’s vengeful speech on Monday night: If we ever find out who killed our sister Eleanor, I promise he will come to understand the true nature of our madness … In the name of our god, we will have our justice! There was no doubt that Olympia had the means to pay for whatever she wanted—a hit man, for example—but surely she was not so insane as to kill Goldman, chop his head off and deliver it to Jeffs, was she?
It was not hard to miss the reference to Euripides’s play, though Joan doubted even the cultured and well-read gangster boss Phil Jeffs would pick that up straightaway. Hence the note in the mouth, presumably to help him get the point. Did Olympia really believe she was so invulnerable that she could publicly boast about a murder, even if it was of a worthless low-life like Goldman? Well, Hugh’s note had warned that ‘Olympia was off her rocker’.
The police had almost certainly already knocked on the door of the penthouse in Kingsmere. By now Richards would have a list of Olympia’s guests. His constables were no doubt making unannounced visits to certain ladies of Potts Point, Elizabeth Bay, Darling Point and Vaucluse. Joan imagined these unsentimental women would be quick to pin any suspicion on their hostess if it meant saving their own necks. The police would soon have confirmation of Ellie’s participation in the club’s rituals. Everyth
ing would start to link up, a web of evidence that not even Gordon and Olympia could dodge or buy their way out of. Or so Joan hoped.
Joan made another attempt to call the offices of Truth but Bill had stepped out. ‘I think he just tried to ring you,’ said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Joan refolded the newspaper, tucked it inside her jacket and headed out again into the rain. As the tram strained and shrieked up William Street, an image of Frankie Goldman’s severed head flashed into her mind with its boyish dimpled chin, Douglas Fairbanks eyes forever closed, bone-white skin, bloodied tongue and lips now useless meat. No more cruel taunts from that mouth! Something primitive and gleeful rose up in her, a savage jubilance at the thought that this man had met such a fitting end. A scene played out in her mind of Joan and her fellow bacchantes, made divinely mad and strong, ripping the gangster’s body to shreds with their talons. She knew it had probably been a man who did away with Frankie: some grubby revenge killing over a fellow gangster’s death or a faithless woman who two men claimed to love. But she liked to think that, just this once, female anger and strength had harvested its own bloody reward.
Joan was thinking about Bernice as she crossed Darlinghurst Road in the teeming rain and headed towards the Hampton flats. How relieved Bernie would be to hear that circumstances had changed so dramatically! Absorbed in these thoughts, she failed to notice the man on the corner of Kellett Street who snuck up behind her and pushed her violently into the nearest doorway, out of sight of the commuter rush. A hand went over her mouth and the smell of cigarettes and cheap brandy on her attacker’s breath made her gag. ‘I knew who you were even without the wig,’ the man snarled in her ear. ‘But it took me longer to work out you were Hugh’s piece of skirt. That two-timing prick has been playing Gordon this whole time.’
It was Geoffrey, of course. He was drunk and angry. ‘Was it just about the money? Or was it revenge? ’Cos your mum and dad are poor, is that it? And Gordon and his wife are rich?’
She tried to struggle free but Geoffrey’s hand over her mouth was suffocating her as he pressed his body up against hers and fumbled through her jacket. Was he looking for something or was this a drunken attempt at rape? Maybe it was both.
‘You and that prick are gonna pay.’
His hand retreated for a moment and then she felt the muzzle of a pistol jabbed against her cheek. Christ! Was he going to shoot her right here on the street? Or was the plan to kidnap and torture her? Either way, she was not going down without a fight. She worked her left leg free and slammed the heel of her Oxford hard into the top of his foot. There was a howl of pain and he released his grip.
She was about to scream when, appearing out of the grey haze of the rain, a second man came charging bull-like at Geoffrey, tackling him to the ground and knocking the gun from his hand. It was Hugh. He punched her attacker on the jaw twice then, grabbing the front of Geoffrey’s jacket in his fists, yelled loudly in his face, ‘It’s bloody finished, you idiot! Gordon has been arrested and charged with drug dealing and the murder of a prostitute. He’s being held in custody. It’s over, for fuck’s sake!’
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘That’s bullshit!’
Hugh dragged the sozzled man to his feet and shook him like a rag doll. ‘I just came from the apartment. It’s crawling with cops. But don’t believe me, you stupid bastard. Wait till they drop round to your place for a friendly chat. Then you’ll wake up. No more soldiering days for Major Gordon. I bet Campbell’s replaced him already. It’ll be all over the papers tomorrow morning.’
Geoffrey fell back, his mouth working dumbly, eyes blinking. He was soaked, his suit sticking to him like melted frosting. He seemed at a complete loss as to what to do next. Hugh gave him a hard shove in the chest with the gun. Close by, police sirens wailed in Darlinghurst Road. ‘Go home. And if you come anywhere near me or Joan again, I’ll put a fucking bullet in your skull!’
The man staggered away into the rain. Joan grabbed Hugh and kissed him. ‘Dear God, thank you! I thought he was going to kill me.’ They held each other tight for a moment before Joan spoke again. ‘Is it true? Has Uncle Gordon really been arrested for drug-peddling and Ellie’s murder? It’s so hard to believe!’
‘I know, I know. I’ll tell you all about it, but let’s grab something to eat first. I’m starving.’
Joan laughed. ‘I think the least I can do is shout you dinner!’
They found a table at the California Café and ordered a big plate of sandwiches and chips. Hugh looked bushed, his face haggard and unshaven. ‘I’m sorry I had to disappear for a couple of days. Things have been moving so fast. I knew you could take care of yourself … most of the time.’
Hugh explained that the New Guard’s plans were shifting into a new phase of preparation ahead of the bridge opening. There were rumours of some action that might trigger an uprising by the communists. All New Guard commanders were on high alert. Hugh had been feverishly writing reports and leaving them at the usual secret drop-off point for his party comrades. The arrest of Locality Commander Fielding-Jones was an unexpected hiccup, but the area’s battle plans were all drawn up in advance and his deputy could quickly step into Gordon’s shoes.
‘I was at the apartment when the police came. One of Gordon’s staff at the law firm rang us just minutes before they showed up. He told Olympia that the cops had found hundreds of bags of snow hidden in Gordon’s office and her husband was now under arrest and being taken down to Central Police Station. I bet the cops were none too gentle with Gordon; they hate rich arseholes laundering crims’ money. Olympia was in the middle of a call to the family solicitor when the concierge let her know the police had arrived. With your old mate Bill, as it happens.’
Hugh stopped to devour half a cheese and tomato sauce sandwich before continuing.
‘They had a search warrant, of course, and gave the apartment a thorough going-over, including Gordon’s study and Olympia’s love temple. Took a swag of stuff—documents, photos, personal letters, diaries, you name it. They then asked Olympia to accompany them to the station for questioning. She was hysterical, as you can imagine.’
What Joan would have given to see that; she found it hard to imagine her aunt in anything less than a state of icy imperiousness. What on earth had Olympia imagined would happen? She had laid a trail of evidence like breadcrumbs straight to her front door. Had all her bacchic drugs and rituals scrambled her brains? This thought caused Joan to pause and wonder if it were possible that her aunt and uncle had been spectacularly stitched up. Who, apart from her parents and herself, had reason to hate these two enough to foist a drug deal and a gangster’s execution on them?
‘As Gordon’s part-time bodyguard and chauffeur, I was taken into another room and asked a few questions about his movements over the last few days. I was told I may be called in again and warned not to leave town any time soon. I gave them the keys to the garage downstairs as they were bringing in forensics guys to examine Gordon’s car.’
Joan looked flabbergasted. ‘What do you make of it all?’
‘I’d say Gordon had some kind of deal going with Jeffs. These last few years, Jeffs has been getting out of coke and prostitution and focusing more on sly-grog; much easier to keep a good working relationship with the cops that way. But Gordon might have come to him with a tempting proposal, who knows? Frankie would have been the middleman. And a lawyer’s office is the last place most coppers would look for several pounds of snow.
‘When Frankie’s head turns up in a box at the Fifty-Fifty Club with Olympia’s letterhead in his mouth, Jeffs goes ballistic. He can’t believe that Gordon has let his crazy wife do such a thing! He rings the cops and hangs Gordon out to dry. “This lawyer comes to me with a scheme for selling coke, but I say no thanks. Looks as if Frankie took the bait and did a deal on the side. But then it seems they had a nasty falling-out.” This is what Jeffs tells the cops and they go looking for the merchandise at Gordon’s law firm. Frankie, of course, can deny noth
ing.’
‘So, who do you think killed Frankie?’
‘Depends how you look at it. If Jeffs did in fact find out Frankie and Gordon were robbing him, he might have decided to eliminate Frankie and hang his murder on Gordon and his wife. Jeffs is a smart operator. But if the cops knew for a fact that Gordon and Ellie were lovers, then it’s possible they might think Olympia did it to punish her husband. Who knows?’
‘Well, the fact is the cops do have proof that Gordon and Ellie were lovers.’
‘They do?’
Joan then told Hugh all about her adventures since they’d last seen each other: her discovery of an incriminating letter and photo in Gordon’s desk on Monday night; Olympia swearing revenge on Ellie’s murderer; the killing of Rimbaud and the threatening note; her and Bernie’s interrogation by Armfield and Richards; and the police’s strong suspicion that Bernie had killed Ellie. ‘So I gave the letter and photo to Bill Jenkins to pass on to the cops,’ she finished.
‘Wow!’ Hugh looked impressed. ‘Well, I should think you’re in the clear now. Gordon and Olympia will have the finest lawyers money can buy, but I don’t think a judge will grant bail given the seriousness of the alleged crimes. And they won’t have an easy trial the way the evidence is stacking up. Crikey, I’m still not sorry we blackmailed those bastards for a few shekels. Look what all-round scumbags they turned out to be. Threatening you—even killing your cat, for Christ’s sake!’
Joan looked at her watch. ‘Oh dear, I forgot! Poor Bernie will be worried sick about where I am. Who knows if she’s seen the papers? We’ve both been jumping at shadows a fair bit lately.’
‘I don’t blame you! You should get home. Give my best to Bernie, won’t you?’
Death in the Ladies' Goddess Club Page 24
