by Robert Gott
‘So this third party doesn’t think the police are up to it.’
‘I can’t discuss that, I’m sorry.’
‘You’d better come in.’
Joe was relieved. Mrs Suckling’s curiosity had overcome her suspicion, or Joe supposed that this was the case. At the front door of the house, Mrs Suckling hesitated.
‘You’d better show some sort of identification. How do I know you didn’t kill poor Emilio and now you’ve come to kill me?’
The question was intended to be humorous, but Joe detected a slight, nervous quaver in Mrs Suckling’s voice, as though she’d suddenly realised she was taking a risk. Joe showed her his card, which she read closely.
‘So you’re a proper private detective, all registered and everything.’
‘Yes, Mrs Suckling, I am.’
She opened the door, and Joe followed her into the house, which was stuffy and smelled of rendered lard. The living room was furnished cheaply, and the only art on the walls was a discoloured print of the ubiquitous ‘Monarch of the Glen’. A narrow mantle held a few gewgaws, which told Joe all he needed to know about Mrs Suckling’s taste.
‘I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
This wasn’t a request. It was assumed that Joe would share a cup.
‘I don’t have any sugar,’ she said.
‘Black is fine.’
The tea was dark and bitter, and Joe sipped at it to be polite. He took out a notebook.
‘Very official,’ Mrs Suckling said.
Joe smiled. ‘I don’t trust my memory, Mrs Suckling. Tell me about Emilio Barbero.’
‘Well, he was a lovely looking young man. Italian, of course, although his mother was Australian.’
‘So Emilio was born here?’
‘Oh yes. His father came over from Piedmont. I think that’s right. Back in 1925, I believe. It wasn’t a good marriage, or so Emilio told me. His mother’s people couldn’t accept that she’d married a dago. He barely spoke English and she didn’t have any Italian, so god knows what they talked about. He left to get work up north in the canefields. She stayed behind with little Emilio. He never came back, not even when his wife died. Emilio would have been 16 then. This was just last year. That’s when he came here to me. I advertised for a boarder, and he turned up. Nicely spoken, he was, and very easy on the eye, so I took him in.’
Joe found Mrs Suckling’s slightly louche insistence on Emilio Barbero’s attractiveness off-putting.
‘He found work on that farm, just as a hand. We’d natter away over dinner.’
‘Who would want to kill him?’
‘No one.’
‘Did you meet his employer? Mr Peter Fisher, I believe his name was.’
‘No. Emilio said he had a young wife. Nice-looking woman, he said.’ Joe noted the unspoken implication. Mrs Suckling watched as he jotted something in his notebook.
‘You needn’t be thinking there was anything between Emilio and Mrs Fisher. She was expecting a baby when he first started working there. It wasn’t Emilio’s baby, if that was where your mind was headed. I don’t think he’d had any experience with women. He was only 17. He wouldn’t go after another man’s wife, especially when she was expecting.’
‘Did he ever talk about Mr Fisher?’
Mrs Suckling put down her teacup.
‘Oh, you’re representing one of those people, aren’t you?’
Joe hoped his face betrayed neither puzzlement nor sudden interest.
‘Which people might they be?’
‘They came here once or twice, talking to Emilio. I heard them. Sacrilege it was, and him a Catholic.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Suckling, I don’t understand.’
‘Of course you do. They’re paying you.’
Mrs Suckling picked up her teacup again, and as she was bringing it to her lips she said, ‘Was Emilio sacrificed?’
Joe couldn’t disguise his startlement.
‘Sacrificed?’
‘Well, they got up to all sorts of nonsense, didn’t they? I don’t know much about them, but Emilio told me a thing or two. He wasn’t taken in by them. That’s why they killed him, isn’t it?’
‘Mrs Suckling, I don’t know who “they” are, but if “they” killed him, why would “they” hire me to investigate the death?’
Mrs Suckling thought about this for a moment. She nodded.
‘Yes. That makes sense. So you’re investigating them then.’
Joe tamped down his exasperation.
‘Tell me about “them”, Mrs Suckling.’
‘The Messiah people. That Mr Fisher was one of them. And some of his neighbours.’
‘You said they came here to talk to Emilio. Do you have any names?’
‘Oh, so you are after them. I’m happy to help out then. Creepy, they are. I only knew one of them. He’s a bloke named Anthony Prescott. Nasty man. Runs an orchard here in Nunawading. He was with a woman. I don’t know her name. Not his wife, though. Half his age. They came here twice. The second time was just before Emilio died. Prescott got quite heated.’
‘What about?’
‘I wasn’t listening at the door, Mr Sable. I’m not a nosey person. I mind my own business.’
‘Of course, but if this Prescott was loud, you couldn’t help but hear.’
Mrs Suckling accepted this as absolution for her nosiness.
‘Well, I was in the kitchen, but I could hear him, clear as a bell, accusing Emilio of having betrayed them. He used a word I don’t know. Apos … apos … something.’
‘Apostasy?’
‘That’s it. Don’t know what it means. Do you?’
‘Yes, I do. Did Emilio say anything?’
‘He was always very quiet. Never raised his voice, so I couldn’t hear what he said. Afterwards, when they’d left, he came out of his bedroom and looked as pale as a ghost. Prescott had given him a fright, that’s for sure. He said he was going to leave Fisher’s farm as soon as he could find another job.’
‘Did Prescott threaten him?’
‘He was loud and angry. That’s threatening, isn’t it?’
‘Did you tell the police about Prescott?’
‘They didn’t ask. Besides, I didn’t like the policemen who came here. Untrustworthy looking. Shifty. And rude. I should have told them, but I just wanted them off my property. They thought they could poke about like they owned the place. I was going to write something down and post it to them. I don’t have a telephone. But you turned up, so now I don’t need to.’
Joe wondered who these two clumsy Homicide detectives were. Inspector Lambert couldn’t have been one of them. He wouldn’t have mishandled the interview so badly. Only a few weeks had passed since he’d resigned from Homicide and from the police force. He knew that the unit had been severely disrupted, so perhaps the two men who’d called on Mrs Suckling were recent, inexperienced recruits. Lambert liked to hand-pick his detectives, but the war had stripped a lot of good men out of the force.
‘And you know nothing about the young woman who was with Prescott?’
‘She didn’t say anything. She was pretty enough. She wore her hair like Veronica Lake. I think she was there to catch Emilio’s eye.’
She thought for a moment.
‘I think she was bait. Prescott must have thought Emilio would go to their meetings if there was a pretty girl there.’
‘And did he go?’
‘He must have, mustn’t he, if Prescott turned up here accusing him of aposathingummy. What does it mean?’
‘It means the renunciation of a religious belief. Once upon a time, you’d be burned at the stake for it.’
Mrs Suckling laughed.
‘I’m in trouble then. I used to be C of E. What about you?’
‘I’m Jewish, Mrs Suckling.’
‘Are you now? How very interesting. My sister, Eunice, married a Jew. Caused a fuss in the family, I can tell you. Not with me, mind. I thought he was a lovely bloke. I’ve lost touch with them. They moved to Germany, oh, 25 years ago. He was a German boy. So, two strikes against him — a German and a Jew. Dad disowned Eunice. Good riddance, he said, when they moved to Germany. She converted, of course. He’d have disowned her if she’d married a Catholic, so you can imagine. A Jew was beyond the pale. I worry about them over there. He had a good job. Came from a good family, so I’m sure they’ll be all right.’
‘Do you read the papers, Mrs Suckling?’
‘I glance at them, but I can’t bear to read them too closely.’
Joe wondered if Mrs Suckling knew what was happening to Jews in Europe. He decided against discussing it with her, particularly as he was sure that the chances of her sister and brother-in-law being alive were slim. He’d been collecting articles about Hitler’s program of ridding Europe of Jews, but despite the unimaginable nature of the crimes described, they never made it to the front page. Small articles tucked away among competing news detailed acts of monstrous inhumanity. For Joe, the few words that were written about it were deafening howls of suffering. Those around him seemed oblivious to them. Joe worried that the ignorance of even his friends was poisonous, and in low moments he allowed himself to suspect it wasn’t ignorance at all, but indifference.
‘May I see Emilio’s room?’
‘Of course. I haven’t tidied it. It’s just as he left it. He didn’t have much.’
Joe wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find in Barbero’s room. There were only a few items of clothing. A 17-year-old farm hand doesn’t accumulate much in the way of a wardrobe. There was a framed photograph of a couple Joe presumed to be Emilio’s parents, a string of rosary beads — which, given their feminine design, had probably belonged to the late Mrs Barbero — a few books, and a copy of Modern Screen from 1938. Joe checked the wardrobe, under the mattress, and under the bed. There was no trunk, no cache of letters, no photograph album.
‘Not much to be going on with, is there?’ Mrs Suckling said when Joe returned to the living room.
‘When he arrived, did he have a suitcase?’
‘No. He brought all his belongings in a hessian bag. He didn’t even own a razor. Well, he didn’t need one when he first got here, he was that young. He started to use my late husband’s just recently. He had nothing much more than the clothes he stood up in.’
‘You don’t know where he lived before he came here?’
‘No, sorry. Somewhere in Fitzroy, I think he said, but he never mentioned an address.’
‘I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mrs Suckling. Thank you. If you think of anything else, could you telephone me or drop me a note?’
Joe gave Mrs Suckling his card.
‘Just one more thing,’ he said. ‘Did Emilio speak good English?’
‘Well, of course he did. He was born here. His mother was Australian. He was smart, too. What a strange question. I did tell you that already. You need to pay closer attention if you’re going to be a proper detective.’
She smiled, but Joe felt stung.
‘Just double-checking, Mrs Suckling.’
On the drive back to the Helen Lord and Associates office, Joe allowed himself the luxury of feeling pleased that this initial interview, the first in his job as a private inquiry agent, had gone well, despite that final, small dig. He had a name, Anthony Prescott, that the police had failed to discover, and even a possible motive, although the idea of some sort of Messianic cult seemed absurd.
HELEN LORD WASN’T in the office when Joe returned. He typed up his notes and checked the telephone directory for Anthony Prescott. There was one A. Prescott, but the address was in Sunshine, a suburb on the opposite side of the city to Nunawading, where Mrs Suckling had said his orchard was. He telephoned, just to be sure, and was told that a Mr Albert Prescott, retired, lived there.
When Helen came back, Joe outlined his interview with Mrs Suckling and handed her his typed summary.
‘We’re already ahead of the police,’ Helen said. ‘Well done. What do you make of the religious stuff?’
‘When people throw words around like “apostasy” it makes me nervous. It’s a word I associate with fanatics, and fanatics operate beyond logic and reason. Fanaticism is how you end up with four people dead.’
‘I want to talk to Zachary Wilson’s wife. She might be able to give us an address for this Prescott character. I’ll need the car tomorrow morning.’
They talked generally about the case and specifically about Inspector Lambert’s sense that an innocent man might be on remand. Joe wasn’t convinced that Lambert was so sure of Wilson’s innocence. Why would he arrest him?
‘I presume,’ Helen said, ‘he was under pressure to calm the public down. Remember the hysteria about Leonski? All the press rubbish about Australia’s Ripper? And the press loved this one. So much blood and gore, and four dead. Lambert would have been told to do something about people thinking they might be murdered in their beds. Having a suspect in custody is bad for the suspect, but good for Mr and Mrs Melbourne. Lambert’s not happy about it. That’s the sense I got from him anyway.’
‘Lambert could be wrong.’
‘Our job is to find that out.’
Guy Kirkham slipped into unconsciousness twice while waiting for Clara Dawson to leave work at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. He was nervous, and his narcolepsy attacked him whenever he felt anxious, or so it seemed to him. In fact, it was more unpredictable than this. Clara wasn’t expecting him, which was the source of his nervousness. He knew that her shift at the hospital was due to finish at 4.00 pm — he’d wangled this information out of Helen Lord. He stood at the corner of Swanston and Lonsdale Streets, although he sat down against the wall he’d been leaning against after the first narcoleptic episode. This had lasted only a few seconds. It had been so brief that he hadn’t fallen over. He reckoned that it would be safer to sit. He’d be less likely to end up prone and the object of attention.
He could see the front door. When Clara hadn’t emerged by 4.30, he began to think she might have used a back exit. He supposed, though, that a doctor’s shift would never run according to the clock — it would be subject to hold-ups and last-minute emergencies. He’d give her until five o’clock before abandoning his plan. Not that asking someone to the pictures constituted much of a plan. Clara had already turned him down once. She’d done it with good humour, though, and had given Guy the impression that he might meet with success on another occasion. Guy could understand her reluctance. What, after all, could he offer her? She was highly intelligent, skilled, and employed. He was unemployed, possibly unemployable, strapped for cash, and, for all intents and purposes, homeless. He was no one’s idea of a fine catch. Still, he was good company, and he’d been told by more than one of his intimate companions, both men and women, that he was good at sex. This wasn’t something he felt he could boast about. Clara didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who’d respond well to any sort of boastfulness, let alone that sort of boastfulness.
At five, Clara came out of the hospital. Guy got to his feet and began waving his arms to attract her attention. She saw him, and signalled that she’d done so. He crossed the street to her.
‘You’re wearing a hat,’ she said.
‘I thought I’d make an effort and try to impress you.’
She laughed.
‘And you think all it takes is a hat.’
Guy tried to look sheepish.
‘It’s all I’ve got. Just a hat.’
‘Is it your hat?’
‘No. It’s Joe’s hat. We have the same size head, only there’s more inside his than in mine.’
‘So, not even a hat, Guy, to call your own. Maybe I need to take you to the pictures.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Why don’t we go to a café instead? I’d like a decent cup of tea.’
They walked to the Liberty Bell Café in Collins Street. In 1942 the Liberty Bell had been busy with American servicemen, and it had kept its doors open until late in the evening. Now there were fewer and fewer Americans in Melbourne, but the Liberty Bell maintained its late trading hours. Joe had mentioned this café to Guy. It was here that he’d met the people who would lead him into the brutal investigation that had left him and Tom Mackenzie badly wounded. Guy was interested to see the place, and it was he who suggested it to Clara.
‘Oh, I know the Liberty Bell,’ she said. ‘Yes, let’s go there.’
There was, of course, nothing about the café to suggest its role in Joe Sable’s case. It was crowded, but Guy and Clara found a table at the back of the room. Despite its busyness, conversation was possible without having to shout across the table.
The social niceties had been exchanged on the walk to the café, so Clara felt able to ask Guy a personal question.
‘Have you had any narcoleptic episodes recently, Guy?’
‘Is this a free medical consultation?’
‘Well, you know, I am a doctor. I’m interested. You’re the only narcoleptic I know.’
‘I had two small ones while I was waiting for you.’
‘So just thinking of me puts you to sleep.’
Guy laughed.
‘I’m awake now. Ask more questions. Strike while the iron is hot.’
They ordered tea, and when they’d drunk it they realised they were hungry, and settled on lamb chops with vegetables and gravy. Everything was overcooked, but neither of them cared particularly. Clara spoke about her friendship with Helen Lord, and answered Guy’s questions about working in a large hospital. He was a little disappointed that Clara didn’t interrogate him. He would have been willing to have been unguarded in most of his responses, but she didn’t ask him many questions, and the questions she did ask were inconsequential. What was he reading? What movies did he enjoy? Did he read The Age or The Argus? It wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was small talk, and Guy thought the incident at Peter Lillee’s wake ought to be raised.
