by Robert Gott
‘Mrs Lambert …’
‘Sergeant! You are to do this now. Not in half an hour, not in five minutes. Now!’
The tension in Inspector Lambert’s voice was contagious, and Joe felt his heart shiver — it was a sensation he dreaded. He was used to his heart’s uncertain rhythms, but its unpredictability terrified him. It was his great weakness, the one thing about him that was utterly unreliable. It had kept him out of the army, and it reminded him — and always at the wrong time — how vulnerable he was. Now, as Inspector Lambert’s voice throbbed with urgency, Joe felt his heart begin to let him down.
‘I’ll go now,’ he said, and hoped Lambert didn’t detect the wheeze in his voice. Joe hung up the telephone as a wave of nausea swept over him. He took two steps towards the chair he’d been sitting in, and managed to kneel before he lost consciousness.
GEORGE STARLING HAD ridden without stopping, except to take a piss just outside Colac. At the precise moment that Joe Sable’s telephone had rung, Starling was passing Victoria Market, and was just 15 minutes from Joe’s flat. The streets were dark, but not as dark as they’d been in the early years of the war. Lights showed here and there, and cars drove with their headlights dimmed, but without the obscuring shades that allowed only a slit of light to escape. The blackout, which had been relaxed to a brownout, was no longer policed with any rigour. It would require another scare, such as the 1942 attack by Japanese submarines on Sydney Harbour, to encourage the authorities to risk public annoyance by tightening controls. Starling saw this relaxation as complacency, and typical of the undisciplined, lazy Australian public. The men were beer-swipers and the women brummy fowls. He hadn’t thought much about National Socialism since Ptolemy Jones’ death. He thought its principles were sound; but, in truth, he wasn’t really interested in politics. He liked Nazism’s certainties, its belief that negotiation was weakness. More than anything else, he liked the way it frightened people. There was a negative side, of course. Politics meant talking to other people about, well, politics, and Starling had no patience for other people. Anyway, he didn’t need National Socialism, however much he agreed with it, to settle scores. For now, his only ambition was to do just that, and he had the means and the money. Joe Sable was first on his list, but there were others.
JOE WAS ON all fours in his living room, dizzy and trying to marshal his anxiety by telling himself, out loud, that this had happened before, and that his doctor had assured him that his heart was strong enough to survive its irregular beat. There’d been a rider to this diagnosis: he’d been advised that he needed to be careful. He couldn’t afford to treat his heart with the cavalier inattention of most young men.
He stood up, steadied himself, and felt his urge to be sick subside. He was sweating, and the smell of burning eucalypts from Melbourne’s fringes seemed somehow stronger than it had been before he’d fainted. He turned out the lights, crossed to the window, pulled back the blackouts, and closed it. Pigdon Street was deserted. A motorcycle passed by slowly, heading towards Lygon Street. Inspector Lambert had said that Starling was on a motorcycle. Joe looked at his watch. It was now after 10.15. Lambert had warned him to leave immediately, and somehow almost 20 minutes had already elapsed. The motorcycle didn’t slow further as it passed his window, which he reopened in order to listen, in case it stopped or turned around. It didn’t. He heard it turn right at Lygon Street, and then the sound of its engine faded. Joe realised as he strained to hear the engine that he was frightened. This angered him. Surely if he stayed he could set a trap to catch George Starling. His heart fluttered, and he knew he had to leave. Apart from any other consideration, if he didn’t go to the Lamberts’ house, he’d be disobeying a direct instruction, and his position in Homicide felt tenuous enough as it was. He decided to walk up Sydney Road to the Lamberts’ house in Brunswick. This would take 30 minutes — 30 minutes in which he could prepare himself to meet Maude Lambert for the first time since she’d turned her unforgiving back on him in the hospital a few shorts weeks before.
GEORGE STARLING TURNED into Pigdon Street from Bowen Crescent. He drove slowly with his headlights switched off. He knew Joe Sable’s flat, having been there once before. As he approached it, he saw a window on the first floor — Sable’s window — close. He couldn’t make out the figure who’d closed it, but he knew there was a possibility that the motorcycle had been seen, certainly heard. On the ride from Warrnambool he’d considered the probability that the police who’d visited his father’s farm would have either returned to the farm or been told that the motorcycle was missing. He hated them, but he didn’t think they were stupid. He wished now that he hadn’t torched the house. It would only have taken a phone call to warn Sable. Maybe, though, the house had been razed without having been noticed, although with the current panic about bushfires no plume of smoke would have gone unchecked. The fact that Sable was still in his flat — and who else could it have been closing the window? — meant that Starling had arrived ahead of any warning. Nevertheless, to be sure, he drove on to Lygon Street, and revved his engine to alert any listener that he’d turned towards the city. He rode two blocks south, turned right at the cemetery into Macpherson Street, cut the engine, and dismounted. He pushed the bike to the corner of Macpherson and Arnold streets. Sable’s flat sat two blocks north, on the corner of Arnold and Pigdon. He parked the bike and began to walk. He passed a school and might have stopped to smash a few windows if he’d known it was a Jew school. When he reached Sable’s block of flats, he stood in the shadows on the opposite side of Arnold Street, and considered his options.
JOE SABLE THREW a few personal effects into a small bag. The idea of spending the rest of the night in Inspector Lambert’s house was peculiar, even without the added tension of confronting Maude Lambert and her injured brother, Tom Mackenzie. He packed his razor, a comb, and a change of underwear and socks. The thought of that motorcycle bothered him, but if he stuck to Sydney Road it would be difficult for anyone to take him by surprise. He left his flat, and walked downstairs and out into Arnold Street. He didn’t notice a slight movement in the deep shadows on the opposite side, and he didn’t notice either as the figure in those shadows broke away and began following him from a safe distance.
Joe was alert to all the traffic on Sydney Road. There wasn’t much. A motorcycle roared past, but Joe recognised the uniform of an American soldier. Occasionally he looked behind him, and once he ducked into a doorway and waited a few moments. He’d seen someone do this in a film. Unlike the film, no follower caught up and revealed himself. Joe felt slightly silly when he stepped back into Sydney Road. There was someone several blocks back, on the other side. Whoever it was turned into a side street and disappeared.
STARLING WAS AN instinctive predator. He kept far enough back to make identification of him impossible, and he walked with the loose slouch of a purposeless pedestrian. If Sable looked back, he might see him, but his gait would suggest a person who perhaps had had just enough to drink to dull any urgency in his reason for being in Sydney Road. He saw Sable slip into a doorway and guessed at his reason for doing so. He made a small, derisive noise at the man’s inexperience. As if any follower would fall for that! When Sable emerged, he stopped and looked down Sydney Road. Starling noted this, even though the distance between them was considerable, and with unhurried steps he turned into a side street. He waited a few moments and returned to Sydney Road. Sable had drawn further ahead, and Starling now hurried to make up the distance. He kept to the shadows, but Sable had stopped checking behind him. He turned right into Albion Street, where Starling lost sight of him. He ran to catch up, stopped at the corner, and crossed the narrow street. He saw Sable about 100 yards along Albion Street.
ALBION STREET WAS narrow and dark, and no traffic moved along it. Joe had been to the Lamberts’ house once before, on New Year’s Eve. So much had happened in the ensuing weeks that it seemed like a lifetime ago. He paused at the corner of Bishop Street to gather his thoughts
. Maude Lambert was expecting him.
‘Who was that?’ Tom Mackenzie had said when Joe had rung Inspector Lambert 48 hours earlier. ‘Nobody,’ had been Maude’s devastating reply.
He breathed deeply, and was aware that his hands were shaking. He walked towards the house, turned in at the gate, and paused yet again.
There was a light on in the front room — Joe could see a seam escaping down one side of the blackout. He knocked.
STARLING STOOD AT the end of Bishop Street and watched as Joe opened a front gate. He seemed to hover for a moment and then, in the general quiet, the sound of Sable knocking on the door reached Starling. He hurried along the far side of the street, protected from view by the absence of lighting. There were no trees to obscure him, but he didn’t need them. He arrived opposite the house in time to see the front door open and Sable slip inside. It was too dark to get a glimpse of the person who’d let him in. Starling found a place where he could watch the house, and sat down with his back against a picket fence. Whose house was this? Did Sable have a girlfriend? After a few minutes, Starling decided he hadn’t walked all this way to just sit and wait. He wasn’t a patient man. He counted the houses back to the laneway that gave on to the nightsoil man’s laneway that ran behind Bishop Street. Counting back, he found the back fence of the house that Sable had entered. There was a gate, which was carelessly unlocked — perhaps the nightsoil man was due — and Starling opened it and entered the Lamberts’ backyard.
JOE HAD BEEN AWARE, since his earliest days in Homicide, that Maude Lambert was as important to Inspector Lambert’s investigations as any of his detectives were — possibly even more important. He knew that Helen Lord was resentful of this, and suspicious of Mrs Lambert, but he admired her, and her good opinion of him mattered. This was not to gain any professional advantage, but simply because he wanted such a person to note him and to like him. He had, however, fallen from grace, and when Maude opened the front door to him he felt an impulse to simply walk away.
‘Sergeant Sable,’ she said. ‘You’re safe. Come in.’
Joe said nothing. No words would come. He nodded and followed Maude down the corridor to the living room. She was wearing a silk dressing gown, and a faint, discreet perfume drifted from her. He noted that the door to the front room was closed. That, he assumed, was Tom Mackenzie’s room.
There were two standard lamps, each beside a comfortable armchair. Only one of the lamps was on, and a small book, smaller even than a deck of cards, and much thinner, lay open on a table next to the chair. Maude indicated that Joe should sit in the unilluminated chair.
‘Would you like a cup of tea? I can’t offer you any alcohol. We drank the last of the whisky at Christmas.’
‘A cup of tea would be fine.’ Joe was conscious that his voice sounded strangled.
‘You’ll have to take it black, I’m afraid. Neither Titus nor I drink milk. There is sugar, though. I’d hate you to think you’re among barbarians.’
This small joke caused relief to flood through Joe’s body, and he felt himself on the verge of tears. Maude saw this and withdrew to the kitchen, where she called, ‘So, how many sugars?’
Joe, who failed to appreciate Maude’s discretion, was thankful only that her fortuitous exit gave him time to collect himself.
‘No sugar, thank you. I like my tea black.’
Maude returned to the living room and sat down.
‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said.
Maude looked at his bruised face and his wounded shoulder.
‘You know, Sergeant, until just a few hours ago I really did hold you responsible for what happened to Tom. It was unjust — I knew that. I didn’t want to talk to you, or see you. I didn’t want to find reasons to forgive you. Of course, the idea that I would assume that there was anything that needed forgiving, or that I should be in the position to offer forgiveness from some lofty height, was in itself arrogant and unjust.’
‘Please, Mrs Lambert …’
She shook her head.
‘No, Sergeant, let me finish. Titus tried to change my mind, but every time I looked at Tom I needed to blame someone, and I wasn’t willing to blame him. When Titus telephoned to say that you were in danger, I realised properly, absolutely, that blaming you was like blaming the person coming in out of the storm for the storm itself. That’s rather clumsily put, I’m afraid.’
The kettle began to whistle, and Maude got up to make the tea.
THE LAMBERTS’ BACKYARD was small and ordered. Vegetables grew in beds on one side, and shrubs struggled on the other. There were no blackouts on the kitchen window at the rear of the house. A dim light glowed in the room, almost too dim to be of much practical value. Starling watched as a woman came into the kitchen, and supposed she was making a cup of tea for her visitor. There was too little light to make out her features. Was she Sable’s girl? His mother? Starling moved cautiously up a side path. There was wood stacked against a fence, and a proliferation of saw-toothed ferns. There was a window halfway down. Its blackouts were up, but it was open at the top. He took the precaution of getting down on all fours, and he moved slowly. There were dried fern fronds, leaves, and bark from the wood stack, and a carelessly placed hand or knee would create a betraying fusillade of crunch and crackle. When he reached the window, he manoeuvred himself into a sitting position. He could hear two voices, although he couldn’t make out what was being said. He felt frustrated. It wasn’t a feeling he liked, and it wasn’t a feeling he could control well. It led to anger, and often to rage. As he strained to hear the conversation, the first churnings of anger began.
JOE TOOK THE full teacup from Maude. To his dismay, it rattled slightly in its saucer.
‘You’re shaking, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
Maude waited.
‘It isn’t fear. It’s …’
‘I know that, Sergeant.’
‘I don’t know why I’m shaking.’
‘Titus and I don’t have any secrets. I think you know that. He told me what happened in that house in Belgrave. Of course, I don’t pretend to understand what it must have been like. I suspect what took place there is more than reason enough to make your hand unsteady.’
Joe heard the door of the front room open, and Tom Mackenzie’s footsteps coming up the hallway. He thought he saw a subtle, rapid shift away from sympathy in Maude’s expression. When she spoke, however, there was no hostility in her voice. Very softly, she said, ‘Tom needs time, Sergeant.’
Tom Mackenzie took a couple of steps into the living room and stopped. He looked at Joe, was puzzled for a moment, and then smiled.
‘I thought I heard someone come in.’
Joe was startled. He’d been expecting Tom to be an incoherent, shattered man. He was wearing only pyjama bottoms, possibly because of the hot night, but more probably because his torso was bruised, cut, and spot-burned by cigarettes. Several of his fingers were in splints, and his face was swollen. Joe stood up.
‘Tom.’
‘Yes, I’m Tom.’
‘It’s good to see you again.’
Tom nodded politely, but gave no indication that he recognised Joe.
‘I’m just going to the toilet.’
‘Can you manage?’ Maude asked.
‘Yes. I’m right.’
He walked through into the kitchen, opened the back door, and stepped down into the backyard.
In the living room, Joe sat down, stunned.
‘The psychiatrist said it was a kind of shellshock,’ Maude said. ‘I’m sure he recognises you, but his mind is protecting itself against, well, against any associations with what happened, I suppose. He is getting better, Sergeant. I see that every day, but his physical injuries are always there to …’
‘Remind him.’
‘Yes. He smiled when he saw you.’
/> ‘And then he stopped smiling.’
GEORGE STARLING HEARD the back door open. He could still hear the murmur of two voices, so a third person was now in the house. Starling stood up awkwardly. His left leg had gone to sleep. He shook it, and waited for the tingle and ache to pass. Stepping carefully, he returned to the backyard. The door to the privy was open. He waited by the side of the house for whoever was using it to emerge. A man coughed. Now was the time to take him, Starling thought, when he had his trousers down around his ankles. Who was in there, though? An attack, even when the attacker had the advantage, was risky, and Starling’s advantage was diminished by his uncertainty about this bloke’s identity. Not that Starling thought he might be armed. He might, though, be fast and strong, and Starling was not carrying a weapon. While he was pondering this, the person came out of the dunny. The faint spill of light from the kitchen revealed a man wearing pyjama bottoms. With a jolt of surprise, Starling recognised Tom Mackenzie. So he was still alive. It was obvious from the confusion in Mackenzie’s face that he wasn’t immediately able to account for the presence of the man he knew only as Fred. What he did next took Starling by surprise. Tom turned, calling at the top of his voice, ‘Maude! Maude! Maude!’, and retreated to the toilet, where he pulled the door shut after him. He continued calling, ‘Maude! Maude! Maude!’ The peculiar keening quality of his voice unsettled Starling. Unsure how many people might emerge from the house, he decided not to risk a confrontation and left quickly through the back gate.
TOM MACKENZIE SAT where Joe had been sitting before he and Maude had rushed into the backyard.
‘He was there, staring at me. Fred — Fred was there.’ He was shaking. ‘I hid in the toilet,’ he said with quiet shame.
‘Do you have a torch, Mrs Lambert?’
‘On the bench in the kitchen.’
Joe picked up the torch on his way to the backyard. He also picked up a knife, and moved quickly. If he stopped to think about the implications of Starling being so close, he might lose his nerve. He checked the side of the house first and then swept the torchlight over the garden. The only place for Starling to hide was the toilet, but it was empty. Joe checked the back gate, and saw that it was unlocked. He stepped into the laneway and shone the torch to the right and left. The batteries were weak, so he couldn’t see far. He switched off the torch, not wishing to run it down, and knowing that batteries were almost impossible to get. He waited. There was no movement that he could discern. Had Starling really been here, or was Tom jumping at shadows? The thought that Starling might have been here made Joe feel sick. It meant that he’d been followed and that he’d brought this monster into Inspector Lambert’s home. This could only be seen as more incompetence, more carelessness. But he’d been careful. He’d looked back at regular intervals. No, this had to have been a waking nightmare for Tom.
