by Robert Gott
JOE SABLE AND Inspector Lambert stood opposite the ruins of ‘Rosh Pinah’, the building that had housed Joe’s flat. Two of the four flats had been damaged by smoke and water; the other two, including Joe’s, had been gutted. The occupants of the surviving flats — two sisters, and a widower in his fifties — stood near them. A crowd of locals had gathered as well. A retired schoolteacher who lived in the remaining flat had died in the blaze. There was uncertainty about where the fire had started; perhaps the schoolteacher had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette. An investigation would determine the seat of the fire, but both Inspector Lambert and Joe had no doubt about who’d set ‘Rosh Pinah’ alight.
The fire seemed to have started some time after 4.00 am. By the time the other residents had become aware of it, it had taken hold, and they’d been lucky to get out in time. If the air hadn’t been so full of the smell of smoke from the fires on Melbourne’s fringes, they might have noticed it sooner. But it wouldn’t have saved the building, as the metropolitan fire brigade was stretched trying to contain blazes in the outer suburbs. A fire truck had to be diverted from Beaumaris, and it took more than an hour to reach Princes Hill. By then it was hopeless.
Lambert’s telephone had rung just after 7.00 am, it having taken this long for Joe’s identity as the owner of one of the flats to be established. His neighbours knew that he was a detective, and that he was ‘in that new branch — Homicide, is it?’ It had been assumed that he’d been in his flat, so the policeman who’d attended and who’d rung Russell Street wasn’t sure if he was reporting a death or not. The auxiliary policewoman who’d answered the call had been reluctant to give him Inspector Lambert’s home number.
‘One of his detectives may have been burned to ashes,’ he’d said. ‘Inspector Lambert might just be interested in that.’
After checking with someone in Homicide, she gave him the number. She never liked to ring the Homicide department, in case that Helen Lord creature answered. What kind of uppity woman would want to work in Homicide?
In Arnold Street, Joe squinted at the ruins of ‘Rosh Pinah’. ‘He’s killed someone now,’ Joe said. ‘Mr Goldman.’
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt that Starling did this. He’d just come from burning down his father’s place. I think he must have followed you to Bishop Street, and then come here. I imagine he broke into your flat.’
‘Everything I own was in that flat,’ Joe said. ‘Everything. It feels strange. I have the clothes I’m wearing, and that’s all. That is literally, actually, all.’ He thought for a moment, and laughed. ‘No. It’s not quite that bad — I packed a razor, a toothbrush, and a change of underwear and socks to take to your house.’
‘I’m so sorry, Joe. We’ll find him.’
Joe nodded, but said nothing. What, after all, was there to say? He was surprised that his reaction to the destruction of everything he owned was so muted. This didn’t feel like shock. It felt strangely calm. What of value did he own? He’d inherited good pieces of furniture from his parents, but furniture could be replaced. He was fully insured, so rebuilding wouldn’t bankrupt him — not that he’d be rebuilding in a hurry, as building materials were scarce. There were photographs of his parents, but he hadn’t looked at them in years, and David and Judith Sable had put such a distance between each other and him that a few snapshots couldn’t hope to bridge it so long after their deaths. He’d given up pondering the silent hostilities between his mother and his father. The silence had enveloped him as well. There was never any shouting in the Sable household — just a vast, savage silence. Raised voices would have been vulgar and unworthy of the aristocratic, English, Jewish blood that flowed through Sable veins. He’d grown used to the nasty quiet, he’d adapted to it, and, in his general reluctance to express his own fears, he’d adopted it.
Standing near Titus and Joe, the surviving three occupants of ‘Rosh Pinah’ seemed stunned. Joe knew very little about them. The two sisters shared the flat below his, and the widower was something quite high-up in one of the war ministries. Their flats were now uninhabitable. Joe looked at the trio, standing close to one another. One of the sisters was weeping. The other caught his eye, and instead of some indication of sympathy, there was a spark of anger. They supposed that the fire had started in Joe’s flat, and they no doubt thought it was the result of some carelessness on his part. Their lives had been turned upside down because he smoked in bed, or had left his stove unattended. Well, he didn’t smoke, and he’d replaced the wood-burning stove with an expensive electric one when he’d moved in. Would the fact that the fire had been the result of arson quell their anger? Probably not. Whatever its cause, it had started in his flat, and that was that.
‘Perhaps you should speak to them,’ Inspector Lambert said.
‘No.’ The word was said quietly, but there was a finality about it that struck Lambert forcefully.
‘Maude and Tom are moving to Tom’s place in South Melbourne. I’ll be with them there as well. You —’
‘I can stay with a friend until I find a place to let.’
‘You’ll be staying with Constable Lord and her family. And before you object, the house she shares with her mother and uncle is enormous. I’m surprised it hasn’t been requisitioned. You don’t have a choice in this, Sergeant. I’m not giving you a choice.’
‘How does Constable Lord feel about this?’
‘She doesn’t know about it yet, but how she feels about it isn’t relevant. This is an emergency. Is there some reason you think she’d object?’
‘Well, suddenly having a work colleague living with you is … well, I know I wouldn’t like it.’
‘You need to be safe, and until George Starling is in custody, the house in Kew is the safest place I can think of.’
Without thinking, Joe said, ‘I need to come in to work, sir. I can’t sit around in a strange house all day.’ He hadn’t intended to say this. He’d spent the restless night determining that he should tender his resignation, however much it might appear to others that he was running away. They’d think he was a coward. So what? Maybe he was a coward. A brave man surely wouldn’t have felt as afraid as he’d felt in the Lamberts’ back garden. Now though, with the smell of burnt timbers and wet ash in his nostrils, his instinct was to work. To not pursue George Starling was suddenly inconceivable.
‘I would expect you to come in to work, Sergeant, but until your wounds have healed fully you’ll have to accept the limitations I set.’
‘I hope you know, sir, that you can use me as bait.’
To Joe’s astonishment, Lambert said, ‘I’m afraid it may come to that.’
He’d said what Joe had wanted to hear, and yet the words created in Joe an awful ambivalence. He was expendable. Lambert would sacrifice him if it meant protecting his family.
‘What do I do now, sir?’
‘All this will have to be sorted out with the relevant authorities.’ Inspector Lambert waved his hand at the burnt-out flats. ‘I don’t think Starling will make a move against you in broad daylight, and certainly not with so many people about. He may be watching from somewhere, but I doubt it. When you’ve done all you need to do, I’d like you to come in to Homicide, where we can discuss the temporary arrangements with Constable Lord.’
WHEN JOE ARRIVED at Russell Street two hours later, he was met with expressions of shock and sympathy from every person he saw. News had travelled fast. His colleagues in Homicide, all of whom were older and more experienced than he, and who had paid him scant attention previously — except perhaps to wonder, resentfully, at his closeness to Inspector Lambert — nodded meaningfully at him. For them, this counted as an acknowledgement of his predicament. It was quickly obvious that both Helen Lord and David Reilly had been fully briefed. Reilly, unhelpfully, wondered out loud how Joe could have missed being followed; realising too late that this was the wrong thing to say, he tried to mollif
y Joe by adding that Starling was a crafty bastard and that it was probably very dark along Sydney Road. Helen’s mouth tightened, which was sufficiently eloquent for Reilly to feel her disapproval. She told Joe that she’d telephoned her mother and that a room would be ready for him that evening, and that he was welcome to stay as long as he needed to. She was sure, too, that her uncle would be happy to lend him some clothes.
‘He’s about your size, and he’s got wardrobes full. He’s got good taste, so you’ll be the best-dressed copper in Melbourne.’
‘What’s he do, your uncle?’ Reilly asked.
‘He’s a businessman.’
‘He must do a lot of business.’
‘He’s successful because he’s good at what he does.’ Helen’s voice was uninflected, but the implication of that repeated ‘he’ went home to Reilly, and his feelings about Helen Lord, already uncertain, soured. Helen knew that Reilly would have added envy to his catalogue of reasons to dislike her, so she would have to be wary of him and any attempt to undermine her.
With the death of Joe’s neighbour, the fire at ‘Rosh Pinah’ had been shifted from a case of arson to one of murder. Inspector Lambert hadn’t taken any measures to prevent the newspapers from reporting this. If Starling read that the person responsible for the fire was now wanted on the much more serious charge — and Starling would know that he’d be the main suspect — perhaps he would go to ground and not risk an attack on Joe Sable. It was probably a vain hope, but it was better than no hope.
By lunchtime it had been established that ‘Rosh Pinah’ had indeed been the subject of arson, and investigators were fairly certain that the seat of the fire had been in Joe’s flat. They were confident that a small amount of petrol had been used as an accelerant. Bizarrely, enough of the mattress and pillows remained to indicate that they’d been slashed and hacked. Joe, when he’d been told this, found the violent intimacy of the act disturbing. He imagined the frantic motion of Starling’s hairy arms as they attacked his bed, and, strangely, Joe’s fear of him diminished, and was replaced by disgust and anger. He would find him and put a stop to him, even if it meant working outside the protection and auspices of Homicide. It was as if a switch had been flicked: all thoughts of resignation, already fading, vanished. He moved his shoulder to test the tenderness of the knife wound he’d sustained two weeks previously. It ached, but it was well on the way to healing. When Helen Lord spoke to him just after 1.00 pm, she found him buoyant. She was taken aback by this, but didn’t press for an explanation. Perhaps his temporary accommodation in Kew wouldn’t be as fraught as he expected it to be.
INSPECTOR LAMBERT HAD telephoned Ros Lord to request a room for Sergeant Sable. He’d briefly outlined the situation, and she’d agreed without a single question. He’d been surprised that she’d never heard Joe Sable’s name — he’d asked her if she was aware that he was a work colleague of her daughter’s. She was certain, she’d said, that her brother, Peter Lillee, would be more than happy to make space available, especially under these circumstances. Helen rang her mother in the late afternoon and asked her to choose a few shirts, a jacket, trousers, and perhaps even a suit, and put them in Joe’s room. Uncle Peter surely wouldn’t mind. Ros wasn’t so sure about her brother’s response to Helen’s largesse. The reason he had so many beautiful clothes, she said, was because he loved well-made clothes.
‘I’ve seen inside his wardrobe, Mum. There are shirts in there I’ve never seen him wear. I can’t believe he’d begrudge Sergeant Sable a few cast-offs.’
‘They might not even fit Sergeant Sable.’
‘They’re the same build and the same height.’
‘But darling, everything your uncle owns is tailored for him.’
‘I don’t think Joe — Sergeant Sable — is going to mind if a shirt doesn’t sit as precisely as it would on Uncle Peter. He has absolutely nothing.’
‘What I really meant, Helen, is that your uncle has been extraordinarily generous to us, and I really can’t bear him thinking that he has no say in the requisitioning of his clothes, even his cast-offs.’
Helen felt the reproof keenly, and felt too that it was justified. She hoped that her ridiculous request, and the unguarded enthusiasm with which she’d made it, hadn’t exposed to her mother her feelings for Joe Sable. She didn’t like admitting these feelings to herself, and she didn’t want them running off the leash where anybody might encounter them.
At 5.30 pm, Sergeant David Reilly left the Homicide office to head home. There was a spare room in the Reilly house, and he’d have offered it willingly if the opportunity to do so had arisen. However, Inspector Lambert had made it clear that the house in Kew was where Sable was to be billeted. This was probably just as well. Mrs Reilly was particular about house guests, and Sable still looked a sight. Besides, he was a Jew, and although he had no problem with Jews, Mrs Reilly was regularly uncomplimentary about an elderly Jewish couple who passed the house from time to time. Not that she’d ever be rude to their faces. She was a charitable woman. It was just that they didn’t try to fit in, did they?
‘See you on Monday,’ he said to Joe. He said nothing to Helen. It was a pointed omission, but it was blunted by the sudden ringing of the telephone. Helen stood up to answer it, relieving her of the need to acknowledge Reilly’s departure.
PETER LILLEE, ROS Lord, Helen Lord, and Joe Sable sat down to a dinner of vegetable soup (‘Don’t expect potatoes,’ Ros said. ‘There aren’t any in the shops.’), followed by beef stew. It was good, unfussy cooking. Ros had mastered the art of austerity meals. It was a mastery that wasn’t entirely necessary, given the security of her brother’s wealth, but they’d decided as long ago as 1940, when the outcome of the war had been uncertain, that the Lillee house would run as much as possible according to government guidelines. A Plimsoll line had been drawn around each of the baths — although, if truth be told, it was somewhat higher than the recommended height, and there were sacrifices that Peter Lillee simply wasn’t prepared to make. He would rather go naked than wear a Dedman suit, and good brandy wasn’t a luxury; it was a necessity.
Joe felt awkward and clumsy. His parents had been well off, but he’d never sat down to eat in a room like this one. Everything in it was the best that the Edwardians had had to offer. The furnishings, the mouldings, the window dressings, the light fittings, and the fireplace — all were frozen in Edwardian splendour. They were not, however, in the least exhausted-looking. Peter Lillee maintained, repaired, and indeed curated his house with obsessive care.
Above the fireplace, and in the direct line of Joe’s sight, was an oil portrait of Lillee. It was full length, and although it had been done by someone with great skill, it struck the only false note in the room. Joe recognised its origins. It was a copy, with Lillee’s head on the body of a man Joe knew as Dr Pozzi, and the painter of the original was John Singer Sargent. In Sargent’s picture, as here, the subject stood, dressed in a floor-length, bright red robe, one hand on his hip, the other pulling the gown together at the chest. It was the last word in swagger portraits, and Joe could see why Lillee had been tempted to have it copied. Dr Pozzi wore a beard, while Peter Lillee was clean-shaven, but there was a remarkable resemblance between the two faces. The artist, whoever he was, appeared at a distance to have done a superb job of reproducing Sargent’s virtuoso paint strokes. The hands, in particular, had been brilliantly realised. Still, Joe found vulgar the conceit of borrowing so blatantly from another artist. Nevertheless, throughout the meal, during which the conversation stayed resolutely on the Burma campaign, the best and worst of Melbourne radio, the outrageous price of peas, and the implications of meat rationing, Joe’s eyes kept lifting to the portrait. For a split second, Joe wondered if he’d spoken his thought out loud, because Peter said, ‘It’s rather brash, don’t you think?’
‘Brash?’, Joe replied, buying time.
‘Yes.’
‘It
’s loud, Peter,’ Ros said, ‘but I I think it’s rather wonderful.’
‘I suspect Sergeant Sable knows what I mean.’ He smiled. ‘I noticed that every time you look at it, you look at a different part of it.’
‘It’s very well done.’
Peter laughed. Helen looked at her uncle. She was lost. Was he attacking Joe, goading him? No — there was nothing in his expression to suggest this. The smile was warm.
‘I’ve seen the original,’ Peter said. ‘I saw it in 1934, in Los Angeles.’
‘But it’s a portrait of you,’ Ros said. ‘What do you mean you saw the original?’
Peter indicated to Joe that he should reveal the painting’s origins. How had he surmised so quickly, Joe wondered, that he had an interest in art?
‘There’s a famous portrait of a man named Dr Pozzi, by John Singer Sargent. Mr Lillee’s portrait …’
‘Please, call me Peter.’
