O'Fear

by Peter Corris

  But you never know; I once had a client who waited for forty-eight hours outside my office to see me. Another time someone left a telephone number and a cheque for a thousand bucks under the door. I wouldn’t feel right without an office. I brushed dust from the chair and settled down with the telephone and my notebook. Michael Hickie had a secretary who sounded as if she just loved to answer the phone, take down names and consult her boss’s appointments book. So much eagerness is suspicious; when she tried to squeeze me in for tomorrow I suggested later today and she buckled under the pressure. Four-thirty p.m. Maybe Mike and I could commiserate on how slow business was.

  The telephone at the Todd residence in Coogee rang for a long time before a woman answered. Deep voice, careful vowels.

  ‘Hello. Felicia Todd speaking.’

  ‘Mrs Todd, my name’s Cliff Hardy.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about Barnes. I think we have a few things to discuss.’

  ‘Perhaps. Have you spoken to Michael Hickie?’

  ‘I’m seeing him this afternoon.’

  ‘Eager, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry. What do you mean?’

  ‘Never mind. I think you should see the solicitor first, then I’ll talk to you if it seems necessary.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Will you be at home later this afternoon?’

  ‘Where the hell else would I be?’

  She hung up and I put the phone down gently. Grief takes many forms and anger is one of them. I could respect that. Greed is another matter and misanthropy another still. They are harder to deal with. I had time to kill before the appointment in Bondi Junction, and I used it to recall everything I could about Barnes Todd. There wasn’t much: he had been a soldier, then he had sold real estate and had an interest in a trucking firm ‘and other things’. I could hear Todd’s voice, usually slightly blurred by alcohol, but always cheerful, and he never seemed to big-note himself.

  Not that he wasn’t aggressive. I could recall a couple of fights and near-fights. On one occasion he flattened a smaller man and apologised immediately. He seemed to have a healthy appetite for life. He’d travelled a bit and said he planned to do more. I tried to remember the names of the women I’d seen him with, and couldn’t. They had been varied—some particularly good-looking and not particularly bright, others vice versa. Todd seemed to find them all amusing. I tried to recall Cyn’s attitude to him but that was confusing. I had an idea she wasn’t too keen on him but it might just have been me she didn’t care for.

  3

  Paying at the car park led me to think about how my fee for this case might be handled. Would it be money up front, or a version of my usual $175 a day, plus expenses? Or payment only for results? That could be tricky. I wasn’t even sure it would be legal. I drove along Oxford Street and onto the short stretch of freeway that runs beside Centennial Park and out to the eastern suburbs. In just a couple of hours the clouds were back. They hung dark and heavy over the high glittering buildings of Bondi Junction to the right of the freeway, as if they were going to press them down to join the surrounding, unimpressive landscape.

  I beat another Falcon, a newer one than mine, into a parking place near the bus depot. The driver shrugged and cruised on: we Falcon men are a laidback lot. I was wearing my jacket again and had tucked my shirt in neatly and finger-combed my hair when I presented myself to Hickie’s secretary. She wasn’t impressed—probably the crumpled pants and the stubble. She pointed at a narrow door to the right of her desk.

  ‘Mr Hickie will be free in a few minutes, Mr Hardy. If you’d like to take a seat?’

  The office was bright and freshly painted, but small. The secretary hardly had space for her chair and desk, and the seat I took couldn’t have been more than six feet from her elbow. She pecked at her typewriter.

  ‘Busy?’ I said.

  She smiled brightly. ‘Oh, yes.’ She was young and pretty with a lot of dark hair pulled back and a neat dress. At a guess it was her first job. It might have been Hickie’s first office too; the copies of Time and the Bulletin didn’t go back beyond the previous June. Ah, that Hardy, always detecting. After ten minutes and about twenty words on the typewriter, the door opened inwards and a man appeared in the narrow space. The typewriter went click, click, click, rapidly.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’ Hickie gestured for me to stand and enter. It was a constrained gesture because he didn’t have much room to make it in. I stepped past him into a room that might have been larger than the outer one, but not by much. Hickie was a medium-sized man wearing a white shirt, striped tie, and the vest and trousers of a three-piece suit. The coat hung on the back of his chair and was crushed flat at the collar where he had leaned against it. He wasn’t as young as I’d guessed, about thirty. He had plenty of brown hair and was good-looking enough not to have to worry about it. Intelligence and anxiety warred in his features.

  I shook his extended hand and he waved me into a chair. If I had turned the chair around and stuck my legs out I could probably have put my feet on the bookcase that held his legal texts. He went behind his desk, sat down and did some more suit coat crushing.

  ‘Cy Sackville gave me your number,’ I said. ‘And some details. I’d be grateful for a few more.’

  ‘I imagine you would. It’s a curious bit of business.’

  I jerked my thumb over my shoulder at the bookcase. ‘Not much about it in those.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s right. Sorry to be so formal about it, but could I see some identification?’

  I handed over my enquiry agent licence, which carries an unflattering photo. He scrutinised it closely, looked at me and handed it back.

  ‘Thanks. Sackville spoke very highly of you. He said you’d had some legal training.’

  ‘He’s being ironic. He probably means time spent being questioned by the cops. I wouldn’t call what I had training. I did a couple of years of law. Failed Contract, disliked Torts.’

  He grimaced. ‘Failed a few myself along the way. Took me longer to get the degree than it should have.’

  ‘I’d never have got it.’

  ‘Neither would I, probably, without Barnes Todd.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled them back to show thick, strong forearms that had done some hard work in their time. ‘I haven’t been in practice long, as you can probably see. I’m making ends meet, but it’s going to be harder without Barnes.’

  I nodded. I’ve never minded the autobiographical approach to a subject.

  ‘I worked for him, in the holidays and when I had to go part-time to earn money. Truck driving. He was a great bloke. Gave me a lot of help and encouragement.’

  ‘And his business.’

  ‘Yes. After I qualified.’

  Hickie seemed anxious to talk, but you can never tell with lawyers. They’re likely to clam up at any moment, especially if you get pushy. ‘I want to ask a lot of questions,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to tell me when to stop.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Was Todd doing well financially?’

  ‘He certainly was. And getting better all the time. He was expanding. Leasing property, developing. He was going into storage in a big way—that’s a coming thing. So I was handling contracts, conveyancing, a few court actions. A few problems came up, but we got along …’

  I held up my hand. ‘I wasn’t accusing you of murdering him, Mr Hickie.’

  He looked offended. ‘What? Oh, I get it. Well, I didn’t mean to sound defensive. It’s just that I’ve lost the man who put me on my feet personally, you understand? Also a friend and a client and a business associate.’

  ‘You were involved with him in a business sense?’

  ‘Just in a small way. But it might’ve grown into something bigger. It still might, if Felicia wants to keep Barnes Enterprises running.’

  ‘We’ll get to her in a minute. What can you tell me about this bequest to me? This investigate-his-murder thing?’

&n
bsp; ‘I drew up Barnes’ will. Or re-drew it. There’s nothing remarkable about it. His estate goes to Felicia. There’s a couple of bequests to employees and friends. At the risk of sounding defensive again, I’ll say there’s no bequest to me.’

  ‘When was this will drawn?’

  ‘About a year ago. It was one of the first things I did for him. And he’d only got married a few months before that, so the timing was right for everyone.’

  The storm that had been gathering broke just then. Rain lashed the window and the light in the room dropped suddenly. Hickie was deep in his story and didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I got a letter from him a day before he died. He told me to set aside ten thousand for you to find out who killed him if he died suddenly.’

  ‘Have you got the letter?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t show it to you. Felicia’s considering challenging it. All documents are private until she decides.’

  I grinned at him. ‘C’mon, Michael. As one battler to another. Let’s see the copy.’

  He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a folder and extracted a photocopied sheet. He passed it to me. I squinted at it in the gloom and he got up to turn on the overhead light. The date was 24 January; the letterhead was Barnes Enterprises with an address in Botany. The handwritten message was simple:

  Dear Michael,

  If I disappear or get shot or have what’s called an accident, I want you to allot ten thousand dollars from my estate to a private investigator by the name of Cliff Hardy to look into the circumstances. Give Hardy any and all help you can. This could be a false alarm. Hope to see you soon but if not, good luck.

  The note was signed, ‘B.T.’

  ‘You can keep it,’ Hickie said. ‘I’ve got the original and other copies.’

  I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. A tap came at the door and the secretary poked her head through.

  ‘I’m about to go, Mr Hickie. Is there anything …?’

  Hickie shook his head. ‘No thanks, Jenny. See you tomorrow. Good night.’

  ‘Things are slack,’ I said after Jenny had gone.

  Hickie sighed. ‘Yeah. I hope I can pay Jenny’s wages next week. It’d help if Felicia could make up her mind about a few things.’

  ‘Do you think Barnes Todd was murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was he doing anything that could’ve got him killed?’

  ‘He was making money.’

  ‘And enemies?’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t they go together?’

  ‘I’ll need your cooperation,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to know everything about his business dealings, new and old.’

  ‘Happy to help. But you’ll have to get past Felicia first. She could hold up settling the estate for a hell of a long time if she wanted to.’

  ‘I’ve got an appointment to see her tonight.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked out the window and noticed the rain. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘My car’s in dock.’

  ‘Where d’you live?’

  ‘Randwick.’

  ‘I’m going to Coogee, I’ll drop you.’

  We got moderately wet running through the rain to the car. On the drive to Randwick, Hickie seemed tense. We passed a pub and he said: ‘I used to drink in there with Barnes.’

  ‘He was a good drinker, as I recall.’

  ‘He used to be before he met Felicia. She put him on a diet. He lost weight. Slept well. Looked years younger.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘I looked it up. It was five weeks before his death. I used to see him more often than that, but we met less and less after he got married.’

  There was an edge to his voice but whether it applied to the marriage or the wife I couldn’t tell. ‘What’s she like? What should I take—flowers, Perrier?’

  ‘Just take your wits with you. She does Mensa puzzles for fun.’

  ‘She sounded pretty emotional on the phone.’

  Hickie nodded. ‘That too,’ he said.

  4

  The rain had eased to a drizzle and the light had improved by the time I dropped Hickie at a neat semi in a quiet Randwick street. When he opened the front door an Old English sheepdog broke free and bounded to the gate. It bounced there, barking and looking back at Hickie. It’s hard to have any negative feelings about a man who takes his dog for walks. Hickie was looking more solid and reliable by the minute. I mimed the action of telephoning and he nodded. I waved and drove off in the direction of Coogee.

  It was a little after six o’clock, which is a difficult time to go calling on people. Some are settling down to the news or the soaps on TV, others are having a quiet drink or several. It’s not a companionable time, and I wasn’t feeling very companionable myself. As I made the turn into Coogee Bay Road I remembered that Helen Broadway had looked at a few places in Coogee before settling on her flat in Tamarama. I’d had good times with Helen, perhaps better than with any other woman, and then bad times. It was still hard to accept, but I hadn’t seen her in more than a year, and for all I knew she might be pregnant again or running Radio Kempsey.

  Felicia Todd’s house was at the end of a street that led directly to the beach. It was on a corner, a long, low structure that faced north, but the eastern side had been opened out with french windows and a courtyard to give it an effective face to the water. You can almost feel the sand under the tar and grass in parts of Coogee. I’d heard of houses in this area which were sliding to the sea as the ancient dunes moved under them, but this place looked rock-solid: light-coloured bricks, sandstone foundations, slate roof, deep garden front and back—big money. It and the one next door were among the few houses in the street, which was dominated by middling-sized blocks of flats.

  I parked opposite and looked the place over. It was set high up on the block with no space for a driveway or garage. So one of the few cars parked in the street was probably hers. So what? I was wasting time. I wished I’d stopped for a drink on the way. Hickie had said a keen mind was a necessity for dealing with Mrs Todd, and mine was often keener for a little oiling. Sitting there with the light grey sea spread out in front of me and the day dying in the west, I realised that I was out of practice. I’d talked to two lawyers today, and that was fine. That wasn’t so far from the work I’d been doing lately—bodyguarding nervous businessmen, minding money and even, God help me, serving summonses. But this was different. This was a call on a private citizen who had experienced grief. Maybe I’d be just one more little bit of grief to her. No help at all. A tough row to hoe. I like to think of myself as helpful.

  I scuttled through the drizzle across the street, through the gate and up the flagstoned path and a steep set of wooden steps to the front of the house. Some tall shrubs in the garden dripped water on me. Before I could knock on the door, it opened.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’

  She was just a shape in the half light. A narrow shape with a voice that was low and breathy, like a deep note on a flute. I wasn’t ready for the voice. The telephone had flattened out its extraordinary quality.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Todd?’ I had my licence ready for display in my hand, complete with water droplets, but she ignored it.

  ‘I saw you sitting in your car. What were you thinking?’

  I gulped and felt stupid. ‘About the sand dunes of Coogee, or something like that. Among other things.’

  ‘A disordered mind,’ she said. ‘I should have expected it. You’d better come in.’

  She pushed out the screen door and stepped back. I followed her down a hallway, with several rooms off to either side, to a galley kitchen and eating area that ran across the whole width of the back of the house. The floorboards were dark and polished; the furniture was old, well cared-for and functional. There was a sort of butcher’s block and bench dividing the kitchen from the eating and sitting space. A large dining table had six chairs drawn up to it, and room for a few more. A pale light that would only last a few minutes more leaked in from the french windo
ws.

  She pointed to a cane chair near the window and strode to a sideboard. ‘Do you drink?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Thank God. What?’

  ‘Almost anything that isn’t sweet.’

  She poured hefty measures of a pale liquid into glass tumblers and held one out to me. ‘Sit down.’

  I took the chair she had pointed to. Anyone in his right mind would. She dragged one of the chairs away from the table and sat a few feet from me. I sipped the very dry sherry. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘that’s a very civilised drink.’

  ‘Civilisation’s overvalued.’ She smiled as she spoke and took a swig from her glass. She had light brown hair, straight and shoulder length. She wore a plain blue dress with a few pleats above and below the waist. ‘That’s a bit pompous, don’t you think?’

  ‘A bit,’ I said.

  Her smile broadened. Her eyes were brown and there was nothing special about her face. Her features were regular and pleasing enough but I had the feeling that she could look beautiful in certain moods, or ugly. ‘Well, Mr Hardy. Tell me why I should give you ten thousand dollars.’

  ‘Is that the way you see it, Mrs Todd?’

  ‘Give me another way to look at it.’

  ‘To fulfil your late husband’s wish.’

  She grunted and sipped her sherry. ‘Barnes retained a lot of false ideas from his past. Macho fantasies about men standing alone against the odds. I imagine you run on that sort of fuel too.’

  I realised I was still holding my licence folder. I shoved it into my pocket and drank some more sherry, which was warming and encouraging. If she wanted to spar over sherry, fine. ‘Not very much. I take jobs, try to see them through to a reasonable conclusion. I know when to stick and when to bail out. Do you think Barnes’ feeling that he might meet with an accident was a fantasy? He didn’t strike me as a fantasist.’