by Peter Corris
He was a man of thirty-plus, still referring to himself as a child. It sounded odd and had a scent of parlours and lavendar.
‘Tell me about this Jacobs.’
He described Jacobs as middle-aged and portly. He thought he might be a foreigner from the way he dressed, mentioning particularly his highly polished shoes. His funeral parlour was in Manly where Matthews and his mother also lived. I wrote down the addresses and leaned back in my chair; it creaked dangerously and I came forward quickly; the desk was a bit rickety and the carpet square was arranged off centre to hide the holes. I needed the work but I had to give him a few hard truths first.
‘I charge one hundred and twenty-five dollars a day and expenses, Mr Matthews. I also need a retainer of two hundred and fifty dollars.’
He didn't blink. ‘I'll be happy to pay it’, he said. ‘I have to do something.’ He got out a useful-looking cheque book and I waited until he was writing before asking the next question.
‘What does you mother say about Jacobs?’
He looked up. ‘I wouldn't dream of asking her about her personal life’, he said firmly.
Keep writing I thought, and he did. That would be right of course, he wouldn't ask her, she wouldn't ask him and nobody would ask dad. Clean rooms, neat garden, polished car and a shandy at Christmas it you were lucky. It wasn't exciting—it was drawn blinds stuff, a high hedge and a smile for the neightbours, but it has compensations, it can make for very healthy building society accounts; I gave him a businesslike thrust. ‘Do you know anything about Jacobs' business associates?’
‘Not really. He has a solicitor crony who has an office nearby. He's introduced my mother to him. I'm very worried about it.’
‘Why?’
‘I think he might be trying to get her to change her will.’
‘Aha’, I said.
Manly is like a foreign country to people like me who live on the other side of the water. The roads are wide and the hills are gradual; some of the streets and cul-de-sacs have a European feel. Henry Jacob's funeral parlour was genuinely Australian, that is to say, a genuine copy of the Californian model. The building was long and low with smoked glass windows and courtyards covered with little white stones. The funeral column in The News had told me that a show was scheduled for that afternoon. I parked across the street and watched the people dressed in dark, hot clothes mope about while a couple of gleaming limousines disgorged the living and transported the dead. Jacobs wasn't hard to spot; he had the act off perfect, the slow movement, the solicitude, the Nazi-like direction of the underlings. He was carrying thirty pounds he didn't need, looked swarthy and seemed to shine somewhat from a distance. His teeth were very white and he showed them a lot. After the cortege had left I walked across the street and strolled past the sanctum; a grey-uniformed zombie standing outside the entrance gave me a hard stare. Next to Jacobs' place was a luxury car showroom, then a Vietnamese restaurant and then a nasty cream brick building which carried a brass plate in front—W J Hornfield, LLB(Syd), Solicitor. A fine profession, I thought; my mother had wanted me to go in for the law and my father had thought I'd make a plumber—I'd been a terrible disappointment to them both.
I turned to go back to my car and saw Jacobs, who'd sent his 2IC to the burning, coming out of his establishment. The zombie stepped out of a silver grey Jag which he'd driven up, so the master only had to walk twenty feet to get behind the wheel. He drove off sedately and I re-crossed the road; a woman who'd been gardening out in front of her house was watching Jacobs' car as it cruised off. I bustled up to her fence.
‘That was Mr Jacobs was it, madam?’
‘That was him.’ She was small and old, but not frail.
‘Damn’, I said. ‘Missed him again.’
‘Are you burying someone? Give Henry a miss.’
‘No, I'm a journalist, I'm writing an article on the funeral business and I wanted to talk to Mr Jacobs. But that's an interesting comment, madam. Would you care to add to it?’
She smiled, and all the lines on her face responded; they seemed to have been etched by good humour. ‘I might; is it worth anything?’
‘Well … expenses … I could pay you for your time, say ten dollars for a half hour chat?’
‘Come inside.’
The house was brick and tile, solid and unpretentious. It was darkish, cool and well-kept without being fussy. She sat me down in the living-room and went off to make coffee. When she came back I had the ten out and gave it to her.
‘Thanks.’ She put the money on the mantelpiece between some china dogs. ‘Black?’
‘Please.’ I got out a notebook. ‘How long has Mr Jacobs been in business here Mrs …?’
‘Wetherell, Norma Wetherell. Not too long, four or five years, I've been here for forty. It was all different then.’
‘I'm sure. Why did you say he should be avoided?’
‘He's a crook.’ She put three spoons of sugar in her coffee and stirred vigorously. ‘A friend of mine buried her husband with him; lovely man he was, it was a shame. I tell you if he'd been alive and heard what that man charged, he'd have punched his nose.’
I smiled. ‘Bit steep is he?’
‘Steep? He's a thief. Extra for this, extra for that.’
I made some notes. ‘Umm, he's got a nice car. But I suppose they all make money in that game. No law against it.’
She leaned forward. ‘He's buried two wives since he's been here’, she whispered. ‘Rich ones too I'll be bound.’
I almost choked on the instant coffee. ‘How d'you know that?’
She grinned, pleased at the reaction. ‘Seen 'em, both of 'em. He's got a flat at the back of the place. There they were, shopping, doing the laundry and then … phftt!’ She drew a finger across her throat.
‘When did this happen?’
‘One just after he got here; the other, let's see, about two years back. Had your ten dollars worth?’
‘Nearly; how do you know they were his wives, actually wives?’
‘Notices in the paper. Course, he didn't lay them down himself. It's a wonder, though, still I suppose he got a cut rate.’
I got up. ‘Well thank you Mrs Wetherell, that's all very helpful, I won't quote you of course.’
‘Quote away’, she said cheerfully, ‘All true.’
‘We'll see. Just one more thing, do you know anything about Mr Hornfield, the solicitor?’
She was sharp, suspicious at this development.
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I heard he and Jacobs were partners.’
‘Could be, the little rat.’
‘Have you heard bad reports on him too?’
‘No, not a word. But you should see him, he's the image of Billy Hughes, image of him. Little rat.’
I thanked her again, and went out to my car thinking that I could probably get more from her if I needed it.
The computer is a terrible thing when it's misused for bank statements and rates notices, but it beats everything for saving the eyes and legs of private detectives. A phone call to Harry Tickener of The News won me admittance to the paper's computer room and an introduction to the pimply kid who ran the show. He looked about seventeen, but was probably ten years older. I told him I wanted to ask his friend all about Henry Jacobs.
‘Classifieds or news?’ His hands caressed the buttons on the panel in front of him like those of an archer smoothing the feathers of a shaft.
‘Both.’
He did all the things they do—punched buttons, looked at screens, ripped paper and swore until he handed me a bundle of tabloid-sized print-out sheets. I looked at it doubtfully.
‘More than one Jacobs?’
He nodded. ‘Several, and that only goes back seven years.’ He took a Mars bar out of a drawer, peeled it and chewed. ‘Lucky it wasn't Smith’, he said through chocolate and caramel.
Back home, coffee and pen to hand I poured over the sheets and the coded summaries and they yielded up some of their secrets at last. One of
Henry Jacobs' hearses had been involved in an accident five years before; Henry had stood unsuccessfully for the local council around the same time; his wife Gladys had been laid to rest aged fifty-four five years ago and Ellen Mary Jacobs, aged fifty-six, had followed her but two years later. R.I.P. Henry was very busy at his trade; there were hundreds of notices of funerals he'd handled—men, women and children. After depressing myself with this data for a while I found a tiny nugget of significance—a high proportion of the folk who came posthumously into Henry's care had shuffled off at St Mark's Hospital, Harbord.
I pecked away at the typewriter for a bit, applying for copies of the death certificates of Gladys and Ellen and enclosing the correct fee and s.a.e. as directed to Dr C P Hardy, c/-Associate Professor P J White, Department of History, University of Sydney. Peter was accustomed to the subterfuge, it amused him to assist what he called the forces of reaction. Then I phoned Matthews; it was after six o'clock, definitely time for a drink and I wondered what Matthews was doing in his Manly flat. I had the answer when he lifted the phone—a burst of gunfire and a musical crescendo. He excused himself, turned the sound down, and I told him the gist of what I'd learned. I was hoping that he'd tell his mother and that would be the end of Henry. He was too stunned to reply so I fed this idea to him.
‘No, it wouldn't work’, he said slowly. ‘She wouldn't believe me. She thinks …’
‘Thinks what?’
‘That my regard for her is … unhealthy. I hated my father, as I told you …’
Oh, Sigmund, I thought. ‘Well, I'd better press on. How's your mother's health?’
‘First class, she's never been ill to my knowledge. Mr Hardy, do you think she's in danger, real physical danger?’
‘I doubt it. Still keeping well, is she?’
‘Oh, yes, as ever.’ His voice changed and a despairing, fastidious note crept in. ‘She's seeing him tonight, they're going to dinner. Mr Hardy, I don't suppose you could, sort of keep an eye on them? I'm really very worried.’
I agreed to do some surveillance and pick the happy couple up at her place at 8 pm I told Matthews to have a few drinks, and not to worry.
‘I don't drink’, he said.
On that happy note I rang Harry Tickener, who stays at his desk until they turn the lights and air conditioning off.
‘How'd you go with the computer?’ he asked.
‘Great. Would there be a human being around there who could do five minutes work? The person would have to be able to read.’
He sighed. ‘That could be tough. Hold on, Martin's here.’ I heard him shout away from the phone: ‘You can read can't you, Martin?’ Martin must have replied heatedly because Harry laughed. Then he said: ‘Okay Cliff, Martin's ready, what is it?’
I told him and hung up. He called back fifteen minutes later—it's an efficient, tidy world we die in—Gladys Jacobs and Ellen Mary Jacobs had both been cremated.
I showered, shaved and dressed; dinner, I was thinking, didn't sound like a bad idea. And a man like Mr Matthews with no discernible vices should be able to afford the tab. I drove back into that alien territory and parked a little way up the street from Mrs Matthews' solid residence. It had some nice old native trees in the front of its rather wild garden; the front fence needed paint.
At eight precisely, Jacobs arrived in the Jag. He dropped a burning cigarette in the gutter and didn't bother to step on it with his highly polished shoe. He'd changed from the creeping Jesus outfit into a dark suit; his cuffs and collar gleamed under the street light. He was inside for about five minutes and then he came out to the car with a woman on his arm. She was a surprise; taller than her son and taller than Jacobs, her hair was white but she carried herself well, and her face in profile was handsome. She wore a green dress of some soft material and had a light, lacey thing thrown around her shoulders. Jacobs handed her into the car with an almost professional air and we set off for the city.
The awful truth dawned on me as we crept through the city streets—our destination was the restaurant in the clouds where they charge you for the view, the carpet, the mirrors and the head waiter's aftershave. I couldn't face that. They parked, I parked and after making sure that they were strapped into their eating seats, I went across the road to a serve-yourself place and served myself. The steak and wine were good and Matthews saved some money
It was well after ten when they came out; Mrs Matthews was laughing at Henry's wit, his colour was high but he looked like a virile, mature man who enjoyed life perhaps a little too much. Mrs Matthews was no weeping widow—her handbag swung jauntily, she exuded style. It hit me that I knew nothing about her other than what her son had told me. I had that floundering feeling, like a man slipping down a steep roof with nothing to grab on to. They walked along the street to the Jag, stopping to look in windows, close together, sometimes touching, like two people who'd known each other a long time. I skulked behind, feeling lonely and voyeuristic. We drove back to Manly; Jacobs piloted the big car well, his wining and dining hadn't affected his driving. They went into Mrs Matthews house, lights came on; I sat in my car and wished I still smoked. Lights went off, I drove home.
Next morning I phoned Matthews at his business number. A non-committal female voice told me that I'd contacted the Milton Insurance Company. It sent a shiver through me; I'd worked for a series of insurance companies as an investigator, the companies had got seedier and so had I. Matthews answered his phone with one brusque word.
‘Claims.’
‘Hardy, Mr Matthews. How's business?’
He ignored the pleasantry. ‘I won't be able to talk on this line, Mr Hardy. Did you … ah …?’
‘Yeah, I tagged along. It was interesting. I don't think she's in imminent danger. Tell me, what's her profession?’
‘Oh, didn't I mention that? She's a nurse; well, a matron actually.’
‘Where?’
‘St Mark's, Harbord.’
‘How long has she been there?’
‘Ten, twelve years, I'm not sure. What are you getting at?’
‘Too soon to say. You're sure your mother only met Jacobs recently, after your father death?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘You sound uncertain.’
‘Well, I don't live with her as I told you. I imagined that was the case. I mean, funeral director … who knows such people otherwise?’
It was a typical remark; who knows garbage men, sewer workers, lavatory attendants? Somebody does, somebody loves them, hates them. Matthews said something I didn't catch, my mind was running along murky channels with bends sinister and causeways suspicious.
‘Who's your chief investigator, Mr Matthews?’ I asked suddenly.
He was surprised. ‘We don't have one, this isn't a big firm, we use the Wallace agency. Really, Mr Hardy, I don't see where this is leading.’
‘Bear with me. I won't hold you now. I'll be in touch.’
I rang off and called Roger Wallace immediately. Roger runs an honest shop and knows how to do a favour for a friend; I almost went to work for him once. After a short wait he came on the line and we exchanged notes on how well we were doing. He sounded tired so he probably was doing well at the usual cost. I asked him a few questions about the Milton outfit, and he promised to call me back at my office.
Primo Tomasetti was bent over a sheet of art paper as I came through his tattooing parlour after parking my car out the back. I leaned over his shoulder to see the drawing; there was a heart, a dragon, an anchor, two flags and the word ‘Mother’ all inter-woven. The effect was bizarre, like a surrealistic sketch of a Freudian nightmare.
‘What the hell is that?’ I said.
Primo turned to look at me innocently. ‘The ultimate tattoo’, he said. ‘I'm going for everything, I mean everything! How do you like it, Cliff?’
I squinted. ‘You haven't quite got it.’
‘Yeah? What's missing?’
‘Hell's Angels, a swastika, a knife for the snake to curl around; come on,
you're not trying.’
He smoothed the paper. ‘You're right, you've inspired me.’ He added a swastika. ‘Tell you what, I'll put it on you anywhere you like—free.’
‘Put it on yourself’, I said.
His eyes opened wide in genuine shock; Primo would die rather than be tattooed.
I pottered in the office for a while until Roger rang with the good, or bad, news—there was a one hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy on Mrs Matthews, and the beneficiary was Charles Herbert Matthews—my client.
That left me only two places to go. Well, the sun was shining, the breeze was soft and there are worse places. I drove the long and winding road back to Manly and fetched up outside Norma Wetherell's house. I marched up to the door, hammered on it and held my licence card at the ready. She came to the door with flour on her hands and eyed me through the fly wire screen.
‘Back again?’
I held up the licence. ‘I'm afraid I lied to you, Mrs Wetherell; I'm an investigator, not a reporter. I hope you'll answer a few more questions about Mr Jacobs.’
She rubbed her hands on her apron, some flour fell on the floor and she looked down crossly. ‘Why'd you lie?’
‘I didn't want to alarm you.’
‘More alarmed by lying’, she grumbled. ‘Well, make it quick.’
No coffee this time. ‘Have you seen Mr Jacobs with a tall woman, white hair, about fifty? Well turned out?’
‘I have, she's there often. Real lady muck.’
‘For how long have you seen her?’
‘Is there any money in it this time?’ I produced another ten dollars and she let the catch on the door come open far enough to let the money through.
‘Ta. Well, I'd say I first saw her about three years back.’
‘When the second wife was around?’
She grinned and scratched her head, dusting her wiry dark hair with white flour. ‘When she wasn't around.’
Harbord is one of those places that used to nurture tennis stars and swimming champions. I suppose it looks like anywhere else in the rain, but when the sun shines it looks as if God has laid his finger on it. The hospital was in a road stuck high up above the esplanade, the parks and the wide, blue sea. The sea was so blue and the light so strong that just walking along the street felt like being in a movie filmed in Eastmancolour. St Mark's was a smallish, private establishment, built of stone when they knew how to build and painted white by someone who knew how to do it. It looked like a pleasant place to work or be mildly indisposed in; for dying it would be just like anywhere else.
