by Peter Corris
‘I love harbours’, she told me. ‘I'm going to have my ashes scattered out there.’
‘We're all going to have our ashes scattered out there the way things are going’, I said. I was feeling gloomy; asking the questions dully, now not expecting sparks. ‘You've got no idea where Hadley might take off to?’
She shrugged. ‘Not a clue, Mummy's boy as far as I could see. Tell you one thing though. I reckon Trudi's not long for this world.’
‘Why d'you say that?’
‘I did a story on cancer victims once, she's got all the signs.’
I sighed and finished the coffee—ashes and cancer, she'd be a wow of a companion for a night on the town. I used Tracey's phone to call Trudi, but she wasn't at the office and her home phone didn't answer. The receptionist at Winsome said she'd been trying to contact her for some hours without success. I looked at the girl who was dropping cigarette ashes in the dregs of her coffee and stirring them with a finger. I called Trudi's number again—the phone sounded as if it could go on ringing unanswered until the end of the world.
The apartment building was new and shiny; balconies hung off it out over the water like cars on a ferris wheel. Hadley's apartment was on the second floor and Trudi's was directly above it; I went up the stairs fast and stabbed the buzzer. The phone started ringing at the same time and the two sounds blended into a dirge. I pushed the door and felt it give; there seemed to be a lock not quite engaging. I hit it with my shoulder in the middle and applying the pressure upwards the way you should, and it sprang open.
The living room was big and bright; the walls and floor were white as if the room had been designed as a hymn to lightness. There were paintings, a bar, books, a record player and a TV set. The chairs and settee were white pine and the coverings were cream-coloured, except where Trudi's blood had got on the fabric. She was slumped in a way she'd never have permitted when she was in charge of her body. Her dress had been white, with gold trim, but now half of it was stained a dark red like the costume of a medieval courtier. The dress was also ripped from the neck to the armpit on one side, and on the other side the sleeve was half torn away. I eased the door shut behind me and went up close. She had a big wound in her neck. I looked past her to where a drinks tray sat on a small table; a bottle of brandy was shattered. The bullet had gone through something vital in her neck and there'd been a lot of blood. Her right hand was thrown back across the arm of the settee and it was bloody too; the nails on three fingers were split and broken. Her head had fallen back, drawing the skin tight; her make-up was flawless.
I put my hands in my pockets for safety and wandered around looking. The door was equipped with a heavy dead lock, two safety chains and a light, standard lock—the one I'd broken. The kitchen was uncluttered, the bedroom undisturbed. A cabinet in the bathroom was full of prescription drugs—medicines, capsules, pills. I didn't recognise most of them but they indicated a serious illness or powerful hypochondria and an obliging physician. In a second, smaller bedroom there was a single bed, a chair and a desk with a lot of locked drawers. I went back to the living room, located her bag and keys and unlocked the desk. The drawers were full of stationery, business letters, tax records, old cheque books. I flicked through the cheque stubbs which told me that she spent a hell of a lot of money on clothes. There were records of a couple of fixed deposit bank accounts with a few thousand dollars in each. The papers provided only one surprise—Trudi owned her own apartment and the one Hadley lived in, for which he paid her rent of one hundred dollars a week.
This was all taking time, because I was using a handkerchief to pick things up and a knife blade to turn over the papers. The bottom drawer held a fountain pen and a big bottle of ink. A few small drops of ink had split in the drawer—it was the closest she'd come to being messy. I lifted the bottle out, uncapped it and probed inside with the thin blade. A little fishing brought up two small keys on a thin ring. I dried them on a tissue; one had serial number, C140, on it, the other did not. I took the copy off the ring and dropped the original back into the ink. Then I prowled around the apartment looking for signs, bent twigs, freshly broken blades of grass. I found it down behind the TV set; a section of the high skirting board was hinged and swung out, a strand of hair from a mop or duster had caught at the spot. The safe, about six inches square, was set in the wall behind the board. I dialled C140 on the combination lock and the key turned smoothly. Inside was a reel of movie film and a plastic envelope. I closed the safe and took the stash across to the window. The film was a standard Super 8 job; the envelope contained about a dozen paper squares and rectangles, some brightly coloured and some dull—postage stamps.
I put the stuff in my pocket, walked out of the flat and down to my car where I stowed it away under the back seat. Then I went to a public booth and called the police, asking for Grant Evans. He came on and I said what I had to say, and he told me to go up again and wait for him.
Grant was puffing a bit when he got to the top of the stairs. He had a youngish, slim policewoman with him and he'd been showing off for her.
‘Cliff, Grant said. ‘Why'd you call from the street?’
‘Didn't want to touch the phone.’
He grunted and we trooped inside. I told Grant the story while he poked around. He made a few disbelieving noises here and there, just to remind me of the unspoken terms of our relationship—I don't tell him outright lies and he doesn't frame me for things. It's a better set-up than most. I didn't have to feign surprise when Grant slid open the built-in wardrobes, we both whistled. The space was crammed full of dresses, coats, blouses, slacks and other things I don't know the names of. There were six fur coats and fifty pairs of shoes, maybe more.
‘Gotta be jewels with this lot’, Grant said. ‘You see an insurance policy, Cliff?’
It was a neat trap, but I saw it in time. ‘No, I told you I didn't touch anything.’
‘Yeah, and Borg can't hit backhands.’ We went back into the living room. ‘Well, she put up a fight. Look for a guy missing some skin. How do you see it? Reckon this Hadley bumped her?’
‘Could be.’
‘Has to be. Look at those locks—she let him in.’
‘She was a professional escort remember, she might've let lots of people in. I don't like Hadley, too obvious.’
‘Well, the obvious happens, Cain bumped Abel, Ruby bumped Oswald.’
‘Yeah, but what did Oswald do?’
Grant sneered and asked the policewoman to inspect the rest of Trudi's personals. We were looking at the view when she came out with a jewel box. Grant opened it.
‘Good stuff?’
Her expression was wistful. ‘Very good, worth thousands and thousands.’
‘Scratch robbery.’ Grant said.
After that the white coats arrived and then it was down to Headquarters for a statement and the usual carry-on.
‘You'd be kissing this one goodbye, would you?’ Grant said after the formalities.
‘Not quite. She paid for about three days' work and she's only had one and a bit. I think I'll stay with it for a while if you don't object.’
He shrugged.
‘I gather I won't have a lot of competition in the field then?’
He shrugged again and pointed to the stack of folders on his desk. I nodded and went out. I wasn't being quite fair to Grant; he'd like to solve every murder in the city and be the same weight he was at twenty-one, it's just that both are impossible.
Primo Tomasetti has a movie projector at his tattooing parlour. He shoots a lot of film himself and buys films from overseas— he says they give him inspirations for designs. I told him I wanted to see a film and he rubbed his hands.
‘Okay, okay. You bring a bottle and I'll lay on a coupla girls, nice girls. You finally learning to live a little, Cliff? Ten o'clock, okay?’
‘Not okay. Now and no bottles, no girls; this is business.’
He shook his head. ‘I shoulda known. You have great love inside you, Cliff. But all that
comes out is hate and work. How come?’
‘I'm saving myself. Where's the gizmo?’
He showed me and helped me hook up the reel, then he went back to drawing designs on cartridge paper. I blacked out the little room and ran the film.
He filled the screen, and I'd seen him on TV so many times that it seemed natural to be watching him on film, even though what he was doing couldn't exactly be called natural. He was naked and very excited and the act he was performing with the young blonde was expressly forbidden by the Bible and the law of the land. It went on for a few minutes, boring after the first few frames because of the single camera angle and the lack of plot. I stopped the show and re-wound the film, thinking that all men have something to hide. Sir Peter Barton, ex-Lord Mayor of the city, racehorse owner and homme d'affairs, always poised for a big take-over, would probably have a lot to hide, it would be expected of him; but kinky carnal knowledge of juveniles was a bit exotic.
I thanked Primo, ignored his revised offer and hoofed it downtown to a philately establishment I'd passed a hundred times and never entered. A thin, whispy man was leaning over a glass counter under which hundreds of stamps were displayed. The counter was wired and the glass was thick; the stamps would have been as hard to steal as the crown jewels. He looked up at me baring tobacco-stained teeth.
‘Yes?’
I hauled out the envelope and started to pull a stamp out with my fingers.
‘No! No!’ He picked up a pair of tweezers and held out a hand for the envelope. He eased several of the stamps out and aligned them on a glass plate. Then he reached up and swung down a magnifying glass mounted on a moveable arm. He peered at the stamps, darting his eyes up to me as he passed from one to the next. He straightened up.
‘Well, sir’, he said. ‘Very nice indeed.’
‘They're worth something then?’
He was so surprised he almost dropped the tweezers. ‘I should say so.’
‘How much?’
‘Oh, as to that, well it would take some time …’
‘Round about,’ I said. ‘Err on the safe side.’
‘These five would fetch twenty thousand dollars, easily. May I ask, are they yours to sell?’
‘No, they're not mine at all. I'm conducting an investigation, these are part of the evidence.’
‘Evidence’, he breathed. ‘You won't be quoting me in court, I trust. I could give you exact valuations, be happy to, but as I say it would take time. Are you with the police?’
‘I'm working with them. Can you tell me anything else about these stamps—would they be stolen property or anything like that?’
‘Shouldn't think so. Let's have another look.’
He arranged the whole stock, which amounted to thirteen stamps, and looked at them all. ‘Curious’, he said. He dug under the counter and brought up a heavy loose-leaf volume and flicked through it. After a few minutes of this he looked up at me.
‘This is an intriguing collection. These stamps are each worth about four thousand dollars give or take a bit. So you have about fifty or sixty thousand dollars worth here—a bit more allowing for inflation.’
I grunted, which seemed to nettle him. ‘What is more’, he said firmly, ‘I should say they were purchased at regular intervals over the past two years, say, at two monthly intervals.’
My look of interest gratified him. ‘You can be that precise?’
‘Oh yes, very valuable items like these are listed and their sale recorded. These came from a single collection which has been put up for auction at two monthly intervals over the last three years. It was a very famous collection.’
‘Would the auctioneer know who bought them?’
‘Probably not; it's a secretive business, proxies are used. Even if he did know he would not divulge the information except on the highest authority.’
I thanked him and he tweezed the stamps back into the envelope which I put back in my pocket.
‘They should be in a safe’, he said.
It was after five o'clock and the streets were starting to fill up with suburbanites bound for home and fun-lovers staying in the city. I walked up through the park, tying things together in my head: Trudi, it seemed, was putting the squeeze on Barton and buying stamps with the proceeds. There wasn't a better way to accumulate valuable assets that took up no space and didn't depreciate. I had two questions. Why was she doing it? She had a prosperous business to judge from her other assets and it looked like she was a very sick woman. Why bother? The other question was the original one—where was Gerry Hadley? Somehow, all things considered, I didn't give much for his chances. Barton was rumoured to have heavy criminal connections and eliminating the partners in the Winsome Escort Agency would be like opening a can of beer for him.
Home is where the booze is, and also the darts board and the books and the food. I used all these things in moderation and was reading the paper with clear eyes in a clear head when the phone rang at 9.30 am. It was Grant.
‘How's your investigation going?’ he said.
‘Quietly, how's yours?’
‘Just a snippet I thought you might like. The lady's will turned up, four copies to be exact.’
‘Yeah? Who?’
‘Hadley, every cent. Now what can you tell me?’
‘Nothing, but thanks, Grant; maybe I can use that to flush him out.’
‘Cliff, you've got today. After today you don't owe her a thing.’
He hung up and I dialled Sir Peter Barton's office. A secretary with a north shore voice and manner tried to brush me off, so I became rather rude and left a message which I thought Barton might respond to. He called me back half an hour later.
‘Mr Hardy? I understand you have business with me?’ His voice was slow, soft and pleasant, he'd have to do something about that if he got into Parliament.
‘You might say that, yes. I want to see you now. Tell me where you are and I'll come over.’
‘I'm in my office. Come by all means. Ah … will you be bringing anything with you?’
I didn't answer. I drove to my office in the Cross and locked film and stamps away in the safe. Then I caught a cab to Clarence Street where Barton had an office in a glass and aluminium tower which he probably owned. I was passed from one sycophant to another until finally I was in the presence of the great man. He stood about six foot four, which gave him four inches on me, but he was beginning to lose the battle with his waist. He was standing behind a half-acre desk and he waved me into a chair in front of it.
‘Mr Hardy, it's a little early for a drink, can I offer you coffee?’
‘No. I've got the film.’
‘Yes?’
‘You paid Trudi Walker a lot of money.’
‘True, and now I suppose I have to pay you?’
‘Maybe, I haven't decided. I might just show it on TV for fun. But I don't care much who puts what in who, I was working for Trudi Walker and I think you had her killed. I'm much more concerned about that.’
The imperturbable mask slipped a bit, and there was an edge in his voice. ‘I certainly did not have her killed. Why would I? You know what she had over me, killing her would only introduce complications, such as yourself.’
‘I assume something went wrong. Look, I'm not green, extortionists get killed, it's a risk they take. But she hired me to find someone and she paid me and I haven't done it. I'd like to tie that up, then I can think about other steps.’
He was looking puzzled, probably at having to deal with someone who had something on his mind except money. ‘I don't see how I can help. Find someone you say? Who?’
‘Gerry Hadley, the business partner. Now, I'm just guessing, but it looks to me as if you decided to wipe out the whole operation. Maybe you removed Hadley to frighten the Walker woman, I don't know.’
The mask was back, nicely in place. He got up from the desk and walked across to a drinks cabinet. ‘It's early as I say, but I'm going to have a drink. Join me?’
I shook my head; he poured
himself a solid whisky, added water and came back behind the desk. He sipped the drink. ‘You'll forgive me if I see a ray of hope in all this unpleasantness’, he said. ‘If I can convince you that I did not kill Trudi Walker or Hadley, is there a chance that you'd hand over the film?’
‘There's a chance’, I said.
‘Hadley is alive, I can have him brought here inside an hour.’ He lifted a phone and spoke three crisp sentences. He worked a bit more on his drink and looked at me.
‘What do the police think about the Walker killing?’
‘They think Hadley did it.’
He smiled. ‘They're right for once. Hadley killed her but he didn't intend to. This is a very messy business, Mr Hardy, and I can't afford messes just now.’
‘Too bad’, I said. ‘You should take up jogging and cold showers.’
‘Perhaps. I'm going to be frank with you. I'm a blackmailer myself in a way. I hold a lot of paper on Hadley, gambling debts.’
‘I'm glad I live a blameless life’, I said.
He ignored me. ‘I persuaded Hadley to approach Trudi with a view to getting hold of the film. He did, they quarrelled, he shot her. An accident.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I didn't believe him; I thought he'd grabbed the film himself and was going to run the show. I had him roughed-up, shall we say? His car was taken and his money. I told him he had two days to produce the film. He was very frightened, now I know why.’
‘Hadley was missing for two days before the killing. You have anything to do with that?’
‘Yes indeed. I told you that Hadley had to be persuaded.’
‘You're a prime bastard. You've kept your eye on Hadley since?’
‘Round the clock, I thought he'd crack and get the film. He's been scuttling about, I suppose he's heard that the police are after him. His situation has been unenviable, he'll be relieved by this development.’
I looked at him, wondering how much of this to believe. One thing I knew, if Hadley had killed Trudi his face would be marked.
