by Tara Moss
‘Are you okay?’ Sam asked in a low voice. He’d clearly felt, if not actually seen, her tense ruminations.
Billie hoped her mother would not soon be forced here, parting with more of her possessions out of desperation rather than choice. And yet, after the war, what did possessions matter except to feed and to clothe and to ensure a roof over one’s head, if even for another day?
Billie was distracted from her reverie by the movement of those heavy velvet curtains. A black-and-white-clad staff member was slipping through a parting in the all-enveloping drapes around the room, and Billie caught a glimpse of an open door beyond, and a man with his back to the door, his hair as white as snow. The heavy fabric slid back into place and the vision disappeared.
‘And here we have lot 664,’ the auctioneer announced.
Sam pointed to the open catalogue, and he and Billie exchanged a look. This was one of the other pieces shown in the advertisement, a necklace. The auctioneer described it as a rare Art Nouveau piece by the jeweller Georg Kleemann, crafted in silver and featuring opals, freshwater pearls, blue lapis lazuli and purple amethyst. What made it stand out most, however, was the bat-wing shape of the main part of the intricate pendant. Kleemann, the auctioneer explained, had been a well-known figure around the turn of the century, working in Germany in the Jugendstil style. Was this something that had caught Adin Brown’s interest? Or was it simply the auction house name, Boucher’s name, that he had reacted to? Billie cast another look around the room, and strained to look back at the entrance. There was no sign of the boy. If he was present, he was well hidden. But then, it was a room of hidden things. Billie longed to get behind those curtains.
An auction house employee in an apron and white gloves began walking through the audience, showcasing the necklace, which was pinned elegantly within a velvet-lined frame, to anyone who indicated interest. Several people signalled almost invisibly to him and, observant as all auction house staff were trained to be, he moved smoothly over to them. None of them was familiar to Billie, and she felt sure they had not been at The Dancers either of the previous two evenings. The piece shone in the lights as the auctioneer spoke of the lustre of the pearls, the glitter of the amethysts and the estimated vintage of 1907, the Art Nouveau movement’s peak. As the employee came down their side of the room, Billie raised a finger and he came over. It was indeed a beautiful, very unusual piece of jewellery, something she could imagine the French actress Sarah Bernhardt might have worn. She asked to see the back and gloved hands turned it for her. Signed on the reverse were the initials GK in a cartouche and the number 935, signifying sterling silver. Two more people called the man over to inspect the necklace, neither of whom Billie recognised. Paddles were raised, money was bid, then just like that it was gone. £1200. That was enough to kill for, certainly, but was that why Con Zervos had died? Money was, after all, one of the primary motivations for murder – part of the triad completed by jealousy and power. But how did that fit in here? With Adin and Con?
After several further pieces did the rounds – rare mantel clocks and pearl necklaces – the lot of rings from the advertisement came up, recognisable by the large Victorian men’s gold ring, set with three round-cut gems – a cognac diamond, a blue sapphire and a second cognac – that was the advertised showpiece item. Billie called the rings over, examining the Victorian ring and the write-up for it: One Round Genuine Sapphire weighing approximately .12 cts. and two round Genuine natural brown Cognac Diamonds totalling approximately .20 cts. Total Gem weight approximately .32 cts. Provenance unknown.
Again nothing unusual appeared to be at play. Perhaps the clipping had been a red herring after all?
Nothing fitted. Surely Zervos hadn’t had the rings or necklace, or for that matter the sideboard shown in the advertisement. He hadn’t had much at all and now he was dead, along with whatever he might have been able to tell Billie. Adin didn’t seem to be at the auction, either to bid or steal. No, the puzzle was still moving, the pieces not yet coming to rest in their logical places.
What about Boucher himself? Could his name alone have been enough to set the kid off? Was it an argument over a love interest? The girl in violet who had seemed too young, out of place at Boucher’s table the other night? Was it only a coincidence that Boucher had been at The Dancers, a place Adin evidently was desperate to get into?
Chapter Eighteen
‘Do you believe in luck, Sam?’ Billie asked.
‘Luck? Well, I suppose some people have it.’
The sun was lowering in the sky as they finally made their way out of the rarified atmosphere of Georges Boucher Auction House, the lengthening shadows turning to cool semi-dark around them as they rounded the corner into the alley behind the sandstone building where Sam’s utility was parked. The experience had not been without interest, but Billie did not consider herself much better informed about the case at hand, and the feeling of all that money clung stiflingly to her. Her quiet inquiries about Adin Brown with the staff after the auction had brought up precisely nothing. Lips were sealed, almost suspiciously so, and any attempt to slip behind the curtains had been thwarted with so many workers around. Somehow, Billie was unsettled by it all. She felt dirty, as if she needed to wash off the place. And she felt deeply, truly exhausted.
‘I don’t think I believe in luck,’ she said. ‘But some days . . .’
Perhaps the inky-hued dress had not been the bearer of bad luck, as her mother had suggested. Perhaps it was Billie herself who was bad luck. This had not been a fine day for B. Walker Private Inquiries. And in a few short hours her assistant would have the unpleasant job of unpacking that heavily burdened travel trunk so poor Con Zervos could be found by the authorities – but nowhere near the flat of Baroness von Hooft or that of her PI daughter. Billie hadn’t asked Sam where he’d stored the trunk while they were at the auction. Perhaps it was still in his mate’s car. Hopefully it was somewhere cool, she reflected darkly.
Her mind went to the extreme contrast between that poor doorman, treated little better than vermin and dumped on her rug, and all the wealthy people gathered inside the auction house, treated like royalty and offered refreshments on silver trays as they bid on fine art and sparkling jewels. She pondered their various reasons for wanting the paintings and sculptures and glittering necklaces and rings on show. There were some beautiful things there, some masterpieces even, but also the strong scent of competition. How else could one explain so many people eager to be seen buying?
‘All that money . . .’ Sam muttered under his breath, his mind clearly running over some of the same themes.
He had seemed struck by the immense wealth in the room. Coming from the country, he likely hadn’t seen wealth and privilege quite so concentrated before. Billie, on the other hand, had seen it before, albeit in a different setting, and had grown cynical. Where were all those ‘friends’ who had populated her mother’s social life before she’d had to sell the Potts Point mansion and move to a flat? Where were they when she lost her PI husband? Where were they now that she’d sold her baby grand to make ends meet? Ella maintained some impressive social contacts, but many had fallen away like rats from the proverbial sinking ship as her fortunes had gone down. And that’s what they were. Rats.
‘Some people did rather well out of the war,’ Billie mused. ‘And all those dead deserved better.’ She shook her head sadly. The dead were almost invariably the poorest, the ones with the least political and social power. It had always been thus, with powerful men pulling men and boys from their communities and putting them on the front lines while they smoked cigars and made deals and decisions from a safe distance. ‘I suspect wars wouldn’t be nearly so common if no one made money from them,’ she added, and Sam turned to look at her.
It was hard to know what Sam thought of such a brutally honest statement, considering his great sacrifice. But war could not be separated from the pursuit of power, wealth and territory. Hitler had his Lebensraum push for a Germanic takeover of for
eign territory and the annihilation of populations he considered Untermenschen. The Allies would have lost everything had he not been defeated, and casualties were devastatingly high, but there were still those who did well out of the whole deadly debacle. Just who they were was not yet clear, but they were out there. There was newfound wealth in America and Switzerland, she’d heard. And there was the rumour that the Australian government was going to call in all existing bank notes and reissue new notes, making the old ones worthless. This would flush out cash that had been hoarded during the war – especially cash made by black-market racketeers. Some of the auction houses would be doing very nicely with all that cash people were so desperate to part with. Just how well was Georges Boucher doing?
‘Is that what you mean about luck?’ Sam asked, puzzled.
Something caught Billie’s eye, distracting her from her thoughts. ‘Is that a Packard?’ she remarked, recalling Shyla’s description of the ‘foreign man’s’ car. She turned and stopped in her tracks. Sam was some paces ahead of her now, aiming to open the door of his car for her, when an arm grabbed her from behind, gripping her waist.
What the . . . A small gleaming knife appeared at her smooth right cheek. A switchblade, held by rough, masculine hands. The nails were dirty, the shirt cuff tattered. She could smell male sweat, and feel a heart beating against her shoulder blades. Billie absorbed this sudden turn of events and took a slow, measured breath, shifting gears internally. The world slowed down. She bent forward carefully, tilting her head away from the sharp, shining blade, and pushed her buttocks into the man who held her tightly against him. Having expected her to struggle forwards, away from his body and not towards it, the assailant’s grip on his blade loosened a touch, his wrist slackening. Billie continued to bend forward and stretched out both hands as her head moved closer to the grubby footpath. Seizing the man’s left leg, she wrenched it forcefully off the ground, pulling up and forwards, cradling his foot to her chest. She heard a seam of her carefully sewn dress tear, followed by the more satisfying sound of her attacker falling backwards with an awkward thrashing movement. She leapt out of the way, letting go and momentarily free before a second assailant grabbed at her leg and she went down on one knee, feeling a stocking tear irreparably. Now she was cross. Very cross indeed.
‘This is our way of saying lay off,’ a gruff voice said, and as Billie lifted her eyes she felt a kick in the ribs, a vicious blow. In that moment, punctuated by pain, she snatched a view of a flabby face, a flattened profile. The two legs beside her were clothed in grubby chocolate-brown slacks, with a slightly tattered hem. Not so unlike the pants of the man she’d yanked off balance, but those had been a tatty dark blue. Unremarkable leather shoes, low end. The grabby man she’d toppled would be getting to his feet soon. And he would be cross, too. ‘Next time I cut your pretty face,’ the close one with the flat nose added convincingly, as if he knew a thing or two about how that worked.
Billie elected to stay down, huddling protectively while the screaming in her kicked ribs subsided. She waited for the next move to reveal itself, and from the corner of her eye saw Sam, next to his car, catch a strong punch in the kidneys by a second set of assailants. It had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. Sam went down swinging, but he went down. ‘Four of you. Seems a fair fight,’ Billie managed from her position on the ground, pulling a hatpin from her topper and swinging it at the closest man’s ankle, pushing all three inches of it through his un-mended black sock into the soft space between his ankle bone and heel, and out the other side. He howled like a dingo and doubled over. She withdrew the hatpin and jumped to her feet, her raffia and silk tilt hat sliding off.
‘You!’ he shouted at her lamely, purple with humiliation and grabbing at his wounded ankle. He was so shocked that she had time to kick him roundly in the arse with one heeled foot, and he fell forward between two cars, letting out a string of expletives, trying unsuccessfully to regain his balance. It was one of her less elegant moves, but effective. If this wasn’t a time for dirty fighting, she didn’t know what was.
Billie turned and glared coldly at the other man, who was ready for his attempt at a comeback. She stood with her feet apart, the hatpin held in her hand like a dagger. While she waved it in front of a scarred face that looked like a piece of meat with two eyes in it, her other hand lifted her torn dress inch by inch. The eyes went from the hatpin to her knee, and then her thigh and the top of her stocking with its pretty lace-edge holster and then the barrel of her mother-of-pearl-handled Colt, now neatly in her hand and pointed squarely at him. Just above that barrel were her piercing green–blue eyes. He knew better than to move, or even breathe.
‘Look lady, I don’t want any more trouble,’ he managed after a moment.
‘What an unfortunate choice of profession you’ve made in that case,’ she remarked, her hand still steady on the gun. She got the impression this was a young man, despite the head on him. His suit was shabby and threadbare at the elbows. Like the other one, he looked underfed and over-beaten. This was some nasty line of work he’d chosen. And he wasn’t very good at it.
The man who had kicked Billie was up now, standing on one leg like a cowardly flamingo, and shuffling artlessly behind his small colleague. How considerate of them to stick together in a neat little cluster of stupidity for her to point her Colt at. They’d picked her as an easy target, clearly, as these two men were thin and about as smart as a pair of spoons. The two boys who had gone to work on her strapping assistant were larger and possibly more capable, though. She didn’t want to take her eyes off either of the gormless goons at the end of her gun. From the corner of her eye, however, she saw something large that looked like a sack of potatoes in a bad suit sail through the air into a line of garbage bins with a thundering crash. There were groans and cries and none of them in Sam’s voice. Billie felt more than saw that he was now up and in control and could sense the rage coming off him. He was moving quickly, a blur of navy, and now he had someone by the throat, pinned to a brick wall. She risked a glance, her attackers also temporarily distracted by the action on the other side of the alley. Yes, Sam was holding a man up with his injured left hand. It seemed not to be slowing him down, Billie thought. Not one bit. Not in a dance hall or in an alley. His right hand was pulled back, ready to strike. She fancied her own assailants looked a touch awestruck. She watched them over her Colt and heard a crunch as Sam struck again. It must have looked grisly, for their eyes widened and they began backing away.
‘How about you fellas tell us about your employer, hey?’ Billie said loudly enough to grab their attention, and for Sam to hear. They froze in place. Sam looked over his shoulder at her, seemed impressed by what he saw, and let his right hand relax a touch. It was then that she noticed the man he was holding didn’t have his feet on the ground. The body lying among the garbage bins moved a little and there was a groan, then all was still again.
Billie took a step towards her two assailants. ‘Come on now, gentlemen. I want to hear some information, fast, or I might find my finger slips and one of you is relieved of something vital.’ She lowered her gun to the closest man’s crotch and his eyes grew yet larger.
The four assailants remained silent in their respective positions.
‘I don’t know, Sam,’ Billie called. ‘I think I might have to—’
There was a terrible noise as the man amid the garbage managed to get up and flee, staggering and holding his injured body like a child holds a toy baby.
‘That’s it, these two are going to get a bullet in the—’
‘Moretti,’ someone said in a small but clear voice. She didn’t catch who it was, though the one with the meat face looked guilty.
Vincenzo bloody Moretti. She’d half expected Boucher’s name, but Moretti? He was in this up to the part in his grubby hair. It figured.
‘Where is the boy? Where is Adin Brown?’ she pressed. ‘Come on, let’s hear it!’
The one with the meaty face shook his head.
‘It’s too late for him,’ came the small, guilty voice. His eyes were averted.
Too late?
Now he turned and ran, moving his body out of the line of sight of her little Colt, his cowardly companion behind him. She lined him up and for one heart-stopping moment watched the man over her little shining barrel, then dropped the gun to her side. She wasn’t going to shoot a man in the back. Billie shrugged. She looked across at Sam and gave him a look, one eyebrow raised.
‘Where is the boy?’ Sam asked the man he was holding off the ground.
‘I . . .’ came a strangled voice. He clearly couldn’t speak. As she watched, Sam slowly released his grip on the man he’d been holding up like a nail to be whacked into the brick, but that other hand of his stayed poised.
‘Where is the boy?’
‘You’re asking the wrong guy,’ the man said, trembling. ‘They don’t tell me nothin’. They just paid me a few shillings to rough you up, tell you to leave it alone. I don’t know nothin’ about why.’
