by Tara Moss
Billie nodded, and gave Sam a knowing look. ‘I understand. Good luck, Mrs Brown.’ Billie meant it. Thoughtfully, she hung up the telephone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Hydro Majestic hotel was as majestic a sight as its name would suggest. Painted in a pleasing pale green and cream, it had been built by the retail magnate Mark Foy at Medlow Bath on the thrilling edge of a sheer cliff overlooking the Megalong Valley. The Hydro had opened its doors in 1904 and been the site of salubrious health spas, fine restaurants and royal visits since, with a pause in 1942 when it had been taken over by the US Defense Department and turned into a hospital for American servicemen wounded in the South Pacific. The place was now a hotel once more and a new wing had recently been opened.
Billie Walker wanted to see it. She had some celebrating to do.
The main dining room of the Hydro was closed on a Monday afternoon, Billie and Sam discovered, but Cat’s Alley, entered through the richly decorated Salon du Thé, suited them nicely and offered cream tea and beverages. The narrow space, adorned with several spectacular paintings on its rear wall, boasted jaw-dropping views of the lush Megalong Valley, which stretched out at the base of the drop just beyond the hotel’s grounds and extended as far as the eye could see.
Sam pulled out a chair for Billie, beating the waiter to it, and she stared longingly at the spot on the menu where Veuve Clicquot was offered at a price of three pounds per bottle. Three pounds. That was a touch extravagant, considering they’d only managed four days of paid work. Circumstances were different now than when she’d last visited and drunk that lovely drop with her mother. Still, it was a case closed, another happy client. She was supposed to celebrate.
Her assistant had been taking in the décor when his gaze landed on hers and he seemed to catch her mood. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Absolutely nothing is wrong,’ she replied. ‘This day has quite changed my view of Mondays.’
‘You were rather cagey about the boy’s identity on the telephone. You do think it’s Adin Brown?’
‘I’m positive,’ she assured him, ignoring the unhelpful thoughts niggling at the back of her brain. She looked around for the waiter. ‘Excuse me, garçon. Could we have two glasses of your Veuve Clicquot? Merci.’ It was a sensible compromise, she thought, as long as she could limit herself to one glass. It wasn’t every week you woke up with dead bodies, got pummelled in alleyways and found a missing youth in the Blue Mountains for a client. She also ordered scones and cream for two and in quick order the waiter returned with a chilled bottle, already opened, and carefully poured them each a glass.
‘To another case closed,’ Billie said, watching the bubbles rise.
They clinked glasses and sipped. ‘To another case closed,’ Sam repeated.
The bubbles danced delightfully on her tongue before going down all the way to the base of her stomach. She realised she’d barely eaten and it was past lunchtime now. She felt a slight warmth in her cheeks, and her brain relaxed a touch.
‘I thought you were off champagne,’ Sam remarked, evidently in response to her obvious pleasure.
‘It seems not.’ Billie smiled.
‘Well, this really is the drop,’ Sam declared.
They looked out at the view and let the champagne do its work, but in no time Billie’s mind wandered to Vincenzo Moretti and she felt herself tense. There would be time enough to figure out his game, she tried to assure herself. For now, she was at the Hydro Majestic sipping good champagne after a win, and with an assistant who had more than proved his mettle. It was definitely a win, even if she didn’t have all the hows and whys answered. It was a win because the client said so, and that was how the private inquiry agent game worked. If no one wanted you to seek more answers, it wasn’t your job to. Still . . .
‘I never did tell you why I answered your advertisement for a secretary-cum-assistant,’ her companion said suddenly.
Billie put her glass down and regarded Sam. His cheeks were flushed, she noticed. He was unused to champagne and it seemed to have loosened him up a touch.
‘My father worked with your father, Barry, for a spell, before he returned to country policing. Robert Baker was his name.’
Billie leaned forward, interested. She knew Sam’s father was a cop, and Sam had told her he might well have pursued that career had the war not got in his way, and had he not subsequently been declared unfit for duties thanks to his injuries. But this detail was something new.
‘I was applying for jobs when I recognised the name in your advertisement and wondered what I would find,’ Sam continued, absentmindedly rubbing something that bothered him under his gloved left hand. It was a habit he seemed not to notice. ‘When I applied, I didn’t expect to find . . . you,’ he finished.
‘You mean you expected someone else?’
He exhaled with a laugh. ‘You could say that.’
‘But you found you didn’t mind working for a woman, after all?’ she ventured, getting his meaning.
‘Oh no, not at all. Some of the strongest people in my life have been women. I have four sisters, and my mother, well, she could lead an army.’ He raised his glass to his lips. Yes, his cheeks were flushed all right.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned the connection before,’ Billie said, taking a sip of her drink.
‘I didn’t want it to be a reason for you to hire me, not that you would have necessarily. I didn’t want you to think that I expected it would help me, particularly considering . . .’ He looked down at his gloved hand with its wooden prosthetics hidden beneath the leather. ‘And after you hired me, when I thought I might mention it in passing, well, by then I knew how much you missed your father, and I guess I didn’t want to . . .’
‘Upset me?’
‘I guess. It just never felt like the right moment.’ His eyebrows pulled together a touch, his blue eyes large.
‘It takes a fair bit to upset me, Sam, but I understand what you mean. Thanks for telling me.’ It seemed he’d been holding on to that one for a while. ‘How is your father now?’
His face dropped. ‘He died during the war. An accident.’
‘Oh, how awful. I am so sorry to hear that. My condolences.’ She took a breath. A lump had formed in her throat. Discussing her late father still had that effect on her. ‘Well, there is another thing we have in common.’ She raised her glass. ‘To our fathers, taken from us too soon.’
‘To our fathers,’ Sam said, clinking his glass with hers.
The waiter returned with their scones and cream, and Sam dug in somewhat inelegantly, like a ravenous sportsman after a gruelling day of training. Billie watched him for a minute, amused, before partaking herself. He did try to fit in, to behave with decorum, and for the most part he succeeded, but in moments like this, with his guard down, she saw the boy he had once been in rural New South Wales. She wondered whether he and his siblings had fought over helpings of food in his household. Hunger and rationing would do that. Sam finished his scones, dabbed his mouth and took another sip of champagne, possibly unaware of how furiously he’d eaten everything up, while Billie was still working through her serving with delicate bites, her lipstick unsmudged.
‘Things didn’t go so well with Eunice last night,’ Sam let slip, and then looked like he regretted it.
Billie cocked her head, one brow arched. Her assistant had a lot to share this afternoon.
Sam seemed a bit unsure of himself, romantically speaking. To add insult to his war injuries, his girlfriend of some years standing had jilted him while he was fighting overseas, her head turned by a handsome American GI, from what Billie had gathered. She’d only caught the story in bits and pieces, not wishing to pry. With their dashing uniforms and Hollywood accents, nylon stockings and greenbacks, the Americans had cut quite a swathe through the locals. But Sam was young enough to get over any lingering heartache once he found his footing again. She knew that Eunice was a newish girlfriend for him. Was it a good match? It was hard to t
ell, as Billie hadn’t met her and he didn’t talk about her much.
‘We had a . . . quarrel,’ he admitted.
‘Is that so? What about?’
He seemed about to answer, then reconsidered.
‘Oh dear, it’s not something to do with me, with our work, is it?’ Billie hoped not. His silence announced that indeed it was. ‘You didn’t tell her about . . .’ She tried again. ‘Sam, you didn’t tell her about the trunk, did you?’ she asked in a hushed voice.
At this Sam shook his head adamantly, putting his champagne glass down. ‘Heavens no, Ms Walker. I’m sworn to confidentiality in all of my work with you.’ He sounded sober now, despite the flushed cheeks. ‘I wouldn’t break that trust for anyone. No, it was nothing like that.’
Billie relaxed and leaned back in her seat, then sat upright as she thought of something else. ‘Eunice doesn’t think . . . ?’ It had occurred to her that Sam’s girlfriend might wonder about Billie telephoning him at all hours. She awkwardly pointed a finger at her chest and then his and he got her meaning.
‘No, it’s not that either,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘She says you’re not . . .’
‘Do go on,’ she prompted him, when he seemed to think better of whatever he’d been about to say.
‘Errr . . . proper.’
She restrained herself from laughing out loud. Not proper? Well, she has an argument there, Billie thought. The usually reticent Samuel Baker seemed to have taken to champagne like some kind of truth serum, the poor fellow.
Billie considered for a moment whether it was best to press for further details, and found she couldn’t help herself. ‘In what way am I not proper, dare I ask?’ she inquired. There were so many reasons to choose from. Which would it be? The hours she kept? The places she frequented? The company she kept? The clothes she wore? Her swearing or smoking or the fact that she seemed to have misplaced a husband?
‘She said . . .’ This looked almost painful for him now. ‘She said that ladies ought not to be in your line of work. They ought to leave the work for men who need it.’
Billie blinked. ‘I see. And what of women who need work too? Where are they to get their money? Did she have views on that?’
He swallowed. ‘She didn’t say.’ He was blushing vigorously now and had trouble meeting her eyes. She felt perhaps she’d gone too far, but Billie did genuinely wonder if Eunice gave thought to where Sam got the money he used to take her out. The stuff did not grow on trees, as they say.
They fell silent as Billie finished her last scone with a lovely berry jam that seemed a perfect complement to the bubbles on her tongue. Nothing was going to turn that to acid. She’d been judged before and she would be again.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure why I told you that,’ Sam said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You told me, dear Sam, because I rather insisted,’ Billie reminded him. ‘Never mind, there are plenty of others who feel that way. Your Eunice is no orphan there. But today we have a very satisfied client. It was a strange case, not entirely explained, but it’s closed now, and the client is happy. Perhaps we ought to focus on that.’
She tried to feel elevated again, but it was curdling in her belly now – the champagne, the scones, the whole thing. The finding of Adin Brown had in no way diminished her interest in what had happened to Con Zervos, or the whereabouts of her mother’s sapphire earrings, or just who had crept into her bedroom in the night. There was something rotten all right, and she found she couldn’t relax despite her best efforts. Her mind kept ruminating on the Browns: on them closing up shop and driving up to the mountains, excited by the prospect of their son returned to them. All that might attract some attention. What if it hadn’t been her being tailed in the Strand Arcade, but them?
Stop it, Billie. She took another sip of champagne. The part of her that did the books knew the case was closed, and that was it. That was supposed to be it. Mrs Brown had been insistent. But she could feel the puzzle pieces pulling at her, demanding her attention.
As Sam finished his champagne, Billie pulled out the small photograph she’d pinched from the boy’s pocket. She’d almost forgotten she’d taken it. At a glance she’d thought it was an old image, a family portrait of some description, and on examination both impressions proved correct, the hairstyles indicating it had been taken in the late twenties or early thirties. The print was bent, but still clear enough. It showed two adults – presumably a husband and wife – and three children, ranging in age from about one to eight. Every one of them, save the man, wore fur, either in the form of a stole or small coat. This was of interest, naturally, but more startling was a shape on the woman’s chest. She stood looking impassively at the lens, backed by a portrait photographer’s drapery, wearing a dark dress with a corsage and an extraordinary necklace. It had a most distinctive shape – like a bat’s wings.
‘Oh hell,’ Billie exclaimed.
‘Pardon? Billie, what is it?’
She sighed. ‘I’ve had a nice little celebration here, and you sure deserved a celebratory drink, but I think, well, I think I want to stick around,’ she said, looking over her shoulder for the waiter. ‘I’ll drop you to a train, if you like.’
Her assistant looked aghast. ‘What are you talking about?’ he replied.
‘I’m really sorry. I’d drive you back, but I can’t afford the time. The train journey is quite pleasant, I’m told. I will make it up to you, Sam.’
‘Stop right there,’ he insisted. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I played it safe at the hospital,’ she told him. ‘But now Mrs Brown knows we’ve found her son and is coming up with her husband and, well, before too long word could get out that the boy is alive. I worry that . . . Well, I’ve been tailed, but I was tailed near their shop and I can’t be sure if it was me being followed or them . . .’ Or both now. What if the parents were being watched? Or their ’phone was tapped? It took resources to do that, but it could be done for a price. Could what the boy was up to be so important? The stakes that high? She thought of the red marks on his wrists. He couldn’t have done that to himself, and it certainly wasn’t from some bar fight.
She pushed the photograph across the table. ‘And then there’s this portrait. See? It’s the necklace.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think this is the photograph that was missing from their office and I think the boy took it because he recognised that the necklace this woman is wearing was to be offered at the auction. If he was wrong and it was a coincidence, he’d have been thrown out on his ear, told he was mad and a troublemaker. But if he was right . . .’
Sam looked down at the image. ‘You think someone might still come for the boy,’ he said.
‘Look what happened to him,’ she said. ‘Yes . . . I do think it’s possible.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Veuve Clicquot had well and truly worn off as Billie parked outside the hospital in Katoomba, having driven there with some speed. Sam had hung on in the passenger seat uncomplainingly, having refused to return to Sydney and leave her to face potential danger alone.
By the time she sprang out of the roadster, Billie was feeling even more uneasy than when they’d departed the Hydro Majestic. She told herself the feeling could be illogical. Today had been a success. Her informed gamble about Adin Brown’s whereabouts, thanks to her conversation with Mr Benny at the morgue, had paid off. She had found him alive, if not quite well, and that was not yet three hours ago. She should enjoy the success of another puzzle solved, another closed case. But the little woman in her stomach was not happy. There was an unmistakable cold dread there. The photograph, the auction, the doorman, the thugs. Those red marks on the boy’s wrists. It could be that she was conflating separate elements here, but the end result was fear for the boy, and she couldn’t shake it.
She hurried to the hospital building with Sam at her heels.
‘I’m back,’ she announced at the reception desk, slightly breathless and forcing a smile. The same helpful nurse was
on duty. ‘My client is on her way,’ Billie offered by way of explanation. ‘She should be here any moment, probably with her husband. Their name is Brown.’
The nurse looked confused. ‘Some friends of Mr Brown arrived just a minute ago,’ she said.
Either Nettie Brown drove a lot faster than Billie had imagined, or something else was going on. Her heart sped up. ‘Can we see him again now please?’ she declared more than asked, and even as she said it she was running to the men’s ward where Adin Brown was laid up, the nurse striding quickly after her, clearly sensing something was wrong. Sam kept pace and she saw his hand linger near his jacket, where his long-barrelled revolver waited. He too knew what was at stake.
The scene in the ward as they entered was one of confusion. Adin Brown was not in his bed. He was on the hospital floor, or at least Billie thought that was him, as she could only see a blur of moving legs and arms. A man was crouched over the thrashing limbs. A patient several beds down began screaming. Others were staring and still others appeared sedated beyond consciousness, oblivious to the excitement. Billie felt eyes on her and looked up from the struggle on the floor to see one of the weedy thugs who had helped her tear her nice stocking in the alley behind Georges Boucher’s auction house. The same bloody thugs are here. Billie cursed in a decidedly improper manner and lunged towards the figure on the floor, who was still kicking out, fighting for life. The man crouched over Adin, for Billie could now see it was him, looked up and rolled away from the boy, then leapt to his feet. With his accomplice, he made for the door at the other end of the ward, hitting the nurse and nearly knocking her over in his rush to escape.
Adin was coughing and spluttering on the ward floor, his pillow next to him. They’d tried to smother him, Billie realised, and knew with certainty the men had not been sent for warnings, they’d been there to kill. There’d been no messing around. They’d outrun even the boy’s parents. Adin was out of breath, but otherwise seemed to be relatively unscathed, and without delay Billie took off after the men, pushing past the nurse who was calling for help.
