The Excluded Exile (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 12)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Carter beat me to the punch. In a low voice, he asked, "Have y'all been drinking?"

  Captain O'Reilly laughed and said, "No, boyo." He lowered his voice and said, "She was a real harridan when we showed up on the doorstep with bag and baggage." He hooked his thumb at Murphy. "But himself can charm the snake out of its skin and, before long, he'd been telling her of his many adventures on the high seas."

  I looked over at Murphy, who'd pulled out a pipe and was filling it from a pouch. He nodded and winked. "That seemed to do the trick. She's a fine lass, that one."

  I asked, "A lass?"

  Murphy nodded. "Aye. I'd say there's some heartache in her life."

  Carter and I both nodded. He leaned down and said, "We got the whole story from the tailor."

  Captain O'Reilly winked and said, "You'll tell us later. She told us there's a nice pub not far where we can go for a pint or two before dinner."

  I looked at the captain and asked, "Where did your Americanized accent go?"

  He shrugged as Murphy kissed him on the neck from behind. It was Murphy who replied, putting his chin on O'Reilly's shoulder and saying, in a whisper, "I fucked it right out of him."

  We all burst out laughing.

  . . .

  We could have walked to the bar, if it hadn't been raining cats and dogs. So, instead, we drove the few blocks north. The place wasn't anything fancy. Just a long bar with a few tables. John Murphy did the ordering for us. He came back with four glasses of some sort of pilsner. It was cold and tasted good going down.

  "So, what did you hear?" asked Murphy, referring to what Mr. George had told us.

  Carter and I proceeded to fill them in. Once we were done, they looked at each other and then at us. "But she said her son was dead." That was John Murphy.

  I looked at Carter. He said, "Mr. George didn't know that Tom had left for San Francisco. Maybe he died and she's trying to keep that under wraps."

  I shook my head. "Let's talk about something else." I looked at O'Reilly. "What did the American consul in Hong Kong say?"

  He took a long drink of his beer before saying anything. "No reply yet. I sent him a telegram this morning. The hotel said they would forward any replies."

  Carter asked me, "Did you send a telegram to Marnie or Mike, yet?"

  I shook my head. "Can we call one in? Or is there something like Western Union around?"

  Murphy said, "I think the Post Office handles the telegrams. You can probably call it in from the house when we get back."

  I nodded. "Thanks."

  He grinned. "You're welcome." He drained his glass and stood up.

  Carter was up in a flash and put his hand out. "Next round is on us."

  "Ya hear that, fellas?" called out a grubby man in what looked like a mechanic's uniform who was standing near us.

  "What?" asked a man who appeared to be his work buddy.

  "That big American bloke says drinks are on 'im."

  Everyone in the bar cheered as Carter grinned and shrugged.

  . . .

  "This all looks delicious, Mrs. Tutwiler." That was me. She had just put down our plates. We each had a huge mound of lamb stew with three or four small potatoes, peeled and boiled whole, and sitting to the side.

  Captain O'Reilly said, "Peg, won't you join us?"

  Carter and I both looked at the captain and then at Mrs. Tutwiler as if we were in a cartoon. She blushed slightly and said, "No, I've had my dinner already. I like to eat at 6. Better for my digestion."

  She nodded in a friendly way at the captain and then beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen.

  I leaned in and whispered, "Peg?"

  Captain O'Reilly, who had already taken a bite, smiled and nodded.

  Murphy said, "That is her name."

  Carter swallowed his bite and replied, "Which we've never heard before."

  Murphy grinned and shrugged. "Tell her that story about being lumberjacks a couple of years ago. I've heard you tell it twice and I still laugh when you talk about—"

  I interrupted him. "I don't think Carter will likely mention our nighttime adventures."

  Carter grinned and then sighed. "Probably not." He took a bite. "This is so good. It reminds me of my mother's cooking."

  I didn't say anything. I hadn't taken a bite yet. But I knew what was coming. If Carter liked the food and, particularly, if it reminded him of his mother's cooking, I probably wasn't going to like it.

  Looking around the table, I could see the other three wolfing down their meals. Murphy had a piece of bread in one hand, sopping up the gravy from the stew, and his fork in the other, shoveling the lamb into his mouth as fast he could chew and swallow.

  I tentatively stabbed a piece of the meat with my fork. It was tender. I put that bite into my mouth and chewed. As I suspected, it was just meat in gravy and had no flavor. I swallowed it glumly and then reached for the salt. There was no pepper.

  . . .

  Dessert, on the other hand, was fantastic. The lamington was two layers of vanilla cake with a cream filling in the middle covered in chocolate and coconut flakes. I had two pieces and would have had a third but Captain O'Reilly beat me to the last piece.

  Once we were done, we moved into the living room. Mrs. Tutwiler came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel, and said, "I thought you might like to listen to some music." She bent over a radio console and turned it on. As it warmed up, we could hear an announcer's voice say, "Menzies announces cabinet shuffle. But, first, the weather. Continuous rain through the night along the coast, with heavier rainfall inland, particularly north along the Hunter River and related tributaries. On Thursday, expect continued rainfall as a low moves south from Queensland." The announcer paused as Mrs. Tutwiler leaned over. "In agricultural markets, grains were mostly up, particularly—" The voice cut out as she turned the dial and settled on a station playing music.

  I immediately recognized the song as "Three Coins In The Fountain" by Frank Sinatra. Carter, who had been in the sunroom, came walking into the living room and looked at me. As Mrs. Tutwiler walked back into the kitchen, Murphy said, "Thanks, Peg," getting no reply.

  Carter walked over to me, held out his hand, and soon we were dancing. It was one of our favorite songs.

  . . .

  The four of us had been dancing for about thirty minutes when there was a sudden banging on the front door. Nat King Cole was singing, "Hold My Hand." We all stopped. Carter said, "I'll take care of this," and walked over to the door.

  Just as he was grabbing the door handle, Mrs. Tutwiler came running in. "Don't open it!"

  We all looked at her stricken face as there was another loud bang on the door.

  "I know who it is and I don't want to talk to him."

  Murphy took her by the arm and walked her back towards the kitchen. "Let's let Carter take care of this, Peg. He can handle his own."

  She replied, "Don't let him know I'm here."

  Murphy said, soothingly, "He'll not know a thing about it."

  There was a third round of banging, followed by a male voice saying, "I know you're in there, you bitch!"

  Carter pulled open the door as I walked over to stand next to him and help him block the way in from whomever was there.

  "Can I help you, son?" asked Carter in his smoothest Georgia voice.

  "Bloody American!" was the only reply from the kid standing on the porch, dripping wet. He was blond, stood about 5'9", and was rail thin. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like he'd been crying. "Where is she?"

  "Who are you lookin' for, son?"

  "Peggy bloody Jenkins, that's who. Now, where is she?"

  "There ain't no one around here by that name. Why don't you head on home before you catch your death of cold?"

  He tried to take a swing at Carter, who stepped back, and didn't respond in kind.

  I said, "You heard the man. Go home, kid."

  He looked at me and narrowed his eyes. "I know you." He pointed and sputtered. "You're that ric
h poofter from America." Looking up at Carter, he said, "And you're his boyfriend. What are you two doing here?"

  I answered, "We rented this house for a few weeks while we're in town, not that it's any of your business. You better scram before someone calls the cops."

  "The cops?" he replied with a smirk. "You go right ahead. When they find out who's here, you'll be heading right to jail. The coppers aren't too keen on buggery in Australia these days."

  I shrugged. "That's fine. Of course, we have a right to be here. You don't."

  He stopped at that, for some reason. "But, I do. This is my home."

  I shook my head. "No, it's not. Go on home before you cause any trouble."

  He looked down at the porch. "This is my home. Why won't she let me in?"

  "Are you Tom?" asked Carter.

  The kid looked up, his eyes full of tears. "No, I'm Bobby. Tom is in love with me and she made him go away and I don't know what to do."

  Carter looked down at me. I asked, "Where are you staying?"

  "North Bondi."

  I peered out into the blowing rain. "Did you walk?"

  He shook his head. "I have an old Morris."

  "You go home and get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

  He looked down at the porch again.

  Carter put his hand on the kid's shoulder. "Go on, Bobby."

  He nodded, turned, and slowly walked down the stairs, oblivious to the rain.

  . . .

  We were all sitting in the living room. Murphy had made coffee for everyone and slipped in some of the whiskey he'd bought earlier at the pub.

  Mrs. Tutwiler was looking at her coffee, not drinking any.

  Finally, I asked, "Where's Tom?"

  She looked up at me and said, "He might as well be dead."

  I glanced over at Captain O'Reilly, who shrugged. "So, he's alive?" I asked.

  "He's in San Francisco. He and Bobby were nearly taken in for loitering down at Bondi Beach by some nasty coppers. I told him to leave town and not come home. It's just awful here, Mr. Williams. You have no idea what they're going through."

  "Who?" asked Carter, softly.

  She waved her hand around the room. "All the men like you. The police are hounding everyone, particularly here in the suburbs. It's not like living in some place like Kings Cross, where the police turn a blind eye, for the most part."

  "Why didn't Bobby go with him?" asked Carter.

  Mrs. Tutwiler sighed. "I told Tom not to do that. He'd get in more trouble unless he went alone. Besides, I don't think Bobby has a passport."

  "They were living here, with you, before Tom left?"

  She nodded. "Bobby's a nice enough kid. Tom could've done a lot worse."

  I put my hand on her arm. "Tom is lucky. You're a loving and an understanding mother."

  She patted my hand without looking up. "Not as much as you might think." She looked up at the ceiling. "What I am, Mr. Williams, is a sensible woman who can face facts. I knew Tom was that way ever since he was all of five years old." She patted her hair and then let her arm fall to her side, as if she was resigning herself to something. "Tom's all I have left since his father didn't come back..." Her voice cracked.

  "Where's Tom staying in San Francisco?" I asked.

  "The Y.M.C.A."

  "On Turk Street?"

  She looked up at me and nodded. "That sounds right."

  I exchanged a quick look with Carter. He stood. "Will you excuse us for a moment, Mrs. Tutwiler?"

  I stood as she asked, "Off to bed?"

  I replied, "Actually, I need to send a telegram to San Francisco. Can I do that?"

  She put down her coffee cup on the small table next to her chair and stood. "Of course. I'll show you where the telephone is."

  We followed her into the kitchen. The phone was sitting on the kitchen counter by the door to the dining room. She picked it up and dialed. After a short pause, she said, "I'd like to send an international telegram, please."

  Handing me the phone, she left the kitchen without a word. I put the phone to my ear, heard a buzzing sound, and then an efficient male voice came on the line and asked, "Destination?"

  "San Francisco, California, U.S.A."

  "Recipient name?"

  "Mike Robertson."

  "Address?"

  "600 Market Street."

  "Sender name?"

  "Nick Williams."

  "Return address?"

  "2 George Street in Dover Heights."

  "Message?"

  "Have moved 2 George Street Dover Heights. Stop. Need you locate and trail Tom or Thomas Jenkins from here staying Y.M.C.A. on Turk. Stop. O'Reilly and Murphy with us. Stop. Tony on his way to you with Newland. Stop. All our love to Marnie. Stop. End."

  He repeated the message, I confirmed it, and that was that.

  . . .

  "I suppose you put one of your men on keeping track of my Tom last night." Those were the first words I heard as I opened my eyes. The room was dark since it was still raining, and had been all night long.

  Mrs. Tutwiler was standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Carter was still asleep. Neither of us had anything but our BVDs on but fortunately it had cooled off enough that there was a sheet covering us. I lifted up and nodded. "I did."

  "Thank you, Mr. Williams."

  "It's Nick."

  She paused for a moment, nodded, and pulled the door closed as she walked away.

  I sat up in bed. I wanted a cigarette, all of a sudden. I carefully slid off the mattress, walked over to the bureau. I found my lighter but no cigarettes. I picked up the lighter, an old beat-up Zippo, and flicked the top back. I was about to run my finger over the wheel when I heard Carter say, "We don't have any."

  "Any what?" I turned and looked at him. He was propped up on his arms and watching me.

  "Any cigarettes. I tossed the ones I bought for you in Hong Kong."

  I shrugged. "It's passed." I walked back over to the bed and slid into his open arms.

  "I'm glad," he said before kissing me deeply.

  . . .

  Carter and I were just about dressed when I heard a knock at the front door. After a moment, Mrs. Tutwiler knocked on the bedroom door. I opened it and said, "Good morning."

  She smiled and handed me an envelope. "Telegram."

  I took it and said, "Thanks."

  She nodded, turned, and was gone.

  I opened the envelope, pulled out the message, and read it.

  NICK WILLIAMS 2 GEORGE ST DOVER HEIGHTS AUSTRALIA. UNABLE TO LOCATE T.J. YMCA REPORTS CHECKED OUT ON MON FEB 21. WILL TRACE. ROBERT SAYS FIRING NEWLAND. WILL TAIL HIM FOR WEEK OR TWO. YOUR FRIEND IN TOWN BUT LAYING LOW. MARNIE SENDS LOVE. MIKE.

  I handed it to Carter who whistled as he read it. "You gonna tell her?"

  I shook my head. "Not until we know where he is."

  . . .

  "So, what's there to do in the rain?" asked Murphy.

  We were sitting over the remains of breakfast and drinking coffee.

  I said, "I was thinking we could take in a movie later."

  Captain O'Reilly nodded. "I'll have that."

  Mrs. Tutwiler walked in with her tray and began to gather our dishes. Murphy asked, "Peg, dear, might you have any games we could play while it rains like this?"

  She laughed briefly. "Tom and Bobby loved to play one game: Monopoly. I'm sure you could use their set."

  Murphy stood up. "That would be lovely. Could we set up in here?"

  . . .

  The set was a British version. I had only played a few times, mostly with Mike who loved the game. The most expensive property was called "Mayfair" instead of "Boardwalk". The prices on the board were the same but they were written in pounds, instead of dollars.

  Captain O'Reilly turned out to be a great player. Before long, he owned all the red properties and the green ones and was building hotels everywhere he could. Carter was holding his own with the orange ones. I had the whole strip at the cheap end of the boa
rd. Murphy was doing well with the blue properties and the railroads.

  I rolled a five and moved my blue token from "King's Cross Station" to the jail. "Just visiting," I called out to the group.

  Everyone laughed as Carter said, "Let's keep it that way, son."

  He rolled a seven and moved from his own orange property, "Vine Street", to a yellow one called "Leicester Square".

  I owned that one, but just the one of the yellow group. "That'll be two hundred and sixty pounds, if you please."

  "How about I give it to you in trade?" was Carter's husky reply.

  Murphy and the captain both howled at that. Murphy took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed it at Carter. "You know how to play this game the right way, boyo."

  Carter blushed at that, which surprised me.

  Right then, Mrs. Tutwiler walked in from the kitchen. "I'm off to market. The lot of you are eating us out of house and home," she said with a smile. We all stood up.

  I followed her to the front door. "I don't know what anything costs around here. How much should I give you?"

  She stiffened for a moment, as if I'd said something rude. She began to put on her raincoat and, as she did, replied, "Ten pounds should cover everything for the week, with change to spare."

  I handed her four tens. "I'm sure we owe you more for having extra visitors."

  She shrugged and put the notes in her purse. "I consider their added presence a true pleasure, Mr. Williams."

  I couldn't help but laugh at the mild insult.

  She looked up, contrite. "What I mean is that all of you are wonderful guests but your Mr. Murphy does have a way with him." She began to tie a scarf around her hair. "If I didn't know his situation, I'd be more than flattered by his flirting." She smiled at me.

  Right then, Carter walked up. "May I walk you to your car, Mrs. Tutwiler?"

  She nodded.

  He opened the door, let her pass by, and winked at me as he then followed her down the steps.

  Chapter 8

  Hoyts' Regent Theatre

  487-503 George Street

  Sydney

  Thursday, February 24, 1955

  Just past 8 in the evening

  Dinner had been a steak pie with a green salad and rice pudding for dessert. Once we were done, we'd decided to drive into Sydney to see whatever was playing at the big movie theater known as the Regent.