Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

by Kerry Greenwood

  Three policemen broke down the door a minute later, and relieved Jones of her prisoner. They handcuffed his hands behind his back and led him out into the street.

  The old cab was still there, and two men were standing by it. One was tall and blond and one was short and dark.

  ‘That’s him,’ remarked one to the other.

  Cec approached Jones. ‘Is that George Fletcher?’ he inquired politely. Jones nodded. Cec took two paces, turned the head of the tall man towards him, and hit Butcher George with the best left hook seen in Little Lon. since the police strike. His heels lifted, his chin snapped back, and he fell poleaxed into the startled Jones’s arms. Bert and Cec got back into their cab and drove away. Jones and her colleagues loaded Butcher George into a police car and headed for Russell Street.

  ‘Who was that bloke with the hook?’ asked Constable Ellis.

  ‘I don’t know, but we are not going to mention it,’ replied Jones, settling her hair. ‘Are we?’

  ‘Is he really Butcher George?’

  ‘He is,’ replied Jones.

  ‘Then we ain’t going to mention it,’ agreed Ellis.

  As she had promised, Phryne slept until noon, requiring Dot to turn the lovelorn Sasha away. Once she awoke, Phryne breakfasted lightly, then set off for the Melbourne baths. She obtained temporary possession of a towel, a locker, and use of the large swimming bath for a few pennies. She donned her brief black costume, without skirt or back, and pulled a rubber cap down over her hair, flung herself in, and began to swim up and down. She always found that swimming assisted her thought processes.

  Her problems were twofold, she reasoned. First, there was Lydia, who did seem to be the subject of poisoning.

  Dr MacMillan’s tests on the hair and fingernails obtained by the Irish maids would probably confirm that. Arsenic was the most likely drug — it had been fashionable for centuries in such matters, and was still, it seemed, in style. Andrews stood to inherit a fortune if Lydia died without issue, which made him the most obvious suspect. His dealings with Bobby were not going to yield him a profit — Lydia was right there. One could not trust Bobby Matthews. But then, could one trust Lydia? She was a clinging vine of the most insidious kind, but she had a financial mind that would be envied by most actuaries, and was shrewd in her assessment of people. And there was the other problem. What of the Bath House of Madame Breda?

  Phryne reached the end of the pool, turned, and swam back. The water sluiced over her shoulders and swirled around her neck. There was no other lady in the swimming baths. Every splash she made seemed to echo.

  Madame Breda. Impossible that she should be selling drugs. She was too honest and healthy. However, it was a big building, and it backed onto Little Lonsdale Street, that den of thieves. Phryne vaguely recalled a brass plate on the door as the maid had let her and the Princesse in. . what had it been? She turned on her back and floated, closing her eyes. Aha. Chasseur et Cie, cosmetics. But none of the powders and products shown by Gerda had been of that brand. They had all been marked with Madame Breda’s Egyptian bird. If drugs were coming through Madame’s establishment there was a fair chance that Chasseur et Cie might be the dealers. And the indispensable Gerda must be the courier. Gerda was the only person who could have put that packet of real coke into Phryne’s pocket. Gerda had, therefore, left her the message to beware of the rose.

  Madame Breda went to visit her patrons and Gerda went with her — that had been the case when Sasha had been caught in Toorak. Simplicity itself for Gerda to contact the person in the house who was addicted to Chasseur et Cie’s products and to arrange the sale. Gerda had a grudge against Madame, and what better way to be avenged than to use her Temple of Health for drug-running?

  Temples brought Sasha, and sex, to mind. Hmmm. The bath-maiden at Madame Breda’s had caressed her in an intimate and sapphic manner, and seemed to be very practised at it. Was that why Lydia had not escaped elimination by becoming pregnant? Was she a lesbian? Andrews had, come to think of it, a frustrated manner, and his cruelty might be the result of being constantly rejected by his wife. Lydia might have been a sapphic since her schooldays, and her father had said that she lived with a rackety crowd in Paris. In that city, Phryne knew, there was a whole lesbian subculture, wearing men’s clothes, riding in the Bois, frequenting certain bars. Her old friend and gigolo Georges Santin had accompanied her to several such establishments. The women did not seem to resent Georges. Unlike most gigolos, he really liked women. Phryne had little leaning towards homosexuality, but she had liked the lesbian bars. They were free of the domination of men, creating their own society.

  ‘I wonder where I can find someone who knew Lydia in Paris?’ she said aloud, and the words came echoing back to her. No time.

  ‘I shall go exploring tonight, and see what I can find,’ decided Phryne, duck-diving to the end of the pool. But who was the rose? A person? A place? Presumably she was not being warned about an exploding bouquet. What were the common characteristics of roses? Scent? They came in all colours. Phryne gave it up, hauled herself out of the water, and went to the hot water baths for a soak.

  She was back to the hotel at five, in time to receive a delighted phone call from Dr MacMillan.

  ‘My dear, they’ve caught that George the Butcher! The nice policeman just rang to tell me. He’s had to call in the police-surgeon. Yon Cec broke the bastard’s jaw.’

  ‘Was there a fight?’ asked Phryne.

  ‘No, I gather not. Cec just hit him. Well, that will be a load off my mind. And he’s confessing as fast as his wired-up jaw will allow, so there will be no need for Alice to give evidence. And what have you to say about these grisly relics ye’ve sent me?’

  ‘Hair and fingernails? Any arsenic?’

  ‘Chock-full, m’girl. From the examination of the hair shaft I’d say the person has been absorbing arsenic for about six months. Should you not call the police, Phryne? Are they from a cadaver?’

  ‘No, the lady’s alive. I shall notify the police, Elizabeth, but in my own time. You keep those samples safely and I’ll get back to you. Have you time for dinner tonight?’

  ‘I have not. I’ve a miscarriage in casualty at this moment. Goodbye, Phryne, take care!’

  Dr MacMillan had sounded worried, Phryne thought. People were always worrying about her. It gives them something to do, Phryne thought, and dressed for dinner.

  She came back to her room at about eleven to find Dot surveying the sorry wreckage of the Paynes’ clothes. The dress had crumpled and spotted as it dried, and the tear Dot had made in the hem had been clumsily mended. It went to Dot’s heart to cobble the material together, but Phryne smiled and said, ‘Splendid.’ She looked out of the window, but there was nothing interesting there.

  ‘Tell me, Dot, what comes into your head when I say the word “rose”?’

  Dot looked up from her sad contemplation of the mend. ‘Why, the colour, miss. Pink, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phryne with a flood of realisation, and a moment- ary dizziness. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, but don’t wait up. Until I get back, Dot, please stay here and keep the door locked. Don’t let anyone in who isn’t me. Got all that? Oh, and here’s your wages in advance — and a reference — just in case.’

  ‘Yes, Miss. Can I help you dress?’

  ‘Yes, bolt the door and bring the disguise.’

  Dot did as she was bid and arrayed Phryne in the damaged dress, the carefully holed stockings, the scuffed shoes and the battered hat. Dot had broken three feathers over one shoul- der and they dangled sadly. Phryne removed all her own jewellery and looped the glass beads twice around her neck. They hung down to the jazz garters.

  ‘Shoe polish, Dot, I’m too clean,’ she declared, and gave herself a watermark around the neck, and grey fingernails. She took the clean shine off her black hair with powder and painted her cheeks thickly with Dot’s Coles rouge.

  ‘Revolting,’ she declared, surveying herself
in the mirror. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Half past eleven. You can’t go out of the Windsor looking like that, Miss! And what shall I do if anyone calls?’

  ‘Tell them I’m asleep and have given orders not to be woken; it’s more than your place is worth to try. I won’t send anyone, Dot, so bolt the door and stand siege until I come back. If I don’t come back tonight, wait until midday, then take that package to the policeman. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘And I’m not going out like this. Give me the big black cloak, I can carry the hat. Now have I got everything. . money, gun, cigarettes, lighter. . yes. Goodbye, Dot. See you tomorrow — or sometime.’

  She was gone, swathed in the big cloak. Dot bolted the door as she had been ordered and sat down to worry.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Do you approve of clubs for women, Uncle?’ ‘Yes, but only after every other method of quieting them has failed.’

  Punch cartoon, 1928

  There was a keyed-up aimlessness in the fuggy air of Little Lonsdale Street which affected Phryne like a drug. Several women were within her view as she perched on a grimy stool outside Mother James’s drinking her revolting tea as though she enjoyed it.

  The street was quiet, but sordid during the day, and really only came into its own towards midnight. The small, squalid shops were lit up, the street was filled with a crowd, and voices and music bounced off the canyon-like walls of the few taller buildings which backed onto that mangy thoroughfare. It smelt strongly of fish and chips, dust, burning rubbish and unwashed humans, with an overlay of Californian Poppy, of which the coiffures of the young men seemed to be chiefly composed.

  Phryne had been watching trade in the pharmacy for an hour, and was fairly sure that this was, indeed, the drug distribution centre she had been seeking.

  The shop was an open front with a counter, on which were perched the two great glass jars of green and red liquid which marked it in the popular mind as a chemist’s. Behind the counter stood a small, fat man, and an assistant with bottle-blonde hair in a fringed dress of viridian green, who handed out plasters and powders to the passing trade. Some clients, quite well-dressed, and one a real gentleman in evening dress, came to the counter and asked for their needs in a whisper. For them the small man dispensed a pink packet of powder, and accepted five pounds for it. Lesser clientele for the same powders bought a leaf that might hold a saltspoon for ten shillings. Strain her ears as she might, Phryne could not hear what it was these customers were saying.

  ‘Time for a saunter, chaps,’ she murmured to Bert, who gulped down his tea and stood up. Cec remained where he was. Phryne teetered a little in the abominable shoes, took Bert’s arm, and tiptoed to the door of the pharmacy. She patted Bert and spoke in a slurred Australian accent.

  ‘You wait here, love, and I’ll get us something,’ she promised and approached the counter, taking a little time.

  The small fat man turned his attention to this half-cut floozy. He hadn’t seen her before, but as he often said, ‘You couldn’t know every tart on Little Lon.’.

  Phryne beckoned him. ‘Some of them pink powders,’ she slurred. The chemist hesitated, as if waiting for her to complete a slogan. Phryne’s mind, working overtime, provided her with an idea. Seen on every railway siding was the legend ‘Dr Parkinson’s pink pills for pale people’.

  ‘Those pink powders for pale people,’ she finished, and held out her ten shilling note. The man nodded, and exchanged her note for a slip of pink paper, embossed with the title ‘Peterson’s pink powders for pale people’ and containing a small quantity of the requisite stuff. Phryne nodded woozily at him and found her way back to Bert.

  ‘Come on, sailor,’ she said, leaning on him heavily. ‘Let’s go back to my place.’

  Bert put an arm around her and led her away, back to where the Morris squatted in the gutter, sagging a little as was its wont. Cec had followed them, soft-footed.

  ‘Cec, you take this to Dr MacMillan at the Royal Women’s Hospital and come back. Bert and I will continue our carouse,’ ordered Phryne, putting the paper into Cec’s pocket. ‘Back to Mother James’s, my old darling.’

  ‘Ain’t you got what you want?’ hissed Bert. He was finding the proceedings nerve-wracking, though holding Phryne close was some compensation.

  ‘Not yet. I want to see who else visits here,’ answered Phryne, and conducted Bert back down the street again.

  They found other seats at Mother James’s. The hostelry was unique in Phryne’s experience. It was the front of an old house, the verandah open to the street. Mother James herself, a monstrous Irishwoman around three hundred years old, with a face that would curdle milk and an arm of iron, served her noxious beverages to customers sitting on the pavement or on the verandah. The house was noisome, stinking of old excrement and new frying, and Phryne reflected that nothing, not even advanced starvation, would induce her to eat anything out of a kitchen into whose depths no health inspector would dare to step.

  There were three or four ladies of the night supping gin or beer on the verandah, under the curling galvanised iron, and they surveyed Phryne closely. She reflected that she was surrounded with dangers. Not only was she investigating a cocaine ring, but one of these girls might take exception to her presence on their beat and cause a scene, or call their pimp. A nasty thought. She said loudly to Bert, ‘I reckon that we ought be going home, love. I got to get back to the factory termorra.’

  The women’s gaze wavered and turned away. An amateur, they thought, out for a good time and a little extra in the pay packet. No threat. Phryne breathed easy.

  ‘This is like waiting to go over the top,’ commented Bert.

  ‘I thought you said war was a capitalist plot,’ murmured Phryne.

  ‘Yair, it is. But we was in it, me and Cec. I first met Cec on a rock face at Gallipoli,’ continued Bert. ‘He saved me life by shoving me head down behind a trench wall when a Turk had drawn a bead on me bonce. We got out of it alive, and many didn’t. We was lucky,’ he concluded. ‘And waiting is always like this.’

  More customers for the coke merchant. Phryne calculated that, in three hours, he had taken close on a hundred pounds. She congratulated herself on her clothes. The garish dress and the holed stockings matched the milieu perfectly. Nothing interesting seemed to be happening, and she was about to nudge Bert and suggest that they call it a night when a cloaked figure paused for a moment under a street light and she caught her breath.

  ‘Oh, Gawd!’ she whispered and cocked her head. Bert saw a tall, theatrical figure who stalked into the chemist’s and demanded: ‘Cocaine.’

  ‘It’s Sasha,’ whispered Phryne, aghast. ‘That’s torn it!’

  ‘That the bloke we picked up with a shiv in his side?’ Bert whispered, putting his mouth to Phryne’s ear. She nodded.

  ‘Do we have to rescue him?’ asked Bert, wearily. He did not like foreigners, except comrades. And this was a counter-revolutionary.

  Phryne produced a high-pitched giggle and slapped his hand, which she had placed on her knee.

  The chemist had paled to an interesting shade of tallow, and his assistant had prudently vanished. Mother James’s regulars had all sat up and were taking notice. Three men, with unusual precision for Little Lon., had begun to move towards Sasha. Phryne ground her teeth. Only an artist or an idiot could behave like this!

  ‘Cec should be back by now,’ worried Bert. ‘Not like him to be late for a stoush.’

  ‘Do you know them?’ asked Phryne. Bert nodded, and Phryne belatedly recognised Thugs One and Two.

  ‘Cokey, the Gentleman, and the one at the back is the Bull,’ he commented.

  Phryne stared, awed, at the Bull. He must have been six-and-a-half feet high, with shoulders three axehandles across and hands like shovels. While they homed in on Sasha, the Bull took his cigarette out of the corner of his mouth and ground it out in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Did you see that?’ asked Phryne.


  ‘Yair. Used to be a bricklayer,’ said Bert, unimpressed.

  ‘There doesn’t seem any help for it. We’ll have to rescue Sasha,’ sighed Phryne. Bert held her back as she began to rise.

  ‘You want to find out who’s behind all this? They’ll take him to the boss, and we’ll follow.’

  ‘What if they just kill him here?’

  Nah, they’ll want to know what he knows,’ said Bert out of the corner of his mouth, and began to roll a smoke.

  ‘Won’t the cops come?’

  ‘In Little Lon.? They only come here in force. You just watch the fight and then we’ll see. There’ll be hundreds of blokes here in a jiff, a fight attracts ’em like flies to a honeypot — you watch!’

  The first attacker had reached Sasha, and thrown a punch. Sasha ducked, and the Bull’s fist hit the wall, slogged through the flimsy plaster and lath, and stuck. Gentleman Jim slid under his companion’s arm and feinted with his right, and as Sasha swayed away connected with a wicked left to the chest. Sasha staggered, recovered, kicked hard for the knee, missed, and got the Gentleman in the shins. His language was most ungentlemanly as Cokey Billings, obviously well-primed, seized Sasha from behind and threw a weighted scarf around his neck.

  ‘Fight, fight!’ chanted the regulars at Mother James’s, several of them stumbling out into the street to join in. Punches were thrown indiscriminately, one landing with some force on Phryne’s shoulder. She kicked her attacker in the shins and followed Bert into the street. Shrieks and groans abounded, together with the monotonous thud of fist hitting flesh and body hitting road. Bert ducked and weaved through the mill, tripping over feet and the occasional body until he had fought his way to the chemist’s doorway.

  They were just in time to see the Bull, bellowing like his namesake, extract his hand from the wall with a rending of timbers and stumble after the Gentleman and Cokey, who had Sasha slung over one shoulder. The small fat chemist was attempting to pull down his shutters, but there were too many people in the way. A door opened at the end of the counter, and shut behind the procession.