‘Yes, sir,’ muttered Bill.
‘Does your client agree to the terms of his release, Miss Henderson?’
Jillian leapt to her feet. ‘He does, your Worship.’
‘Take him down, usher. Accused, you will be detained until you sign your bail notice, and then you are free to go.’
Jillian and Phryne left the court.
‘This way, and we’ll collect Bill. Golly, Phryne, that was easier than I expected. Old Jenkins must be tired. Usually it takes a good hour of solid argument to persuade him to let anyone out of police clutches.’
She led Phyrne out of the court building and along the street to the watchhouse. It was a grimy building that smelt of despair and carbolic in roughly equal proportions. Phryne hated it instantly.
‘Yes, it does pong,’ agreed Jillian, having noticed Phryne’s grimace. ‘And you never get used to it, somehow. Good morning, Sergeant. How are you this bleak and miserable Wednesday?’
‘I’ve been better, Miss Henderson. Have you come for McNaughton?’
‘I have, so hand him over — surely you don’t want to keep him?’
‘Not particularly,’ replied the desk-sergeant, a gloomy individual with a long, drooping face. ‘I’ll see if they’ve finished with him.’
He was gone for ten minutes. He returned with Bill and the bail notice.
‘Please check your belongings, sir, and sign this if they are all correct.’
Bill, who was shaky and subdued, checked his hat, keys, wallet, cigarette case, lighter, miscellaneous coins and spark-plug. He signed. The copy of the bail bond was ceremonially folded and placed in an envelope. Phryne was close enough to Bill to feel him quivering with impatience.
‘Steady,’ she murmured. ‘We shall be out of here soon.’ She laid a hand on his arm as though he might bolt. Jillian, on the other side, did the same.
Bill contained himself until they were out in the street again. Once there, he drew in long breaths of comparatively clean, cold air. ‘My God! I need a drink. Come on, ladies — the Courthouse Hotel.’
Although the Courthouse was not an ideal hotel for ladies, neither Phryne nor Jillian demurred. Bill offered both of them an arm and almost ran across the street into the comfortable beery snug, where he ordered a jug of beer. Phryne had gin and Jillian tonic water, as she had a conference in the afternoon and did not want to breathe all over the client.
‘They lose confidence,’ she explained, ‘if you stink of alcohol. It’s a dry profession,’ she added. Bill had not spoken since the beer had arrived. He had been supplied with a glass but he disdained it. Lifting the jug effortlessly he engulfed the drink in a seemingly endless gulp. When he lowered it, the jug was half empty.
‘Miss Fisher, I didn’t kill my father,’
‘I know. This is Jillian Henderson, a dear friend of mine, who has undertaken your defence.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Henderson. You certainly did a job on that old magistrate. He was giving the other applications a very nasty time indeed. I was surprised to see you, but I’ll be delighted if you’ll manage my defence.’
Here was an alteration. Three days in jail had humbled Bill McNaughton most impressively. Phryne called the barman and ordered another jug.
He brought it, and set it down in front of Bill. ‘This one’s on the house, mate. Boss says you’re a great advertisement for his brew.’
Bill laughed, finished the first jug, and then grew solemn again.
‘If I didn’t kill him — and I didn’t — then who did?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. All I need from you is an exact description of the two people you saw on your walk.’
‘I think you’ll do this better on your own. Let me know, Phryne. Don’t forget to report, Mr McNaughton, or we may not be so lucky next time. Bye,’ said Jillian and zoomed off to free more birds from the constabulary cage. Bill looked after her.
‘Miss Fisher, I feel like the prodigal son. I would have been better off with the swine and the husks. Do you have any idea of what a place like that is like?’
‘I once spent a night in a Turkish prison. It sounded and felt like the depths of hell, and there were bedbugs.’
‘Yes, that is it. The depths of hell with bedbugs. I’ll do anything to avoid going back there. I say, that woman is hot stuff in court, isn’t she? You could see that the magistrate was pleased. She didn’t waste a word. Would it be all right if I sent her some flowers? I could have kissed her, but I didn’t think that she’d like that.’
‘Here is her card. I’m sure that she would love some flowers. Now drink up. Before you go back to your mother’s house for a long bath, a bed with sheets and a proper shave, there are a few things I need to tell you.
‘Amelia is a very good artist. She will be great. Therefore, I would have you pay her the proper respect. There is an uncertainty in her work which I attribute entirely to you. Yes?’
‘She really is good? I never really looked at her stuff. Father scoffed at it so I didn’t bother. Very well. I’ll not tease poor Amelia. An artist, eh?’
‘Here. This is a portrait of your father.’
‘It’s caught the pater perfectly. Who did it?’
‘Amelia. I bought it from her.’
‘Lord, really? Amelia?’ He took a gulp of beer.
‘And another thing. When you get home you will probably find Paolo Raguzzi there. You will not call him a greasy little dago. You will be nice to him. He is not only a good sculptor but he loves your sister truly and. . er. . fairly faithfully, and she needs his support. He will probably want to model you; if so, you will agree. In return I will get you out of trouble.’
‘You’ll find the murderer if I do my Angel of the House and don’t upset the mater?’
‘Yes.’
‘Deal,’ said Bill promptly.
‘The people who passed you on the path. What did they look like?’
‘The first was an old man, a tramp, with a battered old felt hat and a sugar sack over his shoulder. I didn’t see his face. The girl was a pretty young slip, in a red bathing-costume and cap. I couldn’t see her hair but she was tanned and small — maybe five feet tall. I seem to have seen the girl before, but not the old man.’
‘Any smell?’
‘Smell? What do you think I am, a bloodhound? None in particular.’
Phryne wondered again at the noselessness of man.
‘Had the girl been in the water?’
Bill absorbed more beer and thought deeply. ‘Yes, her costume was sticking to her body, and her arms and shoulders were shiny.’
‘Did you get the impression that the old man and the girl were connected?’
Bill thought some more and finished the beer.
‘I didn’t notice, really. I was in a rage. I often run down to the river and go for a quick swim when things get too personal at home.’
‘I thought you were going to the aerodrome for your arguments in future.’
‘Yes, I was to take the old man out there.’
‘Did you kill him?’
Bill looked Phryne in the eye and said solemnly, ‘No. I wish I had. Then I wouldn’t mind being charged.’
‘All right, Now, I shall see you into a taxi.’
‘No fear! I’m going to walk. I need to stretch my legs. I will behave, Miss Fisher. I just hope you can get me out of trouble.’
She watched him stride off down the street in the direction of Kew. She crossed to the police station to find Benton and the murder weapon.
She was directed to his office and sat down while he fetched the rock from the safe.
‘Can’t have important clues lying about. See,’ he said, opening the grey cardboard box and exhibiting a squarish block of bluestone. ‘It was brought down with great force. Much more than any woman could muster. There’s blood and matter on the obverse, but none on the back, indicating the blood did not spurt. The murderer might not have had a spot on him. Seen enough?’
Phryne looked
very carefully at the sides of the stone, and especially the blotch of blood on the striking face.
‘Doesn’t that bloodstain fade towards the middle? Have a look. There seems to be less blood in the centre than you would find at the sides. What could cause that, do you think?’
Benton came to look.
‘No, I can’t see that, Miss Fisher. Is that all?’
‘Was there anything on the stone apart from blood and brain?’
‘Hair, Miss, a clover burr, a few hemp strands, a few leaves, a bit of bubblegum. Nothing important.’
‘No. Thank you, that was most interesting.’
‘Here’s the Coroner’s Report. Cause of death: massive head injuries.’
Phryne skimmed through the report. ‘Body of well- nourished middle aged man. . cleft cranium. .’
‘It seems to have fallen on the top of his head rather than the back,’ she observed.
‘Depends on how you look at it. Now I think he was donged from behind. The fact that the rock is a flat surface makes it difficult to say. The cranium is quite cloven through the middle.’
‘Hmm. Well, thanks a lot. Have you found those witnesses yet?’
‘No,’ muttered the detective-inspector, straight-faced.
‘Thank you so much for your time,’ said Phryne politely, and left.
She sat in the car and wrote a hasty note to Bert and Cec, then drove to Carlton to drop it into their boarding house. She wondered what Bert would do when Cec got married at the end of the year, and decided that he would manage. Cec’s intended was a sensible young woman who understood the bond between the two men. There would be no separating Bert and Cec this side of the death which they had so often faced together. They were skilled, if rather direct, investi- gators, and Phryne left her problem in their hands with a certain relief.
She arrived home very tired and ate the lunch served to her by Mrs Butler with relief. A telephone message in Dot’s neat schoolgirl hand informed her that Paolo was with Amelia, that Mrs McNaughton was as well as could be expected, and that Bill had arrived and was behaving like an angel. Phryne decided that she had done enough detecting for one day, and went to take a long hot bath with her Nuit de Paris bathsalts. After that she took what she considered to be a richly deserved rest.
Jack Leonard rolled off the couch in the Maldon’s living-room and strove to unkink his muscles. It had been the most uncomfortable night of his life, equalling in discomfort the Turkish brothel with the bedbugs, but without the compensating atmosphere.
Molly and the baby had retired fairly early. Molly had slept because her husband had poured a sizeable slug of chloral into her chocolate. Jack and Henry had sat up until three, when Henry had been persuaded to go to bed by Jack, who felt unequal to the strain of any more speech.
It was late in the morning — soon even Molly would be up — and no message had yet been delivered.
The Maldons trailed down to face with disgust an unwanted breakfast, and it was while looking a good nourishing fried egg in the yolk that Jack Leonard had an idea. He pushed away the plate and grabbed Henry by the arm. He had just remembered something which his fellow fliers had told him.
‘What you need, old man, is Miss Fisher. Top hole detective, so Bunji Ross says — brave as a lion.’
‘Miss Fisher?’ asked Molly, dropping her cup of tea so that it glugged down onto the breakfast-room rug.
‘Certainly. High-class inquiries, that sort of thing. She’s been retained to get our mutual friend Bill out of trouble. I’m sure that she will be able to help. I’ve put good money on her getting Bill off. Amazin’ record. Never fails.’
Henry seemed uncertain. His wife spoke decidedly.
‘Ring her, Jack. Ring her right away.’
Phryne woke at three o’clock feeling like she had the black death. She dragged her weary body out of bed, ran another bath, and reflected that if she kept using this restorative she had better have her skin waterproofed. She felt better after her bath and decided that coffee would complete the cure.
‘Oh, Miss Fisher, there is a message for you,’ said Mr Butler as she sat down in the parlour. ‘A child has been kidnapped and they want you to investigate. I said that I should not dare to wake you, and that you would call when you arose.’
‘If it is anything like that again, Mr Butler, please wake me. Particularly if it is anything to do with a child. There are some strange people around, and the first five hours are crucial. Ask Mrs B. for some coffee and get me the number, will you? Where is Dot?’
‘I believe that she is in the kitchen with Mrs Butler, Miss Fisher. I shall fetch coffee at once.’
Mr B., rather abashed, gave the order for coffee and the summons to Dot, then rang the number and escorted Miss Fisher to the phone.
‘Hello, Miss Fisher. Jack Leonard here. You remember me?’
‘The airman, of course. What’s this about a child?’
‘I’m at the home of my old friend Henry Maldon. He won all that money in the Irish Lottery at Christmas, you recall. His little daughter Candida has gone missing, and we have a witness who saw her taken away in a big black car.
‘Have you a note?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Sit tight, Mr Leonard, and I’ll be with you soon. What’s the address?’ Phryne scribbled busily. ‘Good. Stay by the phone but don’t tie it up. They might ring. Tell the parents that the child will be perfectly safe until the note arrives — then we might have to move fast. Make sure that they eat some dinner. If someone calls, try to keep them talking. Ask to speak to the child, and say that you need proof that she is alive before you give them anything. And whatever they want, agree. I’ll be with you by four. Bye.’
‘Dot, did you hear any of that?’
‘Yes, Miss. Little girl gone missing. Terrible. Are you taking the case?’
‘Of course.’
‘But, Miss, what about Mr McNaughton?’
‘Oh, I think I know how that happened. I just can’t prove it yet. Bert and Cec will complete it. This is urgent, Dot. Get your coat and hat and come on. I might need you.’
Dot ran upstairs for her outdoor garments. Phryne drank two cups of black coffee and assembled her thoughts. The police couldn’t be brought into the case officially; however, there was a certain policeman who owed her a favour. She checked that she had her address book and her keys and enough cigarettes to sustain a long wait, and joined Dot at the door.
‘Mr B., I’m going out on a case. I don’t know when I shall be back. Ask Mrs B. to leave me some soup, and just have your dinner as usual. I can be reached at this number, but only if it is really urgent.’
She was gone before he could say, ‘Certainly, Miss Fisher.’ He heard the roar of the great car reverberate through the house.
‘She’s a live wire, our Miss Fisher,’ he chuckled, and went back to the kitchen.
Phryne arrived outside the new house just before four o’clock, to be met by Jack Leonard. He was not smiling.
‘She really has gone,’ he confided. ‘We had a phone call. Not a bad little kid, Candida. And her father is an old friend of mine. I hope that you can find her, Miss Fisher.’
‘So do I. This is Dot — you remember her, no doubt. All right, Jack, lead me to it.’
Molly Maldon was sitting, white as milk, in a deep armchair, staring into space. Henry Maldon was pacing up and down, and seemed to have been doing so for some time. They both looked up in sudden hope as Phryne came in.
‘I’m Phryne Fisher, and this is my assistant, Miss Williams. Tell me all about it.’
Hesitantly, they told her the whole story. Molly grabbed Phryne’s hand. ‘She’s only six,’ she whispered. ‘Just a little girl, and she didn’t even get her sweets!’ She exhibited the broken bag and burst into tears again.
Candida swam muzzily back into consciousness, and was immediately sick all over the car seat and the man who was holding her. He shoved her roughly aside. She had never been cruelly handled before and she was highly i
ntelligent. She kept her mouth shut and listened intently, although she had realised that she had been stolen and all her instincts were urging her to scream and cry and kick.
‘The little brute spewed all over me,’ complained the man, in a high, unpleasant voice.
The woman in the front seat turned around, sneering. ‘You wanted to snatch her, Sidney. You put up with it. You were the one who wanted to lay hands on all that young flesh.’
Candida did not know what this meant, but she sensed that vomiting over Sidney had removed some threat. She had done something clever. Her spirits rose a little.
Sidney was wiping at his lap with an inadequate handkerchief. It made little difference. His suit was ruined. The car stank. The driver, a big man with a bald head and a blue singlet said, ‘We’re almost there. Then you can hang your suit out to dry and have a bath. How about that?’
Candida liked this man. He had a deep and soothing voice. She wondered how long they had been driving. She thought that it was no use asking and that the pose of unconsciousness might be useful. She was feeling better, but she had lost her sweets, and her daddy did not know where she was. She racked her brains. What had she read about these situ- ations? The Grimm’s fairytale method would not work. She had nothing to drop, and she could not reach the window. It began to look, she thought dismally, as though she might die like the babes in the wood, when the birds came and covered them with leaves.
The car turned off the main road. There were bumps, and the driver cursed. Then the car stopped and Candida was carried into the fresh air. Sidney was still swearing behind her.
‘Did you have the note delivered?’ asked the woman in her thin, whining voice.
‘Yair, I sent it by reliable hands with her hair-ribbon. We’ll get the dough, all right. Now carry the poor little thing inside and give her a drink and a bit of a clean-up, Ann. We’re home.’
Bert collected Phryne’s note and read it aloud to Cec.
‘She says, “Dear Bert and Cec, I have several things which I would like you to do, for the usual rates. Find the old man and the young woman who were climbing the cliff path in Studley Park at about four o’clock on the Friday of the murder. Try the local police station — the old man is probably well known in the district. The girl is a local who was swimming in the river. When you have found them, see if they remember Bill, and then take them around and see if they know him. If they do, we are more-or-less home and dried.
Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher Page 26
