Helga's Web

by Jon Cleary

  “We know, Mrs. Gibson,” said Malone gently. “We haven’t come to arrest him or anything like that—” He looked around the room, changed the subject: “You must be very happy here.”

  Mrs. Gibson stared at him a moment longer, then seemed reassured. She glanced about her, then shook her head. “I don’t like the height. I think I must have verti-whatever-it’s-called. I never go near the windows. I always look at the view from here, the middle of the room. You’re never too old to make mistakes,” she said, and looked around the room again. “We made one buying this place. But it’s too late now to move again.”

  “It should be no trouble,” said Clements, trapped by her frankness into an undiplomatic frankness of his own. “I mean, you have the money—”

  “It’s not the money, young man. It’s the time it takes for a place to become your home. That’s a bad cold you have. Would you like some aspirin or something?”

  Gibson came in the front door as the clock struck the quarter-hour. Glenda Gibson beamed at Malone and Clements as if her husband had just arrived walking on water; then she rose, crossed to him and kissed him fondly and without embarrassment on the cheek. There was nothing remarkable in that, Malone thought. What was remarkable was that Gibson, a man Malone would never have suspected of any public demonstration of affection or emotion, returned the kiss as if he and his wife were alone in the room. He still wore his hat and after he had kissed his wife he turned away, hung the hat carefully on a hat-rack and only then looked at Malone and Clements.

  “You should have come to see me at my office,” he said raspingly. Then he nodded to his wife. “Excuse us, Glenda. They won’t be staying long.”

  “No, I’m staying, Les. They said it’s nothing serious, so I want to stay and hear what it is. If it is serious—” She fluttered one hand. “I’ll still stay.”

  Gibson did not argue with her. He walked to the drink

  cabinet built into one of the panelled walls, poured himself a whisky-and-soda, and without looking at the two detectives said, “If it’s about that girl, what’s her name, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Maybe,” said Malone. “But I’m afraid we’re the ones who have to decide that, Mr. Gibson.”

  “What girl?” Glenda Gibson turned to her husband. “The one they talked about last time?”

  Gibson said nothing for a moment, looking at Malone; but Malone let him answer. “She was the girl they found down in the Opera House.”

  “The Opera House one!” Her voice jumped ridiculously, almost a little girl’s squeak of surprise. “What the devil—?”

  Malone let Gibson continue with the answers: “It’s nothing, love. Like I told you, there were some pictures of us, newspaper pictures, in her flat. She’d been collecting them or something?”

  “But why?”

  Gibson let Malone answer that one. Malone took his time. They had nothing at all on Gibson; but they had to be sure he had nothing on them. Gibson had money and was at the top of the heap, and it was part of the cynical nature of Sydney that it was always believed that any man who had achieved both money and position could not have done so without some pull in influential quarters. Malone was not as cynical as the worst of Sydney’s voters, but neither was he foolhardy.

  “We think the girl was building up a list of people to—” he glanced at Gibson “—to swindle.”

  There was just a momentary gleam of appreciation in Gibson’s eye: this copper wasn’t such a mug. “It happens all the time, Glenda. It had to happen to us sooner or later. But she’s dead now, so there’s nothing for us to worry about.”

  “Who killed her? Someone else she was trying to swindle?”

  “We don’t know,” said Malone. “We’re trying to find out

  if someone who knew your husband gave her your name. We’ve been to see Mr. Savanna,” he said to Gibson.

  “Jack?” Glenda Gibson’s head jerked round to her husband again; she could have been watching a tennis match that only occasionally came alive for her. “Did he know her? I wouldn’t put it past him—I wonder if Josie knows?”

  Gibson looked into his glass. “If she didn’t know, it’s time she found out. She’s been living in a fool’s bloody paradise too long.”

  Mrs. Gibson jerked her head back at Malone and he said quietly, “She knows, Mrs. Gibson. She took it all right.”

  Clements nodded. “I wouldn’t worry about her.”

  “I always worry about her—”

  Gibson moved across, sat down beside his wife, put a hand on her arm. “That’s the trouble, Glenda. Josie doesn’t really want anyone to worry about her. She enjoys her little bit of bloody misery.” He turned back to Malone and Clements. “You’ve probably recognized that my brother-in-law is several sorts of bastard. But he’s attractive to women—”

  Glenda shook her head vehemendy. “I can’t see a thing in him!”

  Gibson smiled and pressed her arm. “Josie wouldn’t agree with you, love. She’d rather settle for one night a week of Jack than have bugger-all of him. Sergeant, if he gave my name to this girl, was he in on the swindle?”

  “Only you would know that,” said Malone. “I was only guessing that she was thinking up some swindle. It could have been something else.”

  “What?” said Glenda Gibson.

  Gibson realized he had opened the subject too far by his vindictive swipe at Savanna. “It could be—er—anything. Girls like her get up to all sorts of tricks. But I’d had nothing to do with her,” he snapped at Malone. “Nothing. She was a complete stranger to me. I’d never seen her or spoken to her or

  had a letter from her. A complete stranger, take my bloody word for it!”

  It was Glenda’s turn to be comforting. “Don’t get worked up, hon. I don’t think they’re accusing you of anything. Are you, Sergeant?”

  “No,” said Malone, and knew the interview was going to get nowhere by being prolonged. The attrition of questions would never wear down Gibson; the old man was solid rock. Malone stood up, took the chewed match from his pocket and held it out. “Do you know anyone who does that, Mr. Gibson?”

  Gibson’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, but he shook his head at once. “No. What’s that got to do with what we’re talking about?”

  “Nothing,” said Malone; then looked at Glenda Gibson. “What’s the matter, Mrs. Gibson? Do you know someone who does that?”

  “I don’t suppose it means anything—” She glanced at her husband, then stopped, shook her head. “No, I was mistaken. Lots of men do that.”

  “Not too many,” said Malone, keeping his voice even. “And if needs be, I’ll try to track down every one of them in Sydney. Go on, Mrs. Gibson. You were going to say something-No, please, Mr. Gibson! Don’t interfere. Or has your wife jogged your memory?”

  “I don’t know,” Gibson grunted. “I don’t know what she was gunna say.”

  “That man who came up here the other night,” said Glenda. “Clixby or Dixby or something. One of your trawler captains. He chewed a match.”

  Malone said nothing, sat down again, waited for Gibson. At last the old man nodded, took a sip of his whisky, nodded again. “I’m getting old. I don’t notice people’s habits any more. Feller named Bixby. He used to be one of my trawler captains.”

  “Used to be?”

  “I’d sacked him. Found out he was only declaring two-thirds of his fish catch each time he came in. Him and his crew were flogging the other third to some wholesaler they’d teamed up with.”

  “Why did he come to see you here, Mr. Gibson? Was there some argument? I mean, did he resent being sacked?”

  “He didn’t love me for it, if that’s what you mean. But there was no argument, was there, Glenda? You didn’t hear us having words, did you?”

  “I was only in here for a minute,” Glenda Gibson told Ma-lone, anxious to repair what she now recognized as an indiscretion. Les had said nothing to her, but she knew his silences as well as she knew his words and gestures. “But then I was
moving around the flat all the rest of the time, I mean I didn’t leave here. I didn’t hear one raised word—no argument, nothing like that—”

  “Why did Bixby come to see you, Mr. Gibson?”

  Gibson finished the whisky in his glass. The old bastard’s mind is still sharp, Malone thought. He only needs a second or two to come up with a story: “He’d been with me, off and on, a long time. Twenty years or more. I just wanted to know why he wanted to take me down.”

  “Why not at your office?”

  “He rang me and said he’d rather see me at home, said he couldn’t wait till the next day, he was going away or something. I didn’t expect any trouble from him. I didn’t get any.”

  “Did he tell you why he took you down?”

  Gibson grinned. “Same old story. He said I had too much for one man, I wouldn’t miss the bit him and his crew were taking from me.”

  “People are like that,” said Glenda, her hand on Gibson’s arm again. “As if Les had never worked for what he’s got.”

  “What we’ve got, love,” said Gibson, and even to Malone’s skeptical ear the old man did not sound sickly sentimental.

  This ruthless old crook and his feather-brained wife have got something my mum and dad have never achieved: understanding. And he felt suddenly sad for Con and Brigid Ma-lone with their tongue-tied love for each other. Protect Lisa and me from that, O Lord. Give us pain, give us despair, but never forget to give us understanding.

  Clements said, “I think I know Bixby. He hasn’t always been with you, has he, Mr. Gibson? You said off and on. When he was off, was he in jail?”

  Gibson shrugged, looked at Clements for the first time. “He could’ve been. I don’t keep track all the time of all the people I employ. I suppose there’s a coupla thousand of ‘em, maybe more, spread throughout the firms I own. They come and go and, I suppose so, they come again. That’s what Bixby did. What he did while he was gone, I wouldn’t know and wouldn’t wanna know.”

  Clements saw Malone’s inquiring look. “Bixby’s not a common name. If he’s the bloke I’m thinking of, he did time out at the Bay. I can’t remember what for, but he had some sorta record. We could look it up.”

  “When did you see him last, Mr. Gibson?” Malone asked.

  Gibson looked at his wife. “Last Friday,” she said. “I remember because we were going to that Christmas charity party at the golf club.”

  “You haven’t seen him since?”

  Gibson shook his head. “I don’t want to see him again. He’s finished, far as I’m concerned.”

  Malone stood up. “Well, that’s it, I think. We shouldn’t be worrying you again, Mr. Gibson. Nor you, Mrs. Gibson.” He liked the old woman and he was pleased when she returned his smile. Any woman who could find the amount of happiness she had with an old bastard like Gibson was no ordinary woman. “We’ll get Bixby’s home address from your wages office and give him a call. He may be able to help us.”

  “But how?” asked Glenda.

  But Gibson pressed her arm. “It’s none of our business, Glenda. Let the police look after it. It’s none of our business.”

  Malone and Clements said goodbye, drove back to the city through the cool southerly buster that had sprung up. Trees that had been stunned by the heat of the day came alive again, danced like corroboree blacks beyond the street lamps. Malone was driving and Clements, slumped down in his seat with his handkerchief wiping his eyes, suddenly sneezed.

  “I’m gunna get bloody pneumonia out of this.”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I was gunna go to the trots. But I dunno, maybe bed would be the best place. Why?”

  “What did you remember about this bloke Bixby?”

  Clements sneezed again, wiped his nose. “More than I let on back there. I wonder if he was running some game with Helga? If he was in on the blackmail bit? I’ve run into him a coupla times. He’s a stand-over merchant, he got booked several times for beating up other blokes. He might’ve been the one put Helga up to the idea of blackmail.”

  “Could be. If he’d been with Grafter for twenty years, even off and on, he could have found out something about the old bastard. Well, we’ll find out when we find him.”

  “If he’s gone away, as Grafter said he did, that might not be easy.”

  “Has anything been easy on this since we started?”

  When they got back to their office there was a message to ring Hawkins at the CIB.

  “Scobie? About time—where’ve you been? Friday night’s my night up at the Leagues Club with the wife—”

  “Sorry,” said Malone, losing some of his respect for the Fingerprint Section; crime for them evidently wasn’t a twenty-four-hour job as it was for some people. “What’s the news?”

  “Well, we checked those prints on the pipe you sent up. They match the prints on the phone, the key and the pieces of that broken glass. It’s the same feller, all right. Any idea who he is?”

  “No/’ Malone lied. “But we’re getting close.”

  He hung up and told Clements the report on the fingerprints.

  “You want to save some money tonight?”

  “How?”

  “Don’t go to the trots. Go out and check on Bixby. It might take a bit of running around, you’ll have to dig up the wages clerk at the trawler firm— someone should be there, a trawling outfit wouldn’t close down at night—” Then he shook his head. “No, it can wait till tomorrow. Forget it.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ll still have to dig up someone to get that address. I’m as impatient as you, mate, to get this thing cleared up. I’m like you now—I think Helidon is the guy we want. But we want to be sure. And like you said, the only way we’re gunna do that is by elimination. It could be that there’s only Bixby to be eliminated. Let’s get him out of the way as soon as we can. Just one thing—” He blew his nose, wiped his streaming eyes. “While I’m tearing around tonight, what are you gunna be doing?”

  “Thinking,” said Malone. “And taking Lisa to dinner.”

  “One of these days,” said Clements, “I’m gunna be the senior bloke in a team. And I’m gunna run the junior joker right off his bloody feet.”

  “I said exactly the same thing myself ten years ago,” said Malone. “What are you hanging around for? Start running.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, December 6

  1

  Bixby pressed the bell of the Gibson flat, heard the deep tone of the chimes behind the heavy oak door, nodded appre- ciatively and waited. The old bugger knew how to spend his money, all right; anyone living in this block didn’t have to worry about whether he had butter or margarine on his bread. Bixby wasn’t surprised when a maid opened the door, though he couldn’t remember ever having met one before. Some forgotten instinct prompted him to take off his straw hat.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Gibson.” He saw the girl’s refusal in her face even before she spoke. “Tell him it’s important. I won’t keep him long. The name’s Phil Bixby.”

  The girl looked him up and down, nodded, then closed the door in his face. He felt his temper rise, flushing his face, and his hand crushed the brim of his hat. The bitch, her with a touch of the tarbrush in her, putting on an act with him! Then he stiffened, striving hard to control himself. Hold it, Phil. That’s how you done in the other piece.

  The door opened again and the maid said, “Mr. Gibson will see you.”

  Bixby followed her across a small entrance hall and into a living room larger than anything he had ever seen before. He trod on carpet that felt as if it had six inches of rubber beneath it; when he looked around he took in nothing he could remember, but he knew he was in the middle of more luxury than he had expected. Possessions meant nothing to him, it would have taxed him to remember what he had in his own flat; yet he could sense the value of them, knew they were the labels of how much most people were worth. Old Grafter, or his missus, had thrown the money around like confetti furnishing this joint.
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  Gibson stood in front of the big window that looked out to the harbour. He waved the maid away, waited till she had gone, then said, “Nobody invited you here. So don’t plan on staying long. What d’you want?”

  Bixby took a match from his pocket, began to chew on it. “I won’t keep you, Grafter. I just come for the air fare for that girl. I had a talk with her. She’s gone back to Germany.”

  “Already?” Then Gibson turned as his wife, looking like a stout bon-bon in candy yellow, came into the room. “This is my wife. Mr. Bixby. He used to work for me on one of the trawlers.”

  Bixby took the match out of his mouth, nodded. “Pleased to meetcha, Mrs. Gibson. Just a little business with your old— with the boss. Won’t take a minute.”

  Glenda Gibson acknowledged his greeting, then looked at her husband. “Don’t be long, Les. We’re late for the party already—”

  She went out, leaving behind her a whiff of expensive perfume that was lost on the two men.

  Bixby glanced around the room. “Nice place you got here, Les. Must’ve set you back a packet.”

  “How much did the fare cost?”

  “Let’s say a round seven hundred dollars. I hadda do a bit of running around, get her on her way and things like that, you know what I mean?”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “You took your time coming for the money.”

  “Look, I done the job, didn’t I? It wasn’t easy, you know, she’s like all them Huns, pretty bloody stubborn. They don’t give up easy. But in the end she saw reason. I got her on the plane and she oughta be in Germany by now. I’ve had other things to do, you know, that’s why I ain’t been for the money before. But I’m here now, Grafter. Seven hundred bucks, cash on the knocker.”

  “It won’t be cash.” Gibson stared at him for a moment, then moved towards the door into his study. “It’ll be a check.”

  “Make it to cash, then. I want the dough first thing in the morning. I might be going away.”