Helga's Web

by Jon Cleary

  “Look, Helidon, let’s quit buggerizing about.” Bixby decided the only thing to do was ride right over this bastard and get out of here quick; the last thing he wanted to do was end up discussing last Monday night. “Helga didn’t mention anyone else but you. If someone else was there in her place and done it over, maybe it was another one of her customers working dirty water off his chest when he found out she wasn’t there. Some blokes are like that—they get very shirty when they don’t get their bit right when they’re expecting it.” He had been like that himself on one or two occasions; but he’d done over the trolls themselves rather than their flats. “Let’s get that ten thousand, I’ll give you the diary and we’ll call it quits.”

  “I can’t get it for you this morning. You’ll have to wait till Monday, till the banks are open.”

  Bixby ground his teeth, as if he still had a match between them. Jesus, Monday was going to be a bloody busy day for

  him at the bank: cashing old Grafter’s check, cashing—no, wait a minute. “I don’t want a check, sport. I want it in cash.” “You’ll get it by check or nothing. As you said, why should I trust you? If I turned up with the cash I wouldn’t put it past you to knock me over the head and make off with the money and the diary. And then you’d be back for more. It’ll be a check, made out to cash if you like, but that’s as far as

  rn g o.”

  “You know, Helidon, you ain’t in a position to lay down the law about anything. I could finish you off, you know that?”

  “I could finish you off, too, have you thought of that? I could call your bluff and turn up with the police on Monday. How would you like that?”

  They sat there in the bright blue glare hurling threats at each other; but they were like two duellists, each of whom was not sure how many bullets were in the other’s gun. Bixby resorted to the weapon he knew best: “You do that, sport, and some time, sooner or later, you’ll get your head kicked in.”

  Helidon recognized the real menace in Bixby’s voice. Suddenly he was afraid; sweat broke on him and streamed down his face. He took the handkerchief from his head and wiped his face with it; and as he did so he knew he had lost what little advantage he had, for the moment, gained over this thug. “All right. No police. It will still have to be made out to cash, though. I’ve got several appointments Monday. Come to my office at four-thirty.”

  Bixby shook his head. “Nothing doing. You might have the place bugged, try to get some evidence on me. You’re talking about trusting me. Why would I wanna trust you? Christ, you been two-timing your missus, what’s to stop you pulling a fast one on me? I give you the diary, you gimme the check and when I go to cash it, you’ve rung the bank and stopped payment. Ah no, sport. Cash it’s gunna be and no argument.

  I’ll meet you in the middle of the Harbour Bridge footway. That way nobody can see what we’re passing to each other. And I can see whether you got any demons with you. I tell you, Helidon, if you bring ‘em and they lay a hand on me, I’ll blow the lot about you and Helga. I’ll go to the cooler, but Christ, you’ll be on the front page of every paper in the country. So no tricks, sport. Ten thousand in cash and no tricks, remember. I’ll phone you Monday what time we’ll meet.”

  “But how do I get there? You can’t stop a car on the Bridge—”

  “You’ll have to walk. It’ll do you good.” Bixby stood up, looked at the sweating, abject figure slumped in the cockpit of the boat. “I dunno what Helga saw in you, sport. You must’ve paid her well.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Saturday, December 14

  1

  Malone looked at Lisa as she lay sleeping beside him, marvelling at the flawless bloom of her cheeks, at the length of the lashes on her closed eyes, at the fullness of the slightly parted lips that seemed even fuller this morning from last night’s bruising kisses. How does a man deserve such luck? he thought. He slid out of bed, went out to the kitchen and drank a glass of orange juice. He lrnew he was going to be kissing Lisa again in a few minutes and he knew what a man’s breath, especially a beer drinker’s, could smell like first thing in the morning. He was always amused at the scenes in movies where lovers woke in the morning and in- stantly devoured each other as if they had a mouthful of Sen- Sen. But maybe there was no bad breath in Hollywood, not even first thing in the morning.

  He took a glass of juice back into the bedroom and gently woke Lisa. She rolled over on her back, throwing the sheet off the upper half of her, and looked up at him. For a moment she did not seem to know where she was; then she smiled slowly, as if remembering something from a dream from which she had not yet entirely wakened. “A naked man in my bedroom. What would my mother say?”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “Oh, that’s different, then.” She sat up, took the glass from him, sipped the juice. “Saturday is the morning for naked men around here.”

  They had gone to bed often since her return to Sydney, but last night was the first time he had stayed all night with her. There had been no spoken reason why he had not stayed before; it had been as if they had each decided that they would not make a habit of living together before they were married. Buried deep in Malone there was still an old-fashioned morality: long ago the nuns and brothers had taught him that marriage was a sacrament, not just a legal arrangement, and the ideal, though tarnished over the years, was still there. He did not want to slide into marriage, to stand before a priest or a registry clerk and have legal approval placed on something that he and Lisa had been doing for maybe months. He had sufficient self-candour to acknowledge that he was really only splitting hairs, that whether he went to bed with Lisa for two hours or ten, they had already started their marriage. But old habits, old teachings, clung like grass burrs: principle had to be honoured, even if it were now only plastic.

  Last night it had been Lisa who had suggested he should stay. “Don’t go, darling.”

  “You want more?”

  “No. Yes. No.”

  “That’s a clear-cut answer. Or is that what they call double-Dutch?”

  “Darling, of course I want it again. But that’s not the reason I said stay. You’re worried, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t answer at once; then he said, “Does it show that much? Even while I’m making love to you?”

  “No, it didn’t show then. But at dinner—and even now. You have something else but me on your mind. You won’t sleep if you go home, will you?”

  “I don’t know that I’ll sleep much if I stay here.” He

  grinned; then his face sobered. “You’re right. Just as well a man doesn’t need his mind to make love, otherwise I’d have been impotent tonight.”

  “I’ll debate that bit about needing your mind to make love some other time—” She lifted herself on to her elbow, leaned over him. “Darling, what’s troubling you? Is it this case?”

  He nodded. “When you were working in London, how much do you reckon the diplomats let prejudice colour their judgement?”

  Even in bed she was intelligent, which was more than he had met in any of his other girls. “Darling, are you trying to compare justice with diplomacy?”

  “I suppose so. No comparison, eh?”

  “None at all. Someone once said that justice is truth in action.” Charlie Duggan wasn’t the one who had said it. But Malone didn’t mention him: maybe Lisa would not understand Charlie. “Diplomacy is only compromise in action.”

  “You know, you’re the first naked philosopher I’ve ever met. Do you always think better with your clothes off? Maybe you should get together with that Beatle and his wife, the ones with the bare bum wisdom.”

  She bent her head, kissed him, then bit his lip. He flinched and slapped her shoulder, but she said, “Be serious.”

  “I am. I’m trying to laugh so I won’t feel my headache. But it doesn’t work.”

  “I know. My mother told me that, when the Nazis were in Holland during the war. She said they used to joke among themselves, laugh at the Germans’ pomposity and s
tupidity. But the Germans were always still there in the morning.”

  “You don’t like the Germans, do you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s prejudice talking. There are some good Germans.”

  “Was your Helga Brand a good German?”

  “I don’t know that she was a good anything, except maybe a good whore. But it’s not her I’m prejudiced about. I’m

  very objective when it comes to murder victims. I’m supposed to be objective about the murderer, too. But that’s the hard part in this case.”

  “You know who the murderer is?”

  “I think so.” He was silent for a moment, his hand idly stroking the smoothness of her back. “On the evidence I’ve got I could lay a warrant against him tomorrow. But—”

  She waited for him to go on; then she said, “Who is it? Walter Helidon or his wife?”

  His hand stopped flat against her back, his fingers pressing into her. “His wife?”

  “It’s not her, then?”

  “Why should it be?”

  “I didn’t say it should be. But it could be, couldn’t it? She had enough reason to kill Helga Brand.”

  “Would you kill a girl who was trying to blackmail me? One who’d been my mistress?”

  “That’s not a fair question. How does one know what one would do in a particular circumstance? I like to think I’m a law-abiding, moral person. But I’ve sometimes wondered why the Dutch didn’t kill more Germans, especially since they hated them so much.”

  “There’s a moral difference about killing in wartime. At least, there’s supposed to be. But maybe your Dutch friends didn’t kill the Germans because they had to live with them.”

  “That’s just what my father said. He said if they’d killed a German, there’d have still been ten others there in the morning.” She kissed the end of his nose. “My parents are going to like you, you know.”

  “Don’t tell ‘em where we had this discussion. Do you really think Mrs. Helidon might have killed Helga?”

  ‘You don’t, that’s obvious. You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you? About who killed her, I mean. Mr. Helidon?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “What’s your worry then, darling?”

  He shrugged. “Asking me to put it into words, I don’t know that I can. It’s just—well, I think I’d judged him before I’d really built up a case against him. I knew his background. He’s a man without much in the way of principles—or he was when I last met him. He got away with something he shouldn’t have, and I guess that rankled with me—I mean when I remembered it. I haven’t been thinking about it for seven or eight years.”

  “What was it?”

  “No, I’m not telling you that. He got away with it, so it’s closed now. But I’m trying to tell myself that he has to be the murderer and whether I or anyone else worked on it, the answer would still come out the same. But I’m afraid if I have to get up in court and give evidence, they’re bound to notice the prejudice in my answers. I won’t be able to help him. I want him to be the murderer. And I’m not sure that it isn’t just because I didn’t nail him last time.”

  She moved closer to him, lying on him, and took his head in her hands. “Darling, if he’s the murderer, then your or anyone else’s prejudices don’t matter a damn. The jury will decide, not you. You shouldn’t let yourself become involved like this.”

  “I had that told to me before.”

  “Just become involved with me. There. Don’t go home tonight.”

  And now it was morning and the problem, like the Germans in Holland, had not gone away during the night. “Did you sleep well, darling?”

  “Like a log.” Which was true; but only from exhaustion, not from peace of mind. “But I’ve got to go to work now. I’ll get myself some breakfast.”

  “I’ll get it for you while you shower. What would you like?”

  “After last night, a piece of steak and some eggs. The eggs nice and runny.”

  She made a face. “First thing in the morning?”

  “Anything is good first thing in the morning. Especially this.”

  “No, darling. Aah …” Then later she said, “Do you still want your steak and eggs?”

  “A double helping now. What do Dutchman eat after making love first thing in the morning?”

  “You’re always asking me those sort of tricky questions. Let me up.”

  “Get your bosom out of my hand.” Then he stopped smiling and kissed her gently on the bruised lips. “I love you, Lisa. Prejudiced about you, in fact.”

  “Don’t ever change, darling. And always be with me in the mornings.”

  2

  Clements, looking as miserable as a wet fowl, was arranging the latest batch of Christmas cards on the mantelpiece when Malone arrived in the office. “Here’s one from Milly Morrow. Remember she used to work out of the pubs along the Quay? Never made more than three quid a night in her life, I reckon. She was a poor picker. Says she’s retired now and working as a cook on a sheep station up near Coonam-ble.” He grimaced as he looked at the cheap fancy card, an old whore’s pathetic nostalgia for a sad past: the only friends she had left from it were policemen. “Dunno I’d like that, her being a cook. She’d had the clap more times than I’ve had a cold.” He blew his nose. “You think we oughta write her boss and warn him?”

  “Let him find out himself. She can give him the clap for Christmas. How’s your cold?”

  “Bloody awful,” said Clements, eyes streaming. “I’m going home pretty soon.”

  “How did you get on last night with Bixby?”

  Clements wiped his eyes, peered closer at Malone. “What happened to your lip? You have a fight with Lisa?”

  “Don’t you know a love bite when you see one?”

  “Who gives a copper love bites? You’re just unique, mate. Well, anyway, about Bixby.” He spread his hands. “Bugger-all. I dug up his address, he has a flat out at Bondi, went out there, nobody home. The neighbours said they haven’t seen him since last Tuesday or Wednesday, they couldn’t remember which.” He sat down on the edge of a desk, looked soberly at Malone. “Does that change the outlook?”

  Malone had sat down at his desk, was slowly flipping through the file on the Brand case. “I don’t know.” He looked up, asking Clements to make up his mind for him. “What do you reckon?”

  Clements had a direct attitude that may not have helped the cause of justice but did not give him headaches. “Look, Scobie, we’ve got nothing on Bixby at all. Nothing at all. The chewed matches don’t prove anything—it could have been any one of a dozen other guys. We don’t even have a connection between him and Helga.”

  “There’s a thin one. Gibson’s photo was in Helga’s file and Bixby worked for Gibson.”

  “I don’t think I’d want to look into that one. That opens up another ant-hill. We could go on for bloody ever that way. If you’re gunna trace every bloke who ever had anything to do with her, what about all of them she must’ve had back in Hamburg? Any one of those could have turned up here in Sydney. If she was on the game back there for five or six years, she could have been underneath half the German merchant navy at some time or other. We don’t know why she left Germany. What if she’d run out on some ponce and he finally caught up with her out here?” He shook his head.

  “Let’s settle for what we’ve got, Scobie. They’re not asking us to be the jury. All we have to do is put up enough evidence for a case to be made out against Helidon. We’ve got more than enough.”

  Then Inspector, soon-to-be-Superintendent, Fulmer came in. He had, if anything, become more pontifical. “It’s time, gentlemen, that we let justice take its course. Mr. Helidon should be given his chance to answer our suspicions, don’t you think?”

  Christ help us if he should ever get to be Commissioner, Malone thought. He’d be issuing papal bulls instead of warrants. “Russ and I were just discussing that.” He saw Fulmer look at him expectantly and he wondered: is he waiting for m
e to call him sir now? No, I’ll wait till Monday before I start that. But he sat up straighter in his chair. Fulmer was his backstop on this case and he might need the new Superintendent if things got sticky. “I think it’s time for a warrant.”

  Fulmer nodded. “All right. But I’ll have to see the Commissioner first. He’s come in this morning, for some reason or other. There’s something going on up there at his office.”

  “Do you think it might have something to do with Helidon?” Clements asked. “Would the Premier have got word of what we’re up to?”

  “Possibly.” Fulmer’s long jaw came up. “But it’s not going to make a darned bit of difference. We’ll get that warrant.”

  Then, as if the Commissioner had been listening to him, the phone rang in Fulmer’s office. He went into the small room, came out a minute later. “I’m wanted up there right away.”

  “Is it about Helidon?”

  “I couldn’t say. But it will be about him before I leave there. Wait here till I come back.”

  He should have said Till I return. And there should be a roll of drums as he’s going out now; or better still, a heavenly

  choir. Fulmer went out, strode out, and Malone sat back and put his feet up on his desk.

  “Well, that’s it,” he said to Clements, and heard the relief in his own voice as if he were listening to a stranger. “It’s out of our hands now/’

  Clements shrugged and blew his nose; he was too miserable and not involved enough to feel relief. “It’s been more interesting than most jobs. At least we got to see how the other half lives.”

  “You’re a reactionary snob, mate.”

  “You’ve said that before. If you’re trying to insult me, you’re on the wrong tack.”

  “I think you’d like to have had your name on one of Mrs. Helidon’s invitation lists. I could just see you at the Blue and Red Ball.”

  “Somehow I don’t think Mrs. Helidon’s lists are gunna be worth two cents from now on.” He blew his nose again. “I think I’ll hang around till Tom comes back. If we’re gunna serve that warrant this afternoon, I think I’d like to be there, cold or no cold.”