The Marvellous Boy

by Peter Corris

  “Still got your pants on, Cliff,” he crowed, “what’s wrong with you?”

  “Get stuffed, I’m working. Tell me more about the Baudins. What about the wife?”

  “No wife, she died a few years back.” He drank some beer and dropped the question in casually. “What’s your interest, Cliff?”

  My throat felt dry as I formed the question in my mind; I eased the feeling with gin. “What about the son, he around?”

  “Baudin has two sons I think, depends which one you mean. Come on Cliff, what’s it about?”

  The professional tone in his voice warned me to cover up. Rose was still a journalist, still a news-monger even if he was now a politician’s errand boy. The last thing Lady C. would have wanted was for everyone to be reading about her long-lost grandson before she’d met him herself.

  “Baudin’s just a small part of something else, Tom,” I said. “How’s your job here working out?”

  He told me at some length. I hated to hear it; it was all excuses, excuses for changing a real but uncomfortable job for an unreal one. I only half-listened and kept an eye out for Billie Harris and the secretary. I finished my drink. Rose had got through the beer and he went off for refills. I wandered down towards the pool in which there were now only two people—a man and a woman treading water and talking conspiratorially down at the deep end. The party had moved off towards a section of the lawn where a couple of portable barbecues were going full-blast. I stared down at the pool; in the fading light the water looked like slowly rippling green ink. I turned around to look for Jeeves and bumped into a woman who’d appeared behind me. I apologised and had to look her straight in the eye to do it; she was nearly as tall as me and held her head up. She looked arrogant.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I should have coughed or something. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t seen you at one of these do’s before for one thing and you were with Rose for another.”

  “Is that interesting?”

  “It could be. I watch his minister.”

  “So you’re a journo. What do you know about this Baudin character?”

  She smiled and the arrogance fell away. “Me first—got any dirt?”

  “Tons, but not on Tom’s master—sorry.”

  “Oh well, worth a try.” She leaned closer. “You’ve got a hard look to you now I come to notice. Are you a cop?”

  “No, private detective.”

  The smile again. I was starting to like her. “But you’re not sniffing around Crowley?”

  “If that’s Tom’s boss, no. Why not pump Tom a bit?”

  “He’s pissed,” she said. “He’s over there with a whole box of cans.” She pointed towards the shadows. I tried to steer her over to the drinks table without doing anything as obvious as taking her arm or dragging her by the hair. She was wearing a dark blue dress with a red tie around the neck like a sailor’s. She had dark, short hair and long, slim legs ending in white, high-heeled sandals. Her eyes were dark and slightly slanted in a wide, high cheek-boned face. We reached the table and she asked for scotch and ice. I made it and put two drops of gin into a glass of tonic.

  I gave her the drink. “Cliff Hardy,” I said. “Who’re you?”

  “Kay Fletcher. What brings you here, I suppose you’re from Sydney?”

  There was a wistfulness in her voice that gained her another hundred or so points with me.

  “Sydney, right. What’s the party for?”

  “Oh it’s all about some deal he’s pulled off, a mine of some kind I think. The government’s put up some money, that’s why the politicos are here.”

  “And the likes of you and Rose.”

  “I had nothing better to do.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Thanks, but it’s true. I went through all the possible men in this place in the first year, I don’t feel like starting on the rest.”

  It wasn’t an invitation and it wasn’t a put-down. I judged that she was ready to be interested in me if I could be interesting—fair enough. I was on a job, though, and despite myself I looked up to the house for the secretary. I saw him out by the wall looking over the guests who were gathered around the burning meat.

  “Look Kay, I’m on a job.” I pointed out the big dark man. “I have to see him and talk to Baudin, it shouldn’t take long. Will you be around?”

  She looked at her watch, a big one made for telling the time. “I’ll give you an hour,” she said, “maybe a bit more.”

  I touched her arm, which made me want to do more touching, and went up to the house. The secretary loomed up over me like a medieval knight surveying invaders from his castle wall.

  “Mr. Baudin will see you.”

  I vaulted over the wall, showing off for the girl, and was sorry immediately. The knight seemed not to notice and strode off across the flagstones to the house. As I went in through the French windows it occurred to me that it was strange for Baudin to be still living in the same place thirty years later, given that he’d come up so far in the world. Not that it wasn’t a pretty fair shack; the carpet was thick and the paintings on the walls weren’t prints. The secretary showed me into a smallish room that had a bar against one wall and some books opposite. There were four big, velvet-covered armchairs. There were two men in the chairs. One was small and wizened with wispy grey hair around his bald skull. The top of his head was baby pink, incongruous beside the ancient, lined flesh on his face. He was wearing a cream shirt, cream trousers and white shoes, like the Wimbledon heroes of long ago. The other man had on a lightweight suit with the jacket open to show his soft, spreading belly. His face was pale and puffy He was thirtyish.

  14

  Sir Galahad said my name softly and went away. The old man had my card in one hand. In the other was a glass with liquid in it the colour of very weak tea—at a guess it was the weakest of whisky and water.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hardy.” He lifted the card a millimetre into the air as if it weighed a ton. “I am Nicholas Baudin. May I ask what you wish to see me about?” His voice was faint and fell away on the word endings.

  Before I could answer the other man put in his oar.

  “Don’t be foolish Father, what could you possibly have to say to someone like this?” There was a sneer in his voice but some apprehension also; he leaned over and peered at the card. “A private detective who knows Rose and that slut Kay Fletcher. This is obviously some kind of newspaper muck-raking.”

  “This is my son, Keir,” Baudin said. “This is his house.”

  “It used to be yours,” I said for no reason.

  Keir took another drink. “Researching the family Hardy? Won’t do you any good. There are no skeletons in our cupboard.”

  The skin on the old man’s face tightened, his hand shook as he took a sip but he didn’t say anything. I was feeling out of my depth; here were two people very much on edge and all I’d done was present my card.

  “My father is ill as you can probably see—he musn’t be upset.”

  There wasn’t a lot of conviction in his voice and still some provocation. It crossed my mind that he wouldn’t worry if Dad did get a bit upset. I decided I didn’t like Keir. I addressed myself to the old man.

  “I’ll try not to upset you, Mr. Baudin. I’m making enquiries about your adopted son but there’s nothing sinister in it.”

  “Warwick!” Keir almost shouted the word and I could feel his apprehension and aggression go up a hundred points.

  I said “My client . . .” and stopped. The pace had been too hot for me to think out in advance how to approach this moment. And I hadn’t expected it to come up so soon. How do you pry your way into the secret vault of adoption? Except that this wasn’t an ordinary adoption. That gave me some leverage. Keir’s obvious disaffection could be useful too, if I could play it right.

  “We’re waiting, Hardy,” Keir purred. “Your client . . .”

  “I can’t give you the nam
e of course,” I said, knowing how lame it sounded, “but my client believes that your adopted son is properly part of her family. She wants to establish the connection; she’s old, it’s important to her.”

  “I was always curious about Warwick’s genes,” Nicholas Baudin said.

  This galvanised Keir. He slurped down his drink and his previously carefully modulated voice went up into a squeak.

  “Who are these people? Who?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that at this stage. There are a lot of threads to tie up. This could be a false lead, if it’s not you’ll get all the details in time.”

  “Thanks very much.” Keir again. He got up and stood as tall as he could—about five foot six. “This is preposterous. I won’t have it. I’m going to call Rogers and have this character thrown out. It’s an original line, I’ll say that for it.” He moved up to his father’s chair keeping well away from me, still standing. He noticed that his glass was empty and went across to the bar for more. He slammed the glass down on the bar and turned dramatically.

  “Of course! This is Warwick’s idea! Come on Father, this is some sort of hoax.” He took his drink across and stood protectively near the old man’s chair. “You’re not a bad actor, Mr. Hardy, you had me fooled. But I can’t for the life of me see how Warwick would get anything out of this.”

  “You’re babbling,” I said. “I’ve never met your brother.”

  “Don’t call him my brother.” The squeak was back. “He forfeited that right years ago.”

  “I’d like to hear about it.”

  “Well you won’t. Clear off.”

  He was red in the face with anger and from the effort of keeping himself at his full height. I looked down at his feet and realised that I’d over-measured him; he wore built-up shoes that must have given him a couple of inches. Short men who want to impress should cultivate an icy mien or be jolly—I knew a few who did it successfully. I grinned at him.

  “I’d say that was up to your father. I’ve told you the truth, as much of it as I can.”

  The old man seemed to get the message. He pulled himself up in the chair and shoved his glass at Keir. “Don’t brawl Keir, it’s not your forte. And for God’s sake get me a decent drink, it’s a crime to drown good whisky like this.”

  The son snatched up the glass clumsily, his father could strip him of composure so quickly I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “Sit down, Mr. Hardy.” The old boy pointed to the chair nearest him. “Will you have a drink?”

  “Thanks, no, I’ve got things to do tonight.” I took out my tobacco and held it up enquiringly.

  “Go ahead.” He took the glass from Keir without acknowledgement; the drink was dark this time, neat scotch over ice. He drank some and settled back in his chair.

  “That’s better. Do you know the occasion for this gathering?”

  I worked at the makings. “Something to do with mining I heard.”

  “That’s right. A mine. It’ll be operational in five years—I’ll be dead.”

  Keir made a noise that was hard to interpret, perhaps shock, perhaps dutiful protest. Baudin ignored it. So did I.

  “I’m nearly eighty and that’s the sort of thing I have to celebrate. What do you think of that?”

  I had the cigarette going and took in a lungful. “I don’t know. You could celebrate being nearly eighty. A lot of people don’t make it so far.”

  His snort could have been amusement. His old eyes just looked old.

  “There’s something in what you say. Well, are you offering me something else to celebrate? Has my adopted son come into enormous wealth or a title?”

  “No title. Some wealth I guess, if he’s the man. Other considerations are more important. I’m concerned about the family.”

  He drank again and smacked his lips. “You should be. It pains me to say it of someone I raised, but if anything good is going to happen to Warwick it will be a colossal injustice. He’s one of the most worthless people that ever lived.”

  This pronouncement seemed to give Keir heart.

  “He’s rubbish,” he said. His father said nothing and his confidence went up. “Father I simply can’t believe this. He’s snooping about something else.”

  All that did was tell me that there was something else to snoop about. Baudin senior lifted his head at him and he subsided.

  “Keir was born less than a year after we took Warwick. It was one of those cases. The two boys never got along.”

  I nodded. “His character isn’t really my concern. I’d better come clean with you. I’m pretty sure he is the man I want. A physical similarity to other members of the family would help. Do you have a photograph of him?”

  “No,” Keir snapped. “We have nothing.”

  Something in the way he said it made panic jump in me. “You don’t mean he’s dead?” Then I remembered Keir’s earlier remark.

  The relief must have showed. “This is important to you, Mr. Hardy?” Baudin’s face seemed to lose flesh with the effort of talking.

  “Yes. Do you know where Warwick is now?”

  I expelled smoke and waited for an answer. Keir supplied it from the middle of a smirk across his pasty face.

  “No, we don’t.”

  Baudin pére didn’t contradict him. Instead he drank the rest of his whisky and set the glass down as if he’d lost interest in liquor forever.

  “That boy was the trial of my life,” he said in his faint, falling tones. “Everything else I touched turned out just right except . . . except Warwick. He was trouble from the start. Enormously gifted but a monster. He killed my wife. She loved him more than me, more than Keir. She called him her marvelous boy and he killed her with worry and shame.”

  “What sort of trouble Mr. Baudin?”

  “Everything—cars, girls, drink, cheques. Everything.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Everywhere. Here, Sydney, London, New York, Rome.”

  Keir was loving it but he was a hypocrite to the core. “Really, Father, is this wise? I don’t trust this man an inch. His story is quite unbelievable. He’s in this with Warwick, you can bet your life on it.”

  “Bet my life,” the old man said dreamily. “A good expression for the young. It doesn’t carry much punch at my age. It might interest you to know, Keir, that I’d bet my life Mr. Hardy here is telling the truth.”

  “Why?” Keir said petulantly.

  “God boy, you’d better sharpen up. If you can’t judge character better than that you’ll be on the dole before I’m cold. Have a look at the man for Christ’s sake, does he look like a confidence trickster?”

  “He’s in a cheap trade,” Keir muttered.

  “There!” the father said triumphantly. “There! You accept that he’s an enquiry agent. You’re confused. You’re believing what you want to believe.”

  The unequal contest was starting to bore me. I wanted facts and leads, not a sparring match. All I had were impressions and hostilities; it would be hard to concoct a professional-looking report for Lady Catherine on what I had so far. The cigarette was a dead stub between my fingers.

  “Let me get this straight, Mr. Baudin. Your son is something of a black sheep, or was. But he’s a grown man now. You mentioned gifts, what did you mean?”

  “Everything again,” Baudin said slowly. “He was brilliant at everything. God you should have seen him run . . . cricket . . . tennis . . . matriculated with honours . . .” He was weary. The whisky seemed to have hit him. His eyelids were flickering as if he were fighting to keep them up. Keir watched him intently and expertly and I realised that this was what he had on him—the staying power of fewer years on the clock.

  “My father is tired, Hardy, and I have nothing to say to you.”

  “When did you last see your brother?” I snapped.

  “Three years ago.” Again, it came out too quickly; my firmest impression of this wispy young-old man was that he lied almost every time he opened his mouth. “You h
ave to go,” he said smugly.

  There was no arguing with it, the old man was drooping. I put in a last desperate question.

  “Mr. Baudin, what was the last address you had for Warwick?”

  “Sydney,” the old man whispered.

  “He’s wandering,” Keir said brightly. “It was London, a slum in Islington. Don’t make the trip, it wouldn’t be worth it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Warwick is a drunk among other things. His last card was a drunken . . .” He stopped as if he was unhappy at giving this information away but I misinterpreted him. His pale face turned blotchy with anger and he seemed to be recalling nursery days. His voice went soft, almost babyish.

  “I wouldn’t put it past Warwick to dream up something like this. He hates me.” It was interesting psychologically but I needed facts.

  “Have you got the card?” I said.

  “What? No. I tore it up. Get out, get out!”

  A light snore from the old man did the trick. Baudin senior was dead asleep in his chair. His hand rested an inch away from his glass which still held a few drops of whisky, just a few.

  15

  The sky had darkened and the party had thinned by the time I got outside. The secretary was hovering and he bustled back into the house when he saw me. I wondered which Baudin he served, Senior or Junior, or if he knew. Kay was sitting under a tree a little apart from the hard core drinkers. I walked over to her with that little pilot light of excitement burning.

  “Did you get what you wanted?” She got up smoothly but didn’t seem to mind my token help in the form of a hand on her arm. Her arm was cool and soft and I kept hold of it.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m a bit too tired to think about it right now. I’ll worry about it later. Do you want another drink here or will we go somewhere else?”

  “I’d like to eat. I’m starving.”