The Serpent's Sting

by Robert Gott

  ‘So they met Miss Buchanan, and soon afterwards, she goes missing, and you seriously didn’t think there might be some connection?’

  ‘It’s only now, Detective, that Geraldine’s absence is being treated as a disappearance. She told me she was scheduled to paint trucks at Puckapunyal, so of course I had no suspicions that there might be something sinister afoot.’

  ‘Let’s go back to your re-visiting the house. Why did you do that?’

  ‘I was beginning to be concerned, and …’

  ‘And still you didn’t inform the police?’

  ‘And I thought Geraldine’s absence could be explained by something simple, such as, I don’t know, the flu. Perhaps I’d find her curled up in bed with a fever.’

  ‘Did someone let you into the house?’

  Ah, now it was falling into place. The twitch of the curtains and the slightly ajar door: there had been someone there, after all; the landlady, I presumed.

  ‘No one answered my knock, so I let myself in.’

  ‘You broke in.’

  ‘I let myself in through an unlocked door. I went up to Geraldine’s room, and again, the door was unlocked, and I went in. There was no one there, and there didn’t seem to be any signs of disturbance, although the room was far from neat. Geraldine is not a tidy person. Actresses rarely are. I saw the portrait she’d done — it was different from the one I’d sat for. I was shirtless in it, for a start, and I was fully clothed when I posed.’

  ‘And how did Miss Buchanan know how you looked without your shirt on?’

  I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t prepared to tell them that Geraldine and I had been intimate.

  ‘Actors spend most of their lives in varying states of undress, detective. Perhaps she saw me when passing my dressing room. I barely know you, and even you’ve seen me without my shirt on.’

  Detective Strachan flipped open the sketchbook.

  ‘And did she see you like this in the dressing room?’

  I stared at a page of elegant and deft sketches of a naked male. He reclined on a bed, his hands behind his head, his cock hard; he stood, his hands on his hips, his cock hard. The face, a brilliant, rapidly drawn few lines, was undeniably mine. I hadn’t posed for these pictures. They were captured by an artist sufficiently gifted to render them from memory. They were skilful, pornographic, and intensely private.

  ‘Well, Mr Power? These are drawings of you, are they not?’

  My thoughts were chaotic.

  ‘A few lines on a page are hardly conclusive. It might be me, but it might be anybody. There are no particularly distinguishing features. If I had a tattoo and it was reproduced there, that might be conclusive, but I don’t have any tattoos.’

  Strachan’s exasperation broke the surface, albeit briefly.

  ‘Did you pose for these sketches?’

  With confidence borne of the truth, almost with brio, I was able to say, ‘I did not pose for those drawings. They are works of Geraldine’s imagination.’

  ‘Miss Buchanan’s landlady, a Mrs Ferrell, described you as furtive.’

  ‘How did she know who I was? I’ve never met her.’

  ‘She didn’t know you at first. However, she takes The Listener-In, and there you were.’

  I was surprised, and inappropriately flattered, that a stranger would recognise me from the rather gorgeous photograph on the cover of The Listener-In. Still, I wasn’t happy about being described as ‘furtive’.

  ‘Did you take anything away with you from Miss Buchanan’s room?’

  It was Radcliff who posed this offensive question.

  ‘What would I steal from Geraldine?’

  ‘Perhaps Geraldine herself?’

  Even Radcliff recognised this as merely word play, and didn’t pursue it.

  ‘Detective Radcliff,’ I said wearily. ‘I knew Geraldine Buchanan for no more than a few days. What possible motive would I have for harming her?’

  Strachan answered.

  ‘You shouldn’t encourage us to come up with lurid, hypothetical scenarios, Mr Power. With these sketches as an aid, we could speculate on a series of events that would appal the most hardened readers of Truth.’

  I was genuinely shocked, and leaned forward.

  ‘Are you threatening to release an unfounded rumour to Truth that I might have been involved in the disappearance of Geraldine Buchanan?’

  Strachan was enjoying himself.

  ‘Imagine the headline: Mother Goose Lays a Rotten Egg.’

  ‘Mother Goose Gives Actress a Gander. See page three.’

  Neither of them laughed. Their witticisms produced only sour smiles. The effect was vicious.

  ‘It would be terrible,’ Strachan said, ‘if any of these explicit drawings found their way to one of those scurrilous reporters. There are some we haven’t shown you. They suggest you have rather specialised tastes when it comes to sex. Of course, we’ll do everything in our power to prevent any of this material getting into the wrong hands.’

  I tried to keep the expression on my face composed. I could feel small muscles twitching and jumping, betraying my internal panic. They both knew that I’d be envisioning the end of my career as scandal crashed over me.

  ‘Relax, Mr Power,’ Radcliff said. ‘We don’t work that way. You just bring out the worst in us. Even when you’re co-operating, you continue to create the impression that you’re being evasive.’

  ‘I have no reason to be evasive, I assure you.’

  ‘Perhaps you might care to explain, upon reflection, those intimate sketches of you.’

  ‘I can say with absolute truth that I did not pose for those sketches, and that I don’t have peculiar habits in the bedroom. The drawings are a product, a disturbing product, of Geraldine’s imagination.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Power. For the moment, that will be all.’

  ‘You haven’t asked a single question about John Gilbert.’

  Detective Strachan folded his arms.

  ‘You may go, Mr Power. We’ll speak again; you can depend on it.’

  Despite his reassurance to the contrary, Strachan’s implied threat to attach, in the public arena, my name to Geraldine’s disappearance, troubled me deeply. The death of John Gilbert hovered menacingly in the air as well. Here were two people who, after a brief acquaintance with me, had come to suspect ends. The gutter press would make a meal of that. I thought I’d put my private-inquiry agent days behind me, but now I realised that if I wanted to protect my growing theatrical reputation, I’d have to find Geraldine, and perhaps discover the cause of John Gilbert’s death into the bargain. The police investigation would move with ponderous slowness and, critically, without regard to my best interests. I’d need Brian’s help.

  When I arrived at Mother’s house, she was leaving to spend the night with Peter Gilbert.

  ‘You needn’t look so disapproving, Will.’

  I didn’t challenge her assumption that the look on my face was disapproval. It wasn’t. I was simply hot, and my expression was no doubt tense as a consequence of my recent interrogation.

  ‘Cloris is quite comfortable with my being there, and Peter needs me, and he needs to be close to Cloris. None of this is easy for any of us.’

  ‘I do understand that, Mother. It’s a difficult time for everybody.’

  Mother paused at the front door, turned and asked, ‘How is it difficult for you, Will?’

  When Mother asked questions like this, it was never a good idea to become defensive. Years of dealing with her impertinent, offensive questions had taught me that the best response was to hit her with both barrels. Sometimes, just sometimes, this took her so completely by surprise that she was silenced.

  ‘Geraldine Buchanan has gone missing, and she went missing the morning after I slept with her. John Gilbert was found dead a few days after I’d met
him. I am apparently a person of interest to the police in both cases, and if the press get a whiff of it, my career will be over. That is how it is difficult for me, Mother.’

  ‘You had sex with that girl?’

  ‘That’s all you heard in that sentence, Mother? Seriously?’

  ‘Well, it was the only thing that really stood out, darling.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother. I’m now too exasperated to continue with this conversation.’

  I turned on my heel and mounted the stairs to my bedroom. Mother had closed the door behind her before I’d reached halfway.

  The bathroom door was closed, and I could hear Brian humming, ‘Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition’. It gave me some satisfaction to mimic the courtesy he failed to show me, and burst in upon him. He was unfazed.

  ‘I’m taking Cloris to the pictures again. She was reluctant, but Peter told her that she needed a distraction. I’m not sure what we should go to see.’

  ‘Something without dead bodies in it.’

  ‘It’s curious, but Cloris doesn’t strike me as being grief-stricken. Now that the initial shock has worn off, she seems …’

  ‘Indifferent?’

  ‘No. Sanguine maybe. Definitely not grief-stricken.’

  ‘You said she didn’t talk to her brother much. Perhaps she didn’t like him.’

  ‘You’re determined to make her a suspect, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m just reminding you that you do need to keep that option open.’

  He was about to say something, but I spoke over him.

  ‘I have a problem that we need to solve together.’

  Brian sat up in the bath. I raised my hand to prevent him expressing his astonishment verbally.

  ‘I was interviewed by Radcliff and Strachan this afternoon. They’ve got it into their thick heads that I’m involved somehow in Geraldine’s disappearance, and they’re letting me know in a ham-fisted way that it lies within their power to end my career by leaking the scandal to the press. I’m not going to allow that to happen.’

  ‘You have a plan?’

  ‘We’re going to find Geraldine.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You and I.’

  ‘Work piles up when you become a private-inquiry agent, doesn’t it? We’re going to solve the death of Peter Gilbert’s wife, the murder of his son, and the disappearance of Geraldine Buchanan. And none of these offers any sort of remuneration.’

  I exhaled a deep sigh, and not wishing to reignite the issue of Brian’s employment elsewhere, I said, ‘If you’re serious about setting up as a private-inquiry agent, three successful cases will offer remuneration in terms of reputation. They’ll be the foundation of your career.’

  ‘Oh, please. If you’re asking me to help you find the Buchanan girl, isn’t that tantamount to hiring me — and if you’re hiring me, shouldn’t you be paying me?’

  ‘I’d be happy to pay you, Brian. May I see your references? Your list of satisfied clients?’

  Brian laughed.

  ‘Yes, well, I see your point. Of course I’ll help you, Will.’

  ‘Meet me downstairs in the front room when you’re finished here. We’ll discuss strategy.’

  I noted in passing that Brian’s body hair, recently shaved to lend credibility to his performance as a woman, was beginning to grow back. His turn as a femme had been very impressive. Perhaps this unusual talent might be useful. I didn’t think it wise to mention this before I’d formulated a definite plan. Getting him to play the femme in the concert party performances hadn’t been easy, and I imagined that he’d be in no hurry to revisit the laborious task of full-body depilation.

  While I was waiting for Brian to finish his ablutions, I did a quick run-through of the tenuous leads we might follow. In the matter of John Gilbert’s death, we had no one beyond his father and his sister. This applied equally to the death of Mrs Gilbert. I knew next to nothing of Geraldine’s private life, but at least there were people we could talk to — the members of the company, for a start, and especially Sophie, her understudy. There were the two Americans, her landlady — Mrs Ferrell — and the other woman with whom she shared the boarding house. The police would be trawling these waters, too. Brian and I would need to use unorthodox methods of inquiry.

  When Brian came down, we divvied up the people we needed to speak to. I’d find the Americans, and deal with the cast of Mother Goose. Brian had a better chance with Mrs Ferrell, who wouldn’t be amenable to chatting with me. I’d approach the other girl. The Gilbert cases would be best handled by Brian. He had an in with Cloris, and his relationship with Peter Gilbert was less fractious than my relationship with him.

  ‘Maybe you should think about doing something other than going to a movie with Cloris. There’s not much opportunity to talk during a movie.’

  ‘I could take her dancing. Or is that too intimate and frivolous?’

  ‘Why don’t you suggest going into town to do some people-watching? Discussing how frightful other people are might lead her into comfortable conversation about her family.’

  ‘And while I’m doing that, what will you be doing?’

  ‘I’m going to Camp Pell to see if I can track down Harlen Quist and Anthony Dervian. That might be doomed to failure. On the way I might wander past Geraldine’s place and see if the flat-mate has returned from wherever she went for Christmas. That will be tricky because I don’t want to confront Mrs Ferrell. She’s firmly of the view that I’ve murdered Geraldine and disposed of her body.’

  Brian turned his head on one side and examined me.

  ‘You don’t look murderous to me, Will, but it is extraordinary how in recent months people have been queuing up to accuse you of murder. What is it about you, do you suppose, that makes you such an ideal suspect?’

  ‘You should never underestimate the stupidity of other people, Brian.’

  It was just after 6.00 p.m. when I reached the boarding house in Fitzgibbon Street. I stood on the opposite side of the road, and tried to look inconspicuous. The twitch of the curtains revealed that I’d failed, and I realised that coming to Geraldine’s house had been a mistake. Mrs Ferrell would report to the police that I’d been hanging around, that I’d returned yet again to the scene of the crime like a dog returns to its vomit. I’d have to curtail this, and the best approach seemed to be to confront her head-on — a risky strategy, but the situation demanded it.

  I crossed the street and knocked on the front door. In retrospect, I ought to have realised that Mrs Ferrell would be unlikely to open the door to a man she suspected of being a murderer. I felt, though, that I simply couldn’t leave without speaking with her. Again in retrospect, my decision to enter the house from the rear, as I’d done previously, was an error of judgement. In my defence, I believed that if I had the chance to speak to Mrs Ferrell I could charm her into revealing all she knew about Geraldine. If she would just talk to me, she would know immediately that I was the last person on earth who’d want to harm Geraldine, or anybody.

  The back door of the house was unlocked. I found this oddly reassuring. If Mrs Ferrell genuinely believed that one of her tenants had been the victim of foul play, surely this door would have been locked and barred? Perhaps I’d been wrong about Mrs Ferrell. Perhaps, in fact, she knew perfectly well that I’d had nothing to do with Geraldine’s disappearance, because she, Mrs Ferrell, knew where Geraldine was. In order to avoid any sense that I was creeping about illicitly, I called out Mrs Ferrell’s name as soon as I entered the house.

  ‘Mrs Ferrell!’

  The name echoed through the building, and as it rang out in the silence, it sounded rather alarming, which wasn’t the effect I was after at all. I moved quickly to the door of the room at the front of the house. The twitching curtains were in this room, so I knew that Mrs Ferrell was lurking within. I knocked, and called her name more gently. There
was no reply, and no sound from the other side of the door. I tried the handle, and that was when the shrieking began. High-pitched and terrifyingly shrill, it was the raw expression of hysterical fear. I took my hand off the doorknob, hoping that the keening would stop. A door opened upstairs, and a young woman rushed down. She stopped suddenly at the bottom, and seemed only then to notice me. She began screaming in hideous sympathy with Mrs Ferrell. The sound of two women screaming induces a kind of contagious panic, and I felt my legs going weak. I held up my hands in a defensive gesture.

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘please stop screaming.’

  I took a step towards her. Her screams rose half an octave. I could see no way out of this. Neither woman was going to be soothed by my voice. The only solution was to retreat. I grabbed at the knob on the front door and pulled. It was locked, which I ought to have remembered, but under such circumstances, details like this tend to get lost. I turned the key, undid the latch, yanked open the door, and fled into Fitzgibbon Street. Several people had come out of their houses in response to the screaming women, and they watched as I hurried away. There was now a chorus of witnesses to attest to my unwanted, uninvited entry into Geraldine’s house.

  Shaken, I headed for Camp Pell. This was a large section of Royal Park that had been converted into an army base. The Americans had been granted a section of it for their troops. It was close to the zoo, and I’d heard more than one soldier say that the deep yawp of the lions at night was disconcerting. On a still night, we could hear them in Princes Hill. When I was a boy, that strange basso profundo often made my dreams go awry.

  I’d never been to Camp Pell. I’d imagined that it was just a great aggregation of tents that anyone might walk among. There were tents all right, and lots of them, but there were many more substantial buildings, too. This was a small town, with a perimeter fence designed to keep soldiers in and civilians out. I found the main entrance, which was busy with soldiers returning from leave and those with evening passes on their way out. No one went in or out without presenting a pass to one of the MPs on the gate. In the gathering gloaming I saw several women — prostitutes, I surmised — standing provocatively opposite the entrance. I was shocked at their brazenness, and surprised that they hadn’t been moved on. Perhaps they didn’t need to be moved on, given the speed with which soldiers attached themselves to even the least appealing of them. They were there, and then they weren’t there. I’d been fortunate to catch them at the beginning of the night shift. I wondered briefly if this might be a way of using Brian in his alter ego.