The Marvellous Boy ch-3

by Peter Corris

  ‘He means it,’ Rogers whispered. ‘He means it, Mr Baudin.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Now what’s your problem, why all this aggravation?’

  ‘Well, Warwick…’ He stopped and it took a moan from Rogers to start him again but after that it came out fairly steadily. Warwick was blackmailing him. He’d lied about the last communication he’d had from him, now he produced it — a note scrawled on a postcard which was unstamped so it must have come in an envelope. It was undated:

  Keir,

  This will be the last time I ask you for money, I swear it. I’m on to something big but I need a decent appearance. $1,500 will do. Send it c/- Honey 10a Clark Street Darlinghurst. Last time I promise. When I get the money I’ll send your stuff back.

  The note wasn’t signed. I felt a surge of excitement at this nasty bit of work, but the timing was all-important.

  ‘When did you get this?’ Baudin looked relieved to get a question he could answer.

  ‘A year ago, or a bit less.’

  ‘Did you pay him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he have on you?’

  The relief subsided, this was harder. He looked down at his tiny blue-veined feet. ‘Sexual things,’ he muttered.

  I thought about it and didn’t like it much. Sending Rogers was an over-reaction even if he thought I was in collusion with Warwick; there had to be something more. I brought my hand up to rub my face and realised I was still holding the gun. Baudin jumped at the movement and shrank back in his chair.

  ‘Christ you’re jumpy. You’re hiding something. Did he send you whatever it was, this… stuff he talks about?’

  ‘No. He was always a cheat and a liar.’

  ‘And you’re an upright man, I suppose.’ I was feeling weary and out of ideas. I looked across at Kay who moved her shoulders in a sort of shrug. Suddenly I was angry, furious at the little creep and his thug who’d made me act like a sadist. I felt dirty and cheap and had to take it out somehow.

  ‘Why did you send Rogers after us?’

  ‘I told you,’ Baudin said. ‘I thought you and Warwick…”

  ‘Crap! I want the real reason.’

  Baudin just stared at me and I forced myself to smile and relax in the chair.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll just sit here until I get it. That okay with you Raymond?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Rogers croaked. ‘Mr Baudin, this arm’s on fire. Talk to him, for God’s sake. I’ve got to get help.’ Baudin said nothing and Rogers screamed: ‘Talk to him!’ Kay had the look I’d seen on her face when I’d clobbered Rogers. She was on my side but scared of me too. I felt I was losing the grip and getting dirtier.

  ‘You talk to me,’ I said to Rogers. ‘Give me a clue, I’m easily satisfied.’

  ‘Indonesia,’ Rogers said. ‘Indonesian oil, he’s…’

  ‘Rogers, don’t…’

  ‘You shut up!’ I waved at Baudin with the gun hand. ‘What about Indonesia? Give us a bit more.’

  Kay was leaning forward in her chair, professionally alert. Rogers wet his lips and his eyes bulged with the effort of talking.

  ‘He’s cleaning up money for them, using his father’s companies. He thought you might be on to him. I don’t know much about it, I swear. It’s a lot of money. Jesus God my arm!’

  I stood up and beckoned to Kay. ‘We’re leaving,’ I said to Baudin. ‘Mucking around with Indonesian Colonels is about your style. I don’t give a damn. But if you’ve lied to me about your brother I’ll come back and see you. You’d better get him to hospital.’

  Kay and I walked out and I put the revolver back in my pocket along with Warwick Baudin’s note. I could feel the nervous energy in Kay as she walked beside me, her shoulder and head nearly on a level with mine. She was steady and keen and I suddenly wished that I was on my own, that I could just get in the car and drive off. By myself. I was reminded of why I always tried to work alone — because I’d never learned to trust anyone but myself. We got in the car and I sat on the passenger side tense and mistrusting and not wanting to be that way. She reached for me but sensed my mood and drew back.

  ‘Do you want me to drive?’

  ‘Yes.’ I wanted to shout No. Go away! But I didn’t, I was hoping the feeling would pass. My head ached where I’d been hit and the lack of sleep was getting to me. I found the other bottle of whisky, pulled the cap off and took a drink. She started the engine; I cradled the bottle in my lap and waited for the liquor to do me some good.

  ‘Cliff, what’s wrong?’

  I didn’t answer. How could I tell her I didn’t trust her? How could I say I don’t trust you to keep quiet about this juicy story. I said nothing and took another drink. She drove well but her fingers were tightening on the wheel and she was going too fast. I thought of the fights I’d had in cars with Cyn, fights so bad I’d crashed my fist down on her leg so that he wept with pain and rage but kept driving, fights so bad she’d ripped levers and buttons off the dashboard and kicked out the windshield. And I thought that my distrustfulness must have contributed to those battles. I forced myself to reach over and touch her arm gently.

  ‘Pull over Kay, pull in here.’

  She looked at me suspiciously but she did it. I held her close to me, tight and warm; she resisted for a minute and then let go and we got as close together as we could in the front seat of an old Falcon. We stayed like that for a while, saying things that I don’t remember except that they meant we were going to be good to each other. We eased apart and she drove again; I didn’t drink any more whisky and I put the H amp;R Defender under the seat. It was still dark at the motel and we got inside and took our clothes off and went to bed. She fell asleep almost straight away with her head on my shoulder. I lay awake with my mind working, listening to a branch knocking against the window, but not for long.

  16

  The room was very light when I woke up and Kay was still sleeping beside me; her back was towards me and she was curled up in a tangle of sheets. I stroked her shoulder.

  ‘Hey, it’s morning.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she muttered from the huddle, ‘what day is it?’

  I had to think. ‘Sunday.’

  She curled tighter. ‘Thank God.’

  I pulled gently at the sheets and she pulled back and soon we were making love, starting gently and ending up in a hard, bucking rhythm. The bed was a ruin and it was nearly midday when we reached the motel coffee shop.

  She ate appreciatively again and picked up toast crumbs from her plate with a moistened finger.

  ‘You’ll be heading back to Sydney then, to follow this up?’

  ‘Yes, but not quite yet. You said you could ask around about the Baudins, can you do that today — Sunday?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem. What do you want exactly?’

  ‘Anything. I’d be hoping for something on Warwick’s cock-ups — cars, girls and cheques they said. Something might have made the papers. He was a jock too, there could be a photo.’

  I paused and chose the words carefully. ‘There’s a story in the Indonesian business. I suppose you’d be interested in that?’

  ‘Mm, I’d have to wait until you’ve cleared all this up, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Probably, but you never know. A bit of press could be useful at some stage. That’s happened before.’

  She nodded and finished her coffee. I made a cigarette and she pulled a face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You shouldn’t smoke.’

  ‘I know.’ I lit the cigarette, drew hard on it and blew the smoke away from her. ’It’s a strange case this. It looks to be plain sailing except that there’s someone trying to get in on it. I have to assume they’re trying to stop me reaching the…’

  ‘Foundling?’

  ‘He’s hardly that. It sounds as if he had the best of everything.’

  ‘Aren’t you scared?’

  ‘No. I can’t see a lot of violence in this — Brain could have had a thin skull, and I only got a tap.
It’s one of the things that puzzles me.’

  ‘If Warwick is the lost grandson, maybe someone knows that and has an interest in him not turning up.’

  ‘Yeah, but why not just put him out of the picture — why mess about with the bit players like me?’

  ‘Maybe the person doesn’t want Warwick to prosper but can’t bring himself to kill him, or can’t afford to.’

  ‘Keir you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe. I have to find out who benefits most from things staying just as they are. I’ve got someone working on that.’

  She went quiet and I finished my cigarette and picked up the bill. She shifted in her seat, the broad, almost Tartar face was clouded and she spoke nervously, without her usual crispness:

  ‘D’you worry about the morality of this, Cliff?’

  I went on guard. ‘What morality’s that?’

  ‘Don’t snarl, I mean about digging back like this, uncovering all these things, splitting people up.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me,’ I said but I knew I was lying. It did bother me but I couldn’t help it. Shallow graves got uncovered, secrets were divulged, liars were found out — it happened all the time and I was just an agent, just a lever. Sometimes there were happy endings. Sometimes. She looked down and I thought Oh Christ, more trouble. But when she lifted her head all seemed well. She gave me the crooked smile and rooted in her bag for a pen and paper. Our hands touched when she handed the paper across and the contact was still good. We were both skirmishing I felt, both mistrustful, but hoping. It could have been worse.

  ‘Phone me at the paper in a couple of hours,’ she said. ‘No. In one hour, I should have something by then.’

  ‘Okay, what’re you doing tonight?’

  ‘Depends,’ she said and got to her feet. ‘Depends on a lot of things.’ She waved and walked breezily out of the place. I watched her go in the crumpled dress, slim back and long legs and the evening shoes that looked oddly pathetic in the daylight. I sat and thought and the Chatterton case and Kay got all tangled up in my mind until I didn’t know what I was asking questions about or what answers I wanted to find.

  I rinsed my shirt again, shaved rough again and took a dip in the pool. The chlorine was fresh and sharp and the water was cold: I swam hard, lap after lap, and showered and put on the clean shirt and felt good. Then I called the number Kay had given me; her voice was brisk and efficient on the phone but there was warmth in it too. She sounded pleased with herself.

  ‘Warwick Baudin sounds like a real rat,’ she said.

  ‘What does he do — rape old ladies?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. He was in all sorts of trouble. He crashed a few cars that weren’t his.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard about that. High spirits maybe.’

  ‘No, there’s a nasty streak to him. There’s a story that he sold drugs here, not just grass, and made money at it. Then there was a bust and he got off. The word was that he informed on the others. He left Canberra soon after that. Oh yes, he assaulted his father in public once but it was hushed up.’

  ‘Choice. Anything on Keir?’

  ‘Not much. He sounds like the dullest man alive. He went to school and university here, undistinguished at both. Then he went to work for his Dad. He’s sort of never left home.’

  ‘He’s been overseas I bet.’

  ‘Yes, he used to travel with his Mum and Dad. It’s been a bit of a joke, his closeness to them.’

  ‘It’s a cynical world. You said “used to”.’

  ‘Right. He’s made a couple of trips to Indonesia in the last two years’.’

  ‘Aha. Anything on Warwick’s sporting triumphs?’

  ‘Oh Christ yes, tons. He went to half a dozen schools around here, he was always getting expelled, but he cleaned up at sport — running, swimming, throwing things, kicking things — the lot. It grieves me to say it, but he was bright as well; he got distinctions in his last year at school.’ She paused: ‘Yes, here it is — maths, economics, modern history, Italian. He only got a credit for English.’

  ‘Tough. Went on to uni did he?’

  ‘Yes, he did two years of Law. He won the iron man in his first year. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a race. They run about five miles I think and have to eat things and drink a lot of grog throughout. They get disqualified if they vomit. Warwick holds the record.’

  ‘Charming. How’d he go at Law?’

  ‘Tapering off a bit but he got through the first year well enough — the drug bust came in the middle of the second year.’

  ‘I see. Well that’s terrific work, love, anything else?’

  ‘Yes, you said you wanted photos, well I’m told there are two in The Canberra Times.’ She gave the dates. ‘I can’t get a look at the file copies on Sunday. You’ll have to go to the National Library. It’s open today. You know where it is?’

  ‘By the lake?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Tickets needed?’

  ‘No, it’s a public utility. You have full rights as a citizen.’

  Then her voice changed and the brisk and businesslike tone took over completely. ‘Phone me when you’re finished,’ she said.

  ‘Look Kay, don’t stand back so far. I’ll come and get you at five. Okay?’

  She said it was. I paid a bit on account at the motel; the money was running low but I had the receipts and Lady Catherine was getting value. I felt uppish; the tried and tested procedures were working. I had leads to follow.

  Driving across the bridge in Canberra is a very low-key experience: the lake looks and is artificial, placid and blue with no debris. The bridge spans it easily. It all feels planned and controlled and easy, soft. The National Library is a cream and pink copy of the Acropolis on the sculptured shores of the lake. It’s surrounded on three sides by car parks; cars were bullocked up on footpaths and dividing strips and parking tickets flapped on their windshields like bunting. I squeezed into a semi-legal space, grabbed a pad and pen and headed for the portals.

  A gaggle of tourists was gasping at the stained glass windows and bronze work; another batch was inspecting a pottery exhibition on the mezzanine floor. I got directions from a succession of attendants and finished up in an airless room in front of a microfilm reader. The PhD students were scratching on cards, scratching themselves, yawning and chewing gum. I stabbed at the automatic button; months of life, marriage, death and world events flashed in front of my eyes and the students frowned as they crept, inch by inch, frame by frame, through their papers.

  The Canberra Times is a broadsheet which meant that I had to adjust the machine often to scan the whole page. I got distracted by the headlines and stories at the beginning of the seventies. The rot had set into the Government, the ministers’ speeches were getting sillier by the day and the Opposition was just sitting pat, trying to sound sensible and waiting for its finest hour. A tide was flowing — a three year tide. I found the first picture of Warwick Baudin in an issue for November 1968. He’d competed at the inter-school sports and won all three sprint races and the long jump; he was standing straight and tall in a track suit sucking on a can of soft drink. It was like an advertisement: he had a big, open face with a lot of curly dark hair. He looked sure of himself — so would I if I had a 48.4 440 to my credit. The best I could manage was 52 seconds. But Warwick, the boy wonder of the track, had slid a long way in two years. The next picture, in October 1971, was on the front of a Saturday paper. The crash had occurred on the Cotter Road — two sports cars. One driver was dead, a girl passenger was seriously injured and the other driver was standing unhurt in the photograph by the side of the road. A headlight had hit him full in the face, washing it stark white. They weren’t ideal conditions to be photographed in, but Warwick’s face looked much fuller, almost bloated, and his body was bulky inside the casual clothes. There was talk of charges — driving under the influence, manslaughter — it was a bad business. Staring at the frank
, unstudied picture I tried to see a resemblance to the old man who’d handed down the savage sentences in court, or to the softened lines of the face that looked down from the wall in Rushcutters Bay. It was there all right, but oddly stronger in the younger face. Making all allowances for the circumstances, in the later pictures Baudin’s face showed traces of a hesitancy or self-doubt which had never troubled Sir Clive.

  I printed out a few copies of the pictures, made some notes and handed the reels back to an attendant who gave me a tired, sceptical smile. The whole operation had taken less than an hour and I hadn’t used a single stick of gum. Outside the air was warm and still; I took a walk along the edge of the lake and tried to think about genetics and blood tests and whether it could be proved that one person was the child of another. I had a feeling that you couldn’t and all the tests could establish was that some people could not be the progenitors of others. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that, maybe it wouldn’t come to anything. It was still a paper chase, the pictures in my pocket were like a talisman but, for all I knew, the man himself could be manacled to a prison wall in Bangkok for heroin dealing.

  Wandering around the big, grey complex of government buildings I tried to push the whole thing aside. The letter I’d got from Keir Baudin was calling me to Sydney, to Honey of Darlinghurst whoever she was, but Kay kept breaking in on my thoughts. Ailsa and I had been on and off lovers, a night here, a night there; I tried to think when I’d last slept two nights in succession with a woman — it was a long time ago.

  17

  It was a good night. I ran the Falcon through a car wash just to kill some time while waiting to pick up Kay. I felt young again, transported back to when cars and girls meant everything. We had a couple of drinks and ate in a restaurant that had once been an old house — we took our own wine and I wasn’t the only man not wearing a tie. Around ten o’clock we were standing in one of the pedestrian malls and her hips were pressing into me and we were kissing like I was leaving for the front the next day.