Mavis Levack, P.I.

by Marele Day

  The report asked questions but gave no answers. Was it pay-back time? The work of a serial private-eye killer? It seemed mighty peculiar that they were vanishing without a trace and the matter had the police baffled. Not that the police cared much—they had always had an uneasy relationship with private operators, who didn’t play by the rules, moved like shadows in the night.

  As a would-be private investigator, Mrs Levack’s ears had poked up when Eddy, as was his wont, read the article out to her. Despite the lack of clients, Mrs Levack took an interest in anything to do with the profession, considering herself an associate member, so to speak. She was naturally concerned for the well-being of her colleagues, but couldn’t suppress the gleeful little imp of a thought that with some of the competition out of the way, someone might finally engage her services.

  Claudia Valentine was a different matter. Mrs Levack had a soft spot for the girl. She had phoned Claudia as soon as the article appeared, but all she got was the answering machine. Missing in action; the car abandoned, desolate. Mrs Levack’s binoculars scanned the empty street. No-one came and no-one went. If the car was still there in twenty-four hours she was going to do something about it.

  Mrs Levack had already peered into the car during the day but had seen nothing informative—no ID, no letter addressed to Ms Valentine tossed idly on the dashboard or the seat. Not that she expected anything anyway—Claudia Valentine was not the type to leave material of that nature lying around. All Mrs Levack saw was an empty cigarette packet on the floor on the passenger’s side. She didn’t think Ms Valentine smoked. Did the packet belong to someone else? The hitman, perhaps? But Mrs Levack was getting way ahead of herself, jumping to a conclusion that may have had her barking up the wrong tree altogether.

  She was keen to examine the glove box. Who knew what treats might be lying in store? She had already sniffed her way around the boot in case it contained a dead body, but she’d smelled nothing unusual. Well, nothing unusual for Bondi. If they’d murdered her they hadn’t left her to rot in her own car. So where was she?

  Mrs Levack stood in the quiet street waiting for the right moment. She had given quite a bit of thought to the action she was about to perform. It was a shame doing it to a beautiful old car like this, and if Eddy’d had an inkling, he’d probably have chained her to the bed to prevent her (well, that was his excuse), but it had to be done.

  A passerby would never have suspected that her shopping bag contained a brick wrapped in an old cardigan. Mrs Levack had bought the cardigan specially, at the op shop, and had never worn it, so that a forensic test, should it come to that, would reveal no trace of Mrs Levack’s DNA. She wondered whose DNA was on that old cardigan. Had the person simply got sick of the colour, a rather bright shade of green, or had they died in it? How many items that ended up in op shops had once belonged to the dead? The Nikes Mrs Levack wore had been purchased at the op shop. Was she walking round in a dead woman’s shoes? A shiver went down her spine. Better to turn her mind to other things. She was beginning to spook herself.

  Although Mrs Levack was pretty sure there was no car alarm, the possibility didn’t faze her. With those Nikes, dead woman’s or no, she could be up the stairs and back in bed before the cops could say ‘Hello, hello, hello’. However, she thought it prudent to wait for a bit of noise to muffle the sound of the already muffled brick. Anything would do—a police siren along Campbell Parade, a party of uncouth youths laughing loudly at a joke, a blast of heavy metal music from a passing car. The back alley wasn’t far from the main drag, anything was possible.

  What finally provided her with cover was a couple of copulating cats. As if that wanton screeching alone wasn’t enough, when they’d finished, they noisily knocked over a wheelie bin, quite a feat for two smallish cats.

  Mrs Levack was already inside the car, lying low, trying not to do herself a mischief with the fragments of broken glass, when she heard a window open and looked up to see an irate young woman firing a large water pistol in the direction of the disappearing cats.

  The car was pretty clean as far as clues went, and nothing seemed to be missing. It probably wasn’t a stolen car because no damage had been done to the interior and the radio-cassette player was still in place. Mrs Levack pressed the eject button and a cassette slowly slid out. Mrs Levack shone her torch on it. The soundtrack to Doctor Zhivago. Almost automatically Mrs Levack found herself humming ‘Lara’s Theme’. It didn’t really seem to be the kind of music she imagined Claudia Valentine playing. Perhaps it was the hit person—did the deed, lit a cigarette, lay back and thought of the Russian steppes. Mrs Levack resisted the urge to do the same. She wasn’t here to enjoy herself.

  In the glove box she found a street guide to Sydney, an invaluable aid to a private detective. As she thumbed through it, it disgorged a scrap of paper with what appeared to be a phone number scrawled on it. Very, very interesting.

  Mrs Levack dumped the brick and the cardigan in the same bin that the cats had upset and closed the lid. Then she went to the nearest telephone booth and tried the number. It was 3.25 am. She didn’t want to talk to the person, merely find out who it was. Just as she was hoping, she got an answering machine. ‘Cliff Hardy, private enquiry agent,’ she heard a deep, world-weary voice announce. ‘Office hours are nine to five.’

  Cliff Hardy! Though she had never met the man, Mrs Levack knew who Cliff Hardy was—arguably the best private investigator in town, in all of Australia. Certainly the most prolific. He had solved more cases than Mrs Levack had had hot dinners. But why did Claudia Valentine have his number? Were they having an affair? Or did she need help with something she couldn’t handle on her own? Did she suspect the serial private-eye killer was on her trail and wanted Hardy on the case? So many questions, so few answers.

  Mrs Levack walked back to the flat, the shopping bag over her shoulder, her hands as deep into the pockets of her trenchcoat as her mind was deep in thought. She walked past a drunk sleeping in a doorway, past a couple of girls with pasty faces and black lipstick who could have been vampires. These were the mean streets of the soul, yet Mrs Levack glided through them effortlessly. Finally, she had a lead. She felt an incredible lightness of being. It was probably getting rid of that brick. An abandoned car like that, the window was bound to get smashed sooner or later.

  ‘Going jogging, dear?’ she heard Eddy say.

  ‘What?’ she replied in a sleep-encrusted voice.

  ‘You’ve got your tracksuit on and your runners. In bed.’

  Mrs Levack’s eyes flew open as she abruptly came back to the land of the living. She had hung up the trenchcoat but apart from that was still wearing the clothes from the night before. ‘Oh. Yes. Thought I’d make an early start.’

  ‘It’s not that early any more—nine o’clock. I’m off to the library. Can I get you anything?’

  Library day. Perfect. And it was nine o’clock. Cliffy Hardy was open for business and she could make the call without Eddy interfering. He certainly wouldn’t approve of the manner in which she’d obtained Mr Hardy’s phone number. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few windows.

  Mrs Levack got out of bed, did her Salute to the Sun yoga routine, then changed into something smarter. You couldn’t wear a tracksuit while you were making a business call.

  ‘Hardy speaking.’

  Mrs Levack couldn’t believe her luck, she’d got through to him straightaway. Didn’t he have a secretary?

  ‘It’s Mavis Levack.’ she said. Silence at the other end. He was waiting for her to go on. ‘I’m calling in relation to Claudia Valentine.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said warily.

  Mrs Levack could tell that he was a man who gave very little away. How could she probe any further without hitting sensitive tissue? If he was having an affair with Claudia Valentine, he probably wouldn’t want to discuss it, and if she had engaged his professional rather than personal services, there was the matter of client confidentiality. ‘I was trying to get in touch w
ith her.’

  ‘Try the phone book,’ he said, rather unhelpfully.

  ‘I’ve called but only got her answering machine.’

  ‘That’s what they’re for.’

  ‘I thought perhaps you might have a more direct connection.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I’ve got to go,’ he said brusquely. ‘There’s a queue of clients waiting and my secretary called in sick.’

  Though it was only a small slight, Mrs Levack started to feel upset, the way she used to when she was going through the menopause. ‘I’m afraid she’s gone missing,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Ah,’ he said soothingly, ‘you want me to find her. Would you like to make an appointment?’

  No, she would not like to make an appointment. If anyone was going to find the missing private eye, it was Mrs Levack. ‘No, it’s not that. Her address has gone missing. Yes, that’s it, I’ve misplaced her address. I helped her with one of her cases. Mavis Levack,’ she repeated her name loudly and clearly.

  ‘I’ve never met the woman, though of course I’ve heard of her. I believe she lives above a pub in Balmain. It’s a small town and this is a small business. Can’t say I’ve heard of you though.’

  ‘Well, I like to keep a low profile,’ Mrs Levack lied.

  ‘Same here,’ said Cliff. ‘Bye.’ He hung up.

  Mrs Levack had no idea there were so many pubs in Balmain. It was quite an adventure coming over to this side of the city, crossing that elegant new Glebe Island bridge. She had a splendid view of everything from the bus. And goodness, hadn’t Balmain changed since Eddy worked on the trams here when they were first married? Much more upmarket now. All those new shops to look at. Mrs Levack reminded herself that she was on a mission. She wasn’t here for the shopping.

  Before crossing over to this side of the city Mrs Levack had tried Claudia Valentine’s phone one more time. Still the answering machine. She’d come prepared for a full day of it—Nikes on her feet, a bottle of water in the backpack. She was going to systematically work her way through the pubs in Balmain till she found the right one.

  At some pubs they said they’d never heard of her, at others they said they didn’t do accommodation, and at one the barman said, ‘Who wants to know?’ She thought she might have been onto something, it sounded like he had at least heard of her, and the tone was suspicious, but further questioning got her nowhere. She was on her way out of this particular pub, in fact standing in the doorway wondering which pub to try next, when someone whispered moistly in her ear, ‘Looking for Claudia Valentine?’

  She turned to see a rugged, unkempt kind of chap. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ Where had he come from? She hadn’t noticed him in the pub. It was practically empty. Perhaps he had emerged from the shadowy corners.

  ‘It’ll cost ya,’ he leered at her. Did he wink, or was it a nervous twitch? He kept doing it.

  ‘What’s the price?’ she asked, trying to ignore the eye movements.

  ‘Sex,’ he said. ‘That’d probably loosen my tongue.’

  Such crassness, thought Mrs Levack. There was surely no need to mention tongues. She looked him up and down, wondering whether the ultimate sacrifice was a price worth paying. He was not a bad-looking chap. If he shaved off the grey beard, had a decent haircut, or at least put a comb through it, he’d spruce up quite well. But all that would take time and Claudia Valentine was in mortal danger. Perhaps if she simply closed her eyes and imagined him shaved and combed? A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do. ‘Well,’ she heard herself saying, ‘your place or mine?’

  ‘The park,’ he said. ‘It’s a nice day.’

  The park. In broad daylight. ‘But there will be other people.’

  ‘Not many. They’re all at their smart office jobs in the city.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . what did you say your name was?’ Here she was, on the brink of intimacy with the fellow and she didn’t even know his name. She hoped Claudia Valentine would appreciate the lengths Mrs Levack was prepared to go on her behalf.

  ‘I didn’t say. It’s Frank. You know, as in frank and earnest.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Frank, I don’t think I can do it in the park.’

  ‘It’s not illegal. But suit yourself. If you don’t want the information, forget about it. There are others who’ll be happy to oblige.’

  Well, didn’t he have tickets on himself, thought Mrs Levack. Still, she was going to lose him if she prevaricated any further. ‘Are there, you know, bushes?’

  ‘Bushes, trees, flowers, a rotunda. We could even have a go on the swings if that took your fancy.’

  The very idea of doing it on the swings! ‘The rotunda sounds nice,’ she said.

  ‘Well, let’s go then. You don’t mind if I take your arm, do you? Got a bit of a limp.’

  They headed towards the park, past well-groomed people walking well-groomed dogs. One woman even had hair the same as the Great Dane straining at the end of the red leather leash. They were just about to enter the park when Frank said, ‘Hang on, what about the beers?’

  That was a bit much, expecting her to throw in beers as well. ‘You said sex,’ she pointed out.

  ‘That’s right, a sex-pack.’

  Then it dawned on Mrs Levack. He was a New Zealander. He’d meant six beers. Now that she had primed herself up for sex she was almost disappointed.

  Why hadn’t the silly man let her know before? They could have got the beers at the pub.

  ‘I thought you must have known somewhere closer to the park,’ he retorted. ‘Don’t want you carrying it any further than necessary.’

  ‘Me carrying it?’ said Mrs Levack. ‘That’s not very gentlemanly.’

  ‘I’m not a gentleman. Besides, you’ve got a backpack. Look,’ he said, ‘this is all getting very long-winded. Either cut to the chase or forget about it. I’m losing interest.’

  They soon found themselves outside a bottle shop. Mrs Levack had to go in alone to buy the beer because, as Frank had sheepishly explained, they wouldn’t serve him in there. OK, so what if he’d made a fuss one time and knocked over their display of organic wines? The prices they charged were outrageous.

  Mavis and Frank sat in the park drinking. She’d bought two six-packs, in fact. He’d insisted on one all to himself and Mrs Levack decided that after all this walking around, she had a hankering for a cleansing ale herself. She kept the unopened beers in her backpack, didn’t want him running off without divulging whatever it was he knew about the missing private investigator. Not that he could run far with that limp.

  ‘Ah, that’s the shot,’ he said, after the first mouthful. ‘Now, what was the question?’

  Mrs Levack took a sip from her stubbie. Toohey’s Ice. It wasn’t a bad drop.

  ‘Claudia Valentine.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The delectable Ms Valentine. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Frank mused for a moment, toying with Mrs Levack. ‘Ms Valentine’s whereabouts. Now that’s a mystery.’

  Mrs Levack grabbed the beer off Frank, splashing a little of it on her shoes. ‘I’m not paying for you to tell me what I already know.’ She stood up, as if she was about to leave.

  ‘Not so hasty,’ said Frank. ‘I know where she lives.’

  Mrs Levack sat down again, gave him back his beer. ‘You know her house?’

  It was a trick question and he responded admirably. ‘She lives above a pub.’ Exactly what Mr Hardy had told her.

  ‘Which one?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll get to that,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘But first, the mystery.’ He embarked: ‘Ms Valentine, as you probably know, likes a drink. Though she lives above a pub, she doesn’t necessarily do her drinking on home turf. No shitting in your own nest and all that. But at the Footballer’s Leg, where you were earlier, she used to pop in fairly regularly. But lately, we don’t see her.’

  Frank took another swig of beer, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘She doesn’t seem
to be drinking anywhere else around here either.’

  All this was fairly revelatory about Claudia Valentine, but Mrs Levack was anxious to get to the point. ‘Perhaps she’s doing her drinking at home,’ suggested Mrs Levack. The way Frank was keeping tabs on her habits, Mrs Levack would have been doing her drinking behind closed doors if she’d been in Claudia’s shoes. She looked at the Nikes. Could they be? No, she dismissed the thought.

  ‘Now that’s the strangest thing of all,’ Frank wagged his finger at her. ‘Something very peculiar’s going on, or rather, not going on down there.’ Frank finished off his stubbie. Mrs Levack watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down under his beard as he imbibed the liquid amber. ‘Very strange indeed,’ he repeated. ‘You see, I have a mate down there at Jack’s pub where Ms Valentine lives. George—he’s practically a permanent fixture. Never leaves, has his own stool and gets very upset if anyone else tries to sit on it. A cranky old bastard, but I don’t mind him.’

  Mrs Levack handed him another stubbie out of the six-pack, twisting the top off for him. He gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Nothing like the first mouthful out of the bottle. It’s like cream on the top of a bottle of milk.’ Mrs Levack wondered where he’d been for the last twenty years. Milk didn’t come in bottles any more and it was homogenised.

  ‘I’m mainly stationed at the Footballer’s Leg,’ Frank went on. ‘Got a trendy new name, but I still call it the Footballer’s Leg. Occasionally I stroll down to see how my mate George is getting on.’

  Mrs Levack was onto her third beer and, unaccustomed to drinking this early in the day, was starting to feel . . . different. Alert, all her senses heightened. She noticed the blackheads at the sides of Frank’s nose. Should she recommend a cleanser?

  ‘The darnedest thing,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get in.’