Taking a Chance

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘There’s a message for you, Mr Horvath,’ Sally called out as we entered the office. ‘Mr Williams – Lena Mitrovic’s lawyer – he wants you to call him.’

  Johnny disappeared into Mr Gledding’s office to make the call. I dropped off my refurbished hat to Vern, our lead photographer, so that he could photograph it for this week’s column. He smiled at me as I came into the darkroom.

  ‘I’ve been developing the shots you took in Richmond. There’s some good ones among them. The ones of the sad lady holding the envelope are doozies.’

  I grimaced apologetically. ‘Johnny Horvath took those. Are any of mine all right? I took the ones in the shop and the ones of the artists’ colony.’

  He raised an eyebrow and twisted up one side of his mouth. He spoke carefully. ‘They’re okay. We might use them.’

  When I got to the boss’s office, Sally was typing diligently. ‘He’s still in there,’ she said. ‘He’s on the phone.’ She paused. ‘I thought you were seeing some lawyer.’

  I shrugged and said nothing. She turned back to her typing with a reproachful look as I pushed open the door and went in.

  Johnny was on the phone, scowling at the desk, but when he saw me his face lightened. He gave me a smile and a thumbs-up.

  ‘Okay,’ he said into the receiver. ‘We’ll be at the prison at around eleven. We might see you there.’

  The receiver was hung up with a flourish. Johnny grinned, came around from the table, wrapped me in a hug and kissed me hard and quick. It was our first kiss since the dance and my whole body thrilled at it.

  ‘That was Jeff Williams, Lena’s lawyer. It’s all arranged for us to visit Lena.’

  He hugged me again, this time lifting me off the ground and swinging me around, making me dizzy. Then he winced in pain and put me down. ‘I keep forgetting my ankle,’ he said, grimacing. ‘Can I tell you that you look gorgeous?’ He buried his face in my neck. ‘Smell gorgeous.’

  ‘Feel free,’ I said, a bit breathlessly, delighting in the contact. Johnny released me but kept hold of my hand.

  ‘Williams says we need to find Lily and get her to corroborate Susan’s story,’ he said. ‘And find that tin to prove that it held the poison. He says it’s very hard to overturn a conviction of this sort, but if we can find Lily and the tin, then we’ll have a good chance.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Gleddings is okay to run the story as it is? Despite no corroboration from Lily?’

  I nodded. ‘He told me yesterday. Says it’s too important a story not to run. He’ll risk it.’

  ‘Dave Gleddings is a good man.’ He opened the door. ‘Is Black Bess available?’ he asked Sally.

  ‘If you mean that black monster of a car the boss uses for Marvel business, then yes it is,’ she replied. ‘He said you could use it whenever you wanted.’ There was a laugh. ‘Black Bess? That’s too nice a name for the nasty old thing.’

  Black Bess was as smelly and irritating to start as it had been on Saturday. We filled the water tank and poked loose charcoal down from the top of the hopper to fill the cavity made by the previous fire. Johnny started the engine on petrol, then went around to the back to open the ash-pan door, insert an asbestos wick and light it. Once the fire was blazing he closed the trapdoor and we set off.

  We parked outside Fremantle Prison an hour later and I felt as if I’d been transported back a century. Thick stone walls twenty feet high stretched out into the distance from either side of an enormous stone gatehouse that towered gloomily above us. Fremantle Prison had been built on a hill overlooking the port in the 1850s, so it held nearly a hundred years of misery.

  The men’s prison had been requisitioned by the military at the start of the war, and the male prisoners were shifted to the old timber mill camp at Barton’s Mill in the hills for the duration of the war. Twelve had promptly escaped and, when recaptured, the most dangerous had been sent back to Fremantle to do their time alongside military prisoners, prisoners of war and some Italian-Australian internees.

  To my relief, the women’s section was in the northwest corner of the prison complex, and was entirely separate from the main gaol. Apparently it had been built out of the laundry block of the old prison, and although it had room for sixty women, there had never been more than twenty in there at any one time. We walked along beside the wall until we came to a smaller door about fifty yards to the left of the gatehouse. There Johnny pressed firmly on the bell. After a short delay the top half of the door opened to reveal a very large man in a grey uniform. His eyes were scrunched up in a scowl.

  ‘Yes?’ he barked.

  ‘John Horvath and Miss Eleanor Fitzgerald to see Lena Mitrovic. The matron is aware.’

  ‘She’s a popular lass today, prisoner fourteen,’ the guard remarked gruffly. He shut the door in our faces. So we waited in the pale sunshine outside the gate. It was cold and I shivered. After a few minutes the door opened and the very large man, still scowling, let us in. We entered a reception area and he locked the door behind us. Our names were taken and we passed over our identity cards. We were asked to take everything out of our pockets and I had to turn out my handbag. Another door was unlocked and the guard led us into a small, walled pathway then locked the door behind us. At the other end of the pathway was another door, and when the guard rang the bell a hard-faced woman in a grey dress looked out on us.

  ‘Mr Horvath and Miss Fitzgerald to see prisoner fourteen,’ barked the guard,

  The door was unlocked and I went through into the

  women’s prison. Once Johnny was inside I heard that door, too, being locked behind us.

  We were in a small courtyard. To one side was an open laundry with a stone-slabbed floor, and half a dozen women in shapeless dresses, their hair covered with mob caps, were working industriously. Two were on their knees scouring the floor, while four were washing clothes in the great iron tubs that stood on wooden benches, using wooden poles to stir the thick wads of material in the soapy water. Next to these were enormous coppers, polished to a gleam like burnished gold, but the fires weren’t lit at present. Along the wall was a row of basins. It was meticulously clean.

  The women prisoners were watching Johnny and me with sullen, hungry eyes. I felt uncomfortable to be so closely observed and I was painfully aware of my chic blue suit and pretty hat. Johnny was worth watching, in his light tan uniform and wearing his officer’s cap. He looked clean and handsome and strong; he looked like a movie star.

  In front of us was a pair of two-storey wings constructed out of red brick, presumably housing the cells. The woman guard led us to a door off the courtyard, which she unlocked with the key hanging at her waist, and we followed her into a reception room. Mr Kauffman, the man from the artists’ colony, was sitting in a chair by the window. As the door was locked behind us, he rose and held out his hand to Johnny with a smile.

  ‘Thank you. Lena and I both thank you very much for what you are doing. What a story it is that Susan has been telling. Have you found Lily yet?’ His accent seemed stronger, thicker and his English was more precise than it had been on Saturday.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Johnny.

  Kauffman waved his hand in a weary gesture, as if to indicate that Lily would not be found easily. ‘Mr Williams telephoned me yesterday – I have been paying his fees, you understand, and Lena says I am to be kept informed. He told me what you have found out. Mr Williams is with Lena now.’

  Kauffman shook his head. ‘He has spoken to Mrs Carter,’ he continued, ‘and she told him she put rat poison into a Coloseptic tin about a year ago when the poison tin fell off the shelf and was badly dented. She said that she told the police her tin of poison was missing, but they paid little notice.’ His face was angry. ‘Stupid. Stupid to put poison in a tin with an innocent label. Mr Williams said that this was good evidence of . . .’ He paused, trying to remember. His face lightened. ‘Oh, yes, it is evidence to corroborate what Susan is saying. It isn’t enough, yet, to warrant a re-trial or a pardon, but it is a start, he say
s.’

  I wondered if Mr Williams would feel the same about

  Mrs Carter’s evidence once he had met her.

  ‘Where did she keep the tin?’ asked Johnny.

  I was curious too. Had Lily known it contained poison? Or had she assumed it contained a harmless laxative?

  ‘Apparently it was in the laundry.’

  That didn’t shed any light on whether Lily had meant to kill Rick or if it was a terrible, tragic accident.

  We entered the visiting room with Mr Kauffman a short while later, and waited in uncomfortable chairs until Lena was brought in by the matron. The room was divided in two by a netting screen that stretched across its length. Lena came in slowly through a door in the opposite wall and sat in a straight-backed chair behind a narrow wooden table. The matron seated herself at the side of the room on a more comfortable chair. She was obviously intending to listen to every word that we said.

  I looked closely at the woman who had been Johnny’s lover. Lena looked haggard. I couldn’t work out how she had changed so much from when I last saw her in the dock, until I remembered that in court she had worn her own clothes. Now she was dressed in the prison uniform, a shapeless blue and white check cotton dress covered by a white apron. A white mob cap hid her blonde hair. On her legs were thick brown stockings and she wore flat-heeled, broad-soled shoes.

  It was when Lena smiled at Kauffman that I knew what all the fuss was about: even in that hideous prison uniform she seemed to light up the room.

  ‘They said you brought me paper and charcoal. Thank you, Walter. For everything.’ She glanced at Johnny. ‘Walter arranged for my lawyer.’

  Kauffman inclined his head in acknowledgement, and there was a slight smile, but the strain of the past few weeks was clear on both of their faces. Then Lena turned to face Johnny, and her eyes were shining.

  ‘Thank you, Johnny,’ said Lena. ‘However can I thank you enough? Good Lord, I really thought I’d be trapped in this place forever. It’s been like a nightmare, knowing I was innocent, and no one believing me. Mr Williams tells me that he is cautiously optimistic, based on Susan’s story and Mrs Carter’s evidence about the poison in the Coloseptic tin.’ She grinned. ‘A pox on cautious lawyers. I’ve decided to be a cockeyed optimist. I will get out of here.’

  Johnny nodded towards me. ‘Miss Fitzgerald did just as much as me. Lena Mitrovic, meet Nell Fitzgerald. Nell’s going to write an article about it for the Marvel and hopefully sway public opinion into supporting you.’

  Lena flashed me that brilliant smile. ‘Thank you also, Miss Fitzgerald. So much. Susan’s story makes sense. As I said in my evidence, Rick drank from the mug without any symptoms before he followed me inside. When we went out onto the porch again he downed the rest of the tea in one go. It was then that he . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Lily must be feeling so lost and alone.’ Her face became very determined. ‘Miss Fitzgerald, in your article, please say that you’ve spoken to me and I don’t blame her. I can’t believe that Lily meant to do it. It must have been a terrible accident and she’s too terrified to go to the police. You knew her well, Walter – what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he replied. ‘I wonder if she has some of her mother’s mental instability. You know she’s always making up stories.’

  Lena’s expression was sympathetic. ‘Her home life is terrible. Who can blame her if she takes refuge in fantasy?’

  There was a look at me and her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. ‘Miss Fitzgerald, why don’t you see what your newspaper can do for the women in this prison?’

  ‘What do you think we can do?’ I asked.

  ‘Force the government to improve conditions. We’re locked in our cells at four o’clock without even any light to read by. The food we get is completely inadequate, and many girls have diseases – venereal disease – and yet we’re required to share a bathroom and lavatory.’

  ‘That’s enough, number fourteen.’ The matron’s voice was harsh.

  Lena stopped speaking, but she did not look meek.

  What she’d said was interesting, and it would make a great feature: the plight of women in gaol. I nodded at her briefly and raised an eyebrow so she’d know I had taken an interest. I’d talk to the boss about it as soon as I could.

  he sun seemed to shine more brightly outside the walls of Fremantle Prison. I breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind us and for the final time we heard the clicking of the tumblers in the lock.

  We were on a terrace, high above Fremantle. Behind us were the unforgiving stone walls of the prison and beside us a couple of old stone houses, probably the residences of prison officers. An avenue of leafless trees stretched out on either side. We could see the football oval and the little houses of the port below us. In the far distance I saw the blue haze of the ocean, but black clouds were gathering, and I suspected it would soon be raining again.

  I breathed in the cold moist air of winter, of freedom, and moved my shoulders to loosen the painful tension in my muscles. The sneaking horror that they wouldn’t actually let me out of there had been building up inside me from the time we entered the gaol. My relief as we exited through that last doorway had been almost overwhelming.

  ‘What a terrible place,’ I said to Johnny and Mr Kauffman.

  Mr Kauffman nodded in agreement. He had taken a large white handkerchief from his pocket and was running it over his face. ‘That was the first time I have seen Lena since the trial. Remand prisoners are allowed more visiting rights than convicted prisoners.’ He sighed, before replacing the handkerchief and shaking his head gently. ‘She is under terrible stress, it is obvious. Is there any news at all as to Lily Carter’s whereabouts?’

  ‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘No news yet. We think she’s somewhere here in Fremantle.’

  Kauffman’s face hardened. ‘She’s a cunning one, that Lily. If she doesn’t want to be found, then it will be hard to find her.’

  ‘We’ve put an ad in the classifieds of the West Australian and the Daily News, offering a reward if she’s found. And Nell’s article will be published on Saturday. That might help.’

  ‘We can but hope,’ said Kauffman.

  ‘Can Nell and I offer you a lift to the train station,

  Mr Kauffman?’ Johnny asked. ‘It’ll soon be raining, I think.’

  ‘Thank you, no. I will stay in Fremantle for a while, look for Lily myself.’

  ‘Can we offer you a cup of tea, then? Or would you like to join us for lunch?’

  Kauffman nodded disconsolately. ‘I would greatly appreciate some refreshment. It took two train journeys and three hours to get here this morning. And please call me Walter.’

  I suspected that Walter might have regretted accepting our offer when he saw the car.

  We drove slowly down the hill towards the centre of town. Because the route was circuitous, it took a while before the grim stone walls of the prison had been left behind, but eventually we were driving past small limestone houses in narrow streets.

  ‘So, what is it like to live in a commune?’ Johnny asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise of the engine.

  ‘It is not organised along Soviet lines.’ Walter’s voice floated across from the back seat. ‘We are simply a group of like-minded artists who want a place to paint.’

  The rain had started. Johnny drove slowly through the busy streets of the port city, dodging trams and buses and pedestrians and even horse-drawn carts. It seemed to me that in many ways Fremantle was Perth’s brash little sister; there was a rough-and-tumble energy about the place and the tiny shops with European names above them added a cosmopolitan air. American sailors were everywhere I looked.

  ‘How did Rick Henzell fit in?’ Johnny was still interrogating Walter.

  ‘Rick was the centre of the group,’ Walter replied, raising his voice a little. ‘He provided much of the money. You knew he was a wealthy man? He felt that artists were underappreciated in Australia. He wanted to provide
a place for artists to live together, to share their knowledge and their resources. So he purchased the cottages eight years ago, in 1935. The Lorrimers were the first to join him. Gradually more artists came. Many only stay a short time, then leave.’

  Johnny nodded, still watching the road. He drove carefully around a dray loaded with beer kegs, which was being pulled by two enormous carthorses. They looked up as the car went past and twitched their soggy tails, but otherwise maintained their slow clopping pace. Many businesses had gone back to using horses and carts once petrol was rationed so severely, but there seemed to be more of them in Fremantle than in Perth.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘I will stay on in the colony. It is a wonderful place to live and to paint. Although, as with any group of people, there are strains. We have arguments about how decisions should be made. You know that Rick’s money has been left in trust to continue the colony? I am part of the committee to manage that money, along with Geoff Lorrimer and Rick’s solicitor.’

  Johnny parked the car outside a small tea room. We found a table by the window and ordered tea and sandwiches.

  ‘What was Rick like to live with?’ I asked, when the waitress had left with our order. ‘He seems to have been a terrible flirt.’

  Walter gave a mocking laugh. ‘A flirt? Nell, you are either very innocent or very tactful. Rick was like a rutting goat.’

  I felt my cheeks grow hot, but I persevered. ‘He seemed to like the young girls,’ I said. ‘Molly Buchanan is just eighteen and Susan said that he kissed Lily Carter once and Lily is only fifteen.’

  ‘I saw him kissing Lily Carter. From the way they were kissing, kissing was not all that they had been doing. And there were others,’ he went on, in his dry, precise English. ‘He didn’t ever seem to, er, flirt with Susan Lorrimer. I suspect he knew what her father would do to him if he did. But the girls of the district seemed to be enamoured of the man. I’m surprised that he left behind only one child.’