Falling Into Queensland
Page 14
“Oops, wrong floor,” muttered Rupert to himself and
turned sharply to the door marked Exit. He pushed through and
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collapsed against the wall. “Oh Christ! Did anyone see us? I"m going to lose my job over this. Look at my hand!” He held a trembling hand out to her.
“Come on, Rupert. Stand up for yourself! There"s only one more door to go, and we"ll be home. Let"s just hope your Archangel Bradley is in, that"s all.”
She pushed him up the stairs. “Remember,” she warned him. “We"re looking for Mr Bradley"s secretary.” And she opened the door for him.
The carpet was even thicker on this floor, and there was less activity to be seen. The corridor ran in both directions, with office doors on one side. The nearest one was open, and an expensive blonde of around thirty was concentrating on a computer screen. She looked up when Rupert tapped the door.
“Excuse me, I"m looking for Mr. Bradley-Smythe"s secretary?”
The blonde extended a manicured hand, palm up and fingers stretched back. “Two doors up,” she directed, in an accent that dripped horses and country estates.
“There you are,” Marilyn said in a low voice as they followed her directions. “Easy as you like. Now just ask to see the man, and I"ll take it from there.”
The woman guarding the next office was not blonde, but she could have been the other one"s sister. Dress and demeanour were the same, and when she asked what they wanted, her accent grated just as sharply on Marilyn"s ear.
Rupert had reached the end of his confidence. “Er – I wonder if I could see Mr Bradley-Smythe, please?”
“Do you have an appointment? Well, of course not. He"s booked right up for three weeks, and then he"s going to Europe. I"m afraid you"ll have to telephone and I"ll see when he can fit you in.”
Marilyn elbowed him gently aside and stood the aluminium briefcase on the desk. She pulled the keys from her pocket and slowly unlocked it. Once the keys were back in her pocket, she laid
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the briefcase over so it faced the woman and clicked the latches
open. “Just take this in to him please. He"ll understand.”
Unable to help herself, the woman reached out and tentatively lifted the lid far enough to see inside. She dropped it immediately. “What..?”
“Just take it in to him. He knows about it.”
She hesitated and then, as carefully as a snake handler, she took the briefcase in both hands to a door in the side of her office. She could not open it. Her hands were full. Marilyn hurried over, tapped on the door and unlatched it. The secretary pushed through, closing it behind her with her foot.
Moments later, the door was thrown open, framing a tall man in a dark navy suit. His face was large and fleshy, with dark red cheeks, and slim gold-framed glasses hung from his neck. His thinning hair was slicked tightly over his head. He looked furious.
“What"s this? Who are you, anyway?” Another upper class Pommy accent Marilyn could have cut with a knife.
Marilyn moved the manila folder to her other hand and reached out to him. “Hi, I"m Marilyn. And you"d be Mr Bradley, I suppose?”
He took her hand automatically. “Bradley-Smythe. But who are you exactly? Australian, from your accent, and all in leather. Very nice. That"s your money? What do you mean, bringing it in here?”
“It"s not my money. I"m just delivering it, and your girl wasn"t helping.” She passed him the folder. “Here"s the paperwork.”
He took it automatically and stepped back into his office. With no invitation, Marilyn followed him, gesturing Rupert to join her. The secretary was still standing in front of the glass and chrome desk, holding the briefcase open for inspection. Behind her a wide window looked out at a jumble of city rooftops and tall buildings. The desk held only a wafer slim monitor and some slim folders arranged tidily beside it.
Bradley-Smythe sank into his chair and opened the folder on his desk.
He read, and for a moment no-one moved.
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“Excuse me, Mr Bradley-Smythe,” said the secretary,
“Coffee?”
He waved at her impatiently. “Yes, yes. Coffee. Or tea, if they want.”
With obvious relief, she set the open briefcase down on the desk and went to whisper to Rupert, before going for coffee.
Marilyn helped herself to a chair from the conference table and brought it over to the desk. Bradley-Smythe looked up. “That"s right, sit down. You too, I suppose. Who are you, anyway?”
“Tyler, Sir. I work on the third floor.”
“You work for us? Well, what the hell are you doing up
here? Without an appointment?”
“That"s my fault,” said Marilyn. “I needed some-one to show me around.”
“You don"t work here, do you? No. Can"t tell these days.” He went back to reading. He had separated the papers into groups and was moving back and forth between them. He flicked quickly through the identity papers of the six bikies, and looked up at Marilyn.
“Well, young lady. What do you want me to do with your money?”
“Tell him, Rupert.”
“Er – it"s for investment, Sir. In the names of those men.”
Bradley-Smythe took a closer interest in Rupert. “You said you were Tyler? Tyler the courier, as it says here. You put this file together?”
“No, Sir. Mr Japan did it.”
“Japan? Who the hell"s Japan?”
“Sorry, Sir. That"s what he calls himself. It says there his real name is Dressler. He"s the one in charge.”
“Not the owner?”
“No, Sir. Apparently not. Mr Dressler gave us all the instructions. I think it might be his money originally.”
He sat back in his chair. “I see. I assume the papers are utter rubbish?”
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“Well, I think the people actually exist. I"ve seen two of
them.”
“This is as bent as a corkscrew. We"re not touching it. Take your bloody briefcase away.” He started putting the papers back in the folder.
Rupert reached for the briefcase but Marilyn put her hand on his arm. “Give me a minute. I just need a word with Rupert here.” She led him out into the secretary"s office.
Once they were out of sight, she swung him around and slammed him back against the wall. Grabbing a handful of his tie and shirtfront, she jerked upwards until he was on tiptoe with her fist forcing his chin up further.
“You useless prick!” she hissed. “You think we"re just going to say sorry and walk out of here? You don"t touch that fucking money unless I tell you. Don"t you understand? That old fart is going to help us or Shirl"s for the chop. Finish! Japan won"t fuck around. She"s dead and he"ll be looking for you next. Get it? Keep your mouth shut!”
She thought about sinking her fist into his stomach as he hung there, but the secretary chose that moment come back with a tray. She let Rupert go, and he immediately started to tuck his shirt back into his trousers.
Marilyn turned to find Bradley-Smythe watching her from his office door. He had a curious smile. She took the tray from the secretary and returned past Bradley-Smythe. She set it on his desk and gestured to Rupert. “Take your coffee and wait outside. And shut the door.”
Bradley-Smythe still had a trace of his smile as he settled back in his chair. “Very good, Miss-er-Marilyn. I like to see someone who takes her work seriously. Help yourself to coffee. Mine"s white, no sugar.”
She pushed his cup over, and sipped at her own. What would Bradley-Smythe do now? It was long past time for him to call for security to throw them out.
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He pulled out one of the lower drawers of his desk and,using it as a footrest, leaned far back in his chair. “May I call you Marilyn? Good. Exactly. Well Marilyn, what am I
going to do with you and your money? It"s bent, isn"t it? Care to tell where it came from?”
“Bikies. There"s a group of bikies out in the bush near us.
It"s theirs.”
“Bikies?”
“You know, motor bike gangs. Hell"s Angels and so on.”
“Oh, I see. Small time criminality, that sort of thing.”
“Small time?” Marilyn thought about that. “Yes, I guess you"re right. Pretty small compared to some of the things that you guys get up to.”
Bradley-Smythe chuckled. “Many a true word, Marilyn. Yes, indeed, many a true word. Now, what are we talking about? What sort of criminality exactly?”
“Mostly amphetamines and girls.”
“I see. Nothing too embarrassing then. No guns, no bombs? Not smuggling kids? Fine.” He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. Marilyn could see him working up to something, but she could not guess what.
Without looking at her, he spread his fingers and pressed the fingertips of both hands together. “Just suppose... Just suppose, for argument"s sake, I was able to help you. What would you be able to do for me?” He looked at her with wide questioning eyes.
What did he want? “I guess you have charges, fees...”
“No, not the company. I mean me. Personally.”
The light was beginning to dawn. Now she knew where she was, and her mind raced. “Mmh – you personally. I guess we could talk about something interesting. If we can do business, that is.”
“Something interesting? Say this evening? Dinner and afterwards?”
“Yes. I could do that. Look, can we get rid of the money first? I feel like the Virgin Mary carrying it around. Everyone waiting for a chance to screw me.”
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“Oh dear, we can"t have that.” He picked up the phone and pressed a button. “That Tyler still there, Stephanie? Good, get a man from security up. We need to take the money to the bank and they can go together. Write a note to Jamie for them. Say it"s kosher and it"s to go into Nominee Trust Number Three. Sign it over my name, and tell them to bring back a receipt for you. Oh, and come and get this file, would you? Miss Marilyn needs a copy of everything.”
He turned back to Marilyn with a comfortable smile. “There. This morning is turning out to be quite interesting after all. Let"s make ourselves comfortable while we wait for them. What time
is it? Manage a snack? Salad? Biscuits? Crudités or sliced meat? I"ll phone the canteen. Then you can tell me a little about Australia. I go to Melbourne quite often. Miserable place, but I"ve never travelled further north. There"s no business up there.”
When he had ordered, he led her over to the end of the conference table and turned the chairs so they could enjoy the view. “Bit early for a drink, I suppose. For me, anyway. Probably middle of the night back home, eh? Do you drink malt? What sort do you like? I got a small range.”
Marilyn had no idea. Whisky was whisky to her, and the Port Bruce RSL did not run to malt. “Show me, Mr - look, I can"t go on calling you that. What"s your real name?”
“Er – Jeremy.”
“Well, Jeremy, why don"t you show a poor ignorant colonial what you"ve got?”
“Certainly. It will be my pleasure. Mmh. Let"s say, Talisker and Jura. They"re not far apart, you know. Geographically, anyway, but completely different.”
They were still sitting at the end of the table, glasses and bottles between them, when Stephanie tapped at the door and came in after a significantly long wait. “They"re back, Sir.
“Good. Tell Tyler to wait. Miss Marilyn will be with you
shortly.”
He raised his glass to Marilyn. “Well, my dear. I"ll pick you
up at seven. I"ll look forward to it.”
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She drained her glass. “Well, thank you, Jeremy. I enjoyed trying those. Quite an education. I"m looking forward to this evening too. Will you be able to get the paperwork finished today?”
“Today? Probably not. But you should be able to pick them up tomorrow. Will that do?” They were walking towards the door and he had his hand on her shoulder. She forced herself to leave it
there.
“Yes. Tomorrow morning will do. Then I"ll try and get a
flight for tomorrow night.”
“Oh, so soon. Never mind, I"m sure you"ll be back.”
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Chapter 15
Rupert and Stephanie were staring at her as Mr. BradleySmythe closed his office door behind her. Let them stare, she thought, they don"t know which way is up. “Use the phone?” she asked.
“Certainly. Is it private? I mean... we could go.” Stephanie
seemed more human now.
“No – stay where you are.” She flicked through her wallet to the number of Japan"s satellite and carefully dialled. It did not take long to connect.
“Who"s that?” asked Japan on a distant line.
“She should all be apples tomorrow.”
“Good. Call me then.” And he hung up. It had taken
seconds.
“Fine,” said Marilyn. “That"s that. Now Rupert, I"ve got some shopping to do. Serious stuff. Let"s go.”
She had started for the door when Stephanie called her back. “Excuse me, Miss Marilyn. I"ve got your photocopies.”
Marilyn picked up the folder and smiled at her. “Just Marilyn, love.” she said softly, “I"m not from here.”
She was smiling to herself as they went to the lift. Not a bad looking chick, that Stephanie. Now she would make a useful souvenir to take home to Port Bruce.
She said nothing to Rupert until they were out of the building. “Get us a taxi, Rupert. I need to buy some lingerie.”
“What? You mean – like underwear?”
“Yes. Heavy duty, sexy stuff. Corsets, stockings, the works. I"ve got a date with your big boss tonight, and he"s going to need some very special treatment. Don"t just stand there – where do we go? Where do you take Shirl when you want something extra?”
“We don"t... she doesn"t... I mean, I don"t think she buys stuff like that.”
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“Jesus, Rupert. You"re no fun. Where do I go to buy good sexy underwear? Or do I have to stop a copper and ask? Don"t tell me you"ve never looked through shop windows at it.”
“Er – Ann Summers?”
“Who"s she? A girlfriend?”
“No. Shops – a chain of shops. They specialise.”
“You"re getting there. Where"s the nearest one?”
“I don"t know. We"ll take a cab. The driver will know.”
“He will? Must be different to the drivers I"ve met. OK –
it"s your town. Find a cab.”
The cab driver was unfazed. “That"d be Wardour Street,
Gov. Not far.”
They sat back and accelerated smoothly into the traffic. Marilyn marvelled at the number of people London had packed into such a small space. It was a human sized termite nest.
“That all went rather well, don"t you think?” asked Rupert tentatively. “I suppose you settled everything?”
“You reckon? You want to know how far we"ve got? I think right now you"re bent over Jeremy"s desk with your trousers down and „Screw Me Please" written all over your arse.”
“What? But he took the money...”
“That"s right. The money"s gone, and what have we got to show for it? A photocopy of a receipt, that"s what. You think Stephanie and her friends are busy signing up the guys for their pensions? Try going back tomorrow morning and see how far they"ve got.”
“But he took the money.”
“Of course. You always take six hundred thousand dollars when someone offers them. Make a habit of it, Rupert. Someone gives you money, take it and argue about things later. What"s to stop him calling the cops right now? Or giving you some papers now but calling them once I get on the plan
e?”
Rupert had no idea. “He wouldn"t do that.”
“Why not? It"s no skin off his nose if Japan"s money is locked up in his bank account.” He did not understand, and Marilyn
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took pity on him. “You know what"s stopping him? He"s got a date with me tonight. He won"t want to mess that up. Tomorrow"s a different story, but by then he"ll be doing what I want, I hope. You wait and see.”
The cab pulled up outside a brightly lit shop window full of mannequins wearing next to nothing. “Alright! This is what I want. Let"s go and waste Japan"s credit card.”
“Shall I come back for you?”
“Not a chance. You can hold my stuff while I get sorted. Come on.”
Rupert followed her into the shop. It was brightly lit and packed with racks of lingerie. The range of types and models shocked her. The Pommy girls must have a hidden lifestyle if they bought stuff like this. She had never seen so much gauze, ribbons and black lace. This year"s colour was black, closely followed by red. Better still, a lurid combination of the two. The wall on one side was covered with dramatic bras, some of which would hide but most would simply display. On the floor stood rack after rack of corsets, basques, chemises, flimsy nighties, g-strings, suspender belts, the varieties were endless.
Marilyn stood and looked. The shop was busy with customers browsing, nearly all women. They looked normal enough, but were they wearing underclothes like these? She tried to imagine Stephanie in a basque and stockings, and shook her head. She had other problems, specifically, what did she need herself? She had never shopped for clothes like these, and Rupert probably knew more about them than she did.