Murder at the Races

by Carmen Radtke

  ‘Which means it all comes down to Morphettville. Whoever needed the blacksmith silenced, would either have been there in person, or phoned up someone who’d kill on his order.’ Jack took Frances’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Is it possible for you to find out if there were any phone calls made to Morphettville after Brocky’s accusation?’

  Frances hung her head. ‘Not likely. There are no logs, and we are all sworn to discretion.’

  ‘I feared as much,’ Jack said. ‘Which means, there are no easy ways to narrow down our suspects.’

  ‘Is there anything we can do at all?’ Frances’s voice held a slight quiver.

  ‘Sure. Marie and Bluey will comb through the racing programmes as soon as they arrive and make a list of all names with a connection to Morphettville.’

  A rap on the door interrupted Jack. ‘Come in,’ he said.

  Phil’s voice answered. ‘Can you come outside for a minute?’

  Jack stepped into the passage. The two men gazed at each other in silence.

  ‘I’m not really here,’ Phil said.

  ‘I thought so.’

  Phil blew out his breath in frustration. ‘Listen, mate, I really tried, but for us the case is closed. We have no interest to look into any goings-on at Morphettville.’

  ‘No names then.’

  ‘Sorry. The best I could come up with is a few names of the jokers who hired and paid the blacksmith. He kept an account we found in his swag.’ Phil slipped a piece of paper into Jack’s hand.

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’ Jack hesitated. ‘You’ve heard there were a few races in Victoria where a rank outsider made some lucky punters very happy?’

  ‘Where? Melbourne?’

  ‘Fremantle racecourse. You still have contacts among your old colleagues, I assume.’

  ‘And young Palmer was up in Queensland with his arm up a sheep’s bottom until lately.’ For an instant, a light flashed in Phil’s eyes before he sighed. ‘Not much use, is it? Sorry I can’t be of any more help.’

  Jack clapped him on the back. ‘Go and see Dolores. She’ll be waiting already.’

  As soon as he opened the office door, four heads swiveled towards him. ‘I want to help with the names,’ Frances said.

  ‘You’ll be too busy for that,’ Jack said. ‘As will Salvatore the Magnificent.’

  Uncle Sal chortled. ‘You’ve got a plan.’

  ‘I do. If you’re willing to take a slight risk.’

  ‘I don’t care what I have to do if it’s for Rob.’ Frances attempted a smile.

  ‘Good. Because if we can’t get the names we need from anyone else, they will keep a log at the racecourse.’

  ‘But how?’ Uncle Sal looked puzzled.

  ‘We’ll take our show to Morphettville. Do you know how to pick locks, Uncle Sal?’ Jack’s grin held a dangerous edge.

  Uncle Sal wiggled his fingers. ‘I’m a bit rusty but give me a couple of days and I’ll be able to break into Bank of England.’

  Chapter Ten

  Frances waited until she and Uncle Sal were back home, before she confronted him. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Picking locks!’

  ‘It’s not hard. Anyone who helped with magic tricks used to be able to do it.’ Uncle Sal huffed a little. ‘A little bit of refreshing, that’s all I need. I used to be a wiz with my hands. Houdini himself said so when we met in Europe long before you were born.’

  Frances hugged him as tight as she could. She shivered despite the warmth of the evening. The house, usually so comforting with its familiar smells and looks, had an air of desolation made worse by the pictures of Rob and his family on the mantel.

  ‘I don’t doubt your skills,’ Frances said. ‘But I’m scared about what would happen if you get caught.’

  ‘You worry too much,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘I’m sure Jack will have a plan for anything.’

  Frances relented. ‘Are you sure?’

  Uncle Sal crossed is heart.

  ‘In that case, can you teach me?’

  He gaped at her. ‘Teach you what?’

  ‘Lock picking. I’m your assistant, remember?’

  Uncle Sal opened his mouth and shut it again.

  ‘You said it yourself, Jack will take care of us.’

  Jack needed all his persuasion to convince Marie to leave. He sent Bluey home as well. There would be enough long days again soon, and the rest of the staff could function without them on a normal night.

  Jack peered over the balustrade on the upper floor. The crowd seemed happy and well-behaved enough, Dolores new songs were received with enough applause to quieten her flashes of self-doubt, and as he’d hoped, half a dozen luminaries including two councillors and a judge were among the guests. The Top Note attracted the upper echelons of Adelaide society thanks to its amenities and the fact that the only law broken here was the one regarding the six pm alcohol ban.

  Jack had worked hard for his reputation. Would he really be willing to pay the price if he and everyone he cared about as caught up in a hare-brained scheme to solve a murder?

  He gripped the balustrade tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. Stepping aside and doing nothing was impossible. Risking everything he’d built and what it meant for the people who depended upon him was likewise not an option. He needed a plan, not just the blithe declaration he’d given Frances.

  ‘Captain Jack?’ Danny, another one of Jack’s soldiers and now part waiter, part chauffeur, and full-time support for whatever was going on, surprised him. It was a rare occasion when anyone managed to sneak up on him, even someone as light of feet as Danny.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s a phone call for you. It’s Sal Bernardo.’

  ‘I’m coming.’ Jack stopped himself from speculating as he hurried down the stairs, neatly dodging customers keen on being seen with White Jack Sullivan.

  It was close to midnight. Uncle Sal must have a good reason to ring up the Top Note this late.

  He closed the door behind him. Danny had left the light on in the office and placed the receiver on the table.

  Jack lit a cigarette as he picked up phone, a habit he rarely indulged in. ‘Uncle Sal? Is anything wrong?’

  Uncle Sal sounded muffled. ‘I might have made a clanger. My little Frances made me show her how to pick locks. She’s a natural, but – ’

  ‘Damn.’ Jack loosened his collar. He hadn’t noticed how stuffy the air had become, despite the ceiling fan.

  ‘I won’t let her do anything,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘I just didn’t know what to do. It did ease her mind a bit.’

  ‘Is she asleep?’

  ‘Out like a light.’

  ‘I’ll think of something to keep her distracted,’ Jack said. ‘Thanks for calling.’

  He took two deep drags and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. If only he’d kept his mouth shut. Now Frances wouldn’t budge. Which also meant he had to return to his original glimmer of an idea and make it work. Otherwise Frances and Uncle Sal might try their hand on their own, and they were sure to be found out breaking into the office at Morphettville.

  For once, Jack wished the revelers would hurry up, finish their drinks, have a last dance and swan off into the night. Instead they seemed to take an inordinate pleasure in dragging things out, while he stopped for a word here and a chin-wag there without registering much of it.

  It was past two, when they closed the doors behind the last group and Jack was finally free to think. There was one other avenue worth pursuing, but again he’d need help, and that would have to wait until the morning.

  The cactus had been on the lower shelf, and soft music filtered through from Dolores’ apartment next door. He only hoped Phil wouldn’t become an additional problem. He could swear things were serious between Dolores and her suitor, except that for an ambitious man like Phil marrying a nightclub singer could prove bad for his career. In which case Jack had to find a way to make that w
ork. He’d known Dolores all her life, and she relied on Jack. Like Uncle Sal and Frances …

  His thoughts still followed the same path, like a merry-go-round, when he fell asleep.

  Marie and Bluey were already waiting when Jack came down. They lived too far from the Top Note these days, Jack thought. Even with the free use of a car, Marie’s life would be easier if she could just pop in to check on her children.

  Another problem he needed to think about. They piled up lately.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘Ginny made sure of that.’ Jack patted Marie’s hand. Ginny Barker looked after the apartments, including the cooking for Jack and Dolores. Ginny’s husband Archie could manage any menial task, although he reserved his passion for the Rover roadster and the Ford sedan in the garage.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Bluey asked.

  ‘You’re still friends with Andie Miller?’ Jack asked Marie.

  ‘The babies play together all the time.’ Marie wrinkled her nose. ‘I can’t believe they’ll both soon be three.’

  ‘Can you pump her for information?’

  ‘Can’t you ask Phil?’ Andie Miller’s husband was in the police force too, but not a detective like Phil, and as a sergeant at a much lower rank.

  ‘He’s given me all he could,’ Jack said. ‘Invite her over and give her two tickets for our ball.’

  Marie chuckled. ‘That’ll do the trick. What do you want me to ask her?’

  ‘It’s about the horse, if they’ve followed up on the owner and trainer, and if they have any idea about its real identity.’

  Marie gave Andie the grand tour of the Top Note. As a young mother, her friend rarely had the chance to go out.

  ‘It’s enormous, much bigger than I remember,’ Andie said. She and her husband had been among the guests at the pre-opening charity ball Jack had given in these rooms after their arrival in Adelaide, and the wireless the Millers won at the raffle that night was among Andie’s most prized possessions.

  ‘It looks different once the tables and chairs are set up. And Captain Jack insists on a decent distance between tables and stage, so you can listen to the music and still chat.’

  ‘Unless Dolores Barden sings?’ Andie twinkled. She’d been forever telling Marie that the singer would be perfect for Adelaide’s radio stations, an idea that Jack seconded.

  ‘We don’t stand for rudeness.’ Marie tried to keep the pride in her voice down, but she took great pleasure in the knowledge that the Top Note had high standards when it came to the way everyone on the staff was expected to be treated, from the artists to the cloak room attendant. One councilor had found that out to his chagrin, when he used his hands too freely, and Bluey chucked him out into the streets. Because they had witnesses for his behaviour, they were safe from repercussions, and word spread.

  The first musicians set up their instruments. Andi gave them a longing look.

  ‘We could sit at the back,’ Marie suggested. ‘I’ll fetch us tea.’

  ‘Wouldn’t we be in the way?’

  ‘As if. They love a good audience.’

  Marie came back with a trolley full of tea, cake and sandwiches. The musicians could help themselves between sets. Some of them hadn’t had a steady job since the last picture house had made the switch to talkies.

  They picked up the tune of “Happy Days Are Here Again”.

  Andie snapped her fingers in tune with the music. ‘They’re really the cat’s whiskers,’ she said.

  ‘They are,’ Marie said. She crossed her fingers under the table as she went on. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask.’

  ‘Sure. Is it about little Bobby?’

  ‘No, it’s – you’ve heard about the murder at the racecourse?’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ Two thin lines crept up between Andie’s brows. ‘My husband says they’ve caught the man who did it. The vet.’

  ‘Yeah. But what about the horse? Does he have any idea if the police have any suspects? I mean, if the horse had a false identity, someone must be behind it, just like someone must know who that horse really is. The vet couldn’t have done all that by himself.’

  ‘You want me to ask him.’ Andie pondered this.

  ‘If you can.’

  ‘It’s important to you?’

  Marie had to clear her throat before she could trust her voice. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good-oh. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Funny how clammy her face had become, Marie thought. She’d been prepared for more questions.

  Marie found Jack in the office, in the middle of a conversation on the telephone. Frances and Uncle Sal sat side by side, both quiet as mice. Marie tried to breathe as lightly as possible.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack said into the telephone. ‘No worries. I’ll send someone over in a jiffy.’ He hung up with a satisfied gleam in his eyes, opened the door and called, ‘Bluey.’

  They waited for Marie’s husband.

  ‘Yes, boss?’ Bluey came running. He wiped his brow. He’d been taking care of a delivery of beer, a task that took muscle as well as the skill to tally up the number of bottles. They’d dumped one supplier unceremoniously when he’d forgotten a dozen bottles.

  ‘I need you to drive to the racecourse.’ Jack wrote out a cheque for twenty-five pounds and sealed it in an envelope addressed to Mr Dunne/Mr Lucca. ‘You’ve just become my official assistant. Mr Lucca will show you around the facilities. I’ve hired their entertainment block for our ball, because of the huge demand of tickets to our charity event.’

  ‘Got it.’ Bluey took the envelope.

  ‘Ask him for a plan to the buildings and see if you have a chance to find out how far away the stable blocks and buildings are.’ Jack gave Uncle Sal and Frances a wink. ‘And tell him we’ll have to rehearse and would like to leave a few valuable instruments overnight, if the security is up to scratch.’

  Understanding dawned in Uncle Sal’s face. ‘There are for sure no flies on you, Jack.’

  Frances and Marie both turned to Jack for an explanation.

  He said, ‘How else are we supposed to find out anything if we aren’t close to the action? Especially if we have to make our way into the office.’

  Uncle Sal rose and took a bow. ‘Signorina Francesca, this is our cue.’

  Frances opened her handbag and produced a padlock, a set of handcuffs, and an assortment of weirdly shaped pins and skeleton keys. Uncle Sal held them aloft. ‘Do you have a strongbox or anything else worth breaking into? Just lead me to it. I’m ready to burgle the Town Hall if it helps.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Frances patted her wig, which together with skillful make-up and spectacles transformed her into a sharp-featured woman who could pass as a decade older than Frances’s actual age. She’d be twenty-three end of November weeks, and they’d planned a huge bash at the Top Note. But not without Rob.

  She fumbled again with the wig. ‘Careful, or it’ll slide.’ Bluey said.

  ‘It’s itchy.’ They had resorted to using one of the wigs left over from a New Year’s show, when a trio replaced Dolores. Their dancing skills made up for the fact that their lead singer had only a passable voice compared to the Top Note’s star attraction.

  Pauline had taken out the waves and bobbed the wig at a sharper angle. The glossy brown was left unchanged.

  Frances went through her instructions. She was grateful Jack had decided she should accompany Bluey as a secretary. Two people could cover more ground, and while Bluey might be treated with the respect befitting a man who would bring lucrative business, hardly anyone paid attention to a woman whose appearance bordered on dowdy.

  She rolled down the window a couple of inches. The exhaust fumes mingled with the scent of red gums and wattle trees, now that they were outside the city centre.

  Bluey steered the Rover into a spot close to the main entrance. Heat shimmered on the racecourse, and the breeze stirred up a little dust. In a few hours, galloping hooves would throw up plumes behind them, and
the cries of jockeys and spectators would be audible half a mile away. For now though, an almost ethereal quiet lay over the course and the empty stands.

  The large building behind showed at least a few signs of life, with a handsome thirty-something man standing at the door, a cigarette in his cupped hands.

  At the back would be the stables and lodgings, Frances thought. In the blocks hidden from her sight was the room where Rob had slept, and where a murderer had snuck inside to plant evidence framing her brother.

  Bluey shot her a sidewards glance. His own face was studiously blank as they left the car. Frances smoothed her frown and managed a weak smile.

  The man at the door ground out his cigarette with his heel. He extended his hand and flashed them a wide smile. ‘You must be Mr Sullivan’s people. I’m Mike Dunne.’

  Bluey shook his hand. ‘Bluey Fitzpatrick, and Mr Sullivan’s secretary, Miss Whitford.’ They’d decided to drop the name Palmer, in case anybody made the connection with Rob. Whitford had been her mother’s maiden name, making it easier to remember.

  Mike Dunne gave her a brief nod as he took them inside.

  Their steps clicked sharply on the concrete stairs. In the spacious passages, Frances heard only her own heels on the floorboards. The men with their rubber soles made hardly any noise, something they needed to take into account.

  At the far end, a couple of gaunt jockeys handed papers to an efficient looking man with a clipboard. There must be a door close to them, leading to the stables, because Frances saw no traces of muck or straw on her side.

  Mike Dunne stopped outside a door with a large fan-light and the lettering Manager in gold plate. It began level with Frances’s nose and was a good fifteen inches high.

  The lock was an ordinary one that opened with an ordinary barrel key. Frances’s mood lightened. Inside the office, a ledger sat next to an inkwell and pen on an antique desk. The furniture looked old too, and valuable, with sumptuous brown leather armchairs. A cabinet case stood in a corner, next to a globe that would open into a liquor cabinet. Frances had seen similar models in a catalogue.