Prophets and Loss (A Johnny Ravine Mystery)

by Martin Roth

  Chapter Nineteen

  The phone call was unexpected.

  “Hi Johnny. Remember me?”

  I recognized the raspy voice at once. “Briony.”

  “Johnny. Briony. I said we’d get on. Johnny, I’ve found out more about Grant. About what he was doing here. There were other reasons why he came. Not just to talk about the Bible.”

  “What?”

  “There’s something happening. All kinds of things. There are soldiers.”

  “Soldiers?”

  “That’s what they told me. Soldiers. From Indonesia.”

  I tensed.

  “Johnny, I’m scared. Something’s happening. You might be in some kind of danger.”

  I thought of Mel and her tears. Suddenly everyone said they were scared. “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve heard people mentioning your name.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know who they were. We get invited to parties. There are so many men.”

  “So what do you know?”

  “Johnny. I’m hearing all kinds of things. Have you heard of some group called the Dili Tigers?”

  “Oh no.”

  “Can’t we meet privately? I’ll tell you all I know.”

  “Name the place.”

  “Come round here. As quickly as possible.”

  “La Rue?”

  “It’s the safest place in Melbourne. I’ll book you in as one of my customers. Complete privacy.” She gave what sounded suspiciously like a forced giggle.

  “Thirty minutes?”

  “Just a quickie, you mean?” Another giggle.

  “No, I meant I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Maybe forty, depending on the traffic.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting, lover. If you know what I mean.” A final giggle, and she rang off.

  I put down the phone and pondered on those giggles. They were manufactured. Unnatural. Why on earth should Briony care about helping me? And she had denied knowing about the Dili Tigers the last time we met. So how did she know about them now? As well as apparently knowing that I would somehow react to hearing about them?

  Something coquettish was in her voice. At our last meeting she wanted to stay in control. But this time she was trying to please. She was being flirty. She was trying hard to induce me.

  And what was the connection with my angry conversation with Mel the night before? When Mel had told me she once worked at La Rue, and was scared that the place was connected to something big?

  I took from a kitchen drawer a large adjustable wrench and shoved it in an inside jacket pocket. The ideal weapon for the illegal immigrant who daren’t be caught with a gun.

  Had to tighten the bolts on my car wheels, officer. Shoved the wrench in my jacket pocket and forgot it was there. Yes, it is a big wrench. American. Very strong. Doesn’t snap like the Taiwanese ones do when you accidentally hit something with it.

  Traffic was light and the drive from Box Hill to South Melbourne took me less than half an hour. I found a parking spot outside the publishing company office, right by La Rue. I stood and looked slowly around. The street was empty. A couple of pigeons flew overhead in a cloudless sky.

  I pushed open the large door and stepped inside the reception lounge. I recognized the woman behind the glass from my previous visit. She looked up and smiled.

  “Briony,” I muttered.

  “She’s waiting for you, Johnny. The New Orleans Room. Just go along the corridor and it’s halfway down on the left.” She beckoned with a hand to the entrance door beside her.

  I walked slowly down the corridor, past the nineteenth-century nudes. It was silent. Eeerily silent? No, just silent, as it had been on my previous visit. The morning was unlikely to be a busy time.

  The door to the New Orleans Room was open and Briony was inside, sitting on the bed in coy fashion, her legs crossed and her mouth rounded in a kind of pout. She was wearing a red and white striped dress which had presumably been washed many times, because it had shrunk considerably. She smiled as I walked in.

  I looked around. This room was done out in strong reds and purples. The bed was a four-poster, with a frilly fringe around the top. On the walls were large drawings of naked white women cavorting at a carnival with black musicians. A heavy musk scent - like concentrated under-arm deodorant - hung like a Yarra Valley fog.

  Briony stood. “Johnny, I’m worried,” she said simply. She closed the door and bolted it.

  I sat on a chair beside the bed and looked at her. It was hard to tell whether she was lying. Her eyes sparkled, her mouth retained the hint of a warm smile and her unflustered hands told me nothing. She didn’t seem particularly nervous. “What’s going on?”

  She sat on the bed. Her knees were touching mine. “Johnny, you look worried too.”

  I looked around again. There were no cupboards, no curtains long enough to conceal anyone, and only limited space under the bed.

  “You said there were soldiers. In here?”

  “In La Rue. Yes, we have a room for groups. They have parties. There was this party with a lot of rough young guys from Indonesia. Someone told me they were soldiers.”

  “But what’s the connection with me?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m scared. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “You don’t want me to get hurt? It’s nice to be cared about so much by someone who hardly knows me.”

  “I need a drink,” she said. She moved to the small refrigerator by the door and took out a mineral water. “A beer?” she asked, offering me a Heineken.

  I shook my head. “Briony. You wanted to meet me. You said you had something to tell me.”

  She put back the beer and closed the refrigerator door. As she did I heard shuffling outside in the corridor. “No,” I shouted. But Briony was too quick. Before I could stop her she had unbolted the door.

  As I grabbed the wrench from my jacket pocket a dark young man ran in, followed by another, and another. The third carried a gun. I went for him first. One powerful blow with the wrench to the side of the head sent him sprawling face down to the floor, his gun disappearing under the bed. A trickle of blood emerged from his black hair.

  Briony screamed and ran from the room. The first man took a swing at me with his fist, and caught me a glancing blow on the shoulder. I tried to grab his arm, but the second man took hold of one wrist. He could not manage a firm grip, and I swiveled around and sliced the wrench upwards into his chin. He stumbled back with a grunt.

  Now the first man took hold of my jacket lapels in a judo hold and tugged me sharply towards him, with great power. We were looking straight at each other. His face was damp, his black eyes glistened and his lips curled in a smirk. “Got you,” he muttered.

  I raised the wrench, but he seized my arm and tried to throw me back. I smashed my free fist into his stomach. His hold on my arm weakened just enough for me to push him across the bed.

  But the second man was ready. He charged me like a deranged boar. He punched me hard, once in the shoulder and then again in the chest, then he grabbed and twisted my arm. The wrench fell to the ground.

  The first man was on the ground, reaching under the bed. I realized he had located the gun. Without trying to retrieve my wrench I ran from the room and slammed the door, then I fled, down the corridor.

  The whole episode had probably taken less than a minute. The commotion did not seem to have attracted attention. I hurried back out. The reception area was now unoccupied. But one of the men was behind me. I stopped and smashed him in the stomach with a fist, and then in the jaw with an elbow. He staggered back.

  I couldn’t sprint, but I could certainly lope with great agility. I raced over to my car and got inside. I looked back and saw that two men were standing in the doorway of La Rue. They did not try to follow, instead just watching with menace as I drove away.

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