‘And what about proof of the illegal activity?’
‘I made a list of all the off-the-books shipments I could find, as well as times and dates when things were moved in and out of the warehouse.’ Mr Smith slid a few folded sheets of paper across the table to Molly. ‘They seem to happen at the same time each month, so if you’ve a mind you could get someone to keep an eye on the place for you and see what happens.’
There was a loud burst of laughter from a table toward the front of the cafe and, at the same moment, a car backfired in Swanston Street. Mr Smith flinched, then jumped to his feet. ‘I have to go.’ He threw a few coins on the table. ‘This was a bad idea. I thought it would help if I told someone, but I’ve probably made it worse. Raeburn crushes anything that gets in his way. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have involved you.’
Molly watched from her seat by the wall as the man hurried through the cafe, ricocheting off a table and stumbling over the threshold before being absorbed by the crowd of pedestrians and disappearing beyond the edge of the plate glass window.
***
Her second contact would only meet out in the open, so Molly found herself in the Botanic Gardens with a similarly anonymous gentleman. They walked slowly around Guilfoyle’s Volcano, the rest of the gardens and the city of Melbourne spread out below them, and as they did so Molly heard another tale of shady business dealings, this time involving drugs and alcohol and culminating with her informant being threatened with a gun and beaten. Not by Raeburn apparently, but by a man claiming to deliver a ‘message’. Once again, the only evidence he could provide was insubstantial, although Molly found herself convinced by the man’s haggard expression and darting eyes.
***
Later, when she sat down and compiled her copious notes, Molly realised that, essentially, she still had nothing. It didn’t matter what shady deals were being done, which police were paid off or even how many women Raeburn had forced his attentions on, she still had no solid proof and nothing any decent publisher would touch. Molly had no illusions about watching the comings and goings at a warehouse, and she was loath to simply turn everything over to the Truth and let one of their established male hacks follow up on her notes, or craft something rich with innuendo but short on names and details. Molly knew she was out of her depth with a potential criminal story as large as this.
Time was running out; she had to produce an article for Table Talk. The sensible thing to do was forget about Raeburn, forget about the police, and instead write about one of the people in Colin’s circle: Fritz perhaps, or even Betty Roland. Betty would make an interesting subject and a few snippets of lurid gossip would help to liven up the article.
But before she became reconciled to taking the easier option, there was one more thing Molly had to try. If she wanted to be taken seriously as a journalist she needed to follow the story. Although the thought of it filled her with deep misgivings, Molly had to speak to Raeburn again.
#xa0;
This time when she presented herself at Raeburn’s house, Molly had an appointment. She’d telephoned a week earlier and been quite surprised to receive an answer in the affirmative. If Donald Raeburn was now prepared to grant her request for an interview, Molly had no doubt everything he told her would be self-serving and bear only a passing acquaintance with the truth, but at least she might get some direct quotes she could use and an article she could submit to a publisher.
Standing on Conniston’s front porch, Molly took a moment to check that her seams were straight and her hat sat at just the right angle. St Kilda Road was busy with traffic and pedestrians, everyone with somewhere to be but not necessarily in a hurry to get there. Molly was oblivious to the passing parade; all her attention was focused on the man behind the glossy black door. When she rang the bell, the door swung open so quickly she wondered if the taciturn manservant had simply been standing there, waiting for a task or watching for her. Momentarily discomfited, Molly steeled herself for the imminent encounter. It was too late to back out now. Head high, she swept into the vestibule and made directly for the drawing room.
‘This way if you please, Miss Dean.’
She swung around. The man – had Raeburn called him Dickie? – was standing by a door on the opposite side of the staircase. As Molly moved to join him, he knocked twice and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. She passed close to his starched shirt front and heard the click of the latch behind her.
Donald Raeburn’s study was everything the drawing room was not. Panelled walls, heavy chairs and a dark red carpet conspired to give the room a brooding, old-world quality, its masculine aura heightened by the scent of tobacco, leather and something more ephemeral that teased the senses but remained unknown. At the far side of the room, Donald Raeburn sat behind an oak desk so massive it looked as though it might be an ancient monument, an immovable monolith where long-dead people once came to worship. In a corner near the door, a grandfather clock marked the passage of time. Molly listened to the steady pulse of its pendulum as she waited for Raeburn to acknowledge her, but for several minutes he did not look up and continued to write, or at least made a show of doing so.
Finally Donald Raeburn capped his pen and dropped it on the desk, raised his head, and sat back to look at her.
‘Why don’t you come and sit down, Mary Dean.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Raeburn.’ Molly’s voice sounded high and forced to her own ears. She made her way across the carpeted expanse toward the desk and sat down. The chair was low, and she found herself in the uncomfortable position of having to look up to meet Donald Raeburn’s eye.
‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Miss Dean. I hear you’ve been asking about me, probing into my affairs.’
This was not what Molly had expected and she felt her stomach suddenly grip with anxiety. ‘Well, that is, yes. I … I have been speaking to people about you. I told you I thought you’d be perfect for a profile piece, but when you didn’t contact me after we last spoke, I decided to come at the article another way.’
‘I will be quite clear. I do not wish to be the subject of an article, society piece or otherwise. I do not want you to talk to anyone – anyone – about me or my business dealings.’ Raeburn placed both palms on the desk and leaned forward, looming over Molly. ‘There is no story here. Do you understand?’
Molly could feel the button back of the chair pressing into her spine. She knew she should probably just make her excuses and get out, but she could also feel her prospects slipping away with the story. ‘Please Mr Raeburn, I hadn’t intended to go behind your back. Why, that’s precisely why I’m here! So that you have the chance to confirm and clarify some facts. So that I’m sure everything is correct. For example, your friendship with Chief Commissioner Blamey.’
Raeburn slammed his fist onto the desk, causing Molly to jump and cower back in the chair.
‘Enough! I do not intend to confirm, deny or even discuss anything. This ends now.’ His voice became low. ‘I’ve checked up on you too, Miss Dean. I know you’re trying to move up in the world. That can be hard. So many people don’t make it. Things happen, an accident of fate, a malicious rumour perhaps, and a life is destroyed before it’s even begun. Don’t cross me, Miss Dean, I will not be your ticket to greater things and if you’ve done your research – and I think you have – you’ll know that I don’t turn the other cheek.’
Molly looked down at her hands, seeing them wrapped tightly around her notebook but unsure when she’d taken it from her bag. She tried to start a sentence, but the words caught in the back of her throat and all that came out was an inarticulate half-gasp, half-squeak. She swallowed, tried again. ‘I see.’ That was better, only a slight quiver. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘You can see yourself out.’ Raeburn picked up his pen and bent his head, then looked up again when Molly didn’t m
ove. ‘Or should I have Dickie escort you out?’
Molly stood, her eyes wide and blinking fast as she fought to hold off tears. She made for the door, conscious of keeping her steps slow and measured. With her hand on the knob she turned back toward Raeburn, wanting to have the last word, to salvage some dignity. Molly gasped. Raeburn had come out from behind his desk, seemingly without a sound, and was now standing a few feet behind her, arms folded, the malice in his eyes so strong she could almost feel it forcing her from the room. Molly spun around and fled from the study, across the vestibule and out the front door. She clattered down the steps without stopping, using one hand on the gatepost to swing herself into the street.
Standing at the window, Donald Raeburn watched her go, one corner of his lip lifting ever so slightly. He was about to turn away when another figure caught his eye. A man, hat pulled down low over his forehead, was hurrying across St Kilda Road. His curious gait marked him out as he dodged between the traffic, angling in the same direction taken by Molly Dean. He stumbled to a halt in front of Raeburn’s fence and stood, staring down the street, anger creasing his ruddy face. Rising up onto his toes, he tilted his torso from side to side, craning his neck, clearly trying to track the progress of someone up ahead. Giving up, the man turned toward the house and found himself staring straight at Donald Raeburn.
Their gazes locked and Raeburn’s eyes narrowed. Then, simultaneously, both men turned to stare at the point where Molly Dean had vanished into the crowd.
1999
Last night I went back through all the photocopies and notes I’ve made about Molly’s death. There is definitely no mention of anyone called Raeburn, and the case against Adam Graham seems stronger each time I read the details. Graham admitted to following Molly in the past, and witnesses said a man with a strange gait was dogging her footsteps. But then Ethel Dean had also followed her daughter on occasion. Could the man with a strange gait have been a woman disguising her appearance? The more I think about the murder, the wilder my theories become. But it’s when I start a list of people who knew Molly would be at the theatre on 20 November that I get a shock. Betty Roland wasn’t in the theatre party that night, but it was she who gave Colin and Molly the tickets to Pygmalion.
This morning, to round out the research, I zip back to the State Library. I start by looking up Donald Raeburn in the Australian Dictionary of Biography. Born in 1903, he’s listed as a merchant and importer. The entry details a tough Collingwood childhood but glosses over how he became successful and vastly wealthy by the age of twenty-eight. Given that 1920s Melbourne had quite a few gangsters and racketeers like Squizzy Taylor, I have my suspicions. It doesn’t explain how Raeburn fits into Molly’s story, but it does mean he could be the subject of her notes. At least he should still have enough money to pay for the painting. I move on to the newspapers.
This time I look for any useful information on the murders of Mena Griffiths and Hazel Wilson. I soon confirm Mena was killed three weeks before Molly, Hazel just over a month after. Both Mena and Hazel were murdered in Ormond, just a couple of suburbs along from Molly Dean’s Elwood address. All three had stockings around their necks, but Mena and Hazel died from strangulation, while the coroner had deemed Molly’s death to be the result of her catastrophic head wounds. Yet according to several articles, the pathologist who performed the post-mortem examinations noted similarities between the three cases, as did the police. Journalists seemed divided on whether there was a single maniac on the loose or if the last murder was the work of a copycat.
I skim through papers, trying to find out if anyone was found guilty of Mena and Hazel’s murders. There were plenty of suspects for Mena, none for Hazel. Questions were asked about the competence of police. Finally, I find a series of jubilant articles – a man was arrested for the murder of Mena Griffiths. The trial was set for November 1931, and I’m about to jump ahead to see what the verdict was, when another headline catches my eye. I fiddle with the knob on the microfiche but it takes me a moment to bring the text into focus. Then I feel sick. The Mena Griffiths case shares another appalling similarity with the murder of Molly Dean. All charges were dropped before the trial began. An alibi that had been previously dismissed was now held up as rock solid. And I can find no further reference to an arrest or trial for the murders of Mena Griffiths or Hazel Wilson.
Leaving the library I almost stumble down the steps. I thought this bit of research would make things clearer, but my head is buzzing and I’m more confused than ever. I need to talk to Daphne.
***
I find her in the Hillview gardens, among the rhododendrons. She’s perched on the seat of her walker, just to one side of a reproduction Coalbrookdale iron bench. Those things always look attractive, but after five minutes they’re bloody uncomfortable. I make a sacrifice for the greater good and sit down.
‘Alex! What a lovely surprise. I’m glad you found me. There’s a singalong in the activities room, so I’m in hiding.’ She closes her eyes and sighs deeply. ‘But enough about my sparkling social life, what brings you here?’
‘Does the name Donald Raeburn mean anything to you?’
She frowns. ‘There was a wealthy Melbourne family by that name, but that was years ago.’
‘Nothing connected with Molly’s death?’
‘Not that I recall. Why?’ The frown deepens, making hills and valleys of her forehead.
I fill her in on Tom Raeburn’s visit.
‘Dad never even mentioned the name Raeburn. I’m sure of it. Not in all the years he talked about the case.’
‘Do you think it’s possible he spoke to Raeburn early on and dismissed him as a suspect?’
‘It’s possible, but improbable. He talked over everything, again and again.’ She shakes her head emphatically. ‘No, your Mr Raeburn can’t be Molly’s murderer.’
I feel some relief, even if I can’t quite share Daphne’s blind faith in her father’s abilities as a detective.
Now I pull out Molly’s envelope and tell Daphne what it is and where we found it. Her hand trembles a little as she reaches for it, and she only holds it for a moment before handing it back.
‘I haven’t got my glasses. You tell me what’s in it.’
I can see the chain for her specs disappearing beneath her lemon-coloured cardigan, but I don’t comment. Instead I tell her everything Molly had to say.
‘Based on what she wrote,’ I tap the envelope into the palm of my other hand, ‘Molly was scared of this man, of what he might do.’
‘But would he have killed her? Over what? Certainly, it sounds like Molly had done her research, and I grant you there are salacious details there and evidence of criminality. But from what you’ve said there’s nothing to suggest Molly feared for her life. She was a woman trying to make a name for herself in Melbourne in 1930. You could destroy her in a dozen ways without laying a finger on her if you had the right contacts, and the person in Molly’s hidden notes clearly had contacts.’
‘You’re right. It’s one thing to be an intimidating and nasty man, but another thing to ambush a woman and beat her to death.’ I shake my head.
‘And if this Raeburn was involved, why did Dad never mention him? I don’t understand.’ Daphne’s skin has gone a chalky white.
‘Maybe he wasn’t involved. There’s every chance he’s just a collector.’ I don’t want to bring up the idea of a cover-up, but there’s something I need to know. ‘Why didn’t your dad keep going after Adam Graham?’
‘He never got the chance. After the aborted trial, he and Jerry O’Keeffe were pulled from the case. It wasn’t his choice.’ Daphne grips the sides of the walker, her knuckles turning white.
I don’t want to upset her, so I move on. ‘Anyway, I wanted to ask you about Mena Griffiths and Hazel Wilson.’
‘What about them?’
‘I know you said they weren’t re
lated to Molly’s case, but the police and the coroner seemed to connect them.’
‘Oh no, Alex. They’re nothing to do with Molly.’
‘Don’t dismiss the idea too quickly, I mean, there were some similarities, and their murders were never solved.’
‘But that’s what I mean. They were solved. Or at least a man confessed. It was years later, about 1936.’
‘What?’ I hadn’t even thought to search more than a couple of years after the crime.
‘Yes, he confessed to those and two other murders, but not Molly’s. He described the four killings in great detail. They hung him the same year.’
‘Oh.’
The sun goes behind a cloud and Daphne shivers, drawing her cardigan tightly around her shoulders.
20 November 1930
Molly was at Colin’s house when her portrait was returned by the framer. She had spent the previous night with Colin and decided to stay for the day, content to get on with her writing while Colin painted. Each uninterrupted moment she could devote to her novel or poetry was another reminder why she had to push ahead, give up teaching and escape the toxic atmosphere of the Milton Street house. Even Donald Raeburn’s threats failed to dampen her zeal, and Molly used the anxiety gnawing at her psyche as inspiration for a new poem. She had already taken every scrap of information on Donald Raeburn and his associates – every note, conversation and suggestion of police corruption – and distilled it into a single, eleven-page document. Molly doubted now whether she would ever have the courage to take it to a publisher, but the thought of putting all her work aside, of yielding to Raeburn’s intimidation, was anathema to her.
‘Molly darling, come and see.’ Colin had spirited the painting away the moment it arrived, still wrapped securely in brown paper and string. Molly knew he’d chosen the frame’s moulding personally, making several trips to the framer to ensure the gilding was not too bright, the wash just so. ‘I’m waiting in the studio. It’s time for the big unveiling!’
The Portrait of Molly Dean Page 19
