by Robert Gott
Titus told Maude about Joe’s accusations against Sergeant Maher.
‘Sometimes, Titus, I think the world is a truly horrible place.’
‘It is a horrible place, Maudey, but thank God you’re in it.’
Maude laughed.
‘The leaven in the lump,’ she said.
THE WEATHER ON 30 March 1944 was hot, but not as hot as the previous days. Bushfires, which seemed to have been burning since January, continued to break out and threaten lives. A taint of burning eucalyptus remained in Melbourne’s air. People had become so used to it they barely noticed it.
Joe felt something had shifted at the Russell Street headquarters. As soon as he entered, a group of four detectives, who might usually have nodded a greeting, turned away from him. It was subtle, and Joe thought perhaps that he’d misinterpreted what might have been a simple, undirected movement. They couldn’t know yet about Maher; but of course they could. Maher might have warned his mates that Sable wasn’t to be trusted. Maher must be in the building, Joe thought, and if he was, that would confirm that he was being questioned about the death of Watson Cooper.
As Joe turned into the corridor that led to Inspector Lambert’s office, Detective Maher emerged from that office and walked towards him. Maher stopped, and for a moment Joe thought he was going to throw a punch. Instead, he leaned in towards Joe and said, ‘You little Jew cunt,’ then brushed past him.
Joe was surprised to find that his hands were shaking. The vitriol in Maher’s voice had shocked him, even though he’d been expecting an ugly response from him.
Inspector Lambert knew as soon as he entered the office that he’d had a run-in with Maher. He signalled to him to sit down.
‘I take it Detective Maher made his feelings obvious?’
‘Yes, sir. He called me a little Jew cunt, which I took to mean that he’s not happy.’
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. I’m afraid you’ll have to gird your loins for a bit. Detective Maher was, of course, almost frothing at the mouth with outrage.’
‘What will happen next?’
‘I can’t promise you a satisfactory outcome. It comes down to your word against his, and he’s got a long, reasonably distinguished career behind him, and you’re new to the job. I’m sure you’re aware that there is some resentment in this building about your promotion.’
‘Yes, sir, I am aware of that.’
‘Maher believes, or so he says, that you’re trying to big-note yourself at his expense. He denies everything that you’ve said. He claims you were throwing your weight around as if you thought the local coppers weren’t up to scratch.’
‘That’s not true, sir.’
‘I know that, Sergeant, but you need to be aware that the investigation triggered by your allegation will expose you to a great deal of unpleasantness, and having met Maher, I can assure you that he’ll do everything in his power to wreck your career and your reputation.’
With more bravado than he was feeling, Joe said, ‘Even if I could, sir, I wouldn’t withdraw my allegation. I know what I saw, and what I saw was an execution, and men like Maher shouldn’t have power over the life or death of anyone.’
Inspector Lambert said that he would do what he could to protect Joe from the worst of what was to come, but he wanted an assurance in return that Joe would tell him the minute he thought any pressure he was under was compromising an investigation. They then turned to the Peter Lillee case. Joe’s task that day was to find Forbes Carlisle, the artist who’d painted Lillee’s portrait. Lillee had mentioned once that he was employed by the army to paint camouflage at Puckapunyal. Would he still be at that army base this late in the war? Inspector Lambert agreed that Carlisle might know more about Lillee than Lillee’s business acquaintances, and he authorised the use of a police vehicle for the long drive to the base, should Carlisle still be there.
Just as Joe was about to leave, Lambert asked him if he could come that night for dinner at Tom Mackenzie’s house in South Melbourne.
‘Tom is anxious to talk with you. Maude and I will go to the cinema after dinner, so the two of you can talk. We’d appreciate it if you could come. Tom is making a good recovery, and this would help.’
‘Of course, sir. That would be wonderful. I’ve wanted to talk to Tom ever since it happened.’
‘I know you have, but Tom hasn’t been well enough, until now. Shall we say 6.00?’
‘WHERE DOES THE little prick live?’
Kevin Maher downed a neat whiskey after asking this question. He was sitting with Ron Dunnart and Bob O’Dowd in Dunnart’s favourite watering hole, the Sarah Sands Hotel in Brunswick. It was 5.00 p.m., so they had a solid hour of drinking before the pub closed at 6.00 p.m. At least some of the drinks would be free. Many of the clientele in the Sarah Sands either owed Dunnart a favour or wanted to stay on the right side of him.
‘He used to live in a flat in Princes Hill,’ Dunnart said. ‘It burned down a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke.’
Bob O’Dowd didn’t want to be here. He knew that Dunnart was keeping him close, that this invitation for a drink was a way of reminding him that Peter Lillee’s death meant trouble for both of them. And O’Dowd didn’t like this Maher bloke at all. Maher was cut from the same cloth as Dunnart. When he’d told them about Joe Sable’s accusation, Dunnart had immediately taken Maher’s side. Dunnart didn’t ask if there was any truth in the accusation, because whether it was true or not was immaterial. A cop killer was dead. And the cop who’d killed him deserved a fucking medal, not a fucking investigation. O’Dowd was unnerved to be sitting drinking with two men who were capable of, possibly guilty of, murder. He could barely follow the conversation. He felt as if he’d been caught in a rip, or an undertow. He could feel himself surrendering to panic. He’d been an average detective, and that was all he wanted to be. Getting mixed up with Dunnart had been the worst mistake of his life. Lambert would discover Dunnart’s connection to Lillee. He’d find out they’d visited the house. O’Dowd’s mouth went dry.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Dunnart asked. ‘You look like you’re about to shit yourself.’
Dunnart’s voice seemed far away, and O’Dowd’s head began to swim. He thought he was going to faint.
‘I need a piss,’ he managed to say, and with a fierce act of concentration, he managed to stand and make his way to the malodorous urinal.
‘What’s his story?’ Maher asked.
‘It’s a boring story. He’s just one of those career coppers who’ll never amount to anything. No talent and no ambition.’
‘So what’s he doing hanging around you?’
‘That’s just it, Kev, he’s hanging around. Can’t shake him.’
Kevin Maher had known Ron Dunnart long enough — although it had been a couple of years since they’d seen each other — to know that Dunnart didn’t tolerate hangers-on. If O’Dowd was drinking with Dunnart, there had to be something in it for Dunnart. He let it go for the moment.
‘Tell me about this Sable prick.’
‘I don’t know much about him, Kev. He’s Lambert’s pet. He and this woman were taken under Lambert’s wing for some reason. She’s gone now, thank Christ. Can you imagine that, a sheila in Homicide? Neither of them would have jobs here if there wasn’t a war on. The Japs have got a lot to answer for. Anyway, this Sable bloke got badly beaten up a few weeks back. He looked like shit, but he still turned up for work. Trying to impress Lambert, of course.’
‘Lambert seems like a bastard.’
‘He is a bastard. Unfortunately, he’s good at his job. And he doesn’t like me one little bit.’
‘So he’ll back Sable.’
‘Of course he will, but it’s your word against his, and no one’s going to believe Sable. Trust me, Kev, Sable is a loner. He’s got no friends at Russell Street.’
‘I’d like to hurt the bastard. He’s a Jew, did you know that?’
Dunnart’s prejudices had coalesced into a detestation of Masons. Joe Sable’s Jewishness was of no matter to him, so he ignored Maher’s remark.
‘I’d leave Sable alone if I were you, Kev. If anything happens to him, you’ll be the first person Lambert will suspect. Don’t worry, he’s about to become a social pariah.’
‘What the fuck’s a pariah?’
Bob O’Dowd returned to the table just as Dunnart had begun to improve Maher’s vocabulary. O’Dowd was pale, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. Dunnart had no wish to discuss Lillee’s death in front of Maher, so he decided to bring the drinking session to an end.
‘It’s been good to catch up, Kev. Let’s do it again some time.’
Maher took the hint. He was happy enough that Sable was about to be ostracised.
‘Can’t hang about,’ he said. ‘The wife hates it when I come home stinking of alcohol.’ He didn’t bother with the social nicety of telling O’Dowd that it had been good to meet him. He simply stood up and left.
‘What the fuck’s going on with you, Bob? You’re sweating like a pig and your hands are shaking.’
‘Lambert’s going to find out that you killed Peter Lillee, Ron. What happened? Did he make a pass at you or something? Why did you kill him?’
‘Don’t be a fucking idiot, Bob. I didn’t kill Lillee. That goose was about to lay some golden eggs. Why would I kill it?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you, Ron. Why? I’m not going to say anything. I’m not that dumb. If you get done for this, Lambert’s going to pin being an accessory on me. I know that.’
‘Well, I’m glad that doesn’t need to be explained to you, at least. You’ve been briefed, so you know there’s no evidence of murder, and I’m telling you, I did not kill Peter Lillee. His death is a pain in the arse.’
Bob O’Dowd didn’t believe a word Dunnart said. Dunnart raised a beer to his lips and watched O’Dowd over the top of it. O’Dowd looked briefly into Dunnart’s eyes, but couldn’t hold his gaze. He looked down. He realised that he hated Dunnart and that he was afraid of him. He wanted him out of his life, and he decided then and there that he would find a way to do this.
FORBES CARLISLE WAS no longer at Puckapunyal, and the corporal who’d answered the telephone didn’t know where he’d been posted, and even if he did, he wouldn’t, as he said, be telling it to some bloke claiming to be a policeman. Joe spent the day instead talking to some of Peter Lillee’s business acquaintances. He learned nothing from them to suggest that Lillee had any reason to take his own life. He was liked and respected, and he was considered honest to a fault in his financial dealings.
At the end of the day, Joe went straight from Russell Street to Tom Mackenzie’s house in South Melbourne. The snub he’d experienced in the morning hadn’t been repeated, but as he’d spent most of the day away from police headquarters, he wasn’t sure yet if Maher’s influence had begun to infect his fellow officers. When he arrived at the house, he remembered that he hadn’t telephoned Ros Lord to tell her not to make dinner for him. Titus opened the door to him, and Joe, who felt this small careless act of rudeness keenly, asked if he could use the telephone before he even acknowledged Titus’s greeting.
‘You haven’t rung the Lords have you?’
‘No, sir. I just completely forgot.’
‘I’ll do it for you, Joe. I’m sure Ros Lord will understand. Go through to the living room. Tom and Maude are having a beer.’
Joe was suddenly nervous. He hadn’t allowed himself to think too deeply about the torture that he and Tom had endured at the hands of Ptolemy Jones. Joe didn’t know what to expect as he approached the living room. Tom was standing, ready to greet him, and Maude Lambert stood up as he entered. For a moment, nothing was said, then Tom put out his hand and said, ‘Joe Sable. It’s bloody good to see you.’
Joe took Tom’s hand and adjusted the strength of his grip when he realised three of Tom’s fingers were strapped. The fingers on his other hand were strapped, too.
‘It’s a bastard doing really basic stuff, but I’m adept at it now.’
‘Good evening Joe,’ Maude said, and her eyes filled with tears.
‘Steady on, Maudey,’ Tom said. ‘This is a happy occasion.’
Maude laughed and moved towards Titus when he came into the room. Tom stood beside Joe and faced them.
‘So, who looks worse do you reckon?’
‘You do, Tom,’ said Maude without hesitation. ‘By a long way. Joe’s cuts and bruises have nearly gone away. You still look pretty sad and battered.’
‘I look better the more beers you have,’ Tom said, ‘and Joe hasn’t even had one yet.’
There was no awkwardness between Tom and Joe. The only awkwardness Joe felt was the familiar awkwardness he experienced whenever he was with Inspector Lambert. He felt this too with Maude Lambert. How could they find him anything but callow and probably even foolish? He was intimidated by their intelligence and was never sufficiently at ease to express himself coherently. He would have been surprised to know that neither Titus nor Maude found him incoherent or dull.
Tom was apologetic about the quality of the dinner. It was just rissoles and vegetable stew, but they were the best rissoles Joe had ever tasted. Conversation was mostly about the sensational reports in that day’s paper about the inquest into the murder of a woman in 1934.
She’d become known as the Pyjama Girl, and the case had never been solved despite the body having been preserved in formalin and put on display. Joe, who’d been a lad of fifteen when the body was discovered near Albury, remembered the speculation in the press at the time. Like everyone else, he’d been intrigued by the lurid details of the towel-wrapped head, the gunshot wound, the evidence of a savage beating, and the rather louche yellow silk pyjamas she’d been wearing. And then there was the macabre decision to put the body on display and invite the public to come to see it in the hope that somebody might recognise the cosmetically improved corpse. Now, ten years after the discovery of the body, an inquest was being held in Melbourne, because a Melbourne man had confessed to the crime. Antonio Agostini had declared that the Pyjama Girl was his young wife, Linda, and that he’d killed her accidentally and panicked and disposed of the body. At this stage in the inquest, however, Agostini’s evidence was being contradicted by an opposing claim that the body was that of Anna Philomena Morgan.
As the head of Homicide, Titus knew more about the case than he was willing to reveal over dinner. Maude knew already that Titus was wary of the New South Wales Police Commissioner, William McKay, and that the rush to extradite Agostini to Victoria and to solve this notorious mystery had as much to do with McKay’s need to prop up his reputation as it had to do with the truth of the matter. Linda Agostini had been missing since 1934. There was no doubt about that. And as Titus had said to Maude, there was every reason to believe that Agostini had killed her. But was she the Pyjama Girl, or was this the perfect opportunity for McKay to garner publicity? Neither Tom nor Joe pressed Titus for details.
‘What picture are you going to see?’ Tom asked.
Titus groaned. ‘Maude wants to see You Were Never Lovelier.’
‘A friend of mine saw it,’ Maude said, ‘and recommended it. Apparently, Rita Hayworth does a brilliant dance with Fred Astaire, and who doesn’t like Fred Astaire?’
Maude and Titus left earlier than they needed to.
‘Titus knows more about the Pyjama Girl case than he’s letting on,’ Tom said.
‘I’m sure he does, but he’s not going to take someone as junior as I am into his confidence.’
‘You’re a sergeant. That’s not so junior.’
‘It’s a rank I haven’t earned, believe me. In my case, it’s just a title. I’m the beneficiary of a shortage of men.’
Tom laughed, and Joe no
ted again his resemblance to his sister. When Joe had first met him in his cramped office at Victoria Barracks, Tom had worn a neat moustache. Now he was clean-shaven, possibly because the vanity of a moustache seemed ludicrous on the swollen face that Tom saw each morning in the mirror, although now the swelling had retreated to his nose, which had been broken under Ptolemy Jones’s fist.
‘You got a degree in Classics, didn’t you, at Oxford?’ Joe said.
‘Yes. The air force made me a group captain on the strength of it.’
‘I don’t think they hand out promotions because you’ve read Herodotus and Thucydides, Tom.’
‘No, I suppose not. I was good at my job, but I was bored.’
‘I know you don’t blame me for what happened, Tom, but I blame myself.’
‘You didn’t exactly get away unscathed.’
‘No, but it was worse for you.’
Now that the subject had been broached, there was no turning back.
‘How much do you remember?’ Joe asked.
‘Most of it. Now. There were those ridiculous people — I don’t remember their names — who played at being Nazis.’
‘The main one was Mitchell Magill. They’ve all been interned.’
‘But there were two of them who were different.’
‘Ptolemy Jones, which wasn’t his real name, and George Starling.’
Tom thought for a moment.
‘You know, I thought it was all a bit of a game. Australian Nazis. It just seemed absurd.’
‘We don’t have to talk about this, Tom.’
‘Yes, we do. I need to know what happened to me, what actually happened, so I can stop having nightmares.’
‘I wasn’t there when Jones discovered that you were working for Intelligence.’
‘It was at that place at Candlebark Hill, near Daylesford. You’d gone back to Melbourne. I can’t remember what happened up there. Why can’t I remember that?’
Joe remembered, because Joe had seen the film that Jones had made of Tom, tied up and beaten.
