Peter Corris - Taking Care of Business

I was beginning to dislike this phrase of his. Patronising. But with nothing else important on hand, the credit cards up near their limit and the bills coming in, I couldn’t afford to be choosy. I nodded.

‘If I used one of the usual agencies the information would leak out that the pearl is missing. Interest would drop immediately. The atmosphere would be… negative.’

I said, ‘I see,’ before he could ask me if I understood.

It sounded okay. We went through to a room he called his study. It was book-lined, with more pictures and a big desk with a computer and other high-tech equipment. I’d done the usual quick check on Stevenson before I’d arrived. He’d inherited a lot of old money and made a lot more new money on the stockmarket. He had an old money wife and two daughters who’d married on the same financial level. Money cosying up to money the way it does.

Peter Corris

CH28 — Taking Care of Business

I had one of my standard contracts with me and we signed it and he wrote me a retainer cheque. I was guaranteed fifteen thousand dollars for the return of the pearl on top of my usual daily rate and expenses. I put my copy of the contract and cheque in my pocket and shook his cool, dry hand.

‘I wonder if there’s a photograph of the pearl,’ I said.

‘Of course. He opened a drawer in the desk and removed a plastic envelope. From it he slid out two photographs, one, a bit above postcard size, of the painting and the other, slightly smaller, a close-up of the pearl on its ribbon. Both were expertly done, vibrant and alive.

Then I was given an inspection of the alarm system that protected Stevenson’s collection. State of the art, probably, twenty years ago, but now pretty primitive. No laser beams or photoelectric cells, just a pulsing alarm and a hook-up to the police call board. The main doors to the house had deadlocks but Stevenson showed where a wall had been climbed and a window, not connected to the system, had been expertly cut out. Stevenson and his wife had been away in the Blue Mountains (acreage at Blackheath) at the time of the burglary.

‘I’m surprised the insurance company was happy with these arrangements,’ I said.

Stevenson let slip a wry smile. ‘Ah, now there you’ve caught me out a fraction. That’s another reason for my… preference for your services, Mr Hardy.’

It’s nice to find that people aren’t completely straightforward. Humanising.

Stevenson was right about leaks in the detective business, but there was one sure way to plug them, at least temporarily-with money. I knew some of the art theft boys in the game, and my first move was to get in touch with one I could at least partly trust. Quentin James is an art validator, assessor and recoverer of stolen objects. We’ve worked together successfully a few times. Money is his god, and the right amount buys his total discretion.

I went to James’ office in Pitt Street and laid out the story. James is close to sixty, very fat and wheezy, a chain smoker and boozer, but he knows his business. As an ex-smoker I find it hard to spend much time with him in the fug he creates. He’s not a window opener, not a fresh air man.

‘Hmm, I believe I heard something about a Galliard going up for sale. Not which one, mind. Interesting.’

‘What d’you think of the amounts mentioned?’

‘Hard to say. Could be right.’

‘Is it possible that someone might think the pearl is worth more than the painting?’

James shook his head as he exhaled and a cloud of smoke wafted towards me. ‘No. More likely a ransom job. “I’ve got the pearl. You pay up and you’ve got your package back.” He hasn’t been approached?’

‘Not yet. So who’re the likely candidates?’

‘Alarm system disabled, wall climbed, glass removed. Wall hard to climb?’

‘Hard for me, impossible for you.’

He smiled. ‘I find climbing stairs taxing enough. There’s work involved here, Cliff, my boy. Ring around, find out if Stevenson’s had any inside work done on the house lately. Who did it, if so. Who they might pass info to. Like that.’

‘I’m on a big earner, Quentin. I’ll pay.’

‘Leave it with me.’

I busied myself with other matters for the next few days. Then two things happened. First, the story of the theft broke in the newspapers. The report described the painting and the pearl and said that the Sydney private enquiry agent Clint Hardy was investigating. I rang Stevenson immediately.

‘It wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t get my own name wrong.’

‘I believe you. It’s most unfortunate. Perhaps my wife, perhaps one of my daughters… I don’t know. They gossip. Have you made any progress?’

‘Some.’

‘Well, our arrangement holds.’

‘You haven’t been approached with an offer?’

‘Offer?’

‘To buy back the pearl. Understand?’

He said, ‘No,’ quite sharply, but whether he knew I was getting at him was hard to tell.

Later that day, Quentin James faxed me a list of three possible burglars.

I rang him. ‘Sandy Foreman’s in jail,’ I said.

‘You’re well informed.’

This was just part of the fencing that goes on in this business. James would have known that Foreman wasn’t a candidate and put the name in to pad the list and check that I was on the ball. I was left with two names-Jim ‘the fly’ Petersen and Kevin Barnes. James gave me last-known addresses for both.

‘Something’s troubling me about this business of ours,’ James said.

I liked the ‘ours’; James has a way of inserting himself into things. ‘And what’s that, Quentin?’

‘Can’t quite put my finger on it. When the penny drops, I’ll let you know.’

That could mean almost anything or nothing at all. I had to hope it didn’t mean that James was dealing a hand of his own. These days, he was too fat and lazy to take the trouble, but he had a reputation for playing both ends against the middle and you never knew.

Kevin Barnes was nearest to home. He lived in a rent-controlled flat in Darlinghurst, one of the few remaining. Barnes’ family had been in crime for three or four generations, stretching back to the days of the razor gangs and before that to ‘the pushes’ of the inner city. James’ fax included brief notes on the subjects. Barnes had served a number of terms for burglary and break and enter, having graduated from shoplifting. He was also an arsonist when the price was right and was not above a little standover work. Bit of an all-rounder, Kevin.

I climbed a creaking iron staircase that was insecurely attached to the building in Riley Street and knocked on the door of the flat. Most of the space on the tiny landing near the door was occupied by cartons containing empty beer cans. Naturally, cats had pissed on the boxes.

The woman who answered the door had a pair of the most tired eyes I’d ever seen. She had dyed blonde hair, a lot of make-up and wore a halter top, bikini pants and white spike-heeled shoes. Her hair, clothes and body put her in her forties; her eyes made her a hundred and ten.

‘You Clive?’

‘No.’ I got my foot in the door before she could close it. ‘I’m looking for Kevin Barnes.’

‘At the pub.’ She put her heel on my instep and pressed down a little. I pulled the foot back and she slammed the door.

She meant the nearest pub and that was the Seven Bells, a block away. It was an old-style Sydney pub: dark and smelly with faded advertisements showing people wearing clothes that had gone out of date about the time I was born, and drinking from glasses of a shape I could barely remember. There were four men drinking in the bar-one pair and two singles. I ordered a middy, paid the correct money, and put a five dollar note on the bar. ‘Kevin Barnes?’