Peter Corris - Matrimonial Causes

She did and I wrote it down. She chatted on about the job, making it sound more like one for a hydraulic engineer than an architect. I made some stock responses, not really interested.

‘Cliff, are you in trouble? You sound strange.’

‘Well, private detecting’s a bit different from company work,’ I said. ‘More demanding.’

‘Look, the weather’s great up here. Why don’t you come up when you finish what you’re doing? I assume you’re getting paid.’

Always the sting in the tail with Cyn. ‘Would you like that, love?’

‘It’d be great. You’d like it here.’

I had my doubts about that. I’d pretty much stayed away from the tropics after Malaya-too many bad memories of bullets and jungle and teeming rain-but this offer sounded good. I said so and we talked amiably for a few minutes before she remembered that her host would be paying for the call.

‘Reverse the charges next time,’ I said.

‘Goodnight, Cliff. Take care.’

You bet I will, starting on Monday. Loggins had scheduled a meeting for Tuesday morning when he expected to have comparative ballistics reports on the Meadowbank and Farquhar murders and other information. I’d agreed to the meeting, not having much option. Loggins was confident that Gallagher would attend. I wondered whether any pressure would be put on him in the meantime. I hoped I hadn’t dumped Gallagher in it-I already had one sworn enemy in the Darlinghurst detective division, raising it to two would probably mean shutting up shop.

Peter Corris

CH17 — Matrimonial Causes

I ran some more water into the bath and let myself slowly down into the comforting warmth. Cyn and I had got in the bath together on the first night after we’d moved into the house. We were both exhausted after throwing out several decades worth of rubbish, including innumerable layers of lino. A few floorboards had come up with the bottom layer. But the hot water service had worked OK and we’d had some fun in the bath and upstairs on a mattress afterwards. Pretty good memories and maybe things hadn’t gone too sour between us even now. I lay there until the water got cool. Then I put on a towelling dressing gown and made myself some Welsh rarebit with lashings of Worcestershire sauce. It was close to midnight when I sat down to eat after a day of tennis, two-way assault and battery and sudden, brutal death.

Sundays were quiet in Glebe. The container terminal across the water was silent and the traffic rumble was absent. The planes were fewer and came later. My neighbours didn’t bang doors and start engines at ungodly hours, and Glebe was not motor mower territory. As a result of all this silence and stillness, and my exertions of the day before, I slept late. It was an unusually peaceful sleep and I felt fine after some coffee and a toasted bacon sandwich.

I didn’t look as good as I felt. My nose was swollen to nearly twice its size and it wasn’t a small hooter to begin with. At least it hadn’t been broken again. Twice was quite enough. One eye was slightly blackened but sunglasses would conceal that. My jaw was a bit puffy but it had stopped aching. On balance, I’d hurt Pascoe more than he’d hurt me and that was only physically. When it came to pride, I was streets ahead-but that could pose problems for later on. But it was a fine, clear morning and I was a temporary bachelor with no responsibilities and interesting work on hand.

I drank some more coffee out in the concrete backyard and thought about flying up to Cairns to spend some time in the sun with Cyn. Maybe Loggins’ idea of acting as a bait was the quickest way to get through to that happy scenario. Somehow, I wasn’t able to convince myself.

The phone rang and it was Doc Lee on the line, chirping cheerfully and asking me how my Sam Spade act had worked. He sounded very uppish-maybe he’d felt rejuvenated by the tennis and had slipped it to Inge for the first time in a while.

‘It went OK, Doc,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the help.’

‘I asked around a bit about that Perkins chap. Discreetly, you understand. You need to watch your step with him, boy.’

‘I know. I spoke to Cyn last night. She’s enjoying the job. I might go up and see her in a week or so.’

‘Good idea. I’m glad to hear you two are getting along. Inge sends her best.’

All sweetness and light on the home front. A rare condition. I turned my mind to the weighty question of locating a private investigator by the name of Dick, presumably Richard, Maxwell. There was no telephone listing for him but that wasn’t too deflating. His agency might have a name, like Ace Detective, or he might work for one of the big shows like the Montalban Agency or the Blaine outfit. A few security firms employ PEAs too, and there are some attached to big hotels. I needed firsthand information and the obvious source was Ernie Glass. The problem was that the easiest place to find Ernie, the Tottenham Hotel in Glebe Point Road, was closed because it was Sunday. Easiest? It was the only place I’d ever talked with him. I knew he lived in the immediate vicinity of the pub and the only thing to do was to wander down there. The Tottenham did a steady sly grog trade on Sunday, selling bottles and flagons after midday in the backyard at double the weekday price. Maximum of three bottles and one flagon to a customer. Ernie always laid in stocks; I’d seen him toting them carefully away on a Saturday evening. An ant. But one of the Sunday grasshoppers would be sure to know where he lived.

The rear entrance to the Tottenham was in a lane quite a long way back from the main road. The business was conducted discreetly with a minimum of noise and fuss. The police knew about it, of course, and occasionally moved in to close the operation down for a few weeks. Token stuff. They either got a kick-back or decided the peace was better kept by allowing drinkers to get their poison than by depriving them. Cynics accepted the first motive, idealists the second. I tended to think it was probably a bit of both.

Things were quiet this Sunday. I wandered up and down after having a word, and passing a few dollars, to Freddy, the lookout. The customers varied between winos after their port and muscatel, and better-heeled types who’d forgotten to lay in the riesling for lunch. Ernie’s mates weren’t of either stamp-army pals, old jockeys, footballers and boxers and women of the world who liked a drink and a joke. I knew a few of them by sight and I’d asked Freddy, who worked as a barman and chucker-out at the pub, to give me a nod if one of Ernie’s friends showed up.

It was warm in the lane and I was ready for a drink myself by the time Freddy called me over. The man he indicated was middle-aged with a seamed face and a thick body that might once have been athletic.

‘Reg, this is Cliff Hardy. He’s a mate of Ernie Glass’. Reg Kerr, Cliff. Reg used to play for Balmain. Winger.’

I shook Reg’s hand and tried not to look shocked at the realisation that he was short a few fingers.

‘Yeah,’ he drawled. ‘Just couldn’t catch the fuckin’ thing after I lost them digits.’

He had three bottles of Reschs Pilsener in a paper bag under his arm. ‘Party?’ I asked.

He winked. ‘Couple of sheilas coming by. Could be. Well, nice to meet you, Cliff.’

‘You need more than three bottles for a party,’ I said. ‘Freddy, you could organise another three, couldn’t you?’

‘Sure,’ Freddy said. He took the note I gave him, looked both ways up and down the lane and went through the back gate into the pub’s yard.

‘I’m looking for Ernie, Reg,’ I said. ‘I don’t have his address. I only ever met him here. D’you happen to know where he lives?’

‘Not a cop, are you? Ernie’s a bit behind on the child support I hear.’