Peter Corris - Beware of the Dog

‘How much financial trouble?’

He opened his hands. ‘Plenty. But he had a chance of getting out of it.’

‘If his wife didn’t take him for fifty percent?’

‘It wouldn’t have helped.’

‘The Family Court proceedings would have been tricky?’

‘Bloody. Where’s this leading? If you’re working for Mrs Lamberte you’ll find out all about her husband’s affairs in due course. She gets the estate, what there is of it. I’m liaising with Brian Garfield on that.’

‘I’m not exactly working for Mrs Lamberte just now.’

He leaned back in his chair and touched the grey streaks in a way that made me suspect that they were cosmetic. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘I’m actually working for Sir Phillip Wilberforce, trying to locate his daughter. There’s a connection between her and Lamberte.’ I hated myself for the ‘Sir Phillip’, but I forgave myself.

There is no category of human being more monarchist and pro-aristocracy than a Republican American, which is what Stephenson was aping. He was impressed. ‘What kind of a connection. The obvious?’

‘I know Lamberte was sexually active,’ I said. ‘But Paula Wilberforce apparently wasn’t. I suspect it wasn’t about sex, or not altogether. I’m fishing, I admit. Did he ever mention her to you? Does her name appear on any documents you’ve seen?’

He shook his head. ‘No, to both questions. I’d remember the name.’

‘I know very little about him. Were you friends, or what?’

‘He designed my house. That’s how we met.’

‘Good house?’

‘For now. It’s at Bowral. Patrick owned some country property himself and he’d put up a few nice houses on acres, if you know what I mean.’

‘Bowral,’ I said.

He glanced at his Rolex. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to have to…’

‘You said Bowral. Did Lamberte own land at Bowral? I thought he’d had to sell everything off?’

His carefully controlled face became cagey. ‘Is that what Mrs Lamberte told you?’

I nodded.

‘That’s right, he did. But when he was riding high and the banks were ladling out the money he bought and speculated like Donald Trump. He had property all over the place. I’m not sure of the exact state of his holdings as of now.’

I could hear the bells ringing and feel the synapses being bridged. ‘Now doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘If you could dig out a list of Lamberte’s property holdings at his peak it could help tremendously’

Stephenson stroked his closely-shaven chin. ‘I don’t know.’

‘How can it hurt? The guy’s dead.’

Stephenson’s grin was wolfish. The sense of humour Cy had alleged to exist flashed into sight. ‘And his account’s way overdue. I’ve got people to see, Mr Hardy, but I’m sure I can oblige you. Why don’t you step outside and ask for Robin?’ He gave me his wise-as-Clarence-Darrow smile and picked up the phone.

‘Robin, would you get the Lamberte file up on screen for Mr Hardy, please? Specifically assets. OK? Many thanks.’

Back in the busy outer office, I deduced that Robin was the woman looking at a VDT while keeping one eye on Stephenson’s door. She raised a hand and beckoned me over. I approached warily. I have mixed feelings about computers; I like them when they save me time and effort, I hate them when they get between me and something I want, like my money on a Saturday afternoon.

Robin was about twenty-two and probably couldn’t remember the pre-computer age. She surrendered her chair to me and pointed at the screen. ‘There you go. Assets.’

She started to move away but I took hold of her arm and held her. ‘I don’t know how to work this thing.’

‘It’s simple.’ She picked up a plastic object the size of a cigarette packet. ‘You can use a mouse or the keyboard.’

‘I haven’t got any cheese and I don’t play the piano.’

She blinked, then smiled hesitantly. ‘A joke, right?’

‘Right. But I still don’t know how to run a computer.’

‘Sit down. Here’s the cursor, see? You move it up and down with these arrow keys and the information scrolls.’

‘Cute,’ I said.

‘Call me if you have a problem.’

She went across the room and whispered in the ear of a young man sitting at a desk. He glanced across at me and they both laughed. I’d like to see them drive an ‘81 Falcon manual.

My assets would have taken up about three lines; Patrick Lamberte’s filled the screen several times over. I scrolled carefully through it. His basic company, Lamberte Holdings, had subsidiaries like Pat Co. and Verity Inc. There was a Shane Trust and a Michelle Pty Ltd. It was hard to tell how solid the assets were without knowing the meaning of the code numbers that accompanied them. If 0026 meant ‘wholly owned and in the black’ Patrick was in good shape, if it meant ‘money owning’ he was down the tubes.

On the third screen-full I found it: Fitzroy House Kennels, owned by the Shane Trust. I looked up and caught Robin watching me. She raised an eyebrow, I nodded and she hurried over. Very economical this computer business. I pointed to the item on the screen. ‘How do I get more information?’

Automatically her hand snaked out and her long-nailed fingers began tapping the keys. The print on the screen changed from white on blue to black on white. Fitzroy House Kennels was located at Lot 5, Wombeyan Road, between Bowral and Mittagong. That was the only part of the text that made sense to me, the rest was columns of figures and more code numbers.

I made a note of the address and looked helplessly at Robin. ‘What does it mean?’

She did some more key tapping. ‘Doesn’t make any money. Never did. Bought in 1986 for three hundred thousand, top of the boom that’d be. Mortgaged… let’s see, probably above its current value. Westpac and others. If you’re interested in buying it you can probably pick it up for song.’

‘Are you a lawyer or an economist, Robin?’

‘Both.’

‘Kennels,’ I said. ‘Dog minding?’

‘Supposedly. Dog and cat minding. But it hasn’t operated for a couple of years, and the rates haven’t been paid, see?’ She touched a key and the screen filled with copies of correspondence.

‘Does it have a manager, a tenant or whatever?’

Another key stroke, another display. ‘Walked out early last year. Owing rent.’

‘So there’s no-one there now?’

‘I guess. Do you want a survey map?’

“Why not?’

A stretch appeared on screen. Robin hit some keys and a printer across the room began chattering. She went over to it and tore off a sheet. She went to her own desk, folded the map and put it in an envelope. I got up and began to tell her that the envelope wasn’t necessary. She smiled and asked me for my name and address. I gave it and her fingers flew across the keyboard of her computer.

‘What’s that for?’

‘We’ll bill you,’ she said.

I stood in Martin Place, shortly before lunchtime. A few brave souls were settling down on the seats with their lunches, turning their backs to the cold wind. I walked down Pitt Street and went into the first pub I came to. I bought a scotch and took it across to a table as far from the blaring TV set as I could get. I opened the long white envelope and looked at the annotated survey map. The property known as Fitzroy House consisted of a sandstone cottage built in the northern quadrant of a 4.5 hectare allotment. Improvements comprised a large garage, swimming pool, tennis court and ‘buildings erected for the purpose of caring for domestic pets’. The block had a creek running through it and it fronted onto Wombeyan Road for 100.3 metres.

I tried to work out how many acres there were in 4.5 hectares. A lot. The cottage was built in 1883, there were probably quite a few rooms in it. A good out-of-the-way place to hide. Good for dogs, too.