Peter Corris - Heroin Annie

I turned to go back to my car and saw Jacobs, who’d sent his 21C to the burning, coming out of his establishment. The zombie stepped out of a silver grey Jag which he’d driven up, so the master only had to walk twenty feet to get behind the wheel. He drove off sedately and I re-crossed the road; a woman who’d been gardening out in front of her house was watching Jacobs’ car as it cruised off. I bustled up to her fence.

‘That was Mr Jacobs was it, madam?’

‘That was him.’ She was small and old, but not frail.

‘Damn’, I said. ‘Missed him again.’

‘Are you burying someone? Give Henry a miss.’

‘No, I’m a journalist, I’m writing an article on the funeral business and I wanted to talk to Mr Jacobs. But that’s an interesting comment, madam. Would you care to add to it?’

She smiled, and all the lines on her face responded; they seemed to have been etched by good humour. ‘I might; is it worth anything?’

‘Well… expenses… I could pay you for your time, say ten dollars for a half hour chat?’

‘Come inside.’

The house was brick and tile, solid and unpretentious. It was darkish, cool and well-kept without being fussy. She sat me down in the living-room and went off to make coffee. When she came back I had the ten out and gave it to her.

‘Thanks.’ She put the money on the mantelpiece between some china dogs. ‘Black?’

‘Please.’ I got out a notebook. ‘How long has Mr Jacobs been in business here Mrs…?’

‘Wetherell, Norma Wetherell. Not too long, four or five years, I’ve been here for forty. It was all different then.’

I’m sure. Why did you say he should be avoided?’

‘He’s a crook.’ She put three spoons of sugar in her coffee and stirred vigorously. ‘A friend of mine buried her husband with him; lovely man he was, it was a shame. I tell you if he’d been alive and heard what that man charged, he’d have punched his nose.’

I smiled. ‘Bit steep is he?’

‘Steep? He’s a thief. Extra for this, extra for that.’

I made some notes. ‘Umm, he’s got a nice car. But I suppose they all make money in that game. No law against it.’

She leaned forward. ‘He’s buried two wives since he’s been here’, she whispered. ‘Rich ones too I’ll be bound.’

I almost choked on the instant coffee. ‘How d’you know that?’

She grinned, pleased at the reaction. ‘Seen ‘em, both of ‘em. He’s got a flat at the back of the place. There they were, shopping, doing the laundry and then… phftt!’ She drew a finger across her throat.

‘When did this happen?’

‘One just after he got here; the other, let’s see, about two years back. Had your ten dollars worth?’

‘Nearly; how do you know they were his wives, actually wives?’

‘Notices in the paper. Course, he didn’t lay them down himself. It’s a wonder, though, still I suppose he got a cut rate.’

I got up. ‘Well thank you Mrs Wetherell, that’s all very helpful, I won’t quote you of course.’

‘Quote away’, she said cheerfully, ‘All true.’

‘We’ll see. Just one more thing, do you know anything about Mr Hornfield, the solicitor?’

She was sharp, suspicious at this development.

‘Why?’

‘Oh, I heard he and Jacobs were partners.’

‘Could be, the little rat.’

‘Have you heard bad reports on him too?’

‘No, not a word. But you should see him, he’s the image of Billy Hughes, image of him. Little rat.’

I thanked her again, and went out to my car thinking that I could probably get more from her if I needed it.

The computer is a terrible thing when it’s misused for bank statements and rates notices, but it beats everything for saving the eyes and legs of private detectives. A phone call to Harry Tickener of The News won me admittance to the paper’s computer room and an introduction to the pimply kid who ran the show. He looked about seventeen, but was probably ten years older. I told him I wanted to ask his friend all about Henry Jacobs.

‘Classifieds or news?’ His hands caressed the buttons on the panel in front of him like those of an archer smoothing the feathers of a shaft.

‘Both.’

He did all the things they do-punched buttons, looked at screens, ripped paper and swore until he handed me a bundle of tabloid-sized print-out sheets. I looked at it doubtfully.

‘More than one Jacobs?’

He nodded. ‘Several, and that only goes back seven years.’ He took a Mars bar out of a drawer, peeled it and chewed. ‘Lucky it wasn’t Smith’, he said through chocolate and caramel.

Back home, coffee and pen to hand I pored over the sheets and the coded summaries and they yielded up some of their secrets at last. One of Henry Jacobs’ hearses had been involved in an accident five years before; Henry had stood unsuccessfully for the local council around the same time; his wife Gladys had been laid to rest aged fifty-four five years ago and Ellen Mary Jacobs, aged fifty-six, had followed her but two years later. R.I.P. Henry was very busy at his trade; there were hundreds of notices of funerals he’d handled-men, women and children. After depressing myself with this data for a while I found a tiny nugget of significance-a high proportion of the folk who came posthumously into Henry’s care had shuffled off at St Mark’s Hospital, Harbord.

I pecked away at the typewriter for a bit, applying for copies of the death certificates of Gladys and Ellen and enclosing the correct fee and S.A.E. as directed to Dr C P Hardy, c/-Associate Professor P J White, Department of History, University of Sydney. Peter was accustomed to the subterfuge, it amused him to assist what he called the forces of reaction. Then I phoned Matthews; it was after six o’clock, definitely time for a drink and I wondered what Matthews was doing in his Manly flat. I had the answer when he lifted the phone-a burst of gunfire and a musical crescendo. He excused himself, turned the sound down, and I told him the gist of what I’d learned. I was hoping that he’d tell his mother and that would be the end of Henry. He was too stunned to reply so I fed this idea to him.

‘No, it wouldn’t work’, he said slowly. ‘She wouldn’t believe me. She thinks…’

‘Thinks what?’

‘That my regard for her is… unhealthy. I hated my father, as I told you…’

Oh, Sigmund, I thought. ‘Well, I’d better press on. How’s your mother’s health?’

‘First class, she’s never been ill to my knowledge. Mr Hardy, do you think she’s in danger, real physical danger?’

‘I doubt it. Still keeping well, is she?’

‘Oh, yes, as ever.’ His voice changed and a despairing, fastidious note crept in. ‘She’s seeing him tonight, they’re going to dinner. Mr Hardy, I don’t suppose you could, sort of keep an eye on them? I’m really very worried.’

I agreed to do some surveillance and pick the happy couple up at her place at 8 pm. I told Matthews to have a few drinks, and not to worry.

‘I don’t drink’, he said.

On that happy note I rang Harry Tickener, who stays at his desk until they turn the lights and air conditioning off.

‘How’d you go with the computer?’ he asked.

‘Great. Would there be a human being around there who could do five minutes work? The person would have to be able to read.’

He sighed. ‘That could be tough. Hold on, Martin’s here.’ I heard him shout away from the phone: ‘You can read can’t you, Martin?’ Martin must have replied heatedly because Harry laughed. Then he said: ‘Okay Cliff, Martin’s ready, what is it?’

I told him and hung up. He called back fifteen minutes later-it’s an efficient, tidy world we die in-Gladys Jacobs and Ellen Mary Jacobs had both been cremated.