Peter Corris - The Empty Beach

It was a nice thought, but now I had people scurrying into a yellow building with yellow pants legs and sandals showing under yellow slickers. There’s nothing like a little damp to force mendicants inside off the street. I found a raincoat in the back of the car and squirmed into it, hurting my side again. It helped to hide the bulge of the gun I stuck in my belt.

I ran for the door, pushed it open and dripped water on the yellow carpet. The reception nook was empty but I noticed the business end of a TV camera high on a wall. Wired for sight, wired for sound.

‘Peace,’ I said to the camera. ‘Cliff Hardy here. Is Brother Gentle available?’

After two minutes a man came through the door, looking both brotherly and gentle. He was short and plump with thin brown hair brushed carefully across his rounded skull. He had a receding chin and meek eyes. I said my name and put my hand out. He took my hand in both of his and pressed. It felt like warm dough kneading back.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Hardy?’ He had a lisp, too. It was almost too much gentleness to take in one day.

‘I’m a private investigator,’ I said. ‘Here’s my licence.’ I showed him the paper and he shook his head slowly.

‘I’m sorry for you,’ he said.

‘How’s that?’

‘Identification papers, licences and you carry a gun. You must be very afraid.’

‘Not all the time. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘Of course.’ His sandals creaked and slapped as he walked back through the door. His stiff yellow jacket and limp yellow trousers rustled as he moved. He opened a door with a thin, blue-veined hand that carried several rings on several fingers.

We went into a larger room with the same decor; it was like stepping into the middle of an apricot. The windows were blanked out, there was carpet on the floor and some thin mats on top of the carpet in the middle of the room. A life-sized, that is, about five foot tall, statue of the Himmler look-alike stood in the corner. It was gilded like the girl in Goldfinger.

Brother Gentle squatted on one of the mats and motioned me to do the same. I’m a cultural experimenter. I squatted.

‘I can’t imagine how I can help you, Mr Hardy. Our worlds are far apart.’

‘They’re connected, though. I want you to tell me all you know about a man named Leon.’

He looked blank and I hoped he wasn’t going into a trance.

‘A derelict who came here recently.’ I realised suddenly that I had no idea what Leon had looked like. ‘A drunk,’ I improvised, ‘middle-aged and looking older. A deadbeat.’

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘A lost one, truly lost. Leon Bronowski.’

‘I didn’t know his other name.’

‘Few would, I suppose. Fewer still would care.’

I felt the reproach and defended myself. ‘I never met him.’ As soon as I had said it, I was aware that he’d won a little strategic battle. I tried to recover the ground. ‘Did you know him well?’

‘I met him once. He sat just where you are sitting. He was drunk and he wanted money. He’s a Russian and he speaks six languages.’ He did a little more headshaking. ‘Six languages and no enlightenment. Very sad.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Money. He was a very unhappy man. Still is, I imagine.’

‘He’s dead.’ I wondered if he’d put his palms together or touch his forehead to the floor, but instead he let go one of his full-on gentle smiles.

‘Then he is unhappy no longer.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it. Did he just come straight out and ask for money, or what? He must have had some line.’ The squatting position was uncomfortable for my battered ribs and I winced as I spoke. He looked at me curiously.

‘You positively radiate pressure, tension and disharmony, Mr Hardy.’

‘Possibly. You can pick that up, eh?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘The split lip probably helps. I’ll admit it was smart of you to spot the gun. What about Leon?’

‘He tried to bargain with me.’ Now he did put his palms together. He rubbed them as if he liked the feeling, or maybe he liked bargains.

‘What did he have to bargain with?’

The rubbing went on with a surprisingly dry sound, considering how moist his hands had felt. ‘He seemed to think that I preyed on people, particularly old people. The Movement cares for a number of old people, of course.’

‘Naturally, but I don’t see what you’re getting at.’

‘He told me about a place where I could get recruits-victims, I think he called them. He was very agitated about it.’

‘You said he was drunk?’

‘He was drunk when he started, or so I thought. I don’t have a lot of experience of the condition. But he seemed to want to talk about this place, although he must have seen that I was not able to give him money. He was calmer after I had talked to him. How did he die?’

‘He was murdered,’ I said, roughly. ‘What was this place he talked about? D’you remember?’

‘Of course.’ He looked surprised at the suggestion that people forgot things. ‘A house in Monk Lane, Clovelly. Number ten. I gathered there were a lot of old people there, damaged people like himself.’

‘Have you checked the place? Send anyone out?’

He stopped the rubbing and opened his hands up in a gesture of innocence. ‘He was mistaken Mr Hardy. I do not recruit people. They come to me, to the Movement, that is.’

I nodded. A house full of damaged old people that had shaken Leon Bronowski up. He’d mentioned it to Bruce Henneberry, maybe in response to a question about Singer. It felt solid, more than the fantasy of a booze-clouded brain, and there were two dead men, two men removed from the possibility of unhappiness, to give it solidity.

I reached back for my money. ‘Do you accept donations?’ I couldn’t call him anything. The embarrassment I felt at the thought of calling him ‘Brother’ or ‘Brother Gentle’ reminded me of the years I’d spent not calling my wife’s father anything. Come to think of it, this guy looked a bit like him-Cyn had got her looks from her mother. He inclined his head graciously and I put twenty bucks on the floor between us. I was suddenly aware of how quiet it was. The silence was like the reverse side of a shriek.

‘Why is it so quiet?’ I asked.

‘One of our principles,’ he said. ‘We believe that excessive noise disturbs the harmonies of mind, body and soul. There is a vow of silence in operation here and we try to do everything quietly.’

He was certainly doing well at that. As I put my money away, I touched the pictures of Singer. What the hell, I thought, I pulled them out and showed them to him, asking him if he’d ever seen the subject.

He didn’t hesitate. ‘Never. An interesting face.’

‘You read faces?’

‘You are a cynic, Mr Hardy. Yes I can read faces. I could tell you a great deal about yourself from yours.’

I rubbed my hand over what he was talking about. ‘Not so hard,’ I said. ‘Broken nose-boxing; missing teeth-enemies; lines and wrinkles-I used to smoke a lot.’

‘There’s a lot more, but you wouldn’t listen.’ He handed the pictures back. ‘This man is highly intelligent. He is capable of great violence, perhaps to himself.’

‘Thanks.’ I could always serve that up to Mrs Singer and explain that a man dressed like a canary had told me so. ‘What’s the significance of the yellow?’ I asked.

‘You would have to join us to find that out, Mr Hardy.’

I stood up. I hadn’t seen him move, but the twenty dollars had gone away somewhere very quietly. He conducted me back to the reception room and pressed my hand again.

‘I hope you don’t have to use the gun, Mr Hardy. Guns make a lot of noise.’