Peter Corris - The Marvellous Boy

‘A couple of weeks ago it was. Only other thing Booth recalled was that mention was made of the old lady’s companion — Miss Reece?’

‘Reid.’

Cy grunted, he wasn’t used to getting things wrong.

‘D’you want to be filled in on all this Cy?’

‘Not really. It’s bound to be sordid and I’m trying to clear my head for the holiday. I’ve got a lot to do, I’ve got to check on Greek scuba gear and I’m thinking of buying a Citroen over there and shipping it back… what do you think?’

‘Great idea,’ I said. ‘Give me the old one.’

‘I’ve seen your car, you don’t deserve a Citroen.’

He gave me the name of the man who would be filling in for him and a run-down on his prejudices — they seemed to cover everything I did and stood for. He sounded like the right man to brief the prosecution if I got into trouble.

After hanging up I went to the car and dug out my notes on the case and added a few more facts. I sat and thought; I had a cigarette and some more wine; I wrote Kay Fletcher’s number in my book. When I couldn’t stall any longer I rang the Chatterton number. Verna Reid’s voice came over the wire like a chill Melbourne wind. She didn’t seem to want to connect me with Lady C but I insisted and the line stayed live. While I was waiting I wondered whether Miss Reid was in line for the money, a heartbeat away from a fortune, and where her boyfriend and Richard Selby fitted into the picture.

The phone crackled. ‘Mr Hardy, are you there?’

I said I was.

‘I expected to hear from you sooner. Where have you been?’

‘To the south coast and Canberra.’

‘What have you learned?’

‘Henry Brain is dead — you know that. Nurse Callaghan is dead too.’

A long sigh whispered through. ‘So you have nothing to report?’ Her voice was empty of any interest in the lives and deaths of Brain and Callaghan. She’d known them both but they meant nothing to her except as stepping-stones to what she wanted. It reminded me that the Chattertons were ruthless elitists, not humanitarians. There was no point in caring whether the old woman got what she wanted or not. It was a job.

‘I didn’t say that,’ I said soothingly. ‘I spoke to Brain before he died and I may have spoken to the doctor who delivered your grandson. I’m in the process of tracing that person now.’

‘Who is he?’ she said excitedly. ‘Tell me about him.’

I stalled. ‘I don’t think that would be wise; he may not be the right man and it may not be possible to locate him.’

‘I’ve never heard so many may nots. I hope you’re not covering up a failure, Mr Hardy.’

That caustic arrogance in the voice made me want to slam the phone down but I took a breath and used the only weapon I had.

‘I’ll give you one more may not,’ I said harshly. ‘You may not like him when and if you meet him.’

‘If he is the right man, Mr Hardy, he will have character, he will be fundamentally sound.’ Her tone was less confident than the words. ‘Perhaps you can tell me one more thing: since you are determined to play cat and mouse, has the man in question been brought up by… respectable people?’

It was easy to see what she was thinking. A man of thirty is fully formed or should be. She could do some polishing, and a bit of money spent properly could do wonders, but she couldn’t make a judge’s grandson out of a brickie’s mate. I put the needle in by delaying the reply.

‘Very respectable.’

‘Thank you, that is good.’ Her voice sounded younger, lighter, and I wondered if she was patting her iron grey hair. It would be interesting to see how she’d tackle the future heir if I could produce him. I tried to tell her about some of the obstacles I’d encountered but she’d turned off. I wanted to ask about her will and maybe I could have got an answer: I was the life-jacket of her hopes and this could be used to control her natural tendency to treat me as a chattel. But I didn’t know who could be listening on other phones in the house, so I asked her for more money instead.

‘Verna will attend to it,’ she said. ‘Press on Mr Hardy. When you have a definite result we will have another meeting. Goodbye.’ She was playing it cautious again, I thought, and regretting the outburst of enthusiasm. The boy would just have to learn that Grandma didn’t let it all hang out.

Miss Reid came back on the line and I told her that Lady C had given the OK for some money. She didn’t question it, which might have meant that she’d been listening. I asked her for three days’ fees and seventy-five dollars in expenses.

‘Have you receipts for the expenses?’

‘Some,’ I said, ‘bars and massage parlours don’t issue them. I’ll send you a list.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said crisply. ‘I’m authorised to pay you. A cheque will be sent today.’ She hung up.

I squinted out the window at the day which had turned grey and ambiguous. There was a broad, pale band of sunlight across the wall of my neighbour’s house and a fine vapour was lifting off his elegant ferns. My own garden is low and scrubby and features plants renowned for their ability to withstand neglect. I locked up a couple of copies of the photographs of Warwick Baudin, pocketed a set, and left the house. Clark Street in Darlinghurst is narrow and dog-legged so that, at the bend, the high terrace houses seem to lean over it the way houses do in Europe. The traffic runs only one way and the street rises sharply at the end where it meets Oxford Street. It was the middle of a warm, still day and the air was heavy with motor fumes and dust. The street was cluttered with illegally parked cars and barefoot people in jeans and men in three-piece suits.

A girl was sitting in the fitful sun in front of number eight. She had on a yellow, Chinese-design, silk dressing gown which had fallen open to the waist; her breasts were pale and heavy with pink, spreading nipples. She was filing her nails and her tongue was caught between her teeth in concentration. She looked at me with just the merest flicker of interest, the way an old dog looks at an old bone. I put my hand on the gate of number ten.

‘They won’t be up yet,’ she said in a heavy accent, Dutch or German, ‘can I help you?’

‘I want to see a girl named Honey,’ I said. ‘Am I at the right place?’

‘Yah.’ She stopped filing. The dressing gown slipped open around the narrow tie belt and I could see a swelling of white, soft belly and the top of a thatch of blonde pubic hair. ‘She lives there but she is not a girl. Do you like it with old women?’

‘Not really. Miss…?’

‘Inge.’ She shrugged, her plump breasts shook like blancmange. ‘You’re about thirty years too late then.’ She laughed and loose flesh moved under her chin, on her chest and down her hairless white legs.

‘Don’t listen to her, dear.’ The voice came from above our heads and I looked up. A woman was leaning over the rail on the upstairs balcony of number ten. Her hair was purple and she was wearing a purple dressing gown. He voice was low-pitched and the vowels were over-careful. ‘Wait there dear, I’ll be right down. Be careful of that sun Inge, you don’t want to ruin your complexion.’

Acne scars pitted the blonde girl’s face. She saw me noticing them, turned pink, and went back to filing her nails.

I opened the gate and approached the door of number ten. The house was an old two-storey terrace; the brickwork had been rendered over and marked to simulate sandstone blocks. It had had at least three earlier paint jobs and now it was a flaking, dusty green with the window trimmings picked out in yellow. There was an iron-framed garden chair on the porch and two pot-plants — the pots overflowed with cigarette ends.