Peter Corris - The Dying Trade

“If you’re looking for the darkie she ain’t there.” Her voice was city slummy with a touch of country slowness.

“Do you happen to know when she’ll be back Mrs…?”

“Williams, Gladys Williams. Who’re you? Is she in trouble?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Well, you know them. She comes an’ goes, all hours like. Must be doin’ something shady.”

“I see. Do you mind if I ask what you do Mrs Williams?”

“Nothin’, not any more.”

I raised an eyebrow and she gave a lopsided grin. “Nah, not that either, not for years. Married now.”

I nodded. “Husband’s a bookie,” she went on, “in Lithgow. That’s where we live. He comes to the bloody city meetings once a week, bloody dumps me here.”

“Why don’t you go with him?”

She shook her head, the frizzy red tendrils danced about like the Gorgon’s snakes. “Sick of ‘em, rather stay here. Might go out tonight. Hey, why’re you askin’ all these questions, wanna drink?”

I’d only asked three that I was aware of, but she was ready to open up like a sardine can and her qualifications as an observer of her neighbours were impeccable. I produced a card from the insurance days.

“A drink would be very nice,” I said, moving towards her so she couldn’t renege on the offer. “I’m an insurance investigator. Miss Pali isn’t in trouble exactly, but any information you could give me might help to clear things up a little.”

She wanted it to be trouble. “Fiddlin’ a claim is she?” We moved through the door straight into the living room. It was over-furnished and over-cleaned, the blinds were drawn to enhance the television viewing — the real day closed off to allow the fantasy one fuller rein.

“I’d rather not say Mrs Williams. It’s rather unsavoury in some ways.”

That was better. She nodded conspiratorially and went off into the kitchen. She made noises out there and came back with two hefty gin-and-tonics. She handed me one, sat down in a quilted armchair and waved me into another. She tucked her legs up under her and took a long pull at her drink.

“I understand,” she said throatily, “how can I help youse?”

I sipped the drink. It was something to take in slowly over half an hour with a novel.

“What can you tell me about Miss Pali? I understand she drives a red Volkswagen, is that right?”

“Yeah, like I said she comes in at all hours of the day and night. Makes a bloody awful noise that thing.”

“What does she do for a living?” She wasn’t stupid, she gave me a suspicious look. “Don’t you know?” I cleared my throat and took another sip trying to look guarded. “Well, we’re not sure, that is…”

“Umm, well I dunno. Seems to have plenty of money to judge by her clothes, not my taste of course but they aren’t cheap — slack suits and that. Could be some sorta secretary, ‘cept not in an office. She’s home a lot an’ types for hours. A couple of blokes come and bring.. ” she made a vague gesture with her hand. “Files,” I suggested, “papers?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that. Folders and that.”

“I see. How many men?”

“Couple.”

“Can you describe them?”

“One’s a big bloke, bigger ‘n you and younger. Other one’s dark, not a boong, more dagoey looking, sharp dresser.”

“All business is it?”

She looked sly, “No way, young man stays the night sometimes.”

I took out a notebook and pretended to write in it. “You keep your eyes open, Mrs Williams.”

“Bugger all else to do here. I stay down sometimes see, go to a show and go up to Lithgow at the weekend. Got a coupla relations in Sydney.”

I wrote some more gibberish. “Can you describe them more closely, her visitors?”

“Nah, never looked that close. Both wear good clothes, better ‘n Bert’s.”

“Bert?”

“Me husband. Bert wears old fashioned clothes, he reckons bettors don’t like trendy bookies. I reckon they don’t like bookies full stop, but you can’t tell Bert a thing.”

The gin was getting to her and she was wandering into the dreary deserts of her own life. I only wanted the spin-off from that — the fruits of her boozy, envious snooping.

“I see. What else can you tell me? Does she have other visitors?”

“Yeah, course she does, other darkies mostly, but they piss off when the white blokes arrive.”

It was time to wind it up. “When did you last see her, Mrs Williams?”

“Yestiddy mornin’, didn’t come home last night don’t think. No sign of her this mornin’.”

“Is that usual?”

“No, always comes home sometime, he comes there, see. I dunno, suppose it’s all right, black and white and that. She’s a funny sort of blackie anyway, not an Abo’, comes from some funny place, New… somethin’, saw the stamp.”

The gin had hit her, she was coming apart and I pressed in for just this last scrap.

“New Guinea?” I prompted.

“No, I heard of New Guinea, Bert was there in the war. Never heard of this place, New…”

“Hebrides?”

“No, don’t think so.”

“Caledonia?”

“Yeah, that’s it, New Caledonia. Where’s that?”

I told her, thanked her for the drink and eased my way out. She slumped down in her chair muttering about a cruise.

Strictly speaking, it was a little too late for me to be making another call. I’d meant to give the Pali flat a quick once-over and be on my way, not get stuck drinking gin with a lady whose best days were behind her. Still, I’d learned a bit and this encouraged me to stick to my schedule and tackle Haines next. The traffic would hold him away from home for at least an hour after office hours, if he observed them. If he didn’t, then one time was about as good as another for what I had to do. It was a short drive but my shirt was sticking to my back and my throat was oily with the humidity and the almost neat gin when I turned into Haines’ street. It was a migrant and black neighbourhood which surprised me a little from what I’d heard of Haines, but perhaps he liked slumming. His flat was in a big Victorian town house, free standing with massive bay windows on both levels. Someone enterprising had made the building over into flats about thirty years ago and it was now in a fair way to return a thousand dollars a month. There was a small overgrown garden in front of the house and a narrow strip of bricked walkway down each side. At the back the yard had been whittled away to nothing to allow four cars to cuddle up against each other under a flat roofed carport. There were no cars at home.

I took this in from a slow cruise around the block formed by the street onto which the house fronted, two side streets and a lane at the back. I parked across the street and a hundred yards down, took the Smith amp; Wesson from its clip, dropped the keys under the driver’s seat and walked up towards the house. My car blended in nicely with the other bombs parked around it. Two black kids were thumping a tennis ball against a brick wall. I gave them a grin and they waited sceptically for me to pass. The iron gate was off its hinges and leaning against the fence just inside the garden. I went in and took the left hand path to the back of the house. It turned out to be the correct side; a set of concrete steps ran up to a landing and an art nouveau door with slanted wooden strips across it and a swan etched into the ripple glass. I coaxed the door open with a pick lock and slid inside leaving the door slightly ajar.

It was what the advertisements call a studio apartment — one big room with a kitchenette and a small bathroom off to one side. A three-quarter bed was tucked into the bay-window recess, and a couch and a couple of heavy armchairs were lined up against one wall with a big oak wardrobe facing them across the room. A low coffee table and a few cushions filled in some of the space and an old wooden filing cabinet stood in a corner away from the light. The rug left a border of polished wood around the room; it had been good and expensive fifty years ago and still had much of its charm.