Peter Corris - The Dying Trade

“You’ve been very troublesome, Hardy,” he said, “and achieved very little, I should imagine.”

“Why should you imagine that?”

“I won’t fence with you. You are a nuisance, plain and simple. A blunderer into delicate situations. The question is, how to be rid of you.”

I wanted to bring his dislike of me up as high as it would go.

“A blunderbuss,” I said.

He registered it like a deep internal pain.

“As I understand it,” he said slowly, “a private detective is without any authority and credibility if he is without a client.”

“You’ve read too much Chandler,” I said.

He looked puzzled for a second but didn’t let it stop him. “I think that’s so,” he went on, “and therefore you represent no problem at all Mr Hardy, none at all. Show him out Bruno.”

Bruno and I did our dancing bears act down corridors and through doors and in five minutes I was walking down the path towards the gate. The night air hit me hard and I gave my attention to finding a chemist for my head and a bottle shop for me.

The Green Man and Joe Barassi’s All Day All Nite Pharmacy at Drummoyne put me back together. I washed down two red Codrals with a couple of hefty slugs from a half bottle of Haig. I looked at the wound on my head in the mirror of the Green Man’s washroom. It didn’t look too bad, the blood had stopped seeping and I managed to clean the area up with damp paper towels. Whoever had hit me had known his business and had chosen to give me a purple heart rather than a posthumous medal of honour. I felt vaguely grateful to him and had another nip out of the Scotch bottle for him.

The traffic flowed easily over the Iron Cove bridge. People were all in the cinemas and pubs and there was little competition for me on the drive home to Glebe. I wasn’t up to shuttling the car into the courtyard so I left it outside the house with a steering lock on the gearshift which would hold up a good Glebe car thief for about two minutes. My head throbbed and a little laser of pain stabbed over the right eyebrow but I decided to try and make some sense of the night’s play before I let another Codral and some more whisky sing me to sleep. I sat in a bean bag with a tall Scotch and soda on the floor beside me. I rolled three cigarettes and set them in the grooves of the ashtray the way Uncle Ted used to. Uncle Ted had a good war, sent back hundreds from the Tobruk two-up games and survived. I’d survived high school, two erratic years at university and Malaya to become an insurance investigator — long hours, high mileage and pathetic incendiarists. The work had coated my fingers with nicotine, scuttled my marriage and put fat around my waistline and wits. The deals and hush-money made divorce work seem clean as riding a wave and bodyguarding noble and manly. Suicides and Svengalis were a different thing though, and I wasn’t sure that I was up to coping with them. I was on the third cigarette without having any inspiration, when the phone rang.

I heaved myself out of the bean bag and put the receiver somewhere near my face.

“Mr Hardy?” A woman’s voice, drunk or panicky.

“Yes, who’s this?”

“It’s Ailsa Sleeman, I found your card. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m frightened.”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s horrible. Bryn just called me, I don’t know why me, I suppose he just doesn’t know anyone else…”

“What’s happened?”

‘It’s Giles. He’s been shot. He’s dead.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t know. Bryn rang me about an hour ago. I’ve been trying to reach you since then.”

“You sound frightened Miss Sleeman. Why?”

“It’s hard to explain. Impossible over the phone. It’s to do with Dr Brave who you seemed interested in this afternoon. I’m afraid of him. I need help, perhaps protection. I’m willing to employ you.”

That was a switch. A few hours ago she was willing to forget me like a bad dream. This would give me two clients on the same case. I wasn’t sure it was ethical, it had never happened to me before. But if Bryn meant me to proceed with the investigation maybe I could work out a package deal. If Brave could carry through with his threat, I’d lose Bryn as a client so it would be convenient to stay with it on La Sleeman’s behalf. I was hooked on the Gutteridge’s now, and I felt that I’d got into some kind of conflict with Brave that had to be seen through. I needed a bit more to go on though.

“I’m interested Miss Sleeman,” I said in my deliberate voice, “but I need a little more information. Did Mr Gutteridge mention Dr Brave?”

“Yes, they’ve had a quarrel.”

“OK. Can you come in to my office in the morning?”

“Tomorrow?” The panicky note was back, “I thought tonight…”

“Miss Sleeman, I’ve driven a hundred miles today, been lied to, had two fights and lost one badly. I’m out of action until 9 a.m. tomorrow.”

All true enough, but what I really wanted to know was whether she was serious about her proposition and alarm, or was just feeling lonely for the night. She could be one of those rich people who think they have everything they need behind their high walls but occasionally have to send out for some help. Or she might still be in touch with the world outside. I also felt a need to do some talking on my own territory after the lies I’d been told so far. There’s something truth-inducing about a hard chair and a smell of phenol in the hall.

“All right,” she said. Her voice was steadier, no drink in it. “I’ll be in at 9 o’clock. You will help, Mr Hardy?”

I told her I would, made sure she had the address right, made a few reassuring noises and she rang off. The phone rang again almost as soon as I’d put it down. I let it ring a few times while I visited my drink and finished my cigarette. I took Bryn’s cheque out of my wallet and spread it out in front of me. It was one of those big, friendly cheques from a big, friendly chequebook. I’d hoped to collect a few more. I picked up the phone.

“Hardy? This is Bryn Gutteridge.”

“Yes?”

“A dreadful thing has happened Hardy.”

I had to decide quickly whether to let him tell it or to tell him I knew what was up and judge his reaction. The first way seemed to leave me more cards.

“You sound upset. Take it quietly and tell me.”

“Giles has been shot. He was in the car, going on an errand for me

… and someone shot him in the head. He’s gone.”

“I’m sorry Mr Gutteridge. You’ve called the police?”

“Yes of course. They’ve been and gone. They were very considerate. I was surprised.”

I knew what he meant but I wasn’t surprised. The Commissioner would have got in on this quickly and he’d have kept the public lavatory prowl squad well out of it. “Do you want me in on this?”

“No!” Sacking people was second nature stuff to him. He did it with no embarrassment.

“The police will be prying into my affairs. That’s enough. When this is over I’m going away, perhaps for a few years.”

“I see. What about your sister?”

“I’ll take her with me. We’ll get out of this. Drop the investigation Mr Hardy. Thank you for…”

“For what? Just for interest, when did you decide to let the investigation drop, before or after Giles’ death?”

“Oh God, I don’t know. Before, I think. I’m not sure. Why does it matter?”

“It matters to me. What did Dr Brave say to you when you saw him this evening?”

“I didn’t see him, he rang.” He broke off confused and annoyed with himself for replying. “This is no longer your affair, Hardy.”

I didn’t have much of his time left. “Did he threaten you?” I said quickly.