Peter Temple - Dead Point

David laughed. ‘This way. Everyone’s in the library telling madame how clever she is.’

We went through the gallery-like hall, through the open double doors into the wide passage, eight-paned skylights high above, parquetry and Persian rugs beneath our feet.

Music was coming from somewhere. Gershwin. We were close to the library door before the voices within became audible.

‘Please,’ said David, waving me in.

There were at least two dozen people in the room, more women than men, standing close together, laughter and teeth flashing. For a moment, I looked, wished Charlie were there to see his elegant bookcases filled with books, glowing in the lamplight, the people in the room made handsomer, better somehow, by being in the presence of his craftsmanship.

‘Jack, Jack. Darling, so distinguished.’

Mrs Purbrick, on heels so high her toes had to bend at near-right angles to touch the ground, in business gear again, a dark suit, jacket worn over an open-necked white shirt unbuttoned for a considerable distance, great mounds beneath, ceremonial mounds. And, in keeping with the after-work nature of the occasion, severe horn-rimmed glasses. She took me by the lapels and brushed me on both cheeks with her inflated lips, the kiss of balloons, turned to face the room.

‘Everyone, everyone, meet Jack Irish, who helped Mr Taub build this magnificent library.’

I cringed. There was a polite round of applause. Then I was taken around the room and introduced to people, youngish people, summer-in-Portsea, winter-in-Noosa, week-in-Aspen people. Over someone’s shoulder, I recognised the face of Xavier Doyle, the boyish charmer from The Green Hill. He smiled, threaded his way over, patted me on both arms, a form of embrace.

‘And here you’ve bin tellin me you’re a legal fella, Jack,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t ya just come right out and say you’re an honest workin man?’

‘Shyness,’ I said.

‘You know each other,’ said Mrs Purbrick, touching Doyle’s cheek. ‘How lovely. Two of my favourite men.’

Doyle shook his head at her. ‘Now, I won’t share you with him, Carla,’ he said. ‘That’s a warnin.’

To me, he said, ‘This lovely lady is one of my investors, my angels, a person of faith in The Green Hill and its future.’

‘A commodity required in abundant measure.’ A tall man in his early sixties, solid, with a full head of wavy grey hair, was at Doyle’s side, a head taller. He put out a hand to me. ‘Mike Cundall. Congratulations, beautiful piece of work.’

‘Thank you, on behalf of Charlie Taub,’ I said. ‘I’m the helper. Just here as the front man. Charlie’s in WA. Also he hasn’t worn a suit since his wedding.’

Cundall nodded. He had grey eyes, clever eyes, appraising, in a lined, stoic face. He’d been drinking for a while. ‘Carla tells me you’re also a lawyer,’ he said.

‘In a small way.’

‘My father was a lawyer who liked woodwork. He made garden things. Benches that fell over. He’d come home from Collins Street, out of his suit and into overalls, straight to the workshop and stay there until dinner.’ He looked around, moistened his lips. ‘Which he’d devote to shitting on me.’

A bow-tied waiter with a tray of champagne flutes appeared. We armed ourselves.

‘Well,’ said Cundall, ‘this is probably a good moment.’ He coughed and raised his glass above his head. People stopped talking.

‘Carla’s invited us around,’ he said, ‘to admire her new library. I must say I’m quite stunned by its elegance, stunned and jealous. And we have with us one of the builders of this thing of beauty, Jack Irish. I’d like to propose a toast: to Carla and her library, may it give her much pleasure.’

He raised his glass and everyone followed. A happy murmur.

‘Thank you, Mike darling, thank you,’ said Mrs Purbrick, waving her glass at the room, ‘and thank you all for coming, you busy people, my dear friends.’

Xavier Doyle moved off, winding his way towards two blonde women, tanned, golf and tennis tans. They broke off their conversation, turned to him, faces opening.

‘A mind like Paul Getty behind all that Irish boyo crap,’ said Mike Cundall. There was no admiration in his tone.

‘Nice place, The Green Hill,’ I said. ‘On the basis of one visit.’

Cundall was lighting a cigarette with a throwaway lighter. ‘Do you smoke?’ he asked. ‘Forget your manners, nobody smokes any more.’

I shook my head.

‘Yes. The Green Hill.’ He blew smoke out of his nostrils. ‘Money shredder, the Amazon dot com of pubs. Thousands of customers, own vineyard, Christ knows what else, sinks ever deeper into the red.’

‘You’re an investor?’

‘Don’t insult my intelligence. My wife’s thrown money at The Green Hill. Her own money too. Was her money, I should say. It belongs to the ages now.’

The waiter was back. He had a crystal ashtray on his salver.

‘I’ll put this here, sir,’ he said, drawing a thin-legged table closer to us and placing the ashtray. Then he offered more champagne.

‘Nice drop,’ I said.

‘Roederer, sir. The Kristal.’

We lightened his tray. Another bow-tied man arrived with a silver tray of hamburgers, on sticks, exquisite miniatures, each the size of a small stack of twenty-cent coins, to be eaten at a bite.

Cundall twisted his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Smoked salmon’s not good enough any more,’ he said, ‘too common.’ He put one hamburger in his mouth, took a second. When he’d finished both, his mouth turned down. ‘Instant indigestion these days.’

‘How’s Cannon Ridge going?’ I said.

‘That’s my son,’ said Cundall. ‘My son and assorted rich boys. Sydney rich boys. The fucking dot com brigade. New economy.’ He put down most of the champagne in a swig, held up his glass like an Olympic torch. ‘Still, Cannon Ridge’s old economy. Real asset, real business, combines leisure and gambling. Boys got a fantastic bargain.’

The waiter arrived. Cundall finished his glass, took another. ‘Get me a whisky, will you?’ he said to the youth. ‘Something drinkable. With Evian. Just a bit.’ He looked at me. ‘Whisky, Jack?’

‘That would be nice.’

‘Decent shots,’ said Cundall, blinking.

‘Sir.’

‘Good lad.’

‘I see there’s some unhappiness about the handling of the tenders,’ I said.

‘Politics of business,’ said Cundall, slurring slightly. ‘WRG wants to build a whole fucking town on the Gippsland Lakes. Get the new government in some shit over Cannon, good chance they won’t get knocked back on that.’

He eyed me. ‘Good practice, anyhow,’ he said. ‘Always takes a while to sort out a new lot, find out who to pay, who to play.’

‘Jack, darling, you haven’t met Ros Cundall.’ Mrs Purbrick was holding the arm of a tall, dark-haired woman, once beautiful, now merely good-looking.

We shook hands.

‘I’m very taken with this room,’ said Ros Cundall. ‘I’ve always wanted a library. Do you think your Mr Taub would build one for me?’

‘At least you can be sure it’ll hold its value,’ said Mike Cundall. ‘Unlike that cocaine palace.’

Ros Cundall didn’t look at her husband, made a wry face. ‘Mike built a Las Vegas wing onto our house,’ she said. ‘All it lacks is the bedrooms for the harlots.’

‘I thought you could go on using the house for that,’ said Mike Cundall.

Mrs Purbrick laughed, an unconvincing trill. ‘Oh, you two,’ she said, ‘so wicked.’ She was watching David talking to one of the waiters.

Our whiskies arrived. We made small talk. Then, all at once, everyone was leaving, much brushing of lips on cheeks. Ros Cundall asked me for a card. So did two other people. Charlie might be building libraries full-time in future.