Dead Man's Chest (10 page)

‘Now, coffee,’ Madame Rrose ordered. ‘Sweets. And more music!’

Servitors brought more coffee and pastries and the gramophone began to play nursery rhymes. A great improvement, Phryne felt, on the ear-crunching Satie.

Half a pound of tuppenny rice, Half a pound of treacle, Mix it up and make it nice, Pop goes the weasel.

Phryne remarked that as far as she knew it was not the habit of weasels to go pop, they being slinky and silent hunters who preferred to avoid public notice, and Dr Green explained.

‘The original words were, “Up and down the city road, in and out the Eagle, that’s the way the money goes, pop goes the weasel.” Pop being the process of pawning something and a weasel being an essential tool of the trade if you are a tailor. Tailors get a bad press in street songs.’

‘Nine tailors make a man,’ said Sylvia.

‘That’s bells,’ said Pete gruffly.

‘So it is,’ said the doctor admiringly. ‘This really is the most educated of company!’

‘Indeed,’ said Phryne.

It was getting late and she had a sudden thought that Dot, despite orders, might have decided to wait up for her. That was Dot’s own choice but Phryne, after almost a year of devoted attendance, was developing a conscience about Dot. Perroquet had leapt off her lap, leaving merely a few pinholes in her thighs to remember him by. And she felt that she had had enough absurdity for one night. She bade farewell to Madame, who was playing chess with both RMs, kissed Sylvia and patted the stuffed elephant’s trunk as she walked past it. It did not feel like animal hide. She investigated further.

It was papier-mâché, which came as something of a relief. One would not like to think of a whole elephant being sacrificed for a surrealist joke.

Near the door was a big tank of water, in which a lot of goldfish were lying, evidently asleep or possibly bored. A small child—the lemon squeezer bearer—was sitting on the step under the tank, eating a toffee apple.

‘Hello,’ said Phryne. ‘What do you do in this house?’

‘I look after the fishies,’ said the child in a strong Australian accent, uncorking his lips with some difficulty. ‘I carry the stuff around.’

‘Do you like it here?’ asked Phryne, interested.

‘Good job,’ whispered the child. ‘All I got to do is feed and clean the fishies, and take the dead ones to Miss Morse.’

‘Because . . . ?’

‘She casts ’em. See?’

Phryne noticed a series of bronze fish hung on fishing line above the tank. Some must have been discovered late, for they were almost as skeletal as her snapper. She raised an eyebrow.

‘But they’re nice people,’ hinted the child, holding out a sticky hand suggestively. Phryne dropped a shilling and a ball bearing into it. ‘Gosh. Thanks, Miss. See, there’s only my dad, and they were going to put us in an orphanage. But my mum came from Hungary and Madame heard about it and just said she’d employ us all so Dad could go back to sea. We live out the back. Lots of grub. We go to school and my sis Liz keeps the house and my sis Therese does the food. Madame’s a bit ecc-en-tric—’ the child brought out this long word with pride ‘—but she’s all right.’

‘So she is,’ replied Phryne. ‘I shall be seeing you again. What’s your name?’

‘Laszlo,’ said the child, nodded affably, and replaced his toffee apple.

Phryne opened the front door and stepped out into a very dark night. As she paused in the street to allow her eyes to get used to the lack of light, someone grabbed her from behind by both shoulders and tried to drag her into a close embrace.

‘You’re gunna forget about them Johnsons,’ growled a bass voice.

‘Yair,’ agreed a tenor.

Phryne was a little flown with wine, but not drunk. This might, she felt, allow her to fall into that trance state which was supposed to produce a perfect fighter. Or possibly not. She did not scream. She collapsed into the surprised arms behind her, then flung back her head. It impacted on a chin with a satisfying crunch. The man in front aimed a blow at her middle and received a slash from the snapper skeleton across his face. He howled and burbled. Phryne threw her weight back into the attacker’s chest and allowed her loose gown to slip off her shoulders. He lost his grip.

She bounced away, bare to the waist, her white skin gleaming in the very faint light from the house, and both her attackers recoiled.

‘Jeez!’ someone grunted.

‘My eyes! My eyes!’ wailed the tenor.

‘Come on,’ said Phryne sweetly. ‘That wasn’t a very good fight! I’ve still got quite a few prongs left on this fishie!’

There was no answer. She heard the thudding footsteps as her assailants declined the challenge and took their road on their toes. Then she shook herself, reclaimed her gown, sandy from the ground, and went to her own house. She had a key, but Dot was opening the door as she reached the front verandah. She stepped inside quickly.

Above her, a window in the Sélavy house shut decisively.

CHAPTER TEN

Thus were they defiled with their own works . . .

Psalms 106:39 The Holy Bible

She contemplated her image in the hallstand mirror. Dishevelled, panting, bare-breasted. Attractive, though. Portrait of Liberty Leading the People.

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Phryne crisply to her worried companion. ‘I have been in a fight. Drat, look at those bruises.’ She surveyed the marks on her upper arms, rapidly darkening towards black. Dot took the gown and conducted Phryne to the kitchen, where she had last seen the arnica.

‘Hot drink,’ said Dot. ‘I never heard of such a thing! Ladies assaulted in the street! Were they sailors, Miss?’

‘I don’t think so. They wanted to warn me not to continue investigating the disappearance of the Johnsons. But they were not expecting to be resisted.’

‘Silly them,’ commented Dot drily. ‘Were they badly hurt?’

‘One might have been. I slashed him with the fishie. Oh, dear, poor fishie,’ said Phryne, inspecting the skeletal snapper. Several of the ribs, if fish had ribs, had been broken. ‘I shall have to ask Dr Green to look out for patients with fishbone-related injuries. Ouch.’

‘You’ve lost a bit of skin here,’ said Dot severely.

‘You should have seen the other two,’ said Phryne. She was pleased. She had fought off two strong men and emerged with hardly a hair out of place. ‘Someone in the Sélavy house was watching. I heard the window close. Nasty, very, because I really liked those surrealists. Most interesting people. Never mind, Dot, nothing a good hot bath won’t cure.’

‘We’re on a case again, aren’t we?’ asked Dot gloomily.

‘Well, yes, but this time it really isn’t my fault, Dot dear. I was dropped right into this one. And this time we have accomplices. Though I don’t know if I should send Tinker along to Ellis and Co. Those men meant business and they were not delicate in their methods.’

‘How about a nice cup of cocoa?’ asked Dot.

‘Good plan,’ said Phryne. ‘I’ll just check all the locks while you make it and we can go up together.’

She reassumed the gown and trailed to the front door, which was rigidly locked and bolted. So were all the ground-floor windows. When she reached the back door a little voice whispered, ‘Guv’nor?’

‘Tinker?’ asked Phryne.

‘I heard what you said,’ hissed the boy, trying not to attract Dot’s attention as she waited for the milk to heat.

‘And?’

‘I met men like that before,’ she heard from the small dark bedroom. ‘I ain’t afraid. I can run real fast and I’m small, they can’t get a grip on me. You gotta send me, Guv’nor.’

‘I believe that I do,’ said Phryne. ‘If you promise to be really careful.’

In the darkness Tinker crossed his pyjama top with a solemn forefinger. Then, realising that Phryne couldn’t see him, he said, ‘Promise.’

‘All right. Goodnight, Tinker.’

‘Goodnight, Guv’nor.’ Tinker’s voice was already blurring into sleep. Beside him Gaston gave a small, affirmative
wuff!
and laid his head down on his paws.

Phryne, in her own airy rooms, barred the French doors, drank her cocoa, soaked in a very hot bath with Epsom salts, and subsequently slept like a baby. This holiday was not, after all, to be one of unrivalled peace and quiet. And tedium. Phryne was content.

Morning brought the usual tradespeople, at full volume, and Phryne woke stiff and cross. She particularly objected to the fruiterer, who was intoning, ‘Oranges! Fine Mildura oranges, sweet and juicy!’ as though he had the backing of a full Rhondda Valley male voice choir. Queenscliff clearly believed in the value of advertising.

Phryne stretched carefully. Bruises on upper arms, a little stiffness in the knees. Otherwise, fine. She donned her swimming costume and a cotton dress and ran downstairs.

‘I’m going for a swim,’ she called to the kitchen, from whence noises of eating and conversation told her that the rest of the household was at breakfast. She opened the gate and found the sack.

It was an ordinary hessian bag, intended to transport wheat. Phryne had no doubt that last night it was intended to transport Phryne Fisher to somewhere she did not wish to be. Either to contain her while she was beaten or to carry her away. A sobering thought.

She was not noticeably sobered.

She hung the sack neatly on the fence and ran down the street towards the sea. Whatever they had intended, today those attackers were inhabiting a small unpleasant world full of retribution.

Children were skipping as she passed onto the greensward in front of the public baths. Phryne remembered the chant from her own childhood.

Over the garden wall I let the baby fall Me ma came out and gave me a clout and sent me over the wall.

Ah, the innocent fairyland of infancy, thought Phryne as she slid out of her dress and stepped down into the deep water.

Oh, cold, oh, lovely. It was too early for the families, who were still eating eggs and bacon in their guesthouses. Only the lone
mens sana in corpore sano
gentlemen were gravely bobbing up and down, bald heads shining in the morning sun. They made a pleasant audience for the red fish flash of Phryne’s slim form traversing the pool, swimming as fast as she could. When she was blown, she turned over on her back and floated. The sea leached last night’s remnants of pain and fear out of her skin.

What to do now, she pondered. Send Tinker to find out about Ellis and Co’s unrecorded delivery. She knew a lot about the company from her interview with the land agent. And until Tinker came back or some answer came from her telegraphs, she didn’t have a lot to go on.

It occurred to her that the argus-eyed, ever-observant Mrs McNaster would have seen her fighting like an Amazon, bare-breasted, in the street, and she laughed so much that she sank, swallowed water, and decided that some coffee might make her feel less light-headed. She doused herself in the brief freshwater shower, pulled on her dress again, and set off uphill for home and breakfast.

On the way back she heard the children skipping to the tune of ‘Red Wing’.

Oh the moon shines tonight on Charlie Chaplin His boots are cracking For want of blacking And his little baggy trousers will need mending Before they send him To the Dardanelles.

And that was another sobering reflection. These street rhymes were as ruthless as the subconscious. Coffee. A roll and some of that apricot jam. Food was always a good way to placate a rampant Id.

An hour later, Tinker was receiving his briefing. He was dressed in his old clothes and had grimed his face and hands and, apart from the shininess of his bike, looked as though he had spent his whole adolescence in a coal hole.

‘Ellis and Co are a family company,’ Phryne told him. ‘Established by Old Mr Ellis and carried on, now that he has left us for Higher Regions, by his sons Thomas and James. They are known as Tom and Jim. Big strong men with a short way with trespassers. The yard has vicious dogs in residence. It is rumoured that the brothers carry unlawful cargo—that is, overproof Queensland rum and tobacco which has not paid its sixpence to the Queen. This may prove useful. You might, for example, have come to try and buy a bottle. People always believe that other people have an ulterior motive. Here,’ she handed over a poor excuse for a jacket, ‘despite appearances, is a garment which has a number of advantages. Dot has sewn a couple of pounds into the left-hand pocket. I have contributed a handful of coins for various purposes. I want you to memorise the number of our house phone. Remember to run, hide, and be discreet. Queensberry rules are for equal contests. If you are grabbed, bite, scratch or kick your way free and head for the hills, as they say in the cowboy movies. Call for help if you need it. Any questions?’

Tinker shook his head. He was too excited to speak.

‘Are you sure about taking Gaston?’ asked Ruth. She had come to appreciate the small dog.

‘I’ll look after him,’ said Tinker. ‘He’ll know if the Johnsons are around. He’s a real bright little dog. He can sit in the basket.’

Gaston sat up on his hind legs and begged winsomely. Ruth gave him half her passionfruit biscuit. He crunched busily.

‘Some mud on the bike,’ suggested Jane. ‘You have to match.’

‘Yes, Miss Jane,’ Tinker replied. It went to his heart to soil his beloved bike. But she was right.

‘And make sure you make this dirty as well,’ said Dot, handing over a bike chain and dropping the key, on a string, around Tinker’s unwashed neck. ‘And you’re for the bath when you get home!’

‘Yes, Miss Dot.’ Tinker was reconciled to baths. Actually it was quite nice not to itch.

‘Good luck, Tinker,’ said Phryne.

The boy tipped his horrible tweed cap to the ladies and went out the back way, stopping on the way to smear some mud on the only shiny items. The back gate slammed.

‘Well,’ said Phryne into the worried silence, ‘what are your plans for the day, girls?’

‘We thought we might go swimming with the boys next door,’ said Jane. ‘If you don’t need us, Miss Phryne.’

‘Enjoy yourselves,’ said Phryne, and the two girls went out to don swimming costumes and find sunhats.

‘What about you, Dot?’

‘The Chinese are coming for the washing at ten,’ Dot replied. ‘Then I thought I might have a little swim. When the cold’s off the water. Are you staying in, Miss?’

‘Yes, until Tinker gets back.’

‘Then we can make ourselves a few sandwiches for lunch. Ruth’s got a ton of stuff in the kitchen. And she sorted out tonight’s dinner yesterday. That girl’s going to be a great cook.’

Phryne agreed. She made a phone call to Dr Green to warn him to look out for her assailants. Then she drifted off to her balcony with a glass of lemon cordial and soda water and the fascinating company of Dr Thorndyke. And the constant observation, she couldn’t help noticing, of Mrs McNaster. Why had Mrs Green not joined her husband at Madame’s? Mrs Green was hardly ever home. There were usually reasons for that . . .

Dot made herself another cup of tea, nibbled a bit of Ruth’s Impossible Pie, and read the local newspaper. She had time. After all, she was on holiday. Impossible Pie. One of Great-granny’s favourite tricks. Mix all the ingredients together, pour the mixture into a pie dish, and—presto—in the oven it organised itself into a layered tart, coherent and delicious.

Dot had to hope that the present case would do the same . . .

Tinker eluded the oncoming traffic with some difficulty. He was on the main road, following the railway line, and it was always busy. A van tried to sideswipe him and missed, going very fast even though the speed limit was twelve miles an hour on this road. On the outskirts of Point Lonsdale, he veered off into the tree line and dismounted.

He was terrified. Not of the task, but that he might let the guv’nor down. She had trusted him. No one had ever trusted Tinker before. Even when they had given him chores to do, they had stood behind him when he was, for example, scrubbing, and made comments like ‘In my day boys were stronger than you’ and ‘You’ve missed that bit’.

However. He opened the satchel that Ruth had pressed upon him and found that he had a packet containing several big chunky sandwiches and fully half of what smelt like coconut cake. He also had a bottle of strong, milked and sugared, cold tea. Gaston whined and pressed close to his thigh, so he fed the dog as well.

They ate and drank. Tinker started to feel better. Ruth’s sandwiches were solid and filling; egg and lettuce and mayonnaise, ham and pickle, tomato and cheese. Tinker’s teeth were excellent and he bit and chewed with relish. Miss Phryne wouldn’t have given this task to him if she hadn’t thought he could do it. So therefore he could do it.

He wrapped up the rest of the packet for later, pulled his tweed cap down on his head, and remounted the bicycle. If he couldn’t face up to his mission, then he didn’t deserve the name Tinker.

Thus nerved and not at all hungry, he cycled to the yard of Ellis and Co. A truck was just coming in. A group of boys were waiting to unload it. He chained the bike and ran to the boss. He was tall and could barely sight Tinker over his stomach. He glared.

‘Got a job, Mister?’

The man grunted, ‘I don’t know you. What’s yer name?’

‘Eddie,’ said Tinker.

‘Don’t need anyone for this truck,’ the man told him. ‘Yer can wait for the next if yer like. Penny a load. And if I catch yer pinchin’ anything, woe betide yer.’ His gravelly voice promised really extensive woe and possibly broken bones. His eyes reminded Tinker of sharks he had met. They had the advantage of being mostly dead. This man was alive.

‘Yair,’ said Tinker, nodding his cap.

‘Over there,’ the man directed with a wave of a big meaty hand. ‘Yer can wait there where I can keep an eye on yer.’

Tinker went where he was sent. He was inside the yard, and free to look around. So far, it was all going well. If only he didn’t see anyone he knew!

‘Eddie?’ said one of the boys sitting on the wall next to the shed. ‘What happened to Old Mother Mason?’

‘Got fired,’ muttered Tinker. Gaston barked once. Then, observing certain fanged shadows haunting the perimeter fence, he jumped into Tinker’s lap. Tinker slumped down next to the speaker, an acquaintance, Harry the Fisho. Possibly the last person Tinker wanted to see. He was a thin boy with scrubby, almost-blond hair and he stank of the fish guts in which he worked. Harry knew Tinker’s mother and might easily tell her he was scrumping for penny a load in Point Lonsdale. But Tinker was not without resource.

‘What about you?’ he demanded. ‘They tossed you off the boats?’

‘Yair,’ agreed Harry the Fisho. ‘Not enough work.’

‘So here we are,’ said Tinker affably.

‘Yair. Wouldn’t it rot yer socks!’

Tinker agreed that it would have rotted his socks, except he didn’t have any in this costume. The boys watched the pantechnicon being unloaded with extreme efficiency and speed. Parcels, barrels, packages, furniture, all were removed with dispatch by boy-power alone. The boss never moved from his supervisory position, seated on an old cane chair and smoking a foul clay pipe. But his eyes were everywhere. Tinker dared not move.