Murder in Montparnasse (13 page)

Robinson and Hugh Collins were eying a cold buffet lunch with barely concealed expressions of extreme greed when Phryne and Dot came down the stairs and greeted them.

‘Take a plate, Jack dear, and help yourself,’ said Phryne. ‘Your wife still away?’

‘Coming back tomorrow,’ said Robinson, making a beeline for three raised pies. One would be pork, if he knew his Mrs Butler. He could already taste the savoury jelly which she would have poured in through a funnel after the pie was cooked. There had been an armed robbery late last night and he was short of sleep. And all he had had to eat had been a couple of limp ham sandwiches and a boiled egg which had been left too long on the stove and had apparently vulcanised.

Hugh Collins, who had not got home to his supper at all, and then had to listen to his mother complaining about good food left to dry in the oven (and why hadn’t he been an engine driver like his father, who worked reasonable hours and always came home in time for dinner?) was starving. Dot cut him large slices of cold steak and kidney pie, his favourite, and watched him polish off a plateful without putting down his fork. She supplied him again, smiling, before she collected some egg-and-bacon pie for herself. Phryne took some salade russe and a slice of cold ham. All those cakes had ruined her appetite, but she always enjoyed watching people eat.

‘I’ve been over those two reports,’ said Robinson, agreeably conscious of the probability of second helpings. ‘I concur. They need investigation. So I’m sending Collins here to Mildura this afternoon to have a look around and talk to the local police. Shocking oversight, but you know how they are in the country. I’m looking into the Richmond accident myself. Talked to the widow this morning. She said she knew there was something wrong. Said her husband was very careful. Also said that there was a knock at the door, someone was there, her husband went out, saying he had to see a man about a dog. He didn’t come back all night and she sat up waiting for him—seems he didn’t make a habit of staying out. Then she went to let the coal man in and found her husband dead under the van. The back gate was unlocked.

‘She says she told all this to the coroner’s officer and they said it wasn’t relevant. I’ll have that bloke hauled over some coals, I can tell you. Poor woman is real cut up. Seems he had some insurance and she won’t have to leave the house. Got two nice little kids. Cruel,’ said Robinson. His sympathy for the bereaved had not destroyed his enjoyment of simple pleasures, however, Phryne observed, as Jack cut himself another slice of pork pie. This made sense. If policemen went into a decline every time they met tragedy, the entire force would rapidly starve to death.

Mrs Butler had really done them well, Phryne thought, wondering if this excellent cook had managed to change her righteous husband’s mind. Phryne would really hate to lose both of them. But a principle was a principle and a lover was a lover.

When the clatter of cutlery had died down a little, Hugh excused himself.

‘Got to catch the afternoon train,’ he explained. He brushed crumbs off his shirt, collected his bag and coat from Mr Butler, and had Phryne heard the smack of a chaste kiss in the hall? By the way Dot was blushing when she came back, she had.

‘What about that other matter you weren’t telling me about when I saw you last?’ asked Jack Robinson.

‘Well, I suggest you might have a little look for a big black Bentley,’ said Phryne, handing over a slip of paper with the number. ‘I would really like to know if it has been sold, or whether it is just standing idly by, waiting to be stolen.’

‘Can be done,’ said Robinson. ‘Not that many Bentleys in the city. Nice cars.’

‘Also, I would like you to lunch with me at Café Anatole tomorrow and tell me whether you recognise anyone,’ said Phryne. ‘There’s a kitchen boy there with a scarred face. He’s supposed to be a deaf-mute and he’s employed as a dish washer.’

‘You reckon it might be our Billy? I had someone call at his house. His mum ain’t seen him and doesn’t want to, she says. She says that she runs a respectable boarding house—and that’s a lie—and she doesn’t want Billy home. I also had a chat with the blokes in the know about who’s standing over Fitzroy Street. I reckon your café won’t have no further trouble.’

‘Why?’ asked Phryne.

‘We got ’em,’ said Jack Robinson, glowing with triumph. ‘We’ve had our eye on them for years and just yesterday they bit off more than they could chew and we’ve got ’em, every one of the Fitzroy Boys. They reckoned they’d pick a soft target— the Chinese laundry. They put the hard word on them. Then they all went down for a meeting with the Chinese. And when they had all sat down, Poulton giving the beat policeman a greasy smile as he went past, suddenly the Chinese were out with these big steel kitchen choppers and it was on for young and old. By the time the man on the beat could whistle up some help, the Fitzroy Boys were out for the count, bleeding all over the pavement, and there wasn’t a Chinese in sight. When questioned, they all said that they had been busy in their laundry and hadn’t seen a thing, officer. However, they would be delighted to help the police and give evidence in court that these men had tried to extort money from them.

‘Oh, it was pretty,’ said Robinson, chuckling. ‘We’ve got ’em cold. The rest of the ’Roy Boys ain’t going to dare attack the Chinese now, not with their mates lying there with missing bits. The Consorting Squad were out there all afternoon, picking up ears. So your Café Anatole is safe from the ’Roy Boys. But Billy the Match wasn’t with them, and they say they haven’t seen him. I’ll have a look at this boy tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Jack dear. Congratulations. What a coup! Can I interest you in some of Mrs Butler’s orange jelly? It’s very good.’

‘I’m full,’ said Robinson regretfully. ‘Couldn’t eat another crumb. And I’ve got to go,’ he added, getting up with some difficulty. ‘I’ve got to talk to those coroner’s men. There’ll be more ears to pick up. And get someone to look at the jack again, and ask the neighbours about anyone hanging around. They’re small houses, close together. Someone must have seen something.’

‘Well, Jack, thank you. You’ll let me know what happens? And as soon as I can, I’ll tell you about the other matter.’

‘Good-o,’ said Robinson. He met Bert and Cec at the door, and was so full of lunch and triumph that he gave them a cordial ‘G’day’.

‘’Day,’ muttered Bert, who did not like cops. Cec, acting as rearguard, ushered three other men before him and smiled at the Detective Inspector.

The front door closed behind him. The five men stood still in the hall.

‘Well, we’re here,’ said Bert, heavily.

‘So you are,’ said Phryne. ‘Come in.’

The prisoner moaned. He had beaten her again. She felt the
soggy patch below her breastbone. Was it a broken bone? Every
breath felt like a stabbing wound. He had gone out, locking
the door.

Soon he would be back.

CHAPTER NINE

A man was drowned in a barrel of wine—but
how many barrels of wine does each man contain?

Natalie Barney,
Alcohol

Phryne gave her guests plates, supervised the collection of food and the allocation of beer. Mr Butler snapped bottle tops as though he had been a barman all his life. Phryne watched as five ex-soldiers slaked what appeared by the evidence to have been a noble hunger. Mrs Butler had made extra pies and concocted a large bowl of salad and it all went, to the last crumb: boiled eggs, roast chickens, galantine of veal and all.

Bert belched politely behind his hand, allowed Mr Butler to refill his glass, and said, ‘That was a bonzer meal. Don’t know when I’ve had better. Tell Mrs B thanks. Now, miss, what are we doin’ here?’

‘We’re trying to find out why someone wants you all dead,’ said Phryne. ‘And remembering is hungry work. If you would like to bring your drinks into the parlour . . .’ She led them into the next room.

‘Here is a map of Paris,’ she said. ‘I want to know how you got there and everything you did once you’d arrived.’

Bert leaned over, pinning down one corner with his glass. ‘We come by train,’ he observed. ‘There’s the station. Gare du Nord. We come in there at about ten in the morning, tired out, still pretty dirty, still a bit deaf.’

‘Deaf ?’ asked Phryne.

‘Them big guns,’ said Johnnie Bedlow, who had relinquished his grip on his hat. ‘Takes a long time to get your hearing back. I’m still a bit Mutt and Jeff.’

‘Cec, too,’ said Bert. ‘Let’s see. We come in to this Gare at about ten. Nice day, sun shining through that glass roof. We got off the train, kitbags and all, and they said—what did they say?’

‘Train to Boulogne,’ said William ‘Billo’ Gavin. He wore a fisherman’s jersey and old moleskins, and had a not disagreeable waft of salt and fish about him. ‘They told us to get on the train to Boulogne. To the left. Well, you know how it is in them dark stations, a man can get lost,’ he grinned with a flash of white teeth.

‘We were country blokes,’ said Johnnie. ‘Not used to them big cities. A man could get confused if he’s only used to the outback.’

‘And we’d been eleven months on the front line,’ said Thomas ‘Thommo’ Guilfoyle, stabbing down on the map with a finger rendered hard as stone by brick and mortar. ‘So we thought, we reckon the army owes us a bit of a spree.’

‘So we went right,’ said Bert. ‘Right and down, into the underground, and got a train to Montparnasse.’

‘Why Montparnasse?’ asked Phryne.

‘Blokes comin’ back from Paris said that Montparnasse was the place for girls and music and buckets of booze,’ replied Billo. ‘Our kind of place, we thought.’

‘So when we got off the metro train and went up the stairs the guards let us through,’ said Bert. ‘Even though we didn’t have any tickets. Then we went to a bank and changed all our money into francs. Except Cec.’

‘Except Cec?’ asked Phryne. She had not imagined Cec to be exceptionally virtuous.

‘Cec had to see us all back on the train,’ explained Bert. ‘He drew the short straw. He kept the English money and he wasn’t allowed to get really drunk and he had to get us back. The army didn’t court-martial you if you were missing for less than twenty-four hours,’ Bert explained. ‘We reckoned we could pack a lot of spree into twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes and still catch the morning train out of the Gare du Nord. The war was over. Even the British Army was getting lax. And our blokes knew that they didn’t have much of a hold over us any more.’

‘So you went to the bank—where did you come up?’

‘I reckon it was here, in the Boulevard Montparnasse,’ said Bert slowly. ‘The bank was on the corner of that big road. Credit National. They give us a good rate, too. Then we went . . .’ he considered, casting his mind back. Phryne was suddenly aware that she was slipping back in time. ‘We went to a bathhouse . . .’

‘There,’ said Phryne. ‘The public bathhouse was there. Corner of the Rue d’Odessa. I used to bathe there. Five francs for as much soap and water as you could use.’

‘Threadbare towels, but,’ said Bert. The waft of carbolic steam came back to Phryne, a strong, clean smell. ‘We shucked our gear and washed ourselves as clean as little lambs. I remember saying to Billo, I didn’t know you had fair hair.’

‘You did,’ Billo chuckled. ‘And I never knew that Maccie had red hair, neither. They gave us this lice-killing soap, the carbolic just oozed out of it. I reckon we were a couple of stone lighter when we finally rinsed it all off. Took an hour before the water ran clean off Conger.’

‘Seemed strange, too,’ said Thommo. ‘All that lovely hot soapy water goin’ to waste. I kept thinking we ought to be washin’ our clothes but the others wouldn’t let me.’

‘Then we changed into our Sunday-go-to-church clean clothes and out we came into the street. We let Billo do the talking ’cos he can parlez-vous like nobody’s business.’

‘Sort of,’ said Billo. ‘Enough. I can still remember a bit of the lingo. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, mademoiselle?” and “Combien?” and “J’ai faim” and “J’ai soif ” and “Où sont les soldats Australiens?” See, we learned a lot from the Frenchies. Like “Gaz!” and “Faites attention!’ and “Prenez garde!” and “Mettez-vous à l’abri!” Things like that.’

Phryne’s stomach turned over as she heard the words that Billo had learned from the French soldiers. Gas! Beware! Look out! and Take cover!

‘And “bonjour” and “bonsoir”, of course,’ Billo went on, unaware of the effect his words were having on his hostess. ‘And “Bonne chance”. They said that a lot.’

‘I bet they did,’ said Phryne. She allowed Mr Butler to pour her another glass of wine and took a deep gulp.

‘So we walked along the Boulevard du Montparnasse like kings,’ said Bert. ‘Clean as a hospital floor and as rich as Croesus.’

‘Who is this Croesus you’re always goin’ on about, anyway?’ asked Johnnie.

‘One of them rich blokes,’ said Bert airily. ‘War had been over a month but they was still bringing in the wounded and the place was full of the maimed and the halt and the blind. And a whole lot of sheilas who had missed out, like, on things while all the men was away. They reckon in the last year, Paris was a city of lonely women.’