Murder in Montparnasse (24 page)

‘Mr Collins called Dot,’ said Ruth. ‘She was blushing when she was talking to him.’

‘What did he have to say?’

‘He’ll be home tomorrow and he’s solved some case about stolen jewellery,’ said Jane, disapprovingly. ‘Miss Dot says he said something about river boats and Food Reform but I was thinking about something else. He was really pleased, Miss Dot said.’

‘Good. I heard a summary of that from Jack Robinson. Anything else?’ asked Phryne, wiggling her toes. She wanted a bath.

‘Mr Bert and Mr Cec rang and left a message. Mr Butler has it,’ Ruth told Phryne.

Mr Butler entered with a silver salver on which reposed a message written in his clear, round script. The writing, Phryne had always thought, of someone who was not interested in calligraphy but who wanted the reader to have no doubt about the content of the message. It was as easy to read as print.

‘Tell Miss Fisher we found her Frog under name of Dupont come in on the
Stranraer
like she said and stayed at the Maritime. After he left there, he went to the Sailor’s Rest with his missus. My auntie didn’t like him and said she was sorry for his poor wife. She’s a good hearted old chook, Auntie is. She sent him to talk to a letting agent called Slyme just down the road about a house or flat or maybe rooms. We’re leaving him to you, you might have to grease his palm, all these landlords is thieving bastards and all property is theft. Watch your back like I’m watching ours, Albert.’

‘Well, that’s my task for tomorrow,’ sighed Phryne. ‘Greasing palms in Port Melbourne.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be very good at it, Miss Phryne,’ said Jane, stoutly.

Phryne laughed and sipped her cocktail appreciatively. She was really going to miss Mr Butler.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The fact that experience costs us dear is probably
its only redeeming feature.

Natalie Barney,
The Gods

Phryne could tell, from the moment she entered his office, that she would decline all invitations to go on any long walking tours with Mr Slyme.

It wasn’t that he was fat. She had liked a lot of fat men. She doted on every chin on the absurdist playwright Georgiev’s face and she always liked hugging her Uncle Vivien, who was as warm as toast and a lovely chubby armful for his numerous mistresses. They must have loved him for his beauty, in view of his perpetual conviction that sooner or later a rank outsider must come in at 100–1 and repair his fortunes, which in turn meant that he was always skint. She had waited breathlessly for Father Christmas as a child.

It wasn’t the avoirdupois, it was the curdled cream complexion, the scraped-over threads of dark hair on the bald scalp, the unbecoming tie of some private school which almost looked like Geelong Grammar but wasn’t, and the reaction to her advent.

He had snarled, ‘No use whining, Mrs Johnson! Out by noon!’ without looking up. Phryne had coughed politely. When Mr Slyme had taken in the vision of style, fashion and, above all, wealth which decorated his office, he had writhed like Uriah Heep and begged the lady to take a chair while he put all the resources of his office at her complete disposal.

No, Phryne considered. The only reason to go on a long walking trip with Mr Slyme would be if one had brought along a convenient flat iron, or if the route was designed to pass a suitable crevasse. Preferably bottomless.

When Mr Slyme had offered tea (politely declined) and a cigarette (accepted and instantly regretted—cheap and nasty) he inquired as to what had brought Miss Fisher to his humble agency.

‘I am looking for a friend of mine,’ she said, blowing a smoke-ring. ‘He came in on the
Stranraer
a few weeks ago and was going to rent a house, or possibly a flat. He told me his new address, but I have misplaced it.’

‘How unfortunate. But you must know, Miss Fisher, I can’t disclose any business dealings I might have had. I wouldn’t stay in business long if I did, ha ha.’

‘Ha ha,’ echoed Phryne politely. ‘I really am anxious to locate my friend. Perhaps if you could consult your books and just copy out some information for me? I could pay any reasonable fee, naturally.’

There was a pause while poached-egg eyes looked into green jade ones. Phryne went on the offensive. She knew all about letting agents and their little lurks. She entirely agreed with Bert’s estimation of them. This one was undoubtedly an oppressor of the poor, because they were easier to oppress. She asked, ‘Why did you think I was Mrs Johnson?’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Mr Slyme hastily.

‘Is she about to be evicted?’ asked Phryne carefully. ‘Because, as it happened, she couldn’t pay your little extra fees? Perfectly proper, a man must live, of course, and naturally the landlord will understand should he hear that you are adding a little to the rent, to cover your very reasonable expenses?’

‘What a suggestion,’ huffed Mr Slyme, without conviction. He wasn’t used to this. Landlords were only too anxious to rent their hovels, the property market being what it was, and tenants regularly grovelled to him to obtain a little more time on the rent. He was not used to cold-eyed fashion plates making insinuations in bored voices in his very office. Blowing insolent smoke-rings with his very cigarettes.

‘Some people would call that peculation, Mr Slyme,’ purred Phryne. ‘Or even nastier words. Blackm—’

‘Who are you trying to find?’ asked the agent abruptly.

‘René Dubois,’ said Phryne promptly. ‘He came in on the
Stranraer
. With Madame Dubois. Or—my friend likes his little jokes—he might be using the name René Dupont. Did he come to see you?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Slyme opened a ledger, scribbled rapidly, and laid his large puffy hand flat on the note.

Phryne took out another note, a banknote, and transferred his palm from one to the other. He allowed her to do this. She cast a swift glance over the paper.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘And just for luck, you can give me Mrs Johnson’s address, too.’

He gaped again, then scribbled. His most fervent wish was to get this insouciant woman out of his office and forget that she had ever existed.

Phryne folded the papers and put them in her purse. She stood up and stubbed out the cigarette.

‘Well, nice doing business with you, Mr Slyme.’

She was gone before he could make his mouth form an adequate reply.

Phryne puzzled out the fast, uneven writing, a sign, she had always heard, of an unbalanced mind.

Fitzroy Street, St Kilda, she thought to herself. Well, well. Mr Slyme does spread his net widely. A house, how extravagant of René—it must be someone else’s money. Now, it would be wise to go home and tell everyone where I am going, so I will do that. I am not going to put myself into a situation where I might be able to kill that louse without being observed. If the murderer is René, and I still can’t imagine why it should be, then he’s doing what he always did, the craven. He’s making sure that he runs no physical risk. He’s stupefying his victims before he kills them. Drinkies with René are not indicated. And before that, I’ll just drop in on Mrs Johnson.

The house was just around the corner. Phryne stopped abruptly. Two exquisitely embarrassed policemen were supervising the removal, onto the dirty pavement, of a whole household. There wasn’t much. A dresser in which china rolled and smashed, a big bed and three small ones, bundles of bedclothes and a table. A chair cracked as it was shoved roughly out the door and a sad, patched stocking flicked along the street and wrapped itself around Phryne’s ankle.

Mrs Johnson stood with a baby in her arms and two children clinging to her apron. The worst thing, Phryne thought, the very worst thing about this scene was the woman’s face. It was blank with catastrophe. The children were crying, but Mrs Johnson just stood, looking like a statue of Grieving Motherhood. This could not be borne.

Phryne detached the stocking. She strode forward and said decisively, ‘Stop,’ and even though she had not raised her voice, everyone stopped.

‘This is a legal eviction, miss,’ said one of the bailiff ’s men. ‘For non-payment of rent. You can’t stop it.’

A crowd had gathered. They muttered. The two policemen looked nervous. This was not what they had signed on to the police force to do. Throwing women and children into the street. But there was a threatened breach of the peace. Last week two bailiff ’s men had been beaten up by the angry mob. By the looks of it, this mob was about to get angry. Perhaps this immaculate lady might have a solution.

‘By a surprising coincidence, which I am sure you will agree is timely, I have some money for Mrs Johnson,’ said Phryne. ‘How much does she owe?’

‘Matter of eighteen shillings and threepence. And a halfpenny,’ said the leading bailiff, consulting a clipboard. Men in these positions always had clipboards, there must be an agency which supplied them, Phryne thought. Another small bully.

‘Well, well, these five one-pound notes,’ Phryne waved them in the air and the crowd gasped, ‘are hers by a small inheritance. Whether she will want to stay in your grubby little slum dwelling house is another matter. What do you think, Mrs Johnson?’

‘My man’s away at the road building,’ said Mrs Johnson, her voice forced through lips set so firm that they had trouble bending enough to speak. ‘He needs to know where we are. I’ll stay here, miss.’

‘Good, well, I am sure that your men will be delighted to take all that furniture back inside. Carefully. I am, of course, intending to instruct my lawyer to visit your Mr Slyme to demand repayment for all that broken china and the damage to her effects, of course,’ added Phryne, beginning to enjoy herself. ‘And the shock and humiliation she has endured at your hands.’

‘No, lady, hang on, no need to act the goat. No need to bother the boss. We’ll knock, say, ten shillings off the rent, shall we, call it quits?’ pleaded the larger of the bailiff ’s men, really worried now.

‘Ten shillings? asked Phryne, and Mrs Johnson nodded. Phryne counted out the balance, eight shillings and threepence halfpenny, into his hand.

‘Receipt,’ said Phryne firmly, and watched the man write it out and sign and date it.

The crowd shifted as the furniture was carried back into the house, with a wincing delicacy otherwise only awarded to Meissen or Ming. It did not take long. There wasn’t much.

‘Now, we’ll be on our way,’ said the large one hastily. ‘Sorry you were troubled, missus,’ he added to Mrs Johnson, who had recovered enough to accept the receipt and shove it into her corsets.

‘Come along,’ said Phryne, giving the rigid woman a little push to set her moving. ‘I think that concludes the entertainment for today,’ she added to the disbelieving, relieved policemen, who awoke to their duty.

‘Move along,’ they said to the crowd. ‘Nothing more to see here. Haven’t you got homes to go to?’

‘No, but Mrs Johnson has!’ shouted a wit, and the bemused Mrs Johnson entered her home to cheers and almost good-natured hisses for the retreated, foiled bailiff ’s men. The woman sagged down into one of her own kitchen chairs.

Phryne grabbed the oldest child, whispered some instructions, and handed over some coins. His thin face lit up with delight. Phryne watched the fleet bare feet skip across the scrubbed floor on the way to fetch some refreshments.

‘Is this your cat?’ asked Phryne, when Mrs Johnson did not speak. The cat floated up into the woman’s lap, poked an enquiring nose into her ear, and purred loudly.

‘Oh, Tabby!’ said Mrs Johnson, and started to cry. ‘I thought I’d lost you!’

This set the baby off. Phryne found the kettle and set it on the fire, which was almost out. Phryne tipped the scuttle and loaded the remaining fuel into the grate.

‘We ain’t got no more coal than that,’ observed the smaller child. ‘Mum said we had to be careful.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Phryne, ‘she can buy some more coal.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked the child, uncorking a grimy thumb in order to speak.

‘Miss Fisher,’ said Phryne.

‘No,’ said Mrs Johnson, mopping her face on her apron and rocking the baby. ‘She’s an angel sent straight from heaven.’

‘Where’s her wings then?’ asked the small child, quite reasonably.

This gave rise to a complicated theological argument which allowed everyone to feel more settled.

The kettle was boiling by the time the boy came back with a heavy basket. He found the teapot, put in newly purchased tea and filled a wooden bowl with sugar. To crown his achievements, he produced a paper bag full of unbroken biscuits.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Mrs Johnson said as she put down her cup. ‘I can’t recall any relatives who might have died and left me some money.’

‘Distant cousin, I believe,’ said Phryne with such conviction that she was instantly believed. ‘Humphrey was the name. Were you dealing with that snake Slyme?’

‘Yair. Wanted a shilling every week over the rent, and I had enough trouble paying the rent as it was. My husband was a soldier and work’s hard to find. He’s off on the roads, they’re building an Ocean Road, and he sends me what he can, but it ain’t much. And we miss him something cruel. That Slyme would never have dared to ask for extra if my Dan had been at home. But Dan’ll be back end of the month,’ she said, actually smiling, ‘and he’ll find us where he left us.’

‘But much better fed,’ said Phryne.

Phryne distributed sixpences to the children and left on a wave of goodwill.

In the street outside she met a worried man in a shabby black suit.

‘Is Mrs Johnson gone? I came to see how she was getting along.’

‘You’re a bit late. If I hadn’t come along with her legacy she would have been out on the street,’ said Phryne, a little acerbically.

‘They told me you paid it,’ said the shabby man. ‘That was kind.’

‘And your interest in the matter is . . . ?’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, should have introduced myself. I’m Edward Dunne. I like to keep an eye on the poor people in this street. Hand out a bit of money, a bit of advice, pair of boots sometimes, that sort of thing.’

‘Do you? Why?’ demanded Phryne with extreme scepticism.

‘For the love of God,’ he said simply. ‘I have a concern.’

Phryne had met people who used that term before. She smiled. ‘You’re a Quaker, aren’t you? I recognise the phrase. I met Friends ambulance drivers in the war.’