Raisins and Almonds (16 page)

Phryne was anxious that Yossi's formula would not be stolen and patented by someone else. Such things had happened. She did not approve of what he and the others intended to do with the money, and she was still undecided as to whether they had other allies who might have robbed Mrs Katz and Phryne herself. But it was Yossi's discovery, made while he could have been doing something which he considered fun rather than slaving over a hot test tube and enduring Mrs Grossman's wrath at her burned table. Phryne made a mental note that if anyone connected with this Treasure of a chemist patented anything vaguely resembling Yossi's compound, she would be very cross and probably litigious.

Dr Treasure lived in a nice house. It was a standard red-brick building which matched its neighbours, even down to the uniform height of the fences and the tree dahlias peering over them. This was a good sign. He did not practice chemistry for money. She rang the bell and presently a young woman with a baby on her hip opened it. She was trying to tuck back her straggling fair hair and button her dress at the front.

'I have an appointment with Dr Treasure,' said Phryne.

'Oh, yes, Miss Fisher, is it? Come in. We're a bit at sixes and sevens, my girl hasn't come in and the baby's fretting. My husband's in the lab. This way,' said Mrs Treasure, hefting her offspring. It was whining in a way that set Phryne's teeth on edge.

'Ssh,' she said to it. The baby was so surprised it shut up instantly and plugged its mouth with its none-too-clean thumb. The young woman said, 'I wish you'd teach me how to do that. I can't do a thing with him. Takes after his father.' She opened a door. 'I can't do a thing with him, either.' She knocked, then opened the door. Then she grinned ruefully at Phryne as the baby began to cry.

'Your spell's worn off,' she commented and bore the scion of the house away to continue his interrupted feed.

'Miss Fisher?' Dr Treasure was tall, lanky and English. He had a mop of brown curls and a shy, endearing smile. He looked much younger than Phryne had expected.

'Detective Inspector Robinson told you about my qualifications, and you are thinking that I am too young,' he said, and sighed. 'I'm actually thirty-seven, but I can't even convince passport officials about that. Sit down, if you please, Miss Fisher. You aren't the Hon. are you? Duchy of Lancaster, eh? I believe that my father knows your father. Jack said you had a fascinating problem for me. Do tell.'

Phryne produced the translation, and Dr Treasure spread it out on his bench. He was surrounded by a forest of glass tubes and retorts. Phryne wondered how many of them had derived from alchemy.

Dr Treasure was groping for something, never taking his eyes off the string of letters and numbers. Phryne put a pencil into his hand. He began to scribble on a notepad, tore it off, screwed it up and threw it onto the floor, paused, scribbled again and laughed.

'By God, it's so simple,' he said.

'What is it? And I have to tell you, this is involved in a murder investigation and you cannot have it.'

'Not my field,' he said absently 'Anyway, wouldn't think of it, old Jack'd have my skin drying on a fence— isn't that the expression? I think I've got butadiene, yes, but this uses styrene, got some potassium persulphate, mercaptan, yes, this is going to niff more than a trifle. Basically we just bubble a couple of gases through cold water and then add all the other things, stir slowly, and—
voila.
Or not, as it happens. Now, can we make it? No reason why not. Just a moment.

'We begin by bubbling this gas through nice clean distilled water,' he said, doing so. 'Then we add the soap and other things and might I suggest you put on that mask?' He indicated with an unoccupied finger an ex-army gas mask. Phryne slipped the straps over her head and breathed in a scent of charcoal and rubber. Dr Treasure beamed. 'Good. Mercaptan is the absolute essence of things which stink.'

Even through the mask Phryne could scent something reminiscent of old garbage, mixed with a strong overtone of sewers.

Dr Treasure seemed immune to the stench. He mixed several other fluids and poured them into a large glass vessel over a very weak flame. He took up a stirrer.

'This is exciting, isn't it?' he remarked in his lilting Cambridge voice.

'What is it?'

'Don't know, quite. But don't worry about secrecy, Miss Fisher. I work for the police often, I give evidence in court. My integrity is exceptionally important to me. Hmm. I think we'll give this a bit more of a stir.'

'Dr Treasure, what is this compound? All I can see is a clear fluid and a bit of paper with letters and numbers.'

'Ah, yes, well, how am I to explain this? Are you familiar with the term polymerization?'

'Never heard of it,' said Phryne firmly.

Dr Treasure did not seem cast down by the lamentable ignorance of his visitor. In fact, he seemed pleased to have an auditor who really wanted to know the answer. Phryne reflected that his wife must be far too busy with the baby to pay proper attention to chemistry lectures and he was probably suffering from audience starvation. And, judging by the way he was now drinking in the sight of Phryne in her close-fitting blue dress, other sorts of deprivation as well.

'Well, let's start from the beginning. In nature, the polymer process is a biogenesis and we are not too clear about how it works. It's very complex, but it does not seem to induce polymerization by the manufacture of an isoprene monomer as such. Which is what this formula is endeavouring to do, I believe.'

'It is?' asked Phryne.

Dr Treasure pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. 'Yes, you see, here—it says -CH
₂
-C(CI) = CH-CH
₂
—times n, and there's an additional CI, that makes it poly-chloroprene. Which is CR. Derived, as you know, from oil, though mine is made out of butyl alcohol, made of fermented grain. Much cleaner, don't you think? And it uses up all that surplus wheat. Yes, the formula is quite clear, though it's strange. Whoever wrote this, wrote it backwards.'

'The rabbi,' said Phryne, delighted to confuse this confusing man in her turn, 'is used to writing Hebrew, which goes from right to left.'

He gave her a puzzled look before he went on, 'The rest of the steps are expressed the same way. Dashed peculiar way of setting out a process but there you are, scientists are odd bods.' Then he started like a guilty thing surprised, and leapt to his feet. 'Oh, gosh, Miss Fisher, please excuse me. That's the doorbell. My wife will be feeding little Bobbie ... back in a moment. Keep stirring. Don't let it boil!'

He was gone with a slam of the door and flourish of his lab coat, and Phryne was torn between extreme frustration and a serious fit of the giggles. She had never, not even when someone had insisted on explaining political economy to her, been so thoroughly informed without having the faintest idea of what was happening. But he understood the formula, which was good, and it was some sort of discovery, which was excellent. Yossi might get his guns for Zion after all, though he would not be able to buy them in Australia. And he might decide that violence was not a solution, and try and make peace with the inhabitants after all. Try as she might, Phryne could not imagine a Jewish State. What language would it speak? How would it live? And what would persuade people who had big houses and good jobs and flourishing businesses to move to the other side of the world where they were emphatically not welcome and work breaking rocks in a desert, probably while being shot at?

Patently impossible.

The colourless fluids in the large vessel did not actually bubble, but something was happening in them. Before Phryne had time to worry about a) whether the scientist had been kidnapped or b) whether the laboratory was about to explode, the young man with the curly hair was back, bearing a tray of tea. There was a silver teapot, milk jug and sugar basin, but the Royal Doulton cups were mismatched to bone china saucers. Dr Treasure's household, Phryne thought, was not short of a shilling.

'Sorry it took so long, it was the chap next door wanting to talk about the rates, and when people around here talk about rates the conversation can get positively passionate. Will you be mother?'

Phryne, resigned to deferred explanation, poured the tea.

It was good tea and there was tea cake to go with it. Dr Treasure informed Phryne that he had come to Australia because he had been in the Great War and couldn't bear Europe.

'The fields look green, but they are bloodsoaked, for the longest time men have been killing each other in Europe, and I was sick of it. So I came here. Australia has no history. I like that in a country.' He made a broad gesture, distributing cinnamon and sugar. 'It's spacious and it's civilized. They don't trust chaps like me here, and they have good reason. Look what science did in the war,' he said soberly. 'We found new and horrible ways to kill people. I decided that we had to be useful, or there was no excuse for us.'

Phryne murmured agreement. His fresh face and bright eyes were charming.

'Funny thing,' he said, 'I heard a rumour that someone had actually succeeded in doing this, but I discounted it. It's a philosopher's stone, you know, an impossible dream. Now, I have the other reagents, acid and a salt, and if I just pour them into the mixture very gently,' he did this without spilling a drop, 'now all we have to do is wait. Shall we have some more tea?' he asked chattily.

'What are we waiting for?' asked Phryne, refilling his cup.

'Why, for polymerization. Should be visible any tick of the clock—if the formula works.'

'I can see something,' said Phryne.

'Yes, there's the little chap,' commented Dr Treasure.

The mixture was thickening before Phryne's eyes. As the reagents mixed, they were forming some sort of compound. It was cooling and hardening, until there was perhaps half a pound of the substance.

Then Dr Treasure siphoned off the remaining fluid and spilled the substance into a glass dish. It was as thick as cream and beige in colour.

'Not long now,' he told Phryne. 'Soon find out if it works.'

'What is it doing?'

'Coagulating, I hope.' Dr Treasure picked up his tea cup. He was not calm, but excited. Phryne could hear his breathing quickening. He really wanted to know if this was going to work.

So did Phryne. She finished her tea and replaced the cups on the tray and put the tray out of reach of any wild gestures. She didn't think that Mrs Treasure would view the advancement of science as any excuse for the loss of Royal Doulton china.

'Oh, yes,' whispered Dr Treasure.

He reached into the glass dish and pulled off a piece of the compound, which was now almost solid, darkening a little as it hardened. He offered it to Phryne reverently, in both hands, like a priest handling the host.

It was soft, warm and gave when poked. It rolled easily into a ball. Somewhere Phryne had seen something like it. She racked her memory.

A twin of the object she was now holding had been found in dead Shimeon Ben Mikhael's pocket.

'Why, it's rubber,' she said. 'It's artificial rubber.'

'That's what it is,' Dr Treasure affirmed. 'It's artificial rubber. And I just made it. I just made artificial rubber!'

He gathered Phryne into an embrace and kissed her.

Cut that in three which nature hath made One Then strengthen hit, even by itself alone, Werewith then cutte the poudred Sonne in twayne, By lengthe of tyme, and heale the wounde again.

John Dee,
Monas Heiroglyphica

She was almost at her own door when someone grabbed for her handbag.

At first she thought that she had caught the strap on a rosebush. Her neighbour loved roses beyond anything and was prone to forbid a blade to bruise a twig. But when she reached back to free it, she encountered a hand.

'Never drag, always yield,' her street fighting lessons came to mind. Therefore she did not pull against the grasp, which might have broken the strap, but threw herself unexpectedly backwards. She heard a grunt as her Louis heel impacted on an instep, and she spun, hands out, ready to kick or to flee.

The tall young man tripped, almost fell and ran across the road, stumbling through the traffic. He fell into a waiting car and was gone.

The whole incident had taken seconds.

Phryne opened her own gate, thinking deeply. It might have been an attempted handbag snatch—they were happening more frequently as unemployment began to bite and more and more people were rendered desperate. Phryne was certainly well dressed and the ordinary robber would be justified in thinking that her purse would be worth investigation. But there had been the car. The planned escape route.

And she had seen so little! She spat out a very rude word. Just a tall, moderately strong, moderately young man, face hidden by a scarf. He had not spoken. The car had been of some nondescript colour—black, maybe, or dark blue. She had not seen the numberplate. Nothing, in short, to go on.

'May beets grow out of their bellies,' cursed Phryne. She could really get to love Yiddish. It was a language made for situations like these.

No one but the Buders were home. Dot had presumably taken Miss Lee for her walk about the city. The girls were out on a picnic. Phryne was passing the phone when it rang.

'Yes?'

'Miss Fisher, can you send my son home?' asked a heavily accented voice.

'Mrs Abrahams?'

'You have someone else's
son
?' asked Julia Abrahams. 'Someone
else's
son you have
as well
as mine?'

'No, I haven't even got yours,' said Phryne. 'I haven't seen him since breakfast.'

'Oy, gevalt.
Sons you have. Trouble you have!'

'He isn't home?' asked Phryne, wondering where Simon might have got to. He had wanted to come with her to set Miss Lee at liberty, and she had rather snubbed him. Probably the Abrahams boy was somewhere suitably depressing, eating worms.

'I expect he's just sulking,' she assured Julia Abrahams.

'You saw him this morning?'

'Yes, and I went out directly after breakfast. I thought he was going home to talk to his father.'

'Here, he hasn't come,' said Mrs Abrahams. 'Where can my Simon be?'

'I'm sure he's somewhere. Where is Mr Abrahams?'

'In the workshop. Always the workshop. I'll phone him. No, I'll send Chaim. Maybe Simon is there.'

'Listen, Mrs Abrahams, if he isn't there, can you phone me again?'

'You're worried,
nu?'
Mrs Abrahams' voice sharpened.

'I'm a little concerned,' temporized Phryne. 'But I'm sure he'll be all right.'

She replaced the receiver on another
'Oy!'

Where was the boy?

Phryne requested strong coffee. She wanted to think.

In the bag which the robber had tried to steal was the rubber ball which Dr Treasure had so triumphantly made. The formula was concealed inside Phryne's bust band. An obvious precaution. She had removed it that morning from its place in her packet of sanitary napkins. She had gambled on that not being searched. The subconscious male taboo on menstruation worked on customs officers, too. How desperate the buyer must be getting, to risk attacking Phryne in the street in broad daylight!

Phryne took up the phone and called Jack Robinson. The adorable Dr Treasure and his family must be protected. Phryne had watched as he had poured out all the chemicals used in the making of Yossi's artificial rubber, and the rubber itself had been destroyed with acid and also poured away Dr Treasure, however, knew the formula. It might be tortured from him, especially if they had his wife or the fat noisy baby. And Phryne had enjoyed kissing him. People with that much osculatory skill cannot be wasted.

Detective Inspector Robinson agreed, though Phryne did not mention the kiss. There was no need, she considered, to tell policemen more than they needed to know.

Miss Lee set about reclaiming her shop and her life with customary efficiency. Her interval in prison was now firmly behind her. She had bathed at length and most luxuriously in a huge sea-green tub, attended by Dot, who had supplied half an ocean of very hot water and pine bath salts. The soap had been of the finest milled castile, guaranteed to bring bloom to the complexion, and the bath sheet had been fluffy and exceptionally absorbent. Miss Lee had washed and rinsed her hair and was as clean as the soapmaker's art could make her. She was clad in new underclothes, which Phryne had donated and Dot had selected. Her stockings were of silk. She was wearing her own clothes, her sensible shoes and her beige linen dress with two horses embroidered on the bosom.

And she had talked, not about prison, which she was not intending to think about for some months, but about the shocking price of butter and why Miss Fisher's hens were not laying so that eggs had to be bought from that scoundrel of a grocer. She had eaten an egg boiled to perfection and very good bread and butter and drunk several slow cups of ambrosial strong fragrant tea. She had also inspected Mrs Butler's orchids, had been greeted respectfully by two very nice schoolgirls, and had been licked by Molly the puppy and ignored by Ember the cat.

'Perhaps a little touch of sheep dog,' she suggested, as the girls held Molly up for her approval. Jane and Ruth, also, knew about being rescued. Possibly so did Molly, because she gave a small bark and began to gnaw Miss Lee's thumb. This was cheering. The real world was still there, it still contained puppies being puppies and cats being cats.

Then, accompanied by Dot, who talked or remained silent as she perceived her companion required, she took a tram to Flinders Street and walked through the city to the Eastern Market. Her natural pace was fast.

It was all still there, she thought. There was the bulk of the post office. Buckley and Nunn had not even changed their windows. The pallid mannequins were in the same pose, hung with the same jewellery, wearing the same dresses. Foy and Gibson's at the corner of Bourke Street was still advertising unparalleled cheapness in summer garments. Art silk dresses for nine and six!

The big advertising board told her that customers preferred Dunlop tyres.

Exercise was soothing Miss Lee's fears. Her stockings whispered as she walked and she was pleasantly conscious of the silk underwear. The sun was beginning to bite, and her suitcase was getting heavier, loaded as it was with Latin books.

'I should go home first,' she commented to Dot. 'If I still have a home. My landlady keeps a respectable house. She may not want me back.'

'Oh, yes, Miss, I'm sure you still have a home,' said Dot. She was sure of this, because she had heard Miss Fisher talking to the landlady about the matter. Miss Fisher had been very firm, and when Phryne was firm even a boarding house landlady might quail.

Miss Lee led the way up the stairs to her apartment. Mrs Smythe (with a y, please) met her on the landing with a pleasant smile.

'Miss Lee, glad to see you home,' she said. She had, of course, been intending to evict Miss Lee neck and crop—imagine, a woman accused of murder in her nice house! But her conversation with Miss Fisher had ameliorated her views. A woman who has been cleared of a murder charge which should never have been laid in the first place and who moreover had aristocratic connections was a different matter. Miss Lee smiled faintly and continued climbing.

'It all looks the same,' she said, as she opened her own door.

'I'll see you in an hour,' said Dot with tact, and withdrew.

Miss Lee unpacked her suitcase, put all of her prison garments in a bag to be washed, and sat down on her bed.

It was all still here. Her books piled on her bedside table. Her narrow bed, made up with clean sheets. On the table which she used as a pantry someone—Mrs Smythe?—had put a fresh jug of milk and a brown paper bag of biscuits.

Miss Lee, with sacramental care, made tea and bit into a biscuit. It was the oatmeal and treacle mixture called an Anzac.

'I'm home,' she said to herself, recalled to reality. Nothing was more real than an Anzac. It seemed to leave no room for any other taste. 'I'm here in my own flat and I've got my life back, my shop and my city. I'll never leave you again,' she promised the room, and took another biscuit.

Dot met her at the door, coinciding with a huge bunch of flowers preceding Mr Abrahams, and a babble of journalists.

'I don't know how they found out, Miss, but do you want to talk to them or shall I call the cops?' asked Dot, scowling at a mannerless young man with a notebook and a strong sense of the Freedom of the Press.

'I'll talk to one of them,' said Miss Lee, perfectly collected. 'Come in, Mr Abrahams, what lovely flowers.' She scanned the assembled multitude and picked out a young woman who was being squashed. Cameras flashed and she blinked.

'You,' said Miss Lee, 'if you please. No, not you, the lady.' The journalist fought her way to the front with some fine hip and shoulder work doubtless learned from a childhood shared with bigger brothers. Miss Lee allowed her to enter, and shut the door on a groan of disappointment and more flashes.

Dot went to interview the landlady about a vase, Mr Abrahams sat down in the boarder's parlour, and Miss Lee asked the journalist, 'What do you want to know?'

'How do you feel about being released?' gasped the girl, who was in possession of a scoop and was wondering how she had managed it. Her chief was going to eat his words. He said that women could not hold their own in the rough and tumble of journalism, and she had fought for this assignment. He had only sent her because all his male journalists were out.

'Very happy,' said Miss Lee.

'And ... er ... what are you intending to do now?'

'I shall go back to running my shop, of course.'

'You know that the police have said that they are confident of finding the real murderer? Have you read Jack Robinson's statement?'

She gave Miss Lee a cutting, and she read it and smiled.

'Very clear,' she approved. 'Detective Inspector Robinson has admitted his mistake like a gentleman.'

'Do you have a theory about the murder?'

'No,' said Miss Lee. 'I really don't know anything about it.'

'Is there anything you would like to say about it all?' asked the girl, sensing that she needed a quote.

'Many people have worked very hard to expose this mistake. Miss Fisher the detective and Mr Abrahams, my landlord.'

'And what would you like to say to all the people who believed so firmly in your innocence?' asked the journalist.

'Thank you,' said Miss Lee, sitting down rather abruptly. 'Just thank you.'

'And that's all,' said Dot, returning with a vase full of red roses and a strong feeling that Miss Lee was not as calm as she sounded. Dot shoved the young woman into the street and shut the door with a slam.

'I do mean thank you,' said Miss Lee to Mr Abrahams. He took her hand and kissed it.

'What else should I do?' he asked, gesturing with the other hand. 'I see a lady in trouble, falsely accused yet, I should
ignore
it? Believe me, it was nothing. So, now, I have to go. That son of mine should be coming to tell me the whole
megillah.
I just came to see you're all right. Mi?' he asked on a rising inflection.

'Yes,' said Miss Lee, realizing that this was the case. 'I'm all right.'

Phryne was mildly worried about Simon as the day wore on. His sulk seemed to be lasting a little too long. But spoiled young men will be spoiled young men and would come around in time. Or not.

Phryne had conducted a council of war with Bert, Cec and Jack Robinson. A plan of action was settled upon. Conclusive evidence was needed to make sure that no stain remained on Miss Lee's character, not to mention to ensure the safety of Phryne, Dr Treasure and the students.

'Someone is hunting for that formula,' said Phryne. 'He is so desperate now that he will follow up any hint or rumour. I intend to supply the hint and spread the rumour. The paper is in Miss Lee's shop, I will say. The student did as he was bid, and placed the paper in a book before he was murdered.'

'But he must know that we have the formula!' objected Robinson.

'This is a nasty twisty mind, Jack dear. If we have it, why hasn't he found it? He can't get to Dr Treasure, I fervently hope.' Jack Robinson nodded. 'He can't get anything from me, either, not even outright assault worked. Miss Lee doesn't know anything, the students aren't telling, and he hasn't been able to get into the bookshop, has he? It was a goodish plan, if you like elaborate schemes,' said Phryne, who didn't. 'All he had to do was wait. The formula was hidden so that no one could find it. He just had to wait until he could walk into the shop and buy the volume. He didn't know that Miss Lee would be charged—he didn't care, may the fire in his stomach boil his brains. It works for him, either way. Either she is released and comes back to her shop tomorrow, or she is sold up and he buys the book from the sale.'

'So tomorrow he just has to go in and purchase it,' said Robinson. 'We can't arrest a man for buying a book—not that sort of book, anyway. He could just claim that he had a taste for Walter Scott or whichever it was. Or was missing Volume 9 from his 1911 Hansard.'

'Yes, that's the flaw. We need to precipitate the action.'

'And how do we do that?' asked Bert, with deep suspicion.

'We announce, in certain company, that Miss Lee has donated a big box of unsold books to the Fiji and Island Mission. She's a Methodist, you know. It's credible because she did exactly that two months ago, though what the South Sea Islanders are going to make of Volume 3 of
The Proceedings of The Royal Society
for 1896, Hansard, Walter Scott's
Letters
and the Rev. Walters'
Sermons
is more than she or I can imagine. She's packed it in the shop and stored it in the undercroft for the carrier, and it's going off to Tonga tomorrow.'