The Greenwich Apartments (8 page)

‘Couldn't you handle it?'

‘He's got a shooter,' Connelly said.

‘And this.' I held up my licence. ‘And this.' I put the licence away and pulled out the photographs. ‘Tell Connelly here to go and find his keys and clean up the broken glass on the stairs. We have to talk.'

A woman appeared in the doorway behind Darcy. She was buttoning her blouse and straightening her tight skirt. Darcy saw my eyes flick to her but he could also see the gun now.

‘Go on, Kenny; I'll deal with it.' Connelly turned and limped away; there was blood all over the seat of his trousers. Darcy looked amused.

‘Sorry if I caught you at a bad time,' I said.

‘Hardy, eh? I've heard of you.' He ran his hand over his thinning blonde hair, did up a button on his shirt and then patted his crotch. ‘My fly's still done up, isn't it? Could've been worse. Come in, Hardy. Come in.'

I didn't exactly back Darcy into his own residence at the point of a gun, but I didn't treat him like my long lost brother either. What we were doing reminded me of an army training exercise—semi-serious. He retreated along the passage and I advanced. The woman circled around in the room we were headed for.

‘The gun's a bit over the top,' Darcy said. ‘You just had to ask.'

‘I asked downstairs. Your staff's too busy serving watered drinks to be helpful.'

He smiled at that; he seemed to like smiling. ‘What's this about?'

We were in a big living room now—white carpet, black leather armchairs and couch, glass and chrome bar and other fittings suggestive of the good, idle life. Outside the window the lights of Kings Cross became the lights of Elizabeth Bay and then became the lights of the yacht club and the marina and the boats at anchor. Darcy had done up a couple more buttons on his shirt, had pulled his stomach in and was over at the bar now making drinks. The woman stood beside him; she was tall and thin like a fashion model and with an appropriate lack of expression on her face. She'd got her blouse and skirt straight: she had short, bobbed blonde hair that hadn't become disturbed by whatever it was I'd interrupted. So she looked fine and that seemed to give her nothing else to do.

‘Oh, Jackie,' Darcy said, ‘this is Cliff Hardy. He's a private eye.'

She took her drink and didn't say anything. Darcy chuckled. ‘You won't get much out of Jackie. I've never been able to decide whether it's because she hasn't got anything to say or because she thinks talking'll put lines on her face. Have a drink, full measure, and put that bloody gun away.'

I put the gun in my pocket and took out the photograph. I let Darcy put the drink on a table beside one of the armchairs. I hadn't had a full view of him while he made it and I've seen
The Maltese Falcon
three times. Ever since Gutman drugged Spade I've watched how the drinks are made. I put the photograph on the back of the couch beside a woman's silk-lined trench coat that was thrown across it. Half-covered by the coat was a leather shoulder bag with a nameplate reading ‘Jackie George' on it. ‘That's you in this picture, isn't it?' I said.

He had to take a few steps to look. He bent over, didn't touch it. ‘Looks like it. So what?'

‘Know the woman?'

He looked again and sipped his drink. ‘Maybe.'

‘Seen her lately?'

He shook his head. Just then, he wasn't smiling. His big, tanned face seemed to be deciding whether to set into an attitude of anger or amusement. In the end, it stayed neutral. He glanced across at Jackie who was sitting with her back straight, chin up, knees together, looking out the window expressionlessly. Her stillness and mine seemed to annoy Darcy; he swung around and raised his glass. ‘To Jackie,' he said, ‘the chatterbox.' He laughed. ‘Come on, Hardy. What's this all about. Have a drink, man.'

I wanted a drink. I went over to the bar and poured some Scotch from the decanter into a glass. Darcy nodded approvingly as I squirted in some soda.

‘That's the way. Now …'

‘I want information on the woman in that photograph.'

‘Why?'

I drank some Scotch, considered telling him, but decided against it. It's all a horse-trade in this business, and he hadn't told me anything at all yet. ‘Her name is Tania Bourke. Looks to me as if you two were on the way to something here.' I nodded at the photograph.

Jackie's eyes swung towards the couch. Just for a second and with no movement of the head. That was all, but I saw it. Darcy chuckled. ‘I don't think so. Look, what is this? A few snaps of friends at lunch somewhere? I go to lunch every day. Sometimes I go twice a day, don't I Jackie?' He slapped his stomach as if to show the results. Jackie didn't respond except to finish her drink, stand up straight-legged and go over to the bar to make another. As she passed the couch she looked at the photograph.

‘Maybe you know the man who took the picture?'

‘Maybe. What is he? Some faggot in a pink shirt?'

‘He's been described as ordinary. Wears a blue uniform.'

He spread his hands. ‘I ask you. A cop, a parking attendant, petrol station guy? Hardy. I'm getting bored with this. I thought you'd be more interesting to meet.'

Something about his manner told me he was lying. He was alerted to danger. It was there in the body language—the way he raised his glass and pulled at the knee of his trousers. It was plain in the way he shot looks across at Jackie who'd resumed her statue impersonation. ‘Maybe I can get something out of the Geordie,' I said. ‘He probably scares the girls to death with those keys but …'

‘He's only been with me a year.'
Relief in the way he said it?
I thought.

‘Yeah, this goes further back than that,' I said.
‘Maybe two years, maybe three.' Jackie took a drink. I stood and collected the photograph. ‘Well, I know you're lying but it'd be messy beating it out of you.' I put my glass back on the bar. ‘Jackie'd get blood on her blouse and we'd have Connelly back here with his keys or worse. It doesn't seem worth it.'

‘I think you made a mistake coming here, Hardy.'

‘I don't think so. I enjoyed the show downstairs and the half Scotch. I enjoyed meeting Connelly. Hasn't been a total loss. Let me tell you, Darcy, you've got a lot of admirers.'

That
did
alarm him. ‘What does that mean?'

‘Goodnight, Jackie,' I said. I left them looking at each other as I crossed the room and opened the door. It wasn't much of an exit line but it would have to do. At least I'd discomfited Darcy and made Jackie move her eyes. And I'd had a drink. I felt like an under-achiever, but the coat and bag suggested to me that Jackie wasn't staying and therein lay possibilities.

No sign of Connelly in the hall or on the stairs. A few spots of blood though. The glass had been cleaned up. I went through the club, where the dancers and drinkers had taken control again, and up the stairs to the street. Exits and extrances are a little hard to find in that part of the city. Buildings can lead from one into another and you can come out half a block from where you went in. Not so with the Champagne Cabaret though. I prowled around the block, checking lights and doors, and couldn't see any cunning variations on in-at-the-front and out-through-the-back. I lurked in my car in the laneway behind the building and when Ricky Gay, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, was picked up by a fat man in a Mercedes sometime around 1 a.m., I was sure I was in the right place.

They came out about half an hour later—Jackie
and Connelly. She was wearing her trench coat and she trotted along as far away from Connelly as she could get. He looked around, stared at doorways or the steering wheels of cars. What he didn't know was that if you want to watch a place from a car and you don't want to be seen, you watch from the passenger seat or the back—where I was. They got into a white Volvo and headed east, Connelly driving.

He drove cars better than he intimidated and I had trouble keeping in touch in the back streets as he wove through the light traffic and caught the amber lights. I managed it though and was nicely positioned behind a couple of other cars as he turned off on the Darling Point side of Rushcutters Bay Park. It's top dollar country—big, well-maintained places crowding each other to compete for the fine view across the water to the city, and for the harbour breezes. And you could bet that any apartments would have security systems that'd hold up the SAS. More worrying were the cul-de-sacs which are common around there. Try following someone down a dead-end street and not look conspicuous and see how far you get. But the Volvo didn't get into the short streets with the blank endings; it turned into the heartland of the Point where the streets twist and turn but all go somewhere. It stopped in front of a big apartment block positioned between two mansions which were hidden behind palm trees and other luxuriant growth.

I drove past, made a tight turn and came back quickly along a high road that ran parallel to the other. From there I could see over the mansions to where the Volvo was parked, and the steep steps up to the apartment block. I stopped the car and focused my professional snooper's night glasses. Connelly escorted Jackie to the spotlit doorway of the apartments, where she used a key and went in without a nod or a thank you. There were eight
storeys to the building, perhaps 30 apartments. A few lights were showing but it was clear where Jackie had come to rest—lights blazed in a couple of fourth-floor rooms suddenly and I thought I could see the movement of a curtain as she went out onto the balcony.

The Volvo moved off and I didn't try to keep it in sight. What I was looking for was a public telephone, hard to find in that high-rent, high-mortage district. When I did find one, at a crossroad that accommodated a tiny shopping centre, the compensation was that the directory, A to K was intact. I found George, J. listed with the right address and rang the number.

‘Yes?'

‘Jackie?'

‘Yes. Who's this?' So she
could
talk, three words consecutively was definitely talking.

‘This is Hardy. We met tonight.'

‘Jesus.' Not anger in her voice—fear.

‘Don't worry, I'm not watching you or anything. I followed you and Connelly to your place but now I'm miles away.'

‘I … I can't talk to you.'

‘But you want to, don't you?'

‘I can't. What …?'

‘What do I want? Information about Darcy. What's his full name?'

‘Lionel. No … I can't …'

‘Tell me about the woman in the photograph then.'

‘I didn't know her.'

‘Why did you react the way you did?'

‘Jealousy. I'm going to hang up.'

‘Wait, you were there that day but you didn't know what was going on. Is that what you're saying?'

‘Between him and that bitch Bourke? Yes.'

‘Who took the picture?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You do, Jackie. This is important. A couple of questions and I'll leave you alone. I won't involve you no matter what happens.'
Liar,
I thought. Bloody liar. This was one of the shitty moments.

‘How many questions?'

My mind teemed with them. When had she last seen or heard of Tania Bourke? Where was the photograph taken? Who were the other people? Who was the photographer? ‘Two,' I said.

‘You promise?' she breathed, scarcely audibly.

‘Yes.'
Shitty, very shitty.

‘All right.'

‘Who was the photographer?'

‘Joe Agnew took the picture. That's one.'

‘A-g-n-e-w?' I spelled the name.

‘Yes.'

‘What's Darcy afraid of? Why the guy with the keys and the escort home for you and everything.'

‘He's not afraid. You should be.'

‘What did he say to you after I left?'

‘That's three.' The phone clicked in my ear.

It was very late and I was tired. The car was reluctant to start, putting me in a bad temper which wasn't improved on New South Head Road by the early hours traffic—speeding Alfas and weaving Jags and not a cop in sight. I should have felt better about the night's work. Darcy was involved in something heavy and there was a connection through him to the Greenwich Apartments via Tania Bourke. Despite my promise, Jackie George could be a useful source of further information. And I had a name. All I had to do now was find what blue-shirted organisation Joe Agnew belonged to and I was on the trail. But the sluggish car and the tiredness and the fear in Jackie's voice made me sour. It made me think of how many different kinds of people wore blue shirts
and how hard it might be to trace the photographer if he'd changed his name from something else, like Spiro did. And that was really depressing—the last I'd heard of Spiro Agnew was that he was rich and happy, like his former boss, advising, consulting and not admitting that he'd ever done anything wrong.

H
OME
around 3 a.m. The cat was sitting out in front of the house with an accusing look on its face. It stalked into the house ahead of me and went up the stairs. The house was quiet and the only light showing was in the kitchen; an anglepoise lamp burned on the bench and a letter from Helen sat in the circle of light:

Ruth, a cousin of Helen's, had a flat overlooking Balmoral Beach. She was a clothes designer and the only woman I'd ever met who liked to drink white wine at breakfast. This was an old habit of mine which I gave up when I found that having a clear head until 6 p.m. wasn't the worst thing that could happen to you. Breakfast at Mischa's was one of the good Sydney things to do—I'd only tried it once but I could taste the scrambled eggs and the coffee that came from a bottomless pot. But my chances of making it were zero and I had the feeling that I
wasn't really welcome anyway. I followed the cat upstairs and didn't even have the strength to kick it off the bed.