Читать книгу Amaze Your Friends - Peter Doyle - Страница 10

Chapter 5

To avoid unexpected meetings with coppers, customers, or whomever, I thought it best to enter and leave the Manning Building by the back entrance. The Chinese downstairs were pretty wary, having already had one run-in with Cec Abbott’s drug squad, and these days they kept a watch out permanently. Not that you’d know. The few times I bumped into Mr Ling in the back lane, he gave a tiny nod which I took to mean something like ‘I note that you now regularly use the back entrance; you no doubt have your reasons and they are probably associated with crook goings on. We respect your privacy.’

Murray got sent off the field around that time. He told me he’d be in St Luke’s Hospital for a short stay, would I clear his mailbox while he was gone? I told him no risk.

A week later the estate agents sent a bloke around to change the lock on Murray’s door. Was there a problem? I asked. Apparently the tenant was going bad, the locksmith said, hadn’t paid any rent for months. Next day the agent came around to clear out the office. I asked him had he tried to contact Murray. He had—Murray rented a flat in Bondi from him as well and he had skipped out of that weeks ago, also owing back rent.

I said, ‘I’ve heard he’s been unwell, that he’s getting medical attention.’

‘He’ll bloody need it if I catch up with him,’ the agent said. Then he asked if I’d hold on to the new key, to let in any prospective tenants that he might send over. I told him I wasn’t always here, but he said that didn’t matter, it might save him a trip sometime. I said okay.

That afternoon I went down to St Luke’s. Mr Liddicoat has checked out, the sister said. She said she couldn’t say where to, but then she followed me out and asked if I was a friend of his. I told her I was and she said that as far as she knew, Mr Liddicoat had gone into the new ‘hospital’ at Moore Park, down the road in South Dowling Street. I asked her why Murray couldn’t be treated here. She hummed and ha-ed, then told me the Moore Park place was better for Mr Liddicoat. They specialise in the treatment of alcoholics down there, she said.

Down at the Moore Park clinic they treated me with open suspicion. Who was I and what did I want with Murray? I told them I was a friend. Wrong answer. To them that meant drinking mate and bad influence. I had to sweet talk for five minutes, quote a couple of Mr Ulmer’s epigrams to show what a solid citizen I was. I told them how I was managing Murray’s business affairs while he took this much needed time out. Finally the old duck consented to see if Murray was available. She came back a minute later and said he’d checked out that morning. Against the doctor’s recommendation, she added. They didn’t know where he had gone.

So I couldn’t tell Murray about the winding up of his business in the Manning Building. I’d done my Christian duty by him, to hell with it, I thought.

But I took to doing my work in Murray’s former premises, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to keep out of my own office for a while. It was because of that I became a kind of half-arsed private eye.

I had been in there writing letters and parcelling up orders, and had just decided to have a cup of tea before I went to the post office. After that maybe I’d call it a day, drop by Mr Ling’s.

A tap at the door, and a tall, thin, nervy-looking feller stuck his head around. He was looking for Murray Liddicoat he said. I told him he wasn’t available at the moment. He asked when he’d be back, I said I really didn’t know. He asked if I was a business partner of Murray’s and I said not exactly, but I was sort of keeping an eye on things. He advanced into the room and I gestured for him to sit down.

He said that his solicitor had given him Murray’s name, told him Murray might be able to help him with a certain matter, and was I sure I didn’t know when Murray would be back. No idea, I said. The electric jug came to the boil. I filled the pot, asked him if he’ d like a cup of tea. He said all right.

I poured two cups and gave him one. His hand shook as he took it. He was a little older than me, maybe late thirties. But his hair was completely grey and he was stooped. He was large boned and may have been athletic once, but he couldn’t have weighed more than ten stone now. He wasn’t wearing an RSL badge but I knew the look well enough.

He sipped his tea and said, ‘Rodney Irving’s my name.’ He held his hand out across the desk. I gave him my name and shook.

He smiled and said, ‘Well, since Mr Liddicoat’s unavailable, would you be able to suggest anyone else in that line?’

‘What line exactly, Mr Irving?’

‘Please call me Rodney. Well, you know, the “personal and missing friends” sort of thing.’ He smiled apologetically.

‘You want to find someone?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you mind me asking who, exactly?’

‘A, ah, lady friend has . . . well, she’s gone.’

‘I see.’

‘The solicitor warned me that it may cost quite a bit to hire a good man, but he said Mr Liddicoat had a good reputation for this sort of thing.’ He shook his head, took a last sip of tea, smiled and said, ‘Thanks for the tea. Sorry to have bothered you.’ He put the cup and saucer on the desk, stood up.

I said, ‘Listen, Rodney, if you’re prepared to let me know some of the details, I may be in a better position to make an assessment of your case.’ I opened one of the ledger books there on the desk, made like I was scanning the pages and said, ‘I may be able to refer you on, or it’s just possible that I may even have sufficient time over the next week or two to look into it myself.’

‘Could you?’

‘I’m not a licensed agent in the same sense that Murray is, right, but we’ve worked together on a number of important projects’—like elbow-bending at the Chamberlain Hotel, I thought—‘and I may be able to assist you in the event of Murray not being able to.’

‘Well, you seem a decent enough chap,’ said Irving, ‘and I’m not afraid of acting on my instincts. But, with all due respect, are you, ah, personally experienced in this sort of work?’

‘I’ve stood in for Murray in some very important inquiries.’ Like three weeks ago, I thought, when Murray sent me into the Covent Gardens to find out whether or not he was still barred.

Irving said, ‘Well, I suppose that’ll be all right then. What happens next?’

‘You tell me all about it.’

And so it all came out. He and his ‘lady friend’ had had ‘an understanding’ for the last eight years, but now she’d gone.

Irving opened his wallet and drew out a snapshot. Him and a good-looking, dark-haired woman, dressed in evening clothes. They were sitting at a table, people on either side. The woman was smiling, composed. Rodney was slightly behind her, his face half in shadow. I handed back the photo.

He said, ‘Her name’s Fay. Fay Small. She cleared out a month ago.’

Just like that, I said, with no warning?

No, there had been warning, Irving said, but he didn’t offer any more for a moment.

Then he said, ‘I have these . . . attacks sometimes. Sort of nerves. When they happen it’s hard on me.’ He smiled weakly. ‘But I’m afraid it’s even harder on those around me.’

I looked at his sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes. ‘Rodney, you’ re a returned man, aren’t you?’

He nodded.

‘And a former prisoner of war?’

He nodded again, looking surprised.

‘At Changi?’

‘Hong Kong.’

‘Are these “attacks” connected with your experiences as a POW?’

‘I suppose so, yes, they are. Cripes, you’re as good as my quack.’

‘You’re getting treatment then?’

‘I am now.’

‘You weren’t before?’

‘Well, Fay always told me I should see someone, a head shrinker. But I kept, you know, putting it off. I thought with time, everything would come good.’

‘But it didn’t.’

‘No. But now I’m seeing a chap, a top man in the field. And it really is helping. I want to tell Fay that things are different now.’

‘You’re seeing, what, a specialist?’

‘A head bloke named Harry Bailey. He gives me special medication. His method is to cure you with sleep. It’s very much the latest thing, I believe.’

I knew Bailey well enough. He was one of the quacks around town who gave me prescriptions for dexes.

‘Well, if Harry’s half as good at making you go to sleep as he is at keeping me awake, you’re in business.’

‘You know him then?’

‘Yeah, I know him. If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you just go and find Fay yourself? Why hire someone else to do it?’

‘For starters, I wouldn’t know where to look, or how to look. And I have my own day-to-day business to attend to. I need expert help.’

‘What makes you think she’ll come back, assuming we do manage to track her down?’

‘You probably think I’m deluding myself. But I know she really does love me, as I love her. Fay’s a stayer by nature. I just want one more chance. Once she sees that things really are different, maybe . . .’

‘This could cost you a bit.’

He looked at me square. ‘I’ll pay five hundred pounds to the man who finds her.’

‘That’s a hell of a lot to pay for a matrimonial matter, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

He smiled a little, nodded slowly. ‘I’d pay five times that if I thought it would get me to her.’

I picked up a pen and a pad. ‘Better give me some details. If I can make the time, I’ll have a crack at this myself.’

There wasn’t much. Fay had come over from New Zealand as a young war widow. She’d lived in Brisbane first, then Sydney. She started work at a place called Victory Press, a magazine publishing house, which was where she met Rodney. Their ‘understanding’ had commenced a bit later. She’d kept her flat in Elizabeth Bay but spent most of her time at his place at Fairlight.

We shook on it and Rodney took off. I figured if I could track down this woman in a week, then five hundred quid was a pretty good pay rate, and it would make a healthy addition to the Fred Slaney Benevolent Fund.

An hour later I finished up and slipped out. In the hallway I walked straight into Trish. I hadn’t seen her since she’d spent the night at my place three weeks before.

‘Hi. What’s happened to Murray?’

‘He’s split. I don’t know where.’

‘Second question. What’s happened to Billy?’

‘Ah, well . . .’

‘Three weeks and I haven seen you once.’

‘I’ve been flat out.’

‘With your girlfriend?’

‘What girlfriend?’

‘The singer, Del, is that her?’

‘Yeah. Well, sort of, but . . .’

‘Anyway, that doesn’t worry me. I think monogamy’s really out.’

‘Stereo’s here to stay, for sure. But me and her are through anyway.’

‘Not on my account, I hope. I think everyone should just do what they want to do, follow their heart’s desire. Don’t you think so?’

’Yeah, that’s the principle I’ve always tried to live by.’

‘I better get back to work. Coming for a drink on Friday?’

‘Yeah, probably, maybe. See you.’

I headed down to Mr Ling’s.

I started making like an investigator. I took a ferry across to Manly to see an old pal of Fay’s, a single working woman named Judy. She couldn’t tell me much about Fay’s disappearance, other than she hoped I found her. That afternoon I drove to Kensington, saw another friend of Fay’s, a married woman named Cath. Keen to help but she had no clue.

Driving back to East Sydney I was pulled over in Anzac Parade, booked for speeding and failing to give a hand signal. I’d been driving at twenty-five miles an hour, in a straight line. So much for the grey Holden disguise and the bodgie registration. Or maybe it was a coincidence. Just to be sure, I gave the cop my real licence. He grinned the whole time he was writing out the ticket.

There was one name left on the list, Michael Keogh, a ‘fairy’, according to Rodney. He worked at Dymock’s Bookstore. I found him easily enough, working behind the counter in the non-fiction section. I told him what I wanted, he said he couldn’t talk here but he was going to lunch in half an hour, he’d be at the Harris Coffee Shop.

Where the other two had nothing much to report, Michael Keogh had too much—hints, insinuations, veiled references. I asked him was Rodney on the up and up. He said there was a lot more to him than you first saw, you know. How about Judy and Cath, were they what they seemed? Was anyone what they seemed? he said. Was it possible Fay had another bloke stashed away somewhere? With Fay anything was possible, truly.

Well, where did he think she might have racked off to? He couldn’t say, but one thing was for sure, if Fay didn’t want to be found, no way was I going to find her. I thanked him and gave him my phone number, asked him to ring if he heard anything.

That afternoon I went to the address Irving had given me in Elizabeth Bay, Fay Small’s flat. It was in a large block which faced the water, but her flat was on the other side of the building. It had already been relet. The new tenant, a sales rep, didn’t know anything about the earlier occupant. Did any mail ever arrive for her? Nothing, he said. I went to Kings Cross post office to try the obvious: had she left a mail redirection order? She hadn’t.

I rang Irving that night. The phone was answered by a girl, or young woman. I asked was Rodney Irving there. Sure, she said, hold the line please. He came to the phone. I wanted to ask him who the chick was but he saved me the trouble by saying straight up that she was his daughter, Pauline. I didn’t know he had a daughter, I said. Yeah, from his first marriage.

I told Irving what I’d done so far and asked him how he felt about me making inquiries at Victory Press. He told me to do whatever I thought necessary but it would be better from his point of view if I didn’t let on to the mob at Victory that I was working for him. But how should I act towards him when I visited, pretend not to know him? Oh, that won’t be a problem, he said, he’d left Victory two months ago and gone into business for himself.

I got a few more details from him then finished up saying, ‘I feel I should be up front with you—right at this moment, the cherchez la femme business doesn’t look all that terribly promising. I mean, if you want to call it off, I’d understand.’

He was silent a moment, then spoke quietly. ‘Please stay with it. Other than you, I am without allies in this.’

Next morning I made the scene at Victory Press. It was in a back street in Chippendale, behind Cleveland Street. Big place, with the printing works on the ground floor. I went upstairs to the office. There were half a dozen blokes at desks scattered around the room. They were smoking, talking into telephones. No one so much as glanced my way. I told the girl at the front desk I’d like to speak with the manager. She asked me to wait.

I sat down, picked up a magazine, an engineering trade paper. After a couple of minutes the boss came out, apologised for making me wait, introduced himself as Cec Lewin and asked what he could do for me. I told him I was trying to contact Fay Small. Well, he said, she wasn’t there any more.