I started cleaning up in a haphazard fashion and my mind ran on the obvious track until I came across two sound cassettes that had had their tapes drawn out and cut and my three video cassettes that had been pulverised by a hammer. I mused on taped telephone voices and film of a man driving away in a car. Secret service, undercover stuff. I left the mess and made instant coffee as an aid to thought.
He wouldn’t tape his instructions, film the pick-up and use the material to put pressure on the firm, would he? Then I remembered the conversation Erica Fong and I had had about Mountain and I grabbed the phone which my visitors had left intact. There was no answer at Mountain’s number or at the one listed for E. Fong in Bondi Junction. Centennial Park, who are they kidding? The phone book tells it like it is. I stood in the mess and heard the phone ring ten times. Maybe she’d taken Max for a walk in the park and had got into a deep and meaningful with Patrick White.
I hung up wishing for about the hundredth time that I could be dealt out of this game. I didn’t like my cards and I didn’t like Mountain. Erica would be better off without him. Maybe I could tackle the job for Terry Reeves in another way. Then I saw something on the floor I hadn’t seen before. Helen had given me a copy of The Macquarie Dictionary to resolve our frequent disputes about spellings and pronunciations. The book had been dismembered; pages had been torn out and crumpled and the covers had been ripped from the broken binding. That made it more personal.
I kept ringing Erica as I finished tidying up and throwing things away. I told myself the place had been getting too cluttered anyway. Force of habit took me out to the letterbox which is hidden in a place in a hedge by the front gate known only to the postman and me. I took the priority-paid envelope out and went back into the house, wondering if the ransackers had found the miniature bottles of Jameson’s Irish whisky Cy Sackville had given me, souvenir of a legal conference in Dublin. They hadn’t; the little bottles nestled behind the biscuit tin that hadn’t had any biscuits in it since Hilde left. I got the foil top off and poured the small measure over a couple of ice cubes and silently toasted my Irish ancestors.
The writing on the envelope was unfamiliar. I thumb-nailed it open and took out a couple of photocopy pages and a sheet of tinted, lined notepaper. In a round, young hand Erica Fong had written:
Dear Cliff,
I’ve gone to Nice to try to find him. I got the postcard two days ago. I looked through the house very thoroughly but all I could find was some notes about seeing a psychiatrist. I enclose copy of the postcard and the notes and I’ll get in touch as soon as I find anything out. regards,
Erica F.
Mountain’s two quarto pages of single-spaced notes were perhaps unique in psychological literature. They took the form of an account of the analytical session from the patient’s point of view and included phrases like, ‘Dr Holmes appeared ill at ease’ and ‘Holmes has built a house of fantasy upon foundations of illusion.’ I put the notes aside for closer study later and picked up the other sheets which were copies of both sides of a postcard.
The picture showed a large city square at night. The roads were busy and the pavement cafes were thronged. On a building more or less centred in the picture, the words ‘Hotel des Anges’ were mounted in neon. The card was undated and addressed to Erica Fong. It read:
Dearest Fong,
I am here to check a few people out, including myself. I haven’t had a drink for more than a week and the world’s not as I thought it was — much worse.
A bientot, my dear little sloppy, B.
The ‘B’ was written in the large sloping hand of the notes, but the message on the card was typewritten. I took the photocopied page across to a lamp and studied it under light. There was a slight line around the text that didn’t seem to be part of the card. Conclusion: the message had been typed on a piece of paper which had been stuck onto the card. I didn’t have the faintest idea what this piece of deduction meant, but I was pleased to have worked something out. I was also glad that Erica Fong wasn’t hanging around Sydney somewhere to be visited by people with hammers looking for tapes and films.
I sipped the Jameson’s and tried to recall what I knew about Nice. Not much. Gary Grant and Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief; Graham Greene wrote about a corrupt mayor; nice beach, they say, and someone named a biscuit after the place. I hadn’t eaten for some hours and I was feeling the effects of the Jameson’s just a little; that was alright with me. I opened the other bottle to feel the effects some more; there’s more in those titchy bottles than you think. What else did I have to do? I was sitting in my ransacked house waiting for a Chinese girl to tell me what she’d found out in Nice. Bizarre, Hardy, I thought. Bizarre. Then the phone rang.
‘Cliff Jameson,’ I said.
‘Oh, God, Cliff. It’s Helen. Are you drunk?’
‘No.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘What do you mean, nowhere? I’ve been phoning for a day.’
‘I mean nowhere-I went to Melbourne.’
‘Oh, sorry. Are you alright? I’ve been missing you.’
‘Me too. You, I mean. D’you like polygamy?’
There was a pause and then her voice contained a note of caution. ‘It’s all right, it’s better than celibacy. You’re not being celibate, are you?’
I grunted. ‘It’s been a funny day. I’ve won a fight and now I have to clean up my house.’
‘I’m glad you won the fight. Well, I just wanted to hear your voice. I’m fine of course, thanks for asking.’
‘I’m sorry, love. I’m in the middle of a shitty case. I can’t see the tunnel, let alone the bloody light. Have you ever been to Nice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice?’
‘Don’t. That joke is prehistoric. Yes, it’s great-good beach, you’d love it. Are we going?’
‘Maybe. You know a big square there, lots of traffic?’
‘Place Massena it sounds like. What’s all this about?’
‘I wish I knew. How’s the farm and the radio station and the winery and the daughter?’
‘Don’t be bitchy, Cliff. I can’t help it if your life’s an empty shell without me.’
‘I miss you, that’s all. First month’s the worst. By the fifth month Helen’ll be just something to go with Troy.’
‘Huh. What’ve you been reading?’
‘The Intimate Sex Lives of Famous People.’
‘I’ve read that. Who d’you like best?’
‘Bertrand Russell.’
‘Why?’
‘I like him best at everything. Who’s yours?’
‘Guess.’
I guessed and didn’t get it right and we laughed. It went on like that for a while until she was so real to me again that I felt I could reach out and touch her. It was a good feeling. I had nothing but good feelings about Helen Broadway. I wondered how good old Mike and the kid would feel about a three month rotation.
13
I spent the rest of the afternoon re-stocking the fridge with fluids and solids. I bought some glasses and coffee mugs to replace the broken ones. I scotch-taped some books together and tidied up papers. The cat came home, got fed and went off again. I was moping and I knew it. I sat down with a pen and pad and some wine and tried to do some constructive thinking.
The results didn’t justify the amount of wine consumed. My brain felt slow and tired as if something connected with the Bill Mountain affair impeded its proper engagement. My thoughts kept drifting off onto other subjects, like Nice, the Melbourne gymnasium, Helen Broadway’s nose. In the end, after writing down the names of all the people so far involved and connecting some of them with arrows and covering a lot of paper with question marks, I gave it up. I decided to sleep on it, which sometimes brings results.