His mother gave him long look. ‘So it’s true’, she said. ‘I didn’t think you’d have the gumption, Charles.’ She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. ‘Well, Mr Hardy, it seems my son employed you to protect me. Do you think I’m in moral danger?’
I thought of Jacobs outside in his dressing gown and slippers. ‘No,’ I said. ‘But others are at that bloody hospital.’
She smiled, she had charm and force of character to spare. ‘I’d say that was outside your brief, wouldn’t you, Charles?’
‘Yes, mother.’
‘Jesus Christ! She’s been working a deal with Jacobs for years. She fixes it so he gets most of the business that comes out of the hospital. She thought you were on to it, why d’you think you were getting thrashed?’
Matthews said nothing. I looked at the two thugs who had their eyes firmly on the Matron-quite a woman.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised’, I went on, ‘if she helps a few of the old, sick ones along.’
‘Ridiculous’, she said again but it sounded as if she was thinking hard. She reached across and pulled Matthews gently down into the chair beside her. She patted his arm. ‘He couldn’t possibly have any proof.’
Matthews smiled back at her, thrilled at her touch. I felt desperate, like a man playing a game and not knowing the rules.
‘She’s known Jacobs for years, she probably got a special deal on planting your Dad.’
It was just the wrong thing to say; Matthews shrugged and his eyes slid off to look at the belt in my hand. I felt suddenly sick.
‘There’s proof, I said. ‘Jacobs’ records will prove it-signatures, names, it’ll stink like a sewer.’
Then there was a noise outside, and Dennis moved, and I had to talk to him sharply. Matthews was still breathing heavily, still looking at the belt. I wasn’t working for him anymore, I was working for myself.
‘I’ve got Jacobs outside’, I said. ‘He’ll talk, I’ll make him.’ I lifted my voice and called Jacobs in. Nothing happened. Mrs Matthews laughed.
Out on the street there was no sign of Jacobs or the Fairlane. I drove wearily towards Jacobs’ establishment and was passed by a fire engine on the way. When I got there a couple of firemen were running about and a few neighbours were huddled, disappointed. The fire wouldn’t even make the morning news. Mrs Wetherell, in her dressing gown, was part of the huddle. I went up to her.
‘Just a little one’, she said. ‘Back of the flat. Office and that.’
I worried about it for a few days and then let it go; they’d had a disturbing amount of aggravation and I felt pretty sure that Jacobs and Mrs Matthews would dissolve their partnership. What the hell business was it of mine, anyway? Then the death certificates came, same cause of death with minor variation, same doctor signing. I put them away in the file and wondered why my mother had never so much as given me a clip over the ear.
Man’s best friend
I was walking along Vincent Street in Balmain, down near the soapworks, minding someone else’s business, when a brick hit me, then another brick hit me, then another and I lost count; it felt as if a brick wall had moved out of line and wrapped itself around Cliff Hardy.
When I woke up Terry Kenneally was sitting beside my bed. My first thoughts were that my sheets had got very white and my windows very clean and that I’d finally got Terry to stay the night; and then I realised that I wasn’t at home, I was in hospital. I’ve been in hospital before; the first thing to do is to check that you’ve still got all your bits and pieces and that they haven’t mixed you up with the guy who had gangrene. I moved and wriggled and blinked; everything seemed to work.
‘Don’t move’, Terry said. ‘They say you’re not to move.’
‘They say that to break your spirit’, I said. I grabbed at her brown left arm and the movement sent an arrow of pain through my head. I groaned.
‘They’re right, I won’t move. How did you get here, love?’
Terry showed her nice white teeth. ‘Someone found Dad’s cheque in your pocket and phoned him. I came, he sends his regards.’
‘I’m glad you came and not him, waking up to his face would be a shock. I wonder how your mum stood it.’
‘Shut up.’ She was holding my hand now, and it didn’t hurt a bit.
‘Did they find anything else? I mean my wallet…’
‘All that’, she said. ‘And your bloody gun; there’s a policeman outside who wants to talk to you. I made them let me in first but I can’t stay, I have to get back to work.’ She leaned forward to kiss me and then pulled back.
‘Possible fracture, they said.’ She backed away and blew the kiss. ‘Be back tonight, Cliff.’
She went out, the door stayed closed for ten seconds and then fourteen stone of plain-clothes copper walked in. His name was Detective-Sergeant Moles and, although he didn’t have much of a bedside manner, I told him all I could. I told him that I was a licenced private investigator, fidelity bonded and all, and that I was working for Pat Kenneally who is a greyhound trainer. I didn’t tell him that I was trying to find out who was doping Pat’s dogs. I had a bit of trouble remembering what I’d been doing in Vincent Street, but it came: I’d been going to see the Frenchman. Moles nodded at that, he knew the Frenchman. Pierre Cressy knew all there was to know about racing greyhounds in New South Wales, he’d know who stood to win if Pat’s dogs lost.
‘Did you see the Frenchy?’ Moles asked.
I had to think about it. ‘No, I was on my way when the wall fell on me. What’s your interest?’ Moles scratched his ear and fidgeted, the way cops do when you ask them something. They figure ten of their questions to one of yours is about the right ratio. ‘Bloke who found you saw your weapon, and called in. The boys who answered the call poked around a bit and asked a few questions. Seems people saw a man hanging around that spot before you came along.’
‘What about the poking?’
‘The wall didn’t fall, Hardy, it was pushed. Someone tried to hurt you. Any ideas?’
I said ‘No’, and lay there with my possibly broken skull, thinking about it. Moles had talent, he read my mind.
‘The Frenchy’s okay’, he said. ‘That all you’ve got to say?’
I said it was and he shrugged and left. I didn’t tell him that I was in love with Pat’s daughter or that I was afraid of greyhounds; I didn’t think he’d be interested.
Doctors and nurses came and went and the time passed slowly. They told me I didn’t have a fractured skull, just a lot of bruises and abrasions. I was grateful to them. Terry came back in the evening and we did some more hand-holding.
‘Dad’s worried about what happened’, she said. ‘He’s thinking of calling in the police.’
‘He can forget about half his income if he does’, I said. ‘You know what the greyhound people are like Terry, any whisper of trouble at Pat’s place and they’ll pull their dogs out. Most of ‘em anyway.’
‘I know, but if someone’s trying to kill you…’
I squeezed the upper part of her arm where she has a long, hard muscle under the smooth skin. ‘I’ll be careful’, I said. ‘I’m used to it. Tell Pat to give me a few more days.’
‘All right.’ She kissed me the way you kiss invalids, as if they’re made of feathers. Terry is tall and brown, as befits a professional tennis player. She has a terrific serve and aced me three times the day we met. She was overseas a lot reaching the finals of tournaments; we packed a lot into the time she was in Sydney, but I came a distant third in her life after her father and tennis.
They let me leave the hospital the next morning and I went home and read books and drank a bit and slept. Pat phoned, and I convinced him that I was fit to go on with the enquiry; Terry phoned, and I convinced her that I was fit to see her the following night. In the morning I took off some of the bandages and admired the deep blue bruises on my arms and chest. I’d been keen enough on the job in the first place on account of Terry, and now it had got very, very personal.