‘She must have had clothes,’ commented Phryne. ‘Can someone bring them? We’ll dress her again, and then I want to see your jazz-man.’
‘If you want him, he’s in the kitchen. But I don’t think. .’ Klara pointed, and Phryne went out, past the doorkeeper, into the back of the house where she could smell cooking.
‘Shrimps and rice and peas,’ said the thin black man, pointing into a pot. ‘Very nice. What you want, Miss?’
‘I want you to take the spell off Gabrielle Hart,’ said Phryne, and repeated it in French. The old man grinned and took off his apron, then reached for a cloth bag and a handful of feathers.
‘We had poulet Orleans for dinner,’ he took a little dish that seemed to be full of blood. ‘You know voodoo?’
‘A little. I have been to Haiti. Can you do this?’
‘Oueh,’ he grunted. ‘You pay me ten silver florins and I do it. Little doll will remember.’
‘Who put on the spell? Another voodoo priest?’
The old man shook his head. ‘Ain’t none of my magic, but strong magic. Strong,’ he repeated, hefted the loaded tray, and followed Phryne into the pink-and-blue sitting-room.
The girl had been clad in her own street clothes again, and Klara had combed her tangled hair and plaited it. She looked now like the schoolgirl she had been when someone snapped his fingers and told her to follow. Her eyes were still glazed. Klara had planted herself on Chicago Pete’s knees and he hugged her very carefully, as though she might break.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said uneasily, and Klara patted his cheek.
‘It’s worth nineteen bills, Pete,’ she soothed. The priest set down the tray, and stared at the girl, then picked up her wrist and allowed it to drop.
‘Strong magic,’ he commented, setting out the blood and the feathers, and laying down a white tablecloth over the Chinese carpet. He removed his shirt and began to anoint himself with the blood, muttering under his breath. Gabrielle stared at him. Her attention had been caught, for the first time.
Around the old man’s neck swung a bright gold coin. Her eyes fixed on this as he began to dance.
Three times around the girl the old man moved; then he lit the bundle of feathers and cried out, ‘Erzulie! You captured this soul! You possessed this girl! Erzulie! You took her! I call for the third time, and you release her. You give her back to the world: Erzulie!’
Neither Chicago Pete nor Klara had moved. The smoke from the chicken feathers filled the delicate room with a farmyard reek. Phryne almost fancied that dreadful, elemental things moved and squeaked in that smoke; she shook herself and pinched the back of her hand hard.
Gabrielle Hart flinched as from a striking thunderbolt and began to wail. Klara ran to her and hugged the shocked face against her skinny bosom. The old man straightened up, shiny with sweat, and held out a bloodstained hand to Phryne.
She poured the coins from her purse, and added one extra.
‘You come on a Saturday,’ he said to Phryne as he bent to collect the instruments of his magic. ‘We got good jazz. Best in the city.’
‘For the love of Mike,’ cried Chicago Pete. ‘Get out of here! And take all that heathen stuff with you!’
The priest folded the tablecloth and went out. Klara released the girl.
‘All right, Mr er. . here is the money, and we must be going. Can your doorman call us a taxi? Thank you so much,’ said Phryne graciously.
The doorman was dispatched for a cab. Gabrielle Hart sat in her chair and cried and cried.
‘You sure you want her?’ asked Chicago Pete, and Phryne smiled.
Klara and Phryne left the respectable-looking house and waited for the taxi on the front steps. Gabrielle had stopped crying and was now asking questions, some of which Phryne could answer.
‘What am I doing here? Who are you? Where am I?’
‘I am the Hon. Phryne Fisher, and this is Klara. You are in Gertrude Street, Fitzroy, and only God knows what you are doing here. You had a brainstorm, my dear, and we are taking you home.’
‘No, no, someone else said that to me. . someone else said that they were taking me home. . and they didn’t. . they hurt me!’
‘Oh, Lord. . all right. Calm yourself. You shall tell the driver where to go. Oh, thank God, it’s Cec.’
Cec smiled his beautiful smile from the driving seat of the taxi.
‘I’m on me pat,’ he told Phryne. ‘Bert’s still about that. . er. . business with the boarding house. Poor old bloke. They said you was out on a case in Gertrude Street and I thought. .’
‘You thought right. This young woman is Gabrielle Hart, and she will tell you the address. Take her there and deliver her into the care of her father only. If he isn’t home, wait, but I think that he will be there soon. Give him my card and tell him I shall call on him tomorrow. Hang on to this girl, Cec, don’t let her get out until you are at her house. She’s a little disordered.’
‘All right,’ agreed Cec, opening the door. ‘Come on, Miss.’
Gabrielle Hart moved to the taxi, got in, and gave Cec the direction. He looked over at Phryne.
‘What about you, Miss?’
‘We’ll get another taxi. She’s scared of us. See you later, Cec.’
‘We might as well walk down to the rank,’ suggested Klara. They had only gone about three paces before the attack came.
Two men came quickly, out of an alleyway. They disregarded Klara, brushing her aside, and both grabbed for Phryne. She dropped to her knees under their weight; she heard her stocking tear and felt her knee graze. They had one arm each, and she could not reach her pocket. They did not say a word. Phryne’s breath scraped in her chest. They were taller and heavier than her.
A master-at-arms had once spent three weeks teaching Miss Fisher the elements of unarmed combat. She was not afraid, only very angry that she should be taken thus off guard. She allowed her fury free rein.
‘Crack’ went the first one’s knee as she kicked back, hard, then rammed her high-heeled shoe down on his other foot. He let go. With the impetus from that Phryne flung herself at the other attacker. Her elbow caught his ribs; her knee came up with all her force, and he fell to his knees, dropping a cosh. Phryne, fast and lethal, retreated a pace and kicked again, and felt a rib or two break with a curious, dry sound.
‘Bastards!’ panted Klara, standing on the other attacker’s stomach with one foot on his throat. ‘Pete musta changed his mind about the girl.’
‘No, not Pete, I think.’
Phryne kicked over one man and dragged his head up by the hair.
‘Who sent you?’ she hissed. The man looked up glazedly into blazing green eyes and winced.
‘Who?’ Phryne shook him and bashed the skull against the ground a few times. ‘Tell me or I’ll kill you.’
The knife was at the attacker’s unsavoury collar. He blinked.
‘I just reckoned you’d be rich, dressed up like that,’ he croaked, and fell out of consciousness.
‘Fitzroy is so bad for the nerves,’ sighed Phryne. ‘Leave him alone. I owe you a good dinner and a night out, Klara. What shall it be?’
‘The Bach concert on Tuesday, and dinner at the Ritz,’ decided Klara. She dusted off her hands and pulled down her gym tunic. ‘I prefer Johann Christian, but I can put up with Johann Sebastian. We can get a taxi at the rank. You all right, Phryne?’
‘Fine,’ agreed Phryne, pulling up her torn stocking. ‘I’m fine.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Give your evidence,’ repeated the King angrily. ‘Or I’ll have you executed, whether you are nervous or not!’
Lewis Carroll Alice Through the Looking Glass
Phryne woke on Thursday morning knowing who had murdered Mrs Henderson, and wondering what she was going to do about it. The method was obvious; the motive transparent, and even the face of the blond guard was beginning to resemble one which she had seen in real life.