The cadet peeped up at Hawthorn. He was very tall — over six feet — and pale, and vague. His mouth had a tendency to drop open and his eyes had the dull, unfocused gaze which the cadet had previously only seen in sheep.
Hawthorn asked mildly, his voice as bland as cream, ‘What’s this all about, young feller?’
‘Please, sir, the detective-inspector has a suspect for the Ballan railway murder, and he says that he was in the watch house that night.’
‘And he wants me to identify him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh,’ remarked the tall constable, and accompanied the cadet to Robinson’s office.
The copy was laid down on the desk and Robinson scanned it irritably.
‘You read it, boy,’ he snarled at the cadet, and the boy read, ‘John Smith, 14 Eldemere Crescent, Brighton.’
‘He’s an old customer. . name really is John Smith, too, and no one ever believes him — has to carry his birth certificate around with him. Says he’s never forgiven his father for it. . no, that ain’t him. Go on.’
‘John Smith, The Buildings, East St Kilda.’
Now I don’t know that one. Do you recall that John Smith, Hawthorn?’
‘Yes, sir. About. . er, well, smallish, and er. . fair, with. . er. . blue eyes, I think, sir.’
‘Could you identify him?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said Hawthorn. ‘I think so.’
Detective-inspector Robinson grunted, got to his feet, and led the way to the holding cells. A furious face glared up at the window-slot as he drew back the bolt.
‘Have a look, son. Is that the man?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ agreed Hawthorn happily. Robinson gritted his teeth, and gave the order to release the suspect from detention.
‘I didn’t want to tell anyone that I’d got drunk, so I gave a false name. I believe that this is not unusual. May I go now?’ asked Alastair, with frigid politeness.
‘You may go, but you are on bail. You may not leave the state or change your address without notifying us of your whereabouts. Do you understand that?’
‘I understand,’ said Alastair, with a smile that showed all his teeth, and he turned and left the police station.
Detective-inspector Robinson lifted the telephone and requested Miss Fisher’s number.
‘I don’t think that it’s disasterous, but it certainly casts a lot of doubt on my theory,’ said Phryne when the exasperated policeman reached her. ‘Have you examined his handwriting? He would have had to sign himself out. And are you sure of the police witness?’
‘No, Miss, that I am not. Boy’s a fool. However, identification is identification.’
‘Wasn’t anyone else there?’
‘Yes, but the sergeant is on his honeymoon, I can’t call him back.’
‘No, but you can send him a photograph, can’t you?’
‘Yes, I’ll do that. And I’d keep out of Alastair’s way, Miss Fisher, if I were you.’
‘I can look after myself,’ said Phryne crisply. ‘Get weaving with the photo. See you soon,’ she added, and hung up.
The cadet was very impressed that the detective-inspector could swear for so long without repeating himself.
Bert in later years said that breakfast at Miss Gay’s was the single most miserable experience of his whole life. ‘Not sad, mate,’ he explained. ‘But down right starving mean stone the crows and starve the lizards dirt miserable.’
The table was laid, as before, with cruet and mismatched plates, and Mr Henry Burton’s special dishes.
They sat in a hungry circle around a vat of horrible porridge, as thin as library paste, scorched and lumpy, while Mr Henry Burton said grace in an unctuous voice. Bert refused the clag, but the others ate voraciously. Mr Burton was breaking his fast on new rolls, hot from the oven, cherry jam, and butter. He had a pot of brewed coffee next to him. Bert accepted a plate of incinerated egg-powder and bacon so burned as only to be of professional interest to a pathologist. He tried to make a sandwich with his two pieces of stale white bread and marge, but the bacon broke as he touched it with the knife.
‘Can’t you give a man a feed?’ asked the tradesman, holding out a plate on which reposed a four-days’-dead egg and bacon of transcendant carbonisation.
‘I can’t take your bacon back to the kitchen, Mr Hammond,’ snapped Miss Gay, slapping at Ruth’s head as she passed. ‘You’ve bent it.’
Bert drank a cup of tea and chuckled.
After breakfast, the workers departed, and Mr Burton showed signs of going out. He took his hat and his stick, donned a fleecy-lined overcoat, and yelled for Ruth.
‘Call me a cab, girl.’
Bert grabbed the moment. ‘I’ll get you one, sir, he said civilly, and stepped into the kitchen, where Miss Gay kept the telephone.
‘Ruthie!’ he whispered, ‘we’re taking Mr Burton. Here’s a card. You go to this house if she hurts you again.’
Ruth nodded, stowed the card in her pocket, and Bert slipped back into the hall.
‘At the door in a moment, sir,’ he said, and went down the rickety front steps to look for Cec, who was due directly.
The bonzer new taxi pulled up, and Bert opened the door for the gentleman, closed it and jumped into the front seat.
‘Here!’ protested Mr Burton, ‘I didn’t ask you to share my taxi!’
Bert grinned. ‘It’s my taxi — well, half mine. This is my mate, Cec. Say hello to the nice gent, Cec.’
Cec muttered ‘hello’ and kept his eyes on the road.
‘Where are you taking me?’ asked Burton.
‘A lady friend of ours wants to see you real bad.’
‘Which lady?’
‘The Honourable Phryne Fisher, that’s who.’
‘Is she a fan? I hope that she does not want her fortune told. I don’t tell fortunes, you know.’
‘No, she wants some mesmerism done,’ said Bert.
They were on Dynon Road and fleeing like the wind for St Kilda. If he could keep this oily old bastard talking, that would be all the sweeter.
‘Yair, some of that hypnotising what you done on the Halls, they say you used to be great.’
‘Used to be? My dear sir, I am the Great Hypno. You yourself have seen my powers.’
‘Yair, I remember. You made shielas as stiff as boards and laid ’em between two chairs. But I don’t reckon you could put anyone under that didn’t want to be,’ said Bert easily, and Henry Burton bristled.
‘Oh no? You, for instance?’
‘Yair, me, for instance.’
‘Look into my eyes,’ said Henry Burton, ‘and we will see. Look deep into my eyes.’
Bert looked. The eyes, which were brown and had seemed hard, were now soft, like the eyes of a deer or a rabbit; deep enough to drown in. They seemed to grow bigger, until they encompassed all of Bert’s field of vision; the voice was soothing.
‘You hear nothing but my voice,’ said Burton softly. ‘You hear nothing but my words, my voice, you do nothing but as I command you. You cannot move,’ he suggested softly. ‘You cannot lift your hand until I tell you.’ Bert, terrified, found that he could not lift his hand. He was frozen in his half-turned position, seeing nothing but the eyes, and wondering vaguely why he could not hear the engine of the cab or any other noises. Bert began to panic and vainly struggled to move so much as a finger.
Cec stopped the cab outside Phryne’s house and got out. He opened the door and commented in his quiet, unemphatic tone, ‘If you don’t release my mate, I’m gonna break your neck.’
Mr Burton flushed, leaned forward, and snapped his fingers in Bert’s face. ‘You feel rested and refreshed,’ he said hurriedly. ‘You are awake when I count ten. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, you are free now, four, three, two, one. There.