‘Sleep or not, I beat a pennant standard tennis player 9–7 in the tie-breaker today.’
‘Is that so? I’m sure Helen Broadway would love to hear all about it, point by point. How was your serve?’
I grabbed her arm. ‘I’ll break it, I swear, if you don’t tell me everything you know.’
She laughed and I let her go. ‘She rang a couple of times. Said she’d be out tonight but you could ring in the morning. Sexy voice.’
‘Great voice, yes. Thanks, Hilde. I’ll see you.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Don’t know.’
I had my picture gallery, my gun, some clothes and books and a collection of burglary tools in an overnight bag. If they were scanning the hand luggage I’d have to put the gun and tools in a locker and go naked in the world. In my wallet I had my private enquiry agent’s licence which would mean about as much in Queensland as a Fantale wrapper. I had credit cards which everyone would like, and electric shaver and a toothbrush which no one could object to.
It was late and the airport was quiet; I parked, got seat-allocated and walked straight into the departure lounge-no scanner. My fellow passengers were a mixture of business folk and family folk. A couple of kids, up too late, were giving their mother hell, and the benign smiles of the two nuns opposite only made her more agitated. Me too.
We took off on time and I ordered a double scotch as soon as I could and settled down with Howard Hughes. The kids went into first class which was a relief; the nuns were back in second class, but they didn’t make any noise. I was reading about Hughes’s big-fish spending to corrupt the politicians in the little pool of Nevada and trying to tell myself it couldn’t happen here, when we landed in Brisbane.
I like Brisbane: I like the warm air and the houses up on stilts and the suburban gardens that are like small jungles. I hired a yellow Ford Laser at the airport, which was the least gaudy car they had. It had nothing on the clock but its springs were shot: it had a Brisbane street directory though, and at that time of night I was glad to be hiring that as well as the springs. I drove to the address I had for Chris Guthrie in the suburb of Paddington.
The same things have happened to Paddington, Brisbane, as have happened to Paddington, Sydney (and Paddington, London, for all I know): it’s an inner-city suburb, once intensely working class, now saved or ruined by a middle class invasion, depending on your point of view. Unlike a lot of Brisbane, it is hilly and I noticed an encouraging number of pubs while I got myself lost in the dark, leafy streets. There had been some rain and the gardens gave off a moist, lush smell that would have gone better with the growling of tigers than the barking of dogs, which was what I got as I stumbled around looking for numbers on fence posts.
It was after midnight when I found the house: it was set high up on stilts with a lot of discarded furniture and machinery quietly mouldering and rusting underneath it. The garden was overgrown and fragrant with the wet, night smell. No dog. I pushed through the undergrowth and went up a set of rickety steps to a wide verandah. I knocked, waited, knocked again. A light came on in the house and a frightened female voice asked from close behind the door who was on the other side.
‘I’m looking for Chris Guthrie’, I said.
‘He isn’t here.’
‘He does live here?’
‘Yes, sort of. But he’s not here now.’
‘Do we have to talk through the door?’
‘Go away. I’m sick of people coming around at all hours for him. I have to study and I have to sleep. Go away!’
‘Just a minute. What other people? When?’
‘There was a guy tonight who said he was his brother and all the others for the past couple of months-the ones who look like cops, and sound like you.’
‘Where is Chris? D’you know? It’s important.’
‘Will you go away if I tell you what I told the last guy?”
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Ask at the railway freight yard at St Lucia. I think he works there. He pays his room rent here sometimes but he moves around a bit. That’s all I know. Please go away.’
‘He’s a student.’
‘He dropped out.’
‘Will you look at a photograph, please?’
‘No!’ The light went out and I was left standing at the door with a photograph in my hand. There was a low hum of insects from the gardens, but otherwise the night was graveyard quiet: there’d be a lot of noise if I tried to force an entry and I didn’t imagine the Brisbane cops would be amused at a Sydney private man pushing the citizens around in the wee small hours. I put the photograph away, said goodnight to the door, trying not to sound like a policeman, and left the house.
It was too late to do anything more. I stopped at the first open motel I came to, put crosses at random on the breakfast menu and fell into bed. I lay there with my mind buzzing. ‘Achieve one thing every day’, my Scots grandmother advised me when I was young. I wondered what she would count as an achievement. I wondered what she would call a day. It was about thirty years and ten thousand days too late to ask her. My mind was hopping, leaping about now: a lifetime could be about twenty-five thousand days. Grandma Kelly had lived to be eighty-odd; had she achieved thirty thousand things? Maybe she had. My one thing-locating Ray Guthrie-didn’t seem so much now, but it didn’t seem any easier, either. I went to sleep trying to count the things I’d achieved in forty-odd, God-fearing years.
At 5 a.m. it was getting light, and I was wide awake. I stuck my head out the door and sniffed the soft, sub-tropical air. I wrapped one of the motel towels around me and went down to the pool and swam a few laps in the nude. The water was cold and too heavily chlorinated. I stayed under a hot shower for fifteen minutes until I was warm and decontaminated. Then I had an hour to wait for breakfast; I spent some of the time thinking about the information conveyed by the disembodied voice of last night: other enquirers, moving about, drop-out, voices like cops. It sounded something like a Brisbane version of the events in Sydney, and wasn’t likely to be any more pleasant.
Then I did some thinking about Helen Broadway-time zones; were they any different? — daylight saving and a reasonable hour to call. I ate the soggy breakfast, drank the Lukewarm coffee and made the call. I tried to remember the layout of the flat. No phone by the bed, in the living room; she’d be wearing her silk gown. The phone didn’t have to ring for long.
‘Christ, long distance’, she said. ‘Where are you-New York?’
‘Brisbane. It’s twenty-six degrees already, and I’ve had a swim.’
‘I want to see you.’
‘Me too. Wish you were here.’
‘Why aren’t I?’
‘I’m mostly to be found behind the wheel of a car going to places where no one wants to know me. I don’t know how long I’ll be here. If you left now there’s a good chance our paths would cross in mid-air, if you see what I mean.’
‘I think so. Is your life always so hectic?’
‘No, mostly, I have lots of time for Bondi Beach, movies, cappuccino…’
‘That sounds better. Well, this is costing you something.’
‘Not me. My client.’
‘Same man?’
‘Yeah. The kid came up to look for his brother. Now we’re both looking for him.’
‘Are-you-in-danger? I say again: Are-you-in-danger?’
I laughed. ‘Only moderately. I’ll call you soon as I get back, Helen.”
‘Promise?’
I promised, and meant it. I got dressed and paid the bill. The manageress looked at me with disapproval; she almost looked at my credit card with disapproval. Maybe she thought I lowered the tone of the place by being in the pool in the raw.
St Lucia is a garden suburb and the parts that flank the river would have to be called verdant. Winding roads with smooth footpaths follow the river, and spawn joggers who seemed to outnumber the civilians this fine, crips morning. I objected to them less now that headbands appeared to be out of fashion. The number of zebra crossings along the river road, controlled by flashing lights, suggested that the joggers had an in with the local council.