I heard a faint sound inside, possibly a radio or television, and then it stopped. I knocked again and got no response. If an Australian wheeler-dealer named Jarrod Montefiore, who hung out with types like Master, Penny and Rosito and spoke French, was staying in this dump there could only be one reason. He was hiding. Why not somewhere better? Not hard to guess. I pulled out the wad, detached a ten thousand franc note worth about a hundred and forty Australian dollars, and slipped it under the door. I put my mouth close to the jamb and spoke in a voice I hoped would carry only to where I wanted it to be heard.
‘My name’s Hardy. I’m a private detective from Sydney working for Stewart Master’s wife. I’ve seen Rosito and Rivages and haven’t got along with them all that well. Reg Penny gave me this address. Or rather, I bought it. I’m giving him ten grand to get clear of Noumea. I can do the same for you or maybe more depending on what you can tell me.’
When I’d finished I pushed another note under the door and stepped back. I heard bare feet on the floor and a slight groan, the kind you make bending down if you’re old or injured. I bent and pushed another note through the gap.
Over four hundred bucks. Had to be reasonably serious money for a man living here.
‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ The voice was strained and croaky-too much smoking or maybe some other cause.
‘Ring Penny on his mobile. He’ll tell you.’
‘I haven’t got a phone. How do I know-’
‘Listen, mate, if I wanted to do you harm I’d have kicked in this shitty door by now and done it. Stewie Master’s wife has given me a fair bit of money to spend finding things out. Penny’s got some and he’s getting some more. How about you? Want a plane fare to Sydney or Brisbane or bloody LA and some spending money, or d’you want to stay in this pisshole?’
I heard a sigh as the lock was released and the door swung open. The man who stood there was a wreck, but a recent wreck. He was close to 190 centimetres tall and the singlet and track pants gave evidence of an athletic build. His left arm was in a sling and he had a cast on the lower part of his right leg. There was a heavy slab of tape over his nose and his mouth was swollen and puffy with a dark scab along the lower lip. I’ve had some beatings in my time and delivered some, but this was a beauty.
‘Jesus,’ I said, and I suddenly had a flash of the sort of man who could do a job like this. ‘Sione?’
He nodded and the effort hurt him. ‘You do know a fuckin’ thing or two, don’t you? Come in.’
He hobbled aside. The cast had a metal heel on it so he could walk. Better than a crutch but not much better. I’ve tried both. The flat was as ramshackle, dirty and comfortless on the inside as the building itself looked from the street. We went straight into the living room-cum-kitchen and the area was a sea of beer cans, butt-brimming ashtrays and saucers and take-away food containers. The furniture was threadbare and flies buzzed around the kitchen area and made sorties out to where we stood.
Montefiore-it had to be him-leaned against a wall and then slid down into a fragile-looking Chinese saucer chair that held his weight, just. His mane of dark hair was slightly streaked with grey-could’ve been distinguished if it hadn’t been greasy and matted. He smiled and I saw a gap where a couple of front teeth should have been. ‘Pretty shitty, eh?’
I eased down into a plastic chair after flicking away an empty Winfield packet. I nodded. ‘It’ll do.’
He snorted. ‘Haven’t got any dope on you by any chance?’
‘No.’
He shrugged. Despite the broken arm the musculature was intact, but it wouldn’t be unless he got into some physiotherapy pretty soon. ‘How’s Reg doing?’
‘On his uppers. Reckon he sold you out?’
‘No, we’re mates in this fuckin’ mess. You must be the genuine article. How much money are we talking? Sorry I can’t offer you anything.’
‘Don’t worry about it. The money part doesn’t work like that. That’d be like telling the reserve price at an auction. Penny gave me a taste before I bought. You’re going to have to do the same.’
‘Give me a clue.’
‘Rory McCloud.’
‘Disappeared. Suspicious circumstances.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You’re on “go”.’
Montefiore excused himself and left the room. I heard water running and when he returned he’d made an attempt at combing his hair, had washed his face and had shrugged into a creased but clean blue sports shirt. He had beach scuffs on his feet and I could smell toothpaste over the competing smells in the flat, mostly dirt, take-away food and stale tobacco.
He sat where he’d sat before. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a drink or anything.’
‘Don’t worry’
‘So you’re paying Reg ten grand.’
‘Nine or ten.’
‘Must think all his birthdays have come at once. Just for putting you on to me. I reckon what I can tell you must be worth twenty, twenty-five.’
‘Could be. I’ll have to be the judge.’
He scratched at his stubble. ‘Problem would be living to spend it and getting Fay out with me.’
‘Fay?’
‘Girlfriend. Fay Lewis. One of the Kiwi Kuties.’ He found a leaflet among the mess beside his chair and passed it over to me. It advertised the Kiwi Kuties, performing nightly at the Salon de Fun-’lap’s dancing and stripe tease’ among the attractions. The leaflet showed three blondes in minuscule outfits top and bottom plus white Stetsons and high-heeled knee-high boots. Lots of stars and spangles, a suggestion, of the American flag. Good war-against-terrorism stuff. The three women looked identical.
‘Fay’s the one on the end,’ Montefiore said.
I shrugged. ‘Left or right and how can you tell?’
‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘Anyway, she’s more a part of this than you think. She’s got a photograph you’d be very interested in.’
‘You’d better get me interested, then,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to. Might catch something.’
Montefiore wasn’t a gifted storyteller. He backtracked, repeated himself and fumbled for the right expression. Also, he threw in some French words here and there and I had to ask for a translation. What he had to say boiled down to this: after the property deal fell through the five Australians decided to hang around Noumea for a while looking for other opportunities. McCloud, Penny and Montefiore were approached by a man with a proposition-help to set up Stewart Master as a drug smuggler taking a small amount of heroin into Australia and they’d be in for a big reward. Not only cash in hand, but the green light from the federal and state police to handle a big marijuana consignment going into Australia. The stuff was coming down from South-East Asia and Pascal Rivages was handling the Pacific trans-shipment.
McCloud’s reaction was to threaten to go straight to the police and to tell Master, who was away elsewhere on the island. ‘They’ll fish him and his car out of deep water somewhere one of these days,’ Montefiore said.
Penny said he wasn’t interested one way or the other, which disappointed the man because he’d thought of Penny’s yacht as the delivery vehicle. The idea was to land the waterproofed bales on a reef off the coast and then move it to the mainland. Penny was warned anonymously to keep his mouth shut and certain things began to go wrong with his boat. He was burgled and lost most of his available cash. Montefiore reckoned that Mr X and Rivages wanted him to stick right there in Noumea where they could keep an eye on him.
‘I played along for a while to see if I could make a dollar out of it. I never had any intention of going through with it and when that became obvious, Rivages had Sione work me over. But good.’