Cocaine Blues (13 page)

Chapter Twelve

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

‘Tea in the Palaz of Hoon’, Wallace Stevens

The Sanderson home was imposing, but understated; more like the houses of the wealthy in Europe than the flashy Cryer establishment. A butler showed her in to a drawing room decorated with restrained elegance and the company rose to meet her.

Here, to her surprise, was Bobby,
soi-disant
Hon. Matthews of cricket ball fame, John Andrews, without his wife, and several politicians, who were so close to identical that Phryne could not recall if she was speaking to Mr Turner (Independent) or Mr Jackson (Labor) or Mr Berry (Conservative). Their wives obviously patronized the same milliner and the same couturier and were also hard to distinguish from each other. Phryne greeted Mr Sanderson with affection and met his wife, a rounded, shrewd woman with a twinkling eye. The rest of the guests seemed uncertain as to how to take Miss Fisher. Bobby Matthews, at least, showed an unequivocal reaction. When he saw that he was unobserved, he scowled blackly. Phryne smiled.

Sherry was brought, and conversation became general. Phryne slipped through the crowd and bobbed up at the Hon. Bobby’s elbow, causing him to start and almost spill his drink.

‘Well, well, Bobby, how very unpleasant to see you again! Sent you out to the colonies, did they? I wonder what the colonies did to deserve you. What have you been doing in Melbourne? Floated a few companies? Sold a few shares in Argentinian gold mines?’

‘I’m involved in several business ventures,’ replied Matthews stiffly. ‘And I don’t like your tone, Miss Fisher. What were you doing in Paris all that time, eh? Would you like me to tell this company about the
Rue du Chat-qui-Pêche?
’

‘Certainly, and I’ll extol your prowess at cricket.’ Phryne smiled dazzlingly and held out her cigarette for a light. Bobby lit it with the look of a man who wished that it was Phryne that he was igniting, and said in a conspiratorial tone, ‘Look, you don’t have to ruin me, Miss Fisher. I’ve got a good thing going here. These colonials are a lay-down misère for a county accent and a title. I’ll split the proceeds, if you like.’

‘Sit down, Bobby, and stop looking so scared. I am not intending to expose you…but you can rely on me doing so if you damage anyone I’m fond of.’

‘How will I know who to steer clear of?’

‘Put it this way—you can make hay of all of the present company, except for Dr MacMillan.’

‘That leaves me enough scope.’

‘Do you know anything about the coke trade here?’

‘Cocaine? I don’t get entangled in that sort of thing.’

‘Too virtuous?’ asked Phryne, blowing a smoke ring.

‘Too careful of my own skin. They are not nice people to know. But I’ve heard a few things. The main man is called the King of Snow, but no one seems to have any idea who he is. I believe that the stuff is being imported in sackfuls but it’s not my business.’

‘And how long has this King been reigning?’

‘Three years, I think—I gather that he has taken over all the little operators, and some of them have been found in the Yarra encased in concrete. His methods are rather crude. A friend of mine is in the trade—he says that the only way to survive is to pay the King whatever price he demands. You’ll be fished up in a cement waistcoat if you don’t watch your step.’

‘I have every intention of watching my step. Don’t rejoice too soon, my Bobby. Now, tell me all you know about the Andrews family.’

‘So far,’ smiled Bobby, ‘it has been small pickings. The man is an idiot. Unfortunately, his wife doesn’t like me. She has quite a bit on her own account but she has resisted me fiercely…she’s the brains of that outfit.’

‘Is she, indeed? And she hasn’t fallen into your most attractive arms, Bobby? Strange.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ agreed Bobby without modesty. ‘Most of these
hoi-polloi
have been positively predatory. She’s got a whopping big share in several very good companies. No Argentinian gold mines for Mrs Andrews. Luckily her husband has bought a controlling interest in more than a few of the useful stocks which I had the forethought to bring with me when I was banished. I have a big deal coming off soon, with Andrews. If it works, we’ll be rich.’

‘And if it doesn’t work?’

‘Then
I’ll
be rich.’

‘Good luck with it, Bobby. Your secret is fairly safe with me—but let me know if you get a line on the King of Snow. I’m interested in him.’

‘And I’ll send lilies for your funeral,’ promised Bobby.

Phryne floated away to engage herself in an interesting discussion on water supplies with all four politicians.

***

She was agreeably surprised by dinner, which was well-served and beautifully prepared, and she complimented her hostess. Mrs Sanderson smiled.

‘My dear, when you’ve done as many dinners as I have, you are prepared for anything. Politicians seem to spend half their lives talking, and the other half eating. Tonight’s company is rather select—some of those parliamentarians eat like pigs. Are you looking forward to the concert, Miss Fisher?’

‘Indeed. It is in honour of the hospital, is it not?’

‘Yes, Madame Melba arranged the concert herself, in order to help her less fortunate sisters. All proceeds are going to the Queen Victoria Hospital—and they could do with the money. Madame Melba is not accepting a fee. She is a most charitable woman.’

‘Have you met her, Mrs Sanderson?’

‘Once—yesterday. Small, plump and imperious, but with a lovely speaking voice and a charming manner. The concert should be most interesting. I hope to meet Dr MacMillan there—I sent her a voucher for our box, for she could not come to dinner.’

‘Dr MacMillan? My Dr MacMillan?’ asked Phryne.

‘I didn’t know that she was yours, my dear, but if you mean the Scotch lady doctor, then that is she.’

‘How do you know her, Mrs Sanderson?’

‘I’m on the board of the Queen Victoria Hospital. I do hope that she does find a skirt to wear, I fear that Melbourne is not ready for her trousers.’

‘Had I known that she was coming, I would have gone and dressed her with my own hands,’ said Phryne. ‘She is a most amazing woman.’

‘My dear, I know! She had to go to Edinburgh for her degree, and all those men wouldn’t let her practice, they even tried to ban women students from learning anatomy, God forgive them, and now I see in the newspaper that they are trying to keep them out of the wards again, saying that now there is a hospital for women they can go there, and not interrupt the men’s reign in the others. Really, the folly of men makes me seriously angry. Dr MacMillan must have been very dedicated in order to ever become a doctor.’

***

The gala was everything that Melbourne had hoped. The Town Hall was crowded, all seats had been sold, and to Phryne’s delight, Dr MacMillan was there, dressed in a respectable dark velvet gown and hat, though she was scented with iodine, as always.

‘Well, are you here, Phryne? You see that I am in all my glad rags. They dressed me like a child and forbade me my trousers. I’ve told all my patients not to dare to give birth until I come back so all should be well. Is this Melba woman in good voice?’

‘I believe so, hush. Here she comes.’

A storm of applause greeted the singer as she was welcomed by the conductor. Madame Melba wore flowing, dark red silks, heavily beaded on hem and shoulder, and Phryne reflected that she must be a strong woman to stand up under the weight of her garments. The orchestra began the ‘Addio’ from
La Bohême
, and Melba began to sing.

It was an authoritative voice, pure and pearly without being in the least thin, every word meticulously pronounced and carefully pitched. But what endeared her to Phryne was the amount of emotion with which she loaded every note. Here was a dying courtesan bidding farewell to life and to love, and tears pricked Phryne’s eyes. The short stout woman had gone; here was langour and white draperies and fainting suitors. She finished the song and allowed the orchestra to display its talents in several rondos; then she was back with the ‘Willow Song’ from
Otello
and the ‘Ave Maria’ and she had most of her audience in tears.

Finally, garlanded and knee deep in flowers, she came back to sing ‘Voi che Sapete’ with such clarity and mastery that the audience were dragged to their feet, to cheer, throw flowers and applaud until they split their gloves.

‘Fine voice,’ said Dr MacMillan. ‘She could sing seals out of the sea.’

‘I want a word,’ said Phryne, recovering from a dream of music. ‘I may send you some stuff to be analysed for mineral poisons
—can you do that for me?’

‘Aye, or at least, the laboratory can—what about the cocaine, Phryne? Are you not getting yourself into deep waters?’

‘Yes, and there are sharks. Here, take this, and give twenty quid of it to the girl who brings you the samples—her name’s Maureen or Brigit—and I’ll come and see you tomorrow.’

Phryne kissed Dr MacMillan goodbye, thanked her hostess heartily for the excellent entertainment, and swept out in the milling crowds to walk back to the Windsor.

‘I hope,’ she added to herself as she stalked up the hill toward Parliament House, ‘I do hope that I know what I am doing.’

***

She found Dot drinking tea and reading the newspaper.

‘Did you have a nice time, Miss?’ she asked, putting down her cup.

‘Delightful,’ Phryne called over her shoulder as she sailed into her bedchamber to remove her clothes. ‘Did anyone call?’

‘Yes, Miss, Mrs Andrews telephoned and asked you to remember that you promised to see her soon.’

‘Anyone else?’ came Phryne’s voice, muffled in cloth.

‘No, Miss, except for that cop. He was most upset that you were out, Miss. Asked you to ring him as soon as you come in.’

‘I’ll call him tomorrow—it’s after midnight. Throw me a dressing-gown, Dot, please.’

Dot passed her the gown and Phryne came out of the bathroom.

‘There’s a letter for you, Miss.’

Phryne took the envelope. It was marked with the Scott’s Hotel emblem at the top left hand corner. She tore it open.

‘Dearest Phryne,’ it began in a flowing and extravagant script. ‘Please allow me once more to worship at the temple of your beauty. I will call at your hotel at eleven.’ It was signed, ‘Your devoted Sasha.’ Phryne snorted, crumpled the letter, and flung it into the waste paper basket. Sasha’s mercenary nature was fully revealed. However, Phryne thought as she tucked herself into bed, he had his charms.

Smiling a little, she fell asleep, and her treacherous body recalled Sasha very well. Two hours later she awoke, flushed and wet, and took her second bath of the evening entirely on his account.

Chapter Thirteen

Poison grows in this dark
It is in the water of tears
Its black blooms rise

‘Another Weeping Woman’, Wallace Stevens

Woman Police-Officer Jones pinned a red geranium to the shoulder of her thin, cheap suit, and walked the steps of the station. She had arrived at ten minutes before three and it was now five minutes past. She feared that Butcher George had smelt a rat and was not going to show. She was excited rather than afraid, and she clasped hands that were innocent of a wedding ring across her artfully padded middle. She eyed the traffic, always heavy around Flinders Street Station, and noticed a battered cab, which she was sure she had seen pass only five minutes ago. It slid past again. She paced the pavement and looked into the hatter’s window, trying to control her breathing.

When she turned again there was the van as promised, and a tall man with short hair was beckoning.

‘You Joan Barnard?’ asked the man. Jones nodded. ‘You got the money?’ She held up her purse. ‘Come on, then, in the back,’ and she climbed into a musty-smelling interior, and sat down on the floor. She could not see out of the windows. They seemed to turn a corner, then another and down a long street with a few lurching stops. The gears were faulty, and grated. She could not see the driver.

The van stopped in a noisy street with a smell of cooking. The door opened, and she was grabbed roughly by the arm and dragged so swiftly that she only had time to notice that she was in Little Bourke Street, and the taxi she had noticed before had stopped nearby.

She was ushered through a blistered door and into a parlour. It was very old-fashioned, with a piano and easy chairs and a table with a wax bouquet under glass. Incongruously, there were two camp beds with old blankets on them in the corner away from the window.

‘Got the money?’ demanded the tall man with the cropped hair, putting out a dirty hand. Jones gave him the ten-pound note and he grinned unpleasantly.

‘Take off your underwear and lie down on the table and we’ll soon have you fixed,’ he said as he removed the wax flowers and the tablecloth off the dining table.

‘Lie down and I’ll take all your troubles away. Then you can go back to being a virgin again.’

He advanced on her, unbuckling his belt, and Jones backed until she came up against the table, fumbling for her purse as she went.

‘If you want to be relieved of your burden, girlie, I’m the one to do it. I’ll even give you a discount—if you please me. Ten per cent eh?’

Jones found her whistle, and blew hard. The whistle shrilled in the small room and Butcher George jumped, still clutching the glass dome and the tablecloth, then ran for the inner door. Jones, shaking with outrage, dived after him, tripped him, and sat down hard on his back, dragging his hands back and twisting his arms viciously. All the fight went out of him and he whimpered.

Three policemen broke down the door a minute later, and relieved Jones of her prisoner. They handcuffed his hands behind his back and led him out into the street.

The old cab was still there, and two men were standing by it. One was tall and blond and one was short and dark.

‘That’s him,’ remarked one to the other.

Cec approached Jones.

‘Is that George Fletcher?’ he inquired politely. Jones nodded. Cec took two paces, turned the head of the tall man toward him, and hit Butcher George with the best left hook seen in Little Lon. since the police strike. His heels lifted, his chin snapped back, and he fell poleaxed into the startled Jones’ arms. Bert and Cec got back into their cab and drove away. Jones and her colleagues loaded Butcher George into a police car and headed for Russell Street.

‘Who was that bloke with the hook?’ asked Constable Ellis.

‘I don’t know, but we are not going to mention it,’ replied Jones, settling her hair. ‘Are we?’

‘Is he really Butcher George?’

‘He is,’ replied Jones.

‘Then we ain’t going to mention it,’ agreed Ellis.

***

As she had promised, Phryne slept until noon, requiring Dot to turn the lovelorn Sasha away. Once she awoke, Phryne breakfasted lightly, then set off for the Melbourne baths. She obtained temporary possession of a towel, a locker, and use of the large swimming bath for a few pennies. She donned her brief black costume, without skirt or back, and pulled a rubber cap down over her hair, flung herself in, and began to swim up and down. She always found that swimming assisted her thought processes.

Her problems were twofold, she reasoned. First, there was Lydia, who did seem to be the subject of poisoning.

Dr MacMillan’s tests on the hair and fingernails obtained by the Irish maids would probably confirm that. Arsenic was the most likely drug—it had been fashionable for centuries in such matters, and was still, it seemed, in style. Andrews stood to inherit a fortune if Lydia died without issue, which made him the most obvious suspect. His dealings with Bobby were not going to yield him a profit—Lydia was right there. One could not trust Bobby Matthews. But then, could one trust Lydia? She was a clinging vine of the most insidious kind, but she had a financial mind that would be envied by most actuaries, and was shrewd in her assessment of people. And there was the other problem. What of the Bath House of Madame Breda?

Phryne reached the end of the pool, turned, and swam back. The water sluiced over her shoulders and swirled around her neck. There was no other lady in the swimming baths. Every splash she made seemed to echo.

Madame Breda. Impossible that she should be selling drugs. She was too honest and healthy. However, it was a big building, and it backed onto Little Lonsdale Street, that den of thieves. Phryne vaguely recalled a brass plate on the door as the maid had let her and the Princesse in…what had it been? She turned on her back and floated, closing her eyes. Aha.
Chasseur et Cie
, cosmetics. But none of the powders and products shown by Gerda had been of that brand. They had all been marked with Madame Breda’s Egyptian bird. If drugs were coming through Madame’s establishment there was a fair chance that
Chasseur et Cie
might be the dealers. And the indispensable Gerda must be the courier. Gerda was the only person who could have put that packet of real coke into Phryne’s pocket. Gerda had, therefore, left her the message to beware of the rose.

Madame Breda went to visit her patrons and Gerda went with her—that had been the case when Sasha had been caught in Toorak. Simplicity itself for Gerda to contact the person in the house who was addicted to
Chasseur et Cie’
s products and to arrange the sale. Gerda had a grudge against Madame, and what better way to be avenged than to use her Temple of Health for drug-running?

Temples brought Sasha, and sex, to mind. Hmmm. The bath-maiden at Madame Breda’s had caressed her in an intimate and sapphic manner and seemed to be very practised at it. Was that why Lydia had not escaped elimination by becoming pregnant? Was she a lesbian? Andrews had, come to think of it, a frustrated manner, and his cruelty might be the result of being constantly rejected by his wife. Lydia might have been a sapphic since her schooldays, and her father had said that she lived with a rackety crowd in Paris. In that city, Phryne knew, there was a whole lesbian subculture, wearing men’s clothes, riding in the Bois, frequenting certain bars. Her old friend and gigolo Georges Santin had accompanied her to several such establishments. The women did not seem to resent Georges. Unlike most gigolos, he really liked women. Phryne had little leaning towards homosexuality, but she had liked the lesbian bars. They were free of the domination of men, creating their own society.

‘I wonder where I can find someone who knew Lydia in Paris?’ she said aloud, and the words came echoing back to her. No time.

‘I shall go exploring tonight, and see what I can find,’ decided Phryne, duck-diving to the end of the pool. But who was the rose? A person? A place? Presumably she was not being warned about an exploding bouquet. What were the common characteristics of roses? Scent? They came in all colours. Phryne gave it up, hauled herself out of the water, and went to the hot water baths for a soak.

She was back to the hotel at five, in time to receive a delighted phone call from Dr MacMillan.

‘My dear, they’ve caught that George the Butcher! The nice policeman just rang to tell me. He’s had to call in the police-surgeon. Your Cec broke the bastard’s jaw.’

‘Was there a fight?’ asked Phryne.

‘No, I gather not. Cec just hit him. Well, that will be a load off my mind. And he’s confessing as fast as his wired-up jaw will allow, so there will be no need for Alice to give evidence. And what have you to say about these grisly relics ye’ve sent me?’

‘Hair and fingernails? Any arsenic?’

‘Chock-full, m’girl. From the examination of the hair shaft I’d say the person has been absorbing arsenic for about six months. Should you not call the police, Phryne? Are they from a cadaver?’

‘No, the lady’s alive. I shall notify the police, Elizabeth, but in my own time. You keep those samples safely and I’ll get back to you. Have you time for dinner tonight?’

‘I have not. I’ve a miscarriage in casualty at this moment. Goodbye, Phryne, take care!’

Dr MacMillan had sounded worried, Phryne thought. People were always worrying about her. It gives them something to do, Phryne thought, and dressed for dinner.

***

She came back to her room at about eleven to find Dot surveying the sorry wreckage of the Paynes’ clothes. The dress had crumpled and spotted as it dried, and the tear Dot had made in the hem had been clumsily mended. It went to Dot’s heart to cobble the material together, but Phryne smiled and said, ‘Splendid.’ She looked out of the window, but there was nothing interesting there.

‘Tell me, Dot, what comes into your head when I say the word “rose”?’

Dot looked up from her sad contemplation of the mend.

‘Why, the colour, Miss. Pink, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne with a flood of realization, and a momentary dizziness. ‘Of course.’

‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, but don’t wait up. Until I get back, Dot, please stay here and keep the door locked. Don’t let anyone in who isn’t me. Got all that? Oh, and here’s your wages in advance—and a reference—just in case.’

‘Yes, Miss. Can I help you dress?’

‘Yes, bolt the door and bring the disguise.’

Dot did as she was bid and arrayed Phryne in the damaged dress, the carefully holed stockings, the scuffed shoes and the battered hat. Dot had broken three feathers over one shoulder and they dangled sadly. Phryne removed all her own jewellery and looped the glass beads twice around her neck. They hung down to the jazz garters.

‘Shoe polish, Dot, I’m too clean,’ she declared, and gave herself a watermark around the neck, and grey fingernails. She took the clean shine off her black hair with powder and painted her cheeks thickly with Dot’s Coles rouge.

‘Revolting,’ she declared, surveying herself in the mirror. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Half past eleven. You can’t go out of the Windsor looking like that, Miss! And what shall I do if anyone calls?’

‘Tell them I’m asleep and have given orders not to be woken; it’s more than your place is worth to try. I won’t send anyone, Dot, so bolt the door and stand siege until I come back. If I don’t come back tonight, wait until midday, then take that package to the policeman. Understood?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘And I’m not going out like this. Give me the big black cloak, I can carry the hat. Now have I got everything…money, gun, cigarettes, lighter…yes. Goodbye, Dot. See you tomorrow—or sometime.’

She was gone, swathed in the big cloak. Dot bolted the door as she had been ordered and sat down to worry.