Flying Too High (12 page)

‘Was there anything on the stone apart from blood and brain?’

‘Hair, Miss, a clover burr, a few hemp strands, a few leaves, a bit of bubblegum. Nothing important.’

‘No. Thank you, that was most interesting.’

‘Here’s the Coroner’s Report. Cause of death: massive head injuries.’

Phryne skimmed through the report. ‘Body of well-nourished middle aged man…cleft cranium…’

‘It seems to have fallen on the top of his head rather than the back,’ she observed.

‘Depends on how you look at it. Now I think he was donged from behind. The fact that the rock is a flat surface makes it difficult to say. The cranium is quite cloven through the middle.’

‘Hmm. Well, thanks a lot. Have you found those witnesses yet?’

‘No,’ muttered the detective-inspector, straight-faced.

‘Thank you so much for your time,’ said Phryne politely, and left.

She sat in the car and wrote a hasty note to Bert and Cec, then drove to Carlton to drop it into their boarding-house. She wondered what Bert would do when Cec got married at the end of the year, and decided that he would manage. Cec’s intended was a sensible young woman who understood the bond between the two men. There would be no separating Bert and Cec this side of the death which they had so often faced together. They were skilled, if rather direct, investigators and Phryne left her problem in their hands with a certain relief.

She arrived home very tired and ate the lunch served to her by Mrs Butler with an easy mind. A telephone message in Dot’s neat schoolgirl hand informed her that Paolo was with Amelia, that Mrs McNaughton was as well as could be expected and that Bill had arrived and was behaving like an angel. Phryne decided that she had done enough detecting for one day, and went to take a long hot bath with her
Nuit de Paris
bathsalts. After that she took what she considered to be a richly-deserved rest.

***

Jack Leonard rolled off the couch in the Maldons’ living room and strove to unkink his muscles. It had been the most uncomfortable night of his life, equalling in discomfort the Turkish brothel with the bedbugs, but without the compensating atmosphere.

Molly and the baby had retired fairly early. Molly had slept because her husband had poured a sizeable slug of chloral into her chocolate. Jack and Henry had sat up until three, when Henry had been persuaded to go to bed by Jack, who felt unequal to the strain of any more speech.

It was late in the morning; soon even Molly would be up, and no message had yet been delivered.

The Maldons trailed down to face with disgust an unwanted breakfast, and it was while looking a good nourishing fried egg in the yolk that Jack Leonard had an idea. He pushed away the plate and grabbed Henry by the arm. He had just remembered something which his fellow fliers had told him.

‘What you need, old man, is Miss Fisher. Top hole detective, so Bunji Ross says—brave as a lion.’

‘Miss Fisher?’ asked Molly, dropping her cup of tea so that it glugged down onto the breakfast-room rug.

‘Certainly. High class inquiries, that sort of thing. She’s been retained to get our mutual friend Bill out of trouble. I’m sure that she will be able to help. I’ve put good money on her getting Bill off. Amazin’ record. Never fails.’

Henry seemed uncertain. His wife spoke decidedly.

‘Ring her, Jack. Ring her right away.’

Phryne woke at three o’clock feeling like she had the black death. She dragged her weary body out of bed, ran another bath, and reflected that if she kept using this restorative she had better have her skin waterproofed. She felt better after her bath and decided that coffee would complete the cure.

‘Oh, Miss Fisher, there is a message for you,’ said Mr Butler as she sat down in the parlour. ‘A child has been kidnapped and they want you to investigate. I said that I should not dare to wake you, and that you would call when you arose.’

‘If it is anything like that again, Mr Butler, please wake me. Particularly if it is anything to do with a child. There are some strange people around and the first five hours are crucial. Ask Mrs B. for some coffee and get me the number, will you. Where is Dot?’

‘I believe that she is in the kitchen with Mrs Butler, Miss Fisher. I shall fetch coffee at once.’

Mr B., rather abashed, gave the order for coffee and the summons to Dot, then rang the number and escorted Miss Fisher to the phone.

‘Hello, Miss Fisher. Jack Leonard here. You remember me?’

‘The airman, of course. What’s this about a child?’

‘I’m at the home of my old friend Henry Maldon. He won all that money in the Irish Lottery at Christmas, you recall. His little daughter Candida has gone missing, and we have a witness who saw her taken away in a big black car.’

‘Have you a note?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Sit tight, Mr Leonard, and I’ll be with you soon. What’s the address?’ Phryne scribbled busily. ‘Good. Stay by the phone but don’t tie it up. They might ring. Tell the parents that the child will be perfectly safe until the note arrives—then we might have to move fast. Make sure that they eat some dinner. If someone calls, try to keep them talking. Ask to speak to the child, and say that you need proof that she is alive before you give them anything. And whatever they want, agree. I’ll be with you by four. Bye.’

‘Dot, did you hear any of that?’

‘Yes, Miss. Little girl gone missing. Terrible. Are you taking the case?’

‘Of course.’

‘But, Miss, what about Mr McNaughton?’

‘Oh, I think I know how that happened. I just can’t prove it yet. Bert and Cec will complete it. This is urgent, Dot. Get your coat and hat and come on. I might need you.’

Dot ran upstairs for her outdoor garments. Phryne drank two cups of black coffee and assembled her thoughts. The police couldn’t be brought into the case officially, however there was a certain policeman who owed her a favour. She checked that she had her address book and her keys and enough cigarettes to sustain a long wait and joined Dot at the door.

‘Mr B. I’m going out on a case. I don’t know when I shall be back. Ask Mrs B. to leave me some soup, and just have your dinner as usual. I can be reached at this number, but only if it is really urgent.’

She was gone before he could say, ‘Certainly, Miss Fisher.’ He heard the roar of the great car reverberate through the house.

‘She’s a live wire, our Miss Fisher,’ he chuckled, and went back to the kitchen.

Phryne arrived outside the new house just before four o’clock, to be met by Jack Leonard. He was not smiling.

‘She really has gone,’ he confided. ‘We had a phone call. Not a bad little kid, Candida. And her father is an old friend of mine. I hope that you can find her, Miss Fisher.’

‘So do I. This is Dot—you remember her, no doubt. All right, Jack, lead me to it.’

Molly Maldon was sitting, white as milk, in a deep armchair, staring into space. Henry Maldon was pacing up and down and seemed to have been doing so for some time. They both looked up in sudden hope as Phryne came in.

‘I’m Phryne Fisher, and this is my assistant, Miss Williams. Tell me all about it.’

Hesitantly, they told her the whole story. Molly grabbed Phryne’s hand.

‘She’s only six,’ she whispered. ‘Just a little girl, and she didn’t even get her sweets!’ She exhibited the broken bag and burst into tears again.

***

Candida swam muzzily back into consciousness and was immediately sick all over the car-seat and the man who was holding her. He shoved her roughly aside. She had never been cruelly handled before and she was highly intelligent. She kept her mouth shut and listened intently, although she had realized that she had been stolen and all her instincts were urging her to scream and cry and kick.

‘The little brute spewed all over me,’ complained the man, in a high, unpleasant voice. The woman in the front seat turned around, sneering.

‘You wanted to snatch her, Sidney. You put up with it. You were the one who wanted to lay hands on all that young flesh.’

Candida did not know what this meant, but she sensed that vomiting over Sidney had removed some threat. She had done something clever. Her spirits rose a little.

Sidney was wiping at his lap with an inadequate handkerchief. It made little difference. His suit was ruined. The car stank. The driver, a big man with a bald head and a blue singlet, said, ‘We’re almost there. Then you can hang your suit out to dry and have a bath. How about that?’

Candida liked this man. He had a deep and soothing voice. She wondered how long they had been driving. She thought that it was no use asking and that the pose of unconsciousness might be useful. She was feeling better, but she had lost her sweets, and her daddy did not know where she was. She racked her brains. What had she read about these situations? The Grimms fairy-tale method would not work. She had nothing to drop, and she could not reach the window. It began to look, she thought dismally, as though she might die like the babes in the wood, when the birds came and covered them with leaves.

The car turned off the main road. There were bumps, and the driver cursed. Then the car stopped and Candida was carried into the fresh air. Sidney was still swearing behind her.

‘Did you have the note delivered?’ asked the woman in her thin, whining voice.

‘Yair, I sent it by reliable hands with her hair-ribbon. We’ll get the dough, all right. Now carry the poor little thing inside and give her a drink and a bit of a clean-up, Ann. We’re home.’

***

Bert collected Phryne’s note and read it aloud to Cec.

‘She says, “Dear Bert and Cec, I have several things which I would like you to do, for the usual rates. Find the old man and the young woman who were climbing the cliff path in Studley Park at about four o’clock on the Friday of the murder. Try the local police station—the old man is probably well known in the district. The girl is a local who was swimming in the river. When you have found them, see if they remember Bill, and then take them around and see if they know him. If they do, we are more-or-less home and dried.

“Then I want you to search the bush and ground just outside the McNaughton home for a worn hemp rope. It will probably be about five or six feet long, and I’m hoping that it has blood on it.

“Next, ask around for the local head kid. Find out what their favourite game was the week before the McNaughton murder. Please also collect for me all the illustrated papers for the last three weeks. Don’t forget the
Illustrated London News
.

“Last of all, scour the area for a place where they are replacing the gutter. McNaughton was killed with a large bluestone pitcher, and I want to know where it came from. It looked like a gutter stone to me. I rely on your intelligence and discretion. Don’t tell anyone what you are up to if you can avoid it by any means short of prison. Best regards and get your finger out. I need this stuff as soon as I can get it. Phryne Fisher. PS. A description of the girl and the old man is attached, and here is a few quid for expenses. PF.” ’

Bert shook his head.

‘Where do we start, Cec?’

‘At the beginning, mate,’ replied Cec easily. ‘At the beginning.’

***

The doorbell rang in the Maldon house, and Henry raced for the door. He returned with an envelope in his hand.

‘No one there,’ he said. ‘But this letter.’

‘Handle it by the edges,’ said Phryne. ‘Slit the top. We don’t want to spoil any fingerprints, do we? Good. One sheet of cheap Coles’ paper enscribed by someone who is not used to writing.

‘“Dere Mr Maldon,”’ she read, ‘“we have yore dorter. Here is her ribon. We want five thou. Leave it in the holow tree stump in the Geelong Gardens tonite. You shal have her bak tomorrow. The tree stump is on the left of the path, next to the band rotunda. A frend.” ’

She shook the envelope and a blue Alice band fluttered out. Henry Maldon took it into both hands as if it was the Host and kissed it gently.

‘Right, produce the money and let’s get cracking.’

‘I can’t,’ said Henry simply. ‘I don’t have any money. I’ve spent it all. I bought two houses and a plane and an annuity. I can sell them but it will take time. And meanwhile…’

‘Candida will be fine,’ announced Molly, refreshed by an hour in the uncomplicated company of baby Alexander. ‘About now, I bet they are wishing they hadn’t taken her.’

Henry forced a small and rusty laugh.

***

Candida had been washed and clothed in an old white nightgown, and had accepted some bread and milk. She was as wary as a small animal and kept as far as possible from Sidney, who now regarded her with loathing. The big man, Mike, was nicer. He had a large and commanding presence. The woman, Ann, she hated. After a small altercation about the nightgown, which was much too big for her, Ann had slapped Candida across the face. It was the insult rather than the pain which caused the child’s eyes to follow Ann round the room with a black, implacable gaze. At last, as always, the glare made itself felt.

‘Stop looking at me like that, you little toad!’ shrieked Ann. Candida regarded her coolly.

‘How do you want me to look at you?’ she asked, imitating her mother’s most infuriatingly logical voice. ‘I shall not look at you at all, if you like,’ she went on generously. Ann went to Mike and leaned on his shoulder.