Matrimonial Causes (11 page)

Away he lumbered again, coming back this time
with a plate carrying a bread roll, a lump of cheese, a tomato and a knife. ‘Go for your life. What happened to your nose?'

I got busy with the knife. ‘A copper clobbered me.'

‘What did I tell you about getting along with the police?'

‘It's all right,' I said, chewing. ‘Another cop came to my rescue.'

Ernie shook his head. ‘Cliff, Cliff, I hope you know what you're doing. I told you to make friends with some cops, not depend on them or trust them. This didn't happen around here or I'd have heard.'

Ernie is a slow, deliberate talker. I'd eaten most of the roll by the time he'd finished. ‘No, mate. Eastern suburbs. I think I can stay on top of it, but I need to talk to a PEA named Richard Maxwell to help me do that. D'you know him?'

He reached for his glass, drained it and filled us up again. Ernie usually drinks the way he talks, as if there's no rush. Maxwell's name seemed to have speeded him up a bit. ‘I know Dick Maxwell. I wish I didn't.'

‘Why's that?'

‘He's a pisspot Pommy poofter, that's why. Don't have anything to do with him, Cliff. He'd sell his sister and his mother just a split second before he'd sell his brother and his father.'

‘I have to talk to him, Ernie. It's to do with a divorce case …'

‘That's about all he ever does, the bastard. How he keeps his licence I'll never know. He must have an in with somebody.'

‘Shit, that's an angle I haven't considered.'

‘With Maxwell, there's bound to be a slew of angles you haven't figured. Do you want to tell me about it?'

I finished the food and beer before answering, in order to give myself time to think. ‘To be honest, Ernie,' I said, ‘I think it'd be better for you if I didn't. My feeling is that this is pretty bloody dangerous. Look, I'll get in touch if I need any hands-on help. I'm still trying to manage it the way you said.'

‘Remind me.'

‘With brains rather than biffing.'

‘Okay. last I heard he was in a drying-out joint in Heathcote.'

‘Heathcote.'

‘Yeah, bit of a hike to the nearest pub I understand. Fresh air, all that. He must be in a very bad way to go there. Fresh air and lemonade—Maxwell's not used to them, they might kill him. Never heard of him taking the cure before, but I suppose there's a first time for everything.'

‘How recent's this information, Ernie? And how good is it?'

His thick, pepper-and-salt eyebrows lifted. ‘Don't get cheeky with me, young Hardy. The information's fresh and I think it's good because I came upon it by accident.'

I knew what he meant and didn't press him. You hear lies all the time, you're more likely to
overhear
the truth. He gave me the name of the clinic and his own phone number and didn't ask any more questions about the job, so we had
accorded each other a mutual respect. I refused more beer, thanked him for the help and the calories and stood up. I was anxious to get moving. I was also anxious to get outside and have a smoke. Ernie is a passionate anti-smoker and to light up in his home would be like smoking in church. We shook hands at the door.

I had a last question. ‘What does he look like?'

‘Medium-sized, getting fat. Pale. Always wears a hat. He's got this little gingery toothbrush moustache. No muscle on him. You're a lot tougher than Maxwell, Cliff,' he said. ‘But I'm not sure you're smarter, and smarter usually wins.'

‘Thanks, Ernie. I'll work on it.'

Heathcote was well off my usual beat. I knew you drove down the Princes Highway to get to it and that was about all. I walked home slowly, sucking on a cigarette and speculating about what I might learn from Richard Maxwell. Something about divorce. It didn't sound too promising. I wondered what I could use for leverage on Maxwell, apart from the obvious thing. I rejected the idea for most of the walk, but had accepted it by the time I reached the house.

Inside, I checked the
Gregory's
and found that Heathcote was past Engadine and consisted of two clusters of streets either side of the highway, both bordered by national park The clinic was in Goburra Road, on the right going from the city and one of the last marked roads before the suburb gave way to crown land and the meandering Heathcote Creek. It was hard to tell from the map and I didn't know the area, but it was a fair bet that the nearest liquor outlet would be at a distance only a desperate man would walk.

Ernie had said Maxwell was smart. He'd also indicated where he was vulnerable. I found an
unopened, flat half-bottle of gin in a cupboard and tossed it from hand to hand. I didn't like the idea of tempting a drunk, but it was my safety and career on the line and, apart from Cyn and a couple of friendships, there weren't too many things more important than those. I put the bottle in a soft leather briefcase along with my .38 and a manilla folder containing some blank sheets of paper. I had one of Alistair Menzies' cards in my shirt pocket. I debated whether to ring the clinic and decided against it. I had some money, a briefcase and Menzies' card. If they weren't enough, I had the gun.

The drive south out of Sydney was not the prettiest—too many used car yards, motor accessory barns and drive-in bottle shops. The landscape had been blasted by the internal combustion engine. By Kogarah Bay other forces, like wind and water, took over, and Tom Ugly's Bridge was a nice reminder of a quieter time. Mind you, it was dull back then before the European migrants and TV and mass advertising arrived, and perhaps the noise and dirt were the prices we had to pay for more interesting lives. That was Cyn's opinion anyway, her usual rejoinder when I got nostalgic about the taste of bottled beer, and fish and chips in newspaper and fight night at Rushcutters Bay stadium.

I turned off the highway and drove through the winding streets of Heathcote. The further from the main road they were the narrower and rougher they got. Goburra Road was a wide, unmade track
with a few established houses on one side and a few more in the process of being built. The crown land began on the other side, low scrub that deepened into dense bush in the near distance. I drove slowly, avoiding the ruts and with the windows down. There was some dust from the track but the smell of the trees and the bird noises compensated. After the petrol-fume monotony of the highway it was a nice change.

The King A. Hartwell Clinic was a big white stucco building, three or four storeys with two wings. At a guess, as an architect's husband who lived with books full of pictures of buildings, I'd say the place was put up around the time of the First World War, when Heathcote was really out in the sticks. The clinic, therefore, was a little island of freehold or leasehold on the edge of a very big chunk of crown land. Interesting. The grounds looked to run to about five acres, well watered with plenty of lawns, flower beds and trees. Healthful and restful. I wouldn't have minded a short stay there myself, judging from outside appearances.

I drove through two imposing gateposts, one of which carried a big brass plaque bearing the name of the clinic, and up a curving gravel drive. I parked where a sign said Visitors. I was the only one. There were a dozen or so cars, ordinary Holdens, Fords, VWs and a couple of sleek, well-polished jobs, parked in another space signposted Staff. I did up a few buttons on my sports shirt, tugged at it to reduce the wrinkles and stuck my briefcase under my arm. I closed the windows and locked the car. A few people strolling in the
grounds looked up at the noise of the slamming door. The place was extraordinarily quiet. The strollers strolled on and I walked towards the sandstone steps leading up to a heavy door standing wide open.

The lobby was cool and quiet. Behind a reception desk a woman wearing a stylised version of a nurse's cap was working at an electric typewriter that was almost noiseless. The place had more the feel of a hotel than a hospital. There were pigeon holes with keys hanging from them, some with mail tucked inside. The pictures on the walls were bright, landscapes mostly, and there was a big, three-dimensional model of the clinic and its grounds set out in a glass case. A wide cedar staircase ascended from the lobby and the entrance to the ground level was through a set of double doors. When I felt I'd absorbed everything useful, I coughed to announce my arrival.

The woman looked up and favoured me with a smile. Maybe I'd smile more if I had teeth like hers. ‘Can I help you, sir?'

I approached the desk, unzipping my briefcase and letting the edges of the papers show. I took out a Menzies card and handed it to her. She was standing now, a tall, slim woman wearing a white dress with a blue belt and a touch of blue at the neck and sleeves—nurse-like. She looked at the card and then at me.

‘Mr Menzies …'

‘No, no. My name is Vernon Morris. I'm an associate of Mr Menzies. I'd like to have a word with Mr Richard Maxwell, if I may. Legal matter. Won't take a minute.'

She frowned. ‘You should have telephoned.'

‘I did. On Friday. There should be a note of it. It's a bit off the beaten track here, isn't it? And this was the best time for someone from our office to come. I'm on my way back from my batch in Maianbar, you see, so it wasn't too far out of the way. I was assured …'

She searched through the bits and pieces on the desk, opening and closing folders and slapping at piles of paper. A cork board with notices pinned to it, positioned handy to the telephone, yielded nothing. I craned forward, peering at the pigeon holes. They were tagged with initials. There was an RM all right, but the letters weren't unusual. Who knows? It could have been Roger Miller.

‘I'm sorry. There's nothing here.'

I plucked at the papers. ‘It'll only take a minute. Perhaps you could ask Mr Maxwell?'

A new look came over her face—sceptical, defensive. She appeared to be a person whose natural bent was cooperation but who had learned to act differently, and I could see her registering and assessing details now—the battered nose, the creased clothes. ‘I'm not confirming that there is anyone of that name here,' she said. ‘Do you understand?'

‘No, I don't understand.'

It was only a slight movement and she did it well, but I knew what it meant and I looked automatically towards the double doors. Sure enough, they opened and a very big man in a white overall came out. A tailored overall, with zippers and well-cut trousers. He was well-cut and well-groomed himself with a body-builder's chest and shoulders
and that tapering look they have. In my experience, they taper both ways—physically from the thighs down and mentally from the mouth up. This one had the conventional bleached-blonde good looks marred by a bad case of adolescent acne-scarring. He probably wore pancake make-up when he competed.

‘Yes, Mrs Tomlinson?' he said.

So far he was well within his field of competence.

‘This gentleman has no appointment and refuses to leave, Mr Matthews.'

‘I'm here on legitimate business,' I said.

Matthews wore white tennis shoes and he came forward quickly and quietly. So far, no voices had been raised, no discordant sounds made. The King A. Hartwell Clinic was very big on quiet.

‘I think you should leave,' Matthews said. He covered the last stretch very quickly and his big hand was on my shoulder, gripping hard.

‘I want to see someone in authority here.'

A quick nod from Mrs Tomlinson and Matthews went into action. He was good. He spun me around 180 degrees, literally. A well-balanced, very strong man can do that to a lighter one. Before I knew it, I was being marched through the door and down the steps. Matthews was an expert man-handler. He changed his grip, altered the pressure, kept me guessing as to where the force would be applied next. To someone with no experience of hand-to-hand fighting it would have been totally intimidating. I trotted along, pretending to be just such a person. My dust-streaked Falcon stood alone in the Visitors space like a UFO and
Matthews steered me unerringly towards it.

He was enjoying himself. Some men are happy with pumping up their muscles, flexing them for admiring audiences, striving for yet more definition. Not Matthews. He wanted to use his strength against less strong men. A nasty trait, compensating for something. I let him frog-march me around to the driver's side, so that the car body was between us and the clinic. I fumbled in the briefcase as if searching for the ignition key. Matthews' wide blue eyes went even wider when I brought the Smith & Wesson out and jammed the muzzle up into his left nostril. For intimidation, the great advantage of a revolver is that you can cock it one-handed with the trigger action. Click. click. Sheer terror.

I felt the big man's strength ebb away as he looked into my face. ‘You've had your fun, Matthews,' I said. ‘Now prop yourself back against the car and be very careful. I don't like gymnasium cowboys heavying me.'

‘Just doing my job,' he said. He moved back. All the force had gone out of him. We both knew he could do things quickly but not quicker than a finger can pull a trigger.

‘Your job's changed. You're going to have to show a bit of initiative.'

‘How … how do you mean?'

I kept the .38 nestled inside his nose and reached back for my credentials. ‘I'm a private investigator. My name's Hardy. I want to talk to Dick Maxwell. Just talk. Let your eyes wander over this.'

I showed him the licence inside its perspex
cover. Apparently he could read, but he didn't say anything.

‘You can remember your routines, can't you? Press this, snatch that, repetitions, all that shit?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Okay. I want you to remember a few things. Tell Maxwell I found out where he was through Ernie Glass. Got that, Ernie Glass?'

‘Ernie Glass.'

‘Good. I don't have any aggro with him that I know of. My client is Virginia Shaw. Who?'