The Marvellous Boy (12 page)

“I was always curious about Warwick's genes,” Nicholas Baudin said.

This galvanised Keir. He slurped down his drink and his previously carefully modulated voice went up into a squeak.

“Who are these people? Who?”

“I'm sorry, I can't tell you that at this stage. There are a
lot of threads to tie up. This could be a false lead, if it's not you'll get all the details in time.”

“Thanks very much.” Keir again. He got up and stood as tall as he could—about five foot six. “This is preposterous. I won't have it. I'm going to call Rogers and have this character thrown out. It's an original line, I'll say that for it.” He moved up to his father's chair keeping well away from me, still standing. He noticed that his glass was empty and went across to the bar for more. He slammed the glass down on the bar and turned dramatically.

“Of course! This is Warwick's idea! Come on Father, this is some sort of hoax.” He took his drink across and stood protectively near the old man's chair. “You're not a bad actor, Mr. Hardy, you had me fooled. But I can't for the life of me see how Warwick would get anything out of this.”

“You're babbling,” I said. “I've never met your brother.”

“Don't call him my brother.” The squeak was back. “He forfeited that right years ago.”

“I'd like to hear about it.”

“Well you won't. Clear off.”

He was red in the face with anger and from the effort of keeping himself at his full height. I looked down at his feet and realised that I'd over-measured him; he wore built-up shoes that must have given him a couple of inches. Short men who want to impress should cultivate an icy mien or be jolly—I knew a few who did it successfully. I grinned at him.

“I'd say that was up to your father. I've told you the truth, as much of it as I can.”

The old man seemed to get the message. He pulled himself up in the chair and shoved his glass at Keir. “Don't brawl Keir, it's not your forte. And for God's sake get me a decent drink, it's a crime to drown good whisky like this.”

The son snatched up the glass clumsily, his father could strip him of composure so quickly I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Sit down, Mr. Hardy.” The old boy pointed to the chair nearest him. “Will you have a drink?”

“Thanks, no, I've got things to do tonight.” I took out my tobacco and held it up enquiringly.

“Go ahead.” He took the glass from Keir without acknowledgement; the drink was dark this time, neat scotch over ice. He drank some and settled back in his chair.

“That's better. Do you know the occasion for this gathering?”

I worked at the makings. “Something to do with mining I heard.”

“That's right. A mine. It'll be operational in five years—I'll be dead.”

Keir made a noise that was hard to interpret, perhaps shock, perhaps dutiful protest. Baudin ignored it. So did I.

“I'm nearly eighty and that's the sort of thing I have to celebrate. What do you think of that?”

I had the cigarette going and took in a lungful. “I don't know. You could celebrate being nearly eighty. A lot of people don't make it so far.”

His snort could have been amusement. His old eyes just looked old.

“There's something in what you say. Well, are you offering me something else to celebrate? Has my adopted son come into enormous wealth or a title?”

“No title. Some wealth I guess, if he's the man. Other considerations are more important. I'm concerned about the family.”

He drank again and smacked his lips. “You should be. It
pains me to say it of someone I raised, but if anything good is going to happen to Warwick it will be a colossal injustice. He's one of the most worthless people that ever lived.”

This pronouncement seemed to give Keir heart.

“He's rubbish,” he said. His father said nothing and his confidence went up. “Father I simply can't believe this. He's snooping about something else.”

All that did was tell me that there was something else to snoop about. Baudin senior lifted his head at him and he subsided.

“Keir was born less than a year after we took Warwick. It was one of those cases. The two boys never got along.”

I nodded. “His character isn't really my concern. I'd better come clean with you. I'm pretty sure he is the man I want. A physical similarity to other members of the family would help. Do you have a photograph of him?”

“No,” Keir snapped. “We have nothing.”

Something in the way he said it made panic jump in me. “You don't mean he's dead?” Then I remembered Keir's earlier remark.

The relief must have showed. “This is important to you, Mr. Hardy?” Baudin's face seemed to lose flesh with the effort of talking.

“Yes. Do you know where Warwick is now?”

I expelled smoke and waited for an answer. Keir supplied it from the middle of a smirk across his pasty face.

“No, we don't.”

Baudin
pére
didn't contradict him. Instead he drank the rest of his whisky and set the glass down as if he'd lost interest in liquor forever.

“That boy was the trial of my life,” he said in his faint, falling tones. “Everything else I touched turned out just right except . . . except Warwick. He was trouble from
the start. Enormously gifted but a monster. He killed my wife. She loved him more than me, more than Keir. She called him her marvelous boy and he killed her with worry and shame.”

“What sort of trouble Mr. Baudin?”

“Everything—cars, girls, drink, cheques. Everything.”

“Where was this?”

“Everywhere. Here, Sydney, London, New York, Rome.”

Keir was loving it but he was a hypocrite to the core. “Really, Father, is this wise? I don't trust this man an inch. His story is quite unbelievable. He's in this with Warwick, you can bet your life on it.”

“Bet my life,” the old man said dreamily. “A good expression for the young. It doesn't carry much punch at my age. It might interest you to know, Keir, that I'd bet my life Mr. Hardy here is telling the truth.”

“Why?” Keir said petulantly.

“God boy, you'd better sharpen up. If you can't judge character better than that you'll be on the dole before I'm cold. Have a look at the man for Christ's sake, does he look like a confidence trickster?”

“He's in a cheap trade,” Keir muttered.

“There!” the father said triumphantly. “There! You accept that he's an enquiry agent. You're confused. You're believing what you want to believe.”

The unequal contest was starting to bore me. I wanted facts and leads, not a sparring match. All I had were impressions and hostilities; it would be hard to concoct a professional-looking report for Lady Catherine on what I had so far. The cigarette was a dead stub between my fingers.

“Let me get this straight, Mr. Baudin. Your son is
something of a black sheep, or was. But he's a grown man now. You mentioned gifts, what did you mean?”

“Everything again,” Baudin said slowly. “He was brilliant at everything. God you should have seen him run . . . cricket . . . tennis . . . matriculated with honours . . .” He was weary. The whisky seemed to have hit him. His eyelids were flickering as if he were fighting to keep them up. Keir watched him intently and expertly and I realised that this was what he had on him—the staying power of fewer years on the clock.

“My father is tired, Hardy, and I have nothing to say to you.”

“When did you last see your brother?” I snapped.

“Three years ago.” Again, it came out too quickly; my firmest impression of this wispy young-old man was that he lied almost every time he opened his mouth. “You have to go,” he said smugly.

There was no arguing with it, the old man was drooping. I put in a last desperate question.

“Mr. Baudin, what was the last address you had for Warwick?”

“Sydney,” the old man whispered.

“He's wandering,” Keir said brightly. “It was London, a slum in Islington. Don't make the trip, it wouldn't be worth it.”

“Why not?”

“Warwick is a drunk among other things. His last card was a drunken . . .” He stopped as if he was unhappy at giving this information away but I misinterpreted him. His pale face turned blotchy with anger and he seemed to be recalling nursery days. His voice went soft, almost babyish.

“I wouldn't put it past Warwick to dream up something like this. He hates me.” It was interesting psychologically but I needed facts.

“Have you got the card?” I said.

“What? No. I tore it up. Get out, get
out!”

A light snore from the old man did the trick. Baudin senior was dead asleep in his chair. His hand rested an inch away from his glass which still held a few drops of whisky, just a few.

The sky had darkened and the party had thinned by the time I got outside. The secretary was hovering and he bustled back into the house when he saw me. I wondered which Baudin he served, Senior or Junior, or if he knew. Kay was sitting under a tree a little apart from the hard core drinkers. I walked over to her with that little pilot light of excitement burning.

“Did you get what you wanted?” She got up smoothly but didn't seem to mind my token help in the form of a hand on her arm. Her arm was cool and soft and I kept hold of it.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I'm a bit too tired to think about it right now. I'll worry about it later. Do you want another drink here or will we go somewhere else?”

“I'd like to eat. I'm starving.”

She went into the house and came out with a shoulder bag. We went down the drive past the remaining imported cars to my honest Falcon.

“No car?” I said.

“Cab—expenses.”

She untangled the crescents and circuits for me and steered me towards the city. Otherwise she was quiet and didn't volunteer much. I had to prompt her hard to find out
that she worked two days a week at the university as a research assistant in Political Science and two days as a feature writer for
The Canberra Times.
She preferred the journalism but the two jobs complemented each other. We pulled into a big parking lot behind a department store and she stared out at the city lights.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm not used to talking about myself.” “Okay, I'll stop. One last question. What brought you to Canberra?”

“Marriage.”

We walked through the parking lot and down some streets and across a couple of pedestrian plazas. Canberra has scored a few points against the motor car in the centre of the city, but just a few. The closed-off roads with pot plants and painted barriers look as if they could be swept away easily enough if someone decided they should be. Kay led me to some steps that went down into a big, circular concrete cellar. There was enough light to see by and some kind of matting on the floor. The food was on a serve-yourself system. We got steaks and garlic rolls and salad on our plates and I got a couple of small carafes of white wine. There were about ten plain wooden tables which would seat a dozen people and the drill was to plonk yourself down wherever you pleased. I was surprised to see people choosing to sit near others, obviously strangers, rather than going off by themselves. Kay went over to where a hippie-looking couple were sitting: the woman, who wore a plaid poncho and jeans, was holding a baby on her knee. The man was dark-bearded and thin: they nodded as we sat down, pushed the pepper and salt along and went back to talking quietly about their kid. We started on the food.

“Good place,” I said.

She nodded and kept eating.

“Is there no no-talking rule?”

She shook her head and smiled. She had big white teeth and her smile was a fraction crooked. I looked at her hands—no rings. I drank the first glass of cold wine fast and poured another—she did the same. Then we both smiled and touched glasses. She put down her knife and fork.

“Ask,” she said.

“It's a compliment really. What happened to the marriage?”

“It did what it was supposed to do.” She picked up her fork. “Then it finished.”

“What was it supposed to do?”

She shrugged. “Get him a Ph.D. and a couple of books.” She didn't sound or look bitter, more amused. If it had scarred her she wasn't letting it show. Then she went back to eating and kept at it until all the food was gone. She wiped her plate with bread and put that down. We started on the second carafe.

“God I needed that. I ran out without eating this morning and I don't eat lunch. Sorry to be so incommunicative. I was just bloody hungry. Now, are you going to tell me what you're investigating?”

I suppose I'd known all along that I would and that I'd be needing her help. The wine and food and her company had relaxed me. Little things that had come out in the interview with the Baudins were floating around in my mind, coming to the surface and forming a pattern. Something about this girl, which was how I thought of her although she must have been in her mid-twenties, and something about the ease we felt with each other made me trust her and want to try out the pattern on her. So I told her. I gave her all the details as far as I could recall them and put it all in order as
it had happened. She looked concerned when I got to the bit about being bashed, but more interested than concerned. I'd obviously survived to do more sleuthing and that was what mattered to her. To me too. It took some time and the wine was finished when I got to the end. The hippies had melted away into the night early on in my exposition.

Kay toyed with her empty glass. “So you think Keir Baudin was lying. He knows more about his brother than he lets on?”

“Yeah, that's how it looks to me. He hates Warwick and he reinforces his father's disappointment with him. The old boy struck me as pretty tolerant so this Warwick must be a real bastard.”