The Marvellous Boy (14 page)

“Good. Behave yourself and you'll be in hospital before dawn.”

“I'm cold,” he said.

We got back to the nice, moonlit path and walked up it to the flagstoned porch in front of the house. I took out the H&R and thumbed the catch back and forward a few times.

“Put that bloody thing away Cliff, please,” Kay said.

“It's just for show.”

I rang the bell twice and we waited until a light came on in the house. There were footsteps inside near the door and Keir's voice came through blearily.

“Who is it?”

I tapped Rogers's good elbow with the gun.

“Raymond Rogers.”

The door opened before the porch light came on which is always a mistake. I had my foot in the door while Keir was still focusing on Rogers's face.

“What . . .” he said.

“It's no time for the snappy dialogue Baudin,” I said. “Your friend here didn't go about things in the right way.” I pushed him back into the house and shephered Rogers and Kay through the door. Keir was wearing a paisley dressing gown over his pyjamas; without the built-up shoes he was gnome-like. I switched out the porch light which left us with the soft, expensive lighting in the hall. Rogers leaned against the wall and a trickle of blood ran down it towards the carpet. Kay stood with her back against the door. In the sailor-suit dress and with her face pale and eyes dark she looked like a tragic mime. The scene terrified Keir Baudin.

“Rogers,” he stammered, “why are you . . .”

I made a backing motion with the gun and he backed. “Anyone here?”

“My father.”

“Where?”

He shuffled along the carpet and pointed to a door near the end of the hallway. We trooped down and I opened the door quietly. There was a night light on and its beam was falling directly on the old man's lobster pink skull. He was lying on his back and snoring softly; his cream clothes were folded neatly over a chair and his teeth were in a glass.

I told Baudin we wanted the sitting room and he shuffled off obediently. The room was big with an elaborate ceiling rose, too many pictures on the walls and fussy furniture.
Baudin was staring at Rogers as we sat down and he was licking his lips nervously. Kay went out and came back after a few minutes with a towel which she handed to Rogers; he dabbed at the blood and improvised a pillow for the arm. He didn't look at her or thank her.

“Let's make this fast,” I said to Baudin. “Rogers made a mess of things, he assaulted Miss Fletcher and we could press charges against him and you. I don't think you'd like that.”

“No.”

“Also he's in danger of losing his arm. The quicker you tell me things the quicker he gets treatment.”

“He means it,” Rogers whispered. “He means it, Mr. Baudin.”

“Right,” I said. “Now what's your problem, why all this aggravation?”

“Well, Warwick . . .” He stopped and it took a moan from Rogers to start him again but after that it came out fairly steadily. Warwick was blackmailing him. He'd lied about the last communication he'd had from him, now he produced it—a note scrawled on a postcard which was unstamped so it must have come in an envelope. It was undated:

Keir,

This will be the last time I ask you for money, I swear it. I'm on to something big but I need a decent appearance. $1,500 will do. Sen it c/- Honey 10a Clark Street Darlinghurst. Last time I promise. When I get the money I'll send your stuff back.

The note wasn't signed. I felt a surge of excitement at this nasty bit of work, but the timing was all-important.

“When did you get this?” Baudin looked relieved to get a question he could answer.

“A year ago, or a bit less.”

“Did you pay him?”

“Yes.”

“What did he have on you?”

The relief subsided, this was harder. He looked down at his tiny blue-veined feet. “Sexual things,” he muttered.

I thought about it and didn't like it much. Sending Rogers was an over-reaction even if he thought I was in collusion with Warwick; there had to be something more. I brought my hand up to rub my face and realised I was still holding the gun. Baudin jumped at the movement and shrank back in his chair.

“Christ you're jumpy. You're hiding something. Did he send you whatever it was, this . . . stuff he talks about?”

“No. He was always a cheat and a liar.”

“And you're an upright man, I suppose.” I was feeling weary and out of ideas. I looked across at Kay who moved her shoulders in a sort of shrug. Suddenly I was angry, furious at the little creep and his thug who'd made me act like a sadist. I felt dirty and cheap and had to take it out somehow.

“Why did you send Rogers after us?”

“I told you,” Baudin said. “I thought you and Warwick . . .”

“Crap! I want the real reason.”

Baudin just stared at me and I forced myself to smile and relax in the chair.

“All right,” I said. “We'll just sit here until I get it. That okay with you Raymond?”

“Jesus,” Rogers croaked. “Mr. Baudin, this arm's on fire. Talk to him, for God's sake. I've got to get help.” Baudin said nothing and Rogers screamed: “Talk to him!” Kay had the look I'd seen on her face when I'd clobbered
Rogers. She was on my side but scared of me too. I felt I was losing the grip and getting dirtier.

“You talk to me,” I said to Rogers. “Give me a clue, I'm easily satisfied.”

“Indonesia,” Rogers said, “Indonesian oil, he's . . .”

“Rogers, don't . . .”

“You shut-up!” I waved at Baudin with the gun hand. “What about Indonesia? Give us a bit more.”

Kay was leaning forward in her chair, professionally alert. Rogers wet his lips and his eyes bulged with the effort of talking.

“He's cleaning up money for them, using his father's companies. He thought you might be on to him. I don't know much about it, I swear. It's a lot of money. Jesus God, my arm!”

I stood up and beckoned to Kay. “We're leaving,” I said to Baudin. “Mucking around with Indonesian Colonels is about your style. I don't give a damn. But if you've lied to me about your brother I'll come back and see you. You'd better get him to hospital.”

Kay and I walked out and I put the revolver back in my pocket along with Warwick Baudin's note. I could feel the nervous energy in Kay as she walked beside me, her shoulder and head nearly on a level with mine. She was steady and keen and I suddenly wished that I was on my own, that I could just get in the car and drive off. By myself. I was reminded of why I always tried to work alone—because I'd never learned to trust anyone but myself. We got in the car and I sat on the passenger side tense and mistrusting and not wanting to be that way. She reached for me but sensed my mood and drew back.

“Do you want me to drive?”

“Yes.” I wanted to shout
No. Go away!
But I didn't, I
was hoping the feeling would pass. My head ached where I'd been hit and the lack of sleep was getting to me. I found the other bottle of whisky, pulled the cap off and took a drink. She started the engine; I cradled the bottle in my lap and waited for the liquor to do me some good.

“Cliff, what's wrong?”

I didn't answer. How could I tell her I didn't trust her? How could I say, I don't trust you to keep quiet about this juicy story. I said nothing and took another drink. She drove well but her fingers were tightening on the wheel and she was going too fast. I thought of the fights I'd had in cars with Cyn, fights so bad I'd crashed my fist down on her leg so that she wept with pain and rage but kept driving, fights so bad she'd ripped levers and buttons off the dashboard and kicked out the windshield. And I thought that my distrustfulness must have contributed to those battles. I forced myself to reach over and touch her arm gently.

“Pull over Kay, pull in here.”

She looked at me suspiciously but she did it. I held her close to me, tight and warm; she resisted for a minute and then let go and we got as close together as we could in the front seat of an old Falcon. We stayed like that for a while, saying things that I don't remember except that they meant we were going to be good to each other. We eased apart and she drove again; I didn't drink any more whisky and I put the H&R Defender under the seat. It was still dark at the motel and we got inside and took our clothes off and went to bed. She fell asleep almost straight away with her head on my shoulder. I lay awake with my mind working, listening to a branch knocking against the window, but not for long.

The room was very light when I woke up and Kay was still sleeping beside me; her back was towards me and she was curled up in a tangle of sheets. I stroked her shoulder.

“Hey, it's morning.”

“Jesus” she muttered from the huddle, “what day is it?”

I had to think. “Sunday.”

She curled tighter. “Thank God.”

I pulled gently at the sheets and she pulled back and soon we were making love, starting gently and ending up in a hard, bucking rhythm. The bed was a ruin and it was nearly midday when we reached the motel coffee shop.

She ate appreciatively again and picked up toast crumbs from her plate with a moistened finger.

“You'll be heading back to Sydney then, to follow this up?”

“Yes, but not quite yet. You said you could ask around about the Baudins, can you do that today—Sunday?”

“Yeah, no problem. What do you want exactly?”

“Anything. I'd be hoping for something on Warwick's cock-ups—cars, girls, and cheques they said. Something might have made the papers. He was a jock too, there could be a photo.”

I paused and chose the words carefully. “There's a story in the Indonesian business. I suppose you'd be interested in that?”

“Mm, I'd have to wait until you've cleared all this up, wouldn't I?”

“Probably, but you never know. A bit of press could be useful at some stage. That's happened before.”

She nodded and finished her coffee. I made a cigarette and she pulled a face.

“What?”

“You shouldn't smoke.”

“I know.” I lit the cigarette, drew hard on it, and blew the smoke away from her. “It's a strange case this. It looks to be plain sailing except that there's someone trying to get in on it. I have to assume they're trying to stop me reaching the . . .”

“Foundling?”

“He's hardly that. It sounds as if he had the best of everything.”

“Aren't you scared?”

“No. I can't see a lot of violence in this—Brain could have had a thin skull, and I only got a tap. it's one of the things that puzzles me.”

“If Warwick is the lost grandson, maybe someone knows that and has an interest in him not turning up.”

“Yeah, but why not just put him out of the picture—why mess about with the bit players like me?”

“Maybe the person doesn't want Warwick to prosper but can't bring himself to kill him, or can't afford to.”

“Keir you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe. I have to find out who benefits most from things staying just as they are. I've got someone working on that.”

She went quiet and I finished my cigarette and picked up the bill. She shifted in her seat, the broad, almost Tartar face was clouded and she spoke nervously, without her usual crispness:

“D'you worry about the morality of this, Cliff?”

I went on guard. “What morality's that?”

“Don't snarl, I mean about digging back like this, uncovering all these things, splitting people up.”

“It doesn't bother me,” I said but I knew I was lying. It did bother me but I couldn't help it. Shallow graves got uncovered, secrets were divulged, liars were found out—it happened all the time and I was just an agent, just a lever. Sometimes there were happy endings. Sometimes. She looked down and I thought
Oh Christ, more trouble.
But when she lifted her head all seemed well. She gave me the crooked smile and rooted in her bag for a pen and paper. Our hands touched when she handed the paper across and the contact was still good. We were both skirmishing I felt, both mistrustful, but hoping. It could have been worse.

“Phone me at the paper in a couple of hours,” she said. “No. In one hour, I should have something by then.”

“Okay, what're you doing tonight?”

“Depends,” she said and got to her feet. “Depends on a lot of things.” She waved and walked breezily out of the place. I watched her go in the crumpled dress, slim back and long legs and the evening shoes that looked oddly pathetic in the daylight. I sat and thought and the Chatterton case and Kay got all tangled up in my mind until I didn't know what I was asking questions about or what answers I wanted to find.

I rinsed my shirt again, shaved rough again and took a dip in the pool. The chlorine was fresh and sharp and the water was cold: I swam hard, lap after lap, and showered and put
on the clean shirt and felt good. Then I called the number Kay had given me; her voice was brisk and efficient on the phone but there was warmth in it too. She sounded pleased with herself.

“Warwick Baudin sounds like a real rat,” she said.

“What does he do—rape old ladies?”

“I wouldn't be surprised. He was in all sorts of trouble. He crashed a few cars that weren't his.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. High spirits maybe.”

“No, there's a nasty streak in him. There's a story that he sold drugs here, not just grass, and made money at it. Then there was a bust and he got off. The word was that he informed on the others. He left Canberra soon after that. Oh yes, he assaulted his father in public once but it was hushed up.”

“Choice. Anything on Keir?”

“Not much. He sounds like the dullest man alive. He went to school and university here, undistinguished at both. Then he went to work for his Dad. He's sort of never left home.”