The Marvellous Boy (16 page)

The phone crackled. “Mr. Hardy, are you there?”

I said I was.

“I expected to hear from you sooner. Where have you been?”

“To the south coast and Canberra.”

“What have you learned?”

“Henry Brain is dead—you know that. Nurse Callaghan is dead too.”

A long sigh whispered through. “So you have nothing to report?” Her voice was empty of any interest in the lives and deaths of Brain and Callaghan. She'd known them both but they meant nothing to her except as stepping-stones to what she wanted. It reminded me that the Chattertons were ruthless elitists, not humanitarians. There was no point in
caring
whether the old woman got what she wanted or not. It was a job.

“I didn't say that,” I said soothingly. “I spoke to Brain before he died and I may have spoken to the doctor who delivered your grandson. I'm in the process of tracing that person now.”

“Who is he?” she said excitedly. “Tell me about him.”

I stalled. “I don't think that would be wise; he may not be the right man and it may not be possible to locate him.”

“I've never heard so many may nots. I hope you're not covering up a failure, Mr. Hardy.”

That caustic arrogance in the voice made me want to slam the phone down but I took a breath and used the only weapon I had.

“I'll give you one more may not,” I said harshly. “You may not like him when and if you meet him.”

“If he is the right man, Mr. Hardy, he will have character, he will be fundamentally sound.” Her tone was less confident than the words. “Perhaps you can tell me one more thing: since you are determined to play cat and mouse, has the man in question been brought up by . . . respectable people?”

It was easy to see what she was thinking. A man of thirty is fully formed or should be. She could do some polishing, and a bit of money spent properly could do wonders, but she couldn't make a judge's grandson out of a brickie's mate. I put the needle in by delaying the reply.

“Very respectable.”

“Thank you, that is good.” Her voice sounded younger, lighter, and I wondered if she was patting her iron grey hair. It would be interesting to see how she'd tackle the future heir if I could produce him. I tried to tell her about some of the obstacles I'd encountered but she'd turned off. I wanted to ask about her will and maybe I could have got an answer; I was the life-jacket of her hopes and this could be used to control her natural tendency to treat me as a chattel. But I didn't know who could be listening on other phones in the house, so I asked her for more money instead.

“Verna will attend to it,” she said. “Press on, Mr. Hardy. When you have a definite result we will have another meeting. Goodbye.” She was playing it cautious again, I thought, and regretting the outburst of enthusiasm. The boy would just have to learn that Grandma didn't let it all hang out.

Miss Reid came back on the line and I told her that Lady C. had given the OK for some money. She didn't question it, which might have meant that she'd been listening. I
asked her for three days' fees and seventy-five dollars in expenses.

“Have you receipts for the expenses?”

“Some,” I said, “bars and massage parlours don't issue them. I'll send you a list.”

“That won't be necessary,” she said crisply. “I'm authorised to pay you. A cheque will be sent today.” She hung up.

I squinted out the window at the day which had turned grey and ambiguous. There was a broad, pale band of sunlight across the wall of my neighbour's house and a fine vapour was lifting off his elegant ferns. My own garden is low and scrubby and features plants renowned for their ability to withstand neglect. I locked up a couple of copies of the photographs of Warwick Baudin, pocketed a set, and left the house. Clark Street in Darlinghurst is narrow and dog-legged so that, at the bend, the high terrace houses seem to lean over it the way houses do in Europe. The traffic runs only one way and the street rises sharply at the end where it meets Oxford Street. It was the middle of a warm, still day and the air was heavy with motor fumes and dust. The street was cluttered with illegally parked cars and barefoot people in jeans and men in three-piece suits.

A girl was sitting in the fitful sun in front of number eight. She had on a yellow, Chinese-design, silk dressing gown which had fallen open to the waist; her breasts were pale and heavy with pink, spreading nipples. She was filing her nails and her tongue was caught between her teeth in concentration. She looked at me with just the merest flicker of interest, the way an old dog looks at an old bone. I put my hand on the gate of number ten.

“They won't be up yet,” she said in a heavy accent, Dutch or German, “can I help you?”

“I want to see a girl named Honey,” I said. “Am I at the right place?”

“Yah.” She stopped filing. The dressing gown slipped open around the narrow tie belt and I could see a swelling of white, soft belly and the top of a thatch of blonde pubic hair. “She lives there but she is not a girl. Do you like it with old women?”

“Not really. Miss . . .”

“Inge.” She shrugged, her plump breasts shook like blancmange. “You're about thirty years too late then.” She laughed and loose flesh moved under her chin, on her chest and down her hairless white legs.

“Don't listen to her, dear.” The voice came from above our heads and I looked up. A woman was leaning over the rail on the upstairs balcony of number ten. Her hair was purple and she was wearing a purple dressing gown. Her voice was low-pitched and the vowels were over-careful. “Wait there dear, I'll be right down. Be careful of that sun, Inge, you don't want to ruin your complexion.”

Acne scars pitted the blonde girl's face. She saw me noticing them, turned pink, and went back to filing her nails.

I opened the gate and approached the door of number ten. The house was an old two-story terrace; the brickwork had been rendered over and marked to simulate sandstone blocks. It had had at least three earlier paint jobs and now it was a flaking, dusty green with the window trimmings picked out in yellow. There was an iron-framed garden chair on the porch and two pot-plants—the pots overflowed with cigarette ends.

The door opened and the woman in purple struck an attitude in the doorway; she was tall and thin and used to making the most of her figure. She cocked one hand up on
her hip and let the other drift out aristocratically towards me. I put one of the cards in it.

“That's me,” I said. “Would your name be Honey?”

“That's right darling, I'm Honey Gully.” She peered at the card and the set smile faded. “Trouble?” The careful control peeled away like the paint from her house and the word came out harsh and anxious.

“I don't think so, Miss Gully, can I come in?”

She hesitated. “It's early, place is a mess.”

“I don't mind,” I said. “It won't take long and I'll pay you for your time.”

She brought her face up to mine and squinted to focus on it. A network of lines around her eyes and mouth had flecks of make-up embedded in them. Her mouth was wide and just beginning to fall in; she could have been a beaten-up forty or a well preserved sixty. She drew back and her eyes relaxed into a pale blue myopic vagueness.

“I don't like this,” she said. “I'm not paid for my time, what do you want?”

I bustled up close and forced her into the hallway. She gave way and I bustled some more and closed the door behind me. Her forward drifting tendril of a hand became a nervous thing that plucked at the neck of the velveteen dressing gown, drawing it higher and safer.

“Where's your room, Honey?”

Maybe she liked my honest face, maybe she thought that if I'd been going to hit her I'd have done it by now; she shrugged. “Top of the stairs,” she said. “On the right.”

“Let's get up there and talk.” I took hold of her upper arm and my fingers met around it; she had bones like a factory-bred chicken and skimpy flesh to match. I propelled her in front of me up the stairs, using my weight. The stair rail was draped over with female clothing and there was a
smell of stale scent, sweat and cigarette smoke in the air.

Honey Gully's room was full of early afternoon light and the signs of her own creativity; silk-covered cushions were scattered about on the floor and the low bed and some tapestries of Oriental design showing sexually ambiguous figures in contorted positions, adorned the walls. There was a dressing table covered with the usual stuff, a heavy carved chest and a high bookshelf crammed with paperback and hard-cover books.

She shook free of me and glided into the room; dropping down onto a big cushion by the bed, she drew her knees up, the purple tented up into an elegant triangle.

“Well?”

My aggressiveness had subsided on the stairs and dropped away completely now. Somehow the room was pathetic as if it were the work of a frustrated artist or a woman playing at being a college girl. Standing awkwardly in the doorway I let her regain the initiative. The chin cupped in the hand and the incline of the head were probably perfected twenty years before at least, but the gesture still had charm and some freshness.

“Well, I don't think you're here for a screw, you don't look the type. If you want information on someone you're out of luck. I don't ask their names and I shut my ears if they try to tell me.” She put her palms over her ears and grinned mockingly. I grinned back and came into the room.

“You're quite a girl,” I said and meant it. “You must have been beating the men off a few years back.”

“I still am, darling.” She tossed her head. “You'd be surprised how many men like drooping tits.” She played with the catch on her gown. “Care to see?”

“Not just now. I want to talk about someone who probably saw the whole show.”

“I told you, no names.

“You can't pull that, Honey.” I tapped my pocket. “I've got his picture. I can tell you this, you won't be getting him in trouble. If you can help me it's a stroke of luck all round.”

She sighed. “I could use a few strokes myself—of luck that is.” Her own wit cheered her up. “Let's have a look at him.”

“Better put your glasses on, Honey,” I said.

She stuck her hand under the big pillow on the bed and pulled out an embroidered, beaded case which she opened and took out a pair of glasses with fuse-wire thin gold frames. She hooked them onto her fine, experienced face where they looked stylish.

“They look good,” I said. I lowered myself onto one of the cushions and took out the photo-prints.

“Rubbish,” she said as I handed the prints over, “they make me look like a hag, which I am.” But she was pleased just the same and disposed to co-operate. She looked carefully at the pictures for a long time, then pulled off her glasses and stared across the mile or so of space between us.

“They're not very good of him.”

My heart bumped. “But you do know him?”

She leaned back, vamping. “Many times, many times.”

I was too tense for it. “Where is he now?” I rasped.

“Haven't a clue,” she said cheerfully. “Haven't seen him for ages.”

“Jesus! You don't know where he lived?”

“No dear, he never took me home to meet his Mum.”

I wasn't really let down; I hadn't expected him to be boarding there, but I'd hoped Honey would still be in touch with him. Still, a year isn't a long time, I thought. The trail was still warm compared to some I've followed and it was time to consolidate, get all I could on him, and look for the next doorway.

I made a cigarette while she fiddled with the pictures. Her face was hard and vain but there was humour in it and in the set of her lean body. She looked as if a shrug might always be her next movement. I blew smoke and put the match in a seashell ashtray.

“You must have liked this one, Honey?”

“Why d'you say that?” She went on fiddling nervously.

“Do you let all your clients use you as a mail drop?”

She looked up shrewdly. “Know about that eh? Let me tell you, I was furious. It broke all my rules.”

“Like not knowing their names?”

“Well, that gets broken from time to time. No, I mean about getting involved, families and all that.”

“I get it. Something came from Canberra?”

“Canberra, yes.”

“Was that the last you saw of him, when he picked that up?”

“The very last. I wasn't sorry, he was no good.”

“In what way?”

“In every way—mean, selfish, rough . . .”

“He was violent?”

“I'll say. I thought he was going to eat me the first time. Look, this isn't embarrassing you?”

“No, I'm older than I look. Go on.”

“He really liked the old stuff, you know? Kinky for it.”

“Kinky in what way?”

“Just . . . very keen, very appreciative of me and I'm no picture. I've been through the mill and I've got the marks to prove it. He lapped it up.”

“Did he have much money?” I butted the cigarette in the seashell; the old tart fanned the smoke away from her face irritably and reached under her gown to scratch. I decided she was closer to sixty than forty.

“He didn't have much money,” she said slowly, “but enough. Most of what he had must have gone on booze.”

“What did he drink?”

“Everything, but he never got really pissed. He was big, see? I mean really big,” she tapped the pictures. “These don't show it. He must have been close to fifteen stone and getting heavier. I suppose he could carry a lot of grog.”

“All right, now let's try to pin it down a bit. When did this letter from Canberra come?”

“About a year ago, October or November last year. Look, what
is
all this . . .?”