The Serpent's Sting (23 page)

‘You were kind enough to give me your autograph, just the other day.'

‘Oh, well, thank you so much for coming to see the show.'

‘That was a very great pleasure, Mr Power.'

There was something rather lewd in the way he said this, and I moved quickly into the bar. I enjoyed no further recognition, and experienced both relief and disappointment in equal measure. I paid far too much for a glass of truly dreadful wine. The barman boasted its French credentials and claimed it had been in the Windsor's cellars since before the war.
Which war?
, I wondered It had long since lost its girlish laughter, and tasted of socks. I lied about its qualities to the eager barman, rather than complain and be accused of allowing success to go to my head.

There was a scattering of American officers in the bar. In fact, they were the only people there. I'd have thought that parliamentarians or their functionaries would have gathered here, given its proximity to the House, but perhaps ostentatious displays of privilege — and drinking at the Windsor doubtless fell into that category — were frowned upon when everyone was supposed to be doing his bit. The Americans didn't coalesce. They sat in discrete groups of two, or three at the most. I presume this reflected the vast size of the US forces. There was no reason to suppose that these men had anything in common beyond their uniform. I tried to find in them, as I swept the room, the glamour that allegedly attached itself to them. They were well turned out, and each of them was neatly shaved, with his hair, if he had sufficient, carefully Brylcreemed. Beyond this superficial tidiness they were no more remarkable in the charismatic force of their presence than their Australian counterparts.

They paid no attention to me. Had I been female, this would have been different. If the thundering Protestant preachers were to be believed — those same Puritan busybodies who'd put an end to Sunday entertainment — Melbourne's girls and women gave themselves far too freely to the American visitors. Consequently no woman, even a good woman, could meet the Yankee gaze without feeling his expectation that she would offer unseemly intimacy as part of the war effort.

I drank my wine slowly, not because it was pleasurable to do so, but because it was barely potable, and taking it in small sips was the only way to get it down. I was determined not to leave a drop, if only because of the absurd amount of money I'd paid for it. Each sip gathered the mouth, and I was careful to disguise my distaste, conscious as I was that the barman was watching me. Although he hadn't indicated the fact, I was sure he'd recognised me and was waiting to catch me in the act of behaving with theatrical self-importance. At least the slow imbibing of this oxidised, vinegary mess gave me an opportunity to gather my thoughts. There were two performances remaining of the Melbourne run of
Mother Goose
— tomorrow's matinee and tomorrow night's Puckapunyal show. We then had Friday and the weekend to rest before opening in Ballarat on Monday 4 January. The sets would be carted by truck to Ballarat on Saturday, and put in on Sunday, ready for our arrival. I thought giving us just two days off was rather mean, but Mr Wallace Parnell didn't believe in holidays, nor in the need for his performers to rest and recover.

The performances in Ballarat would at least give me the opportunity to distance myself from the house in Fitzgibbon Street, which had become a sort of Promethean punishment for me. I kept being drawn back to it, against all good judgement and common sense. It had assumed the same ghastly magnetism as a painful tooth, which one kept pressing as if reassurance was needed that, yes, it really was painful. If Geraldine and Mrs Ferrell hadn't organised to have Anthony Dervian taken to the railway line, was I prepared to help them move him? I'd been manoeuvred, and I'd manoeuvred myself, into a position where I'd engaged in actions that the law would find reprehensible and actionable. Mrs Ferrell would turn me in without any compunction, and so, it grieved me to admit, would Geraldine.

The bar closed at 6.00 p.m., and I emerged into Exhibition Street, having been obsequiously farewelled by the doorman, who'd insultingly slipped me his address as if I might be tempted to call on him. I walked north as the shadows lengthened in the slowly dimming gloaming, and began to feel sure that I was being followed. Once in Carlton, where foot traffic was thin, I was certain I had a tail, and either he wasn't good at his job or he was so brazen that he was indifferent to discovery. At one point, he closed the gap so significantly that I could have turned and spoken to him.

I decided against going to Mother's house before crossing the park to Fitzgibbon Street. I didn't want this person knowing where I lived, and I believed I could lose him once I'd entered the dark recesses of Princes Park. From the glimpses I caught of him, he was short, slight, and on the wrong side of fifty. Was he a policeman? Or was he someone from Military Intelligence? Surely not. The thought that he might have something to do with that unpleasant organisation made me uncharacteristically furious. They'd done their best to kill me, and here they were still interfering in my life. Did Brian have something to do with this? This thought made me even more furious, because this man's presence meant that Brian thought that I needed to be babysat, or worse, that he didn't trust me and wanted to keep tabs on me. This had to be nipped in the bud.

I stopped suddenly, in Lygon Street, a few yards from where the cemetery began, and waited for the tail to catch up. I turned to face him, and to my astonishment he actually hurried towards me. He didn't look like the criminal type, so I surmised that he was indeed a frank annoyance from Military Intelligence, boldly reminding me that I could never fully and finally escape their thrall. He stopped a few feet from me, put his hands on his knees to catch his breath, straightened up, and reached inside his suit coat.

With no time to think this through, I supposed that what he was reaching for was a gun. I leapt at him, grabbed his coat lapels, and kneed him in the groin. He doubled over and collapsed on the nature strip, where he drew his knees up to his chest and moaned terribly. As he did so, he dislodged what he'd been reaching for. A notebook, with a fountain pen attached to it, fell to the ground. I picked it up, expecting to find his impertinent notes about my comings and goings. I opened it to the page secured by the fountain pen's clip. There was my name, neatly printed, and beneath it was the space allocated for my autograph. I flicked through the pages of the notebook to find autographs of radio and theatre stars, including Gladys Montcrieff and the Great Levant.

The man at my feet was copiously sick, and I had to step quickly back to avoid getting the contents of his stomach on my shoes. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with horror. This wasn't how he'd expected his hunt for my autograph to end, and this wasn't a situation I'd encountered before, so I had no idea what to do next. Any explanation would be hopelessly inadequate, and adding my signature to his collection would hardly mollify him now. What if I'd injured him? He gurgled and kept his hands at his groin. Should I apologise? I experienced a complete failure of nerve, which I later put down to the number of stressful events that had crowded in on me, and which were continuing to crowd in on me. In the face of this prone, writhing creature, I reverted to childhood and ran away. Well, I walked away very quickly, knowing full well that that was the worst thing I could do, and yet I did it anyway.

I made straight for Mother's house, and found it dark and empty. It wasn't until I was safely in my bedroom that I discovered I'd inadvertently stolen the man's autograph book. In the confusion, I'd simply put it in my pocket. On the front page there was a small, sad
ex libris
which declared that the book belonged to Gregory Marlow. The ink had faded, and when I looked again through the pages I saw that Marlow had been collecting autographs in this book for thirty-five years. It was clearly a precious object, although not perhaps as precious as the fountain pen, which was inscribed on the cap ‘To Gregory, from your loving parents'. I ought to have hurried back to where I'd left him, but it was now dark, and Geraldine and Mrs Ferrell would be waiting impatiently for me — impatient for either my help, or to report me to the police.

I put Gregory Marlow to the back of my mind. He'd probably report his assault to the police, but the idea that William Power might callously attack a fan and steal his autograph book would sound so absurd that he would be assumed to be mentally disturbed. I would, however, try to find Mr Marlow and return his book to him. Before leaving for Fitzgibbon Street, I took out my own fountain pen — I don't know why, but I was averse to using Marlow's pen — and with a flourish I signed my name beneath where it had been printed. I added, ‘To Gregory. It was a pleasure to meet you.' The ink hadn't even dried when I saw the inappropriateness of this. I couldn't tear the page out, because Jack Davey's signature was on the other side. If I thought the evening couldn't get any worse, I was wrong.

To a casual passer-by, Mrs Ferrell's house was just another house that had seen better days. Parkville was full of such houses. To me, it was a great maw that threatened to swallow me into its acid-generating gut. It was in darkness, which was hardly surprising given what was probably still sitting in that front room. I switched off all my thought processes. I had no idea that I was capable of this, but as I went up the steps towards the front door, I entered a sort of fugue state where nothing registered. It was as if I was sleep-walking. I didn't knock. I simply opened the door, knowing somehow that it wouldn't be locked. It swung inwards, and I stepped into the hallway. Perhaps I wasn't breathing, because I didn't notice the familiar, stale odours that hung around the interior. There was a thin, dim line of light escaping from the bottom of the door to the front room. So they were in there, waiting.

Without pausing, I turned the doorknob and passed into the room. What I saw took a moment to assimilate. A figure closed the door behind me. In front of me, detective Strachan stood on one side of the chair where Anthony Dervian had sat, and an American officer stood on the other. On the seat of the chair, Private Dervian's uniform, in which I'd dressed him just a few hours earlier, was neatly folded. The American officer looked down at the uniform and then up at me.

‘Who the hell are you?' he said, in one of those American Brahman accents.

‘This,' said Strachan, with untrammelled incredulity, ‘is a great public nuisance named William Power. What
are
you doing here?'

‘I could ask you the same question.'

‘And I'd have a good answer. How about you?'

My dumbfounded air was answer enough. The American officer wasted no time in further niceties.

‘Do you know an American soldier named Private Anthony Dervian?'

‘Why would you think that I would?'

‘Because, Mr Power, you're here in this room.'

I knew precisely what his meaning was, and felt unwell.

‘Let me tell you why we're here,' he said, ‘because our soldier, Private Dervian, was a frequent visitor to this establishment. And Private Dervian has gone missing.' He paused for effect, and indicated with an open palm the chair beside him.

‘This is the uniform of Private Anthony Dervian. Perhaps you know the whereabouts of the soldier who should be wearing it.'

A voice behind me, less well-modulated, said, ‘And if Private Dervian isn't wearing his uniform, what is he wearing?'

I'm embarrassingly prone to dizzy spells when an accumulation of horrors overwhelms me. One came upon me now. My body defends itself in this awkward, feminine way, and I heard a distant voice — Strachan's, I think — say, ‘Oh, for God's sake. No, don't try to catch him. Let him hit the floor.' And that's precisely what I did.