Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (41 page)

‘He did not. All he wanted to know about me was whether I had a family who would miss me. And he groped me. Mr. Bill Smith is a pimp. And I am hoping to get a chance to punch his face. Several times,’ she said firmly.

‘Miss Dot would say we ought to be sorry for the poor soul,’ observed Ruth. ‘Coming up against you and all of us.’

‘Are you?’ asked Phryne, interested.

‘No,’ said Ruth. Tinker and Jane nodded.

‘Right,’ said Phryne. ‘War to the knife.’

***

The trunk had been purchased from a middle-range second-hand shop, and Dot had half filled it with shabby clothes, scuffed shoes and almost ragged underwear. She had added a couple of sprightly novels in yellow paper covers, some cosmetics, a bottle of cheap brandy, a toothbrush and seven cabinet photographs of someone’s relatives obtained from the same source. Phryne carried a shapeless handbag which contained Fern’s passport, a lipstick, some coins and a packet of Champion Ruby Twist, papers and matches. She also had some franked postcards of Australian Views and a small Vest Pocket camera, popular with soldiers.

Her Beretta was holstered in her garter worn high on her thigh, under the shapeless blue dress. She had donned shoes in which she could run. The high heels had done their work and could be presented to the poor, assuming that they wanted to court a broken ankle along with their other problems. Along her forearm, covered by the loose sleeve, her throwing knife was strapped. Phryne, as a helpless victim, was a complete failure.

But the golden wig cascaded factitious curls down her shoulders and the makeup was immoveable.

She sat down to a dinner at which she ate sparely and drank nothing but lemonade. This was going to be an evening where she needed every single wit about her, as plate armour was no longer worn in polite society.

Then Mr. Butler drove her to the station, and she took the train for Williamstown Beach: coat, trunk, down-at-heels actress and all.

She sat in the third-class compartment—Jobs for All had a fine sense of guarding their client’s money, curse them, or perhaps it was their own—and attracted no attention. The train was nearly empty, except for a group of local girls going home from work, who glanced at her, shrugged, and turned back to their own concerns. This was the second-to-last train on this line, and by the time Phryne arrived at Williamstown Beach, she was alone in her carriage. She got out, dragged her trunk from the guard’s van, and stood on the platform, looking as forlorn as she ought to have felt.

What she mainly felt was cold and annoyed. Had they suspected something? Had they refused the bait? She went through the turnstile and gave up her ticket. The guard gave her the second leer in two days. It would have been more effective if he had cleaned his teeth in the last year.

‘You waiting for Mr. De Vere?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Phryne. ‘His partner said he’d meet me here.’

‘He’ll be along,’ said the guard. ‘You wanna sit there on the bench, or come into the guard’s room with me?’

‘I’ll just sit out here,’ said Phryne. ‘I might have been born in Collingwood,’ she told him. ‘But it wasn’t yesterday.’

‘Just trying to be friendly,’ muttered the guard. ‘Can’t blame a man for tryin’. Most of ’em ain’t as stand-offish as you.’ He went into his little office, and slammed the grilled window shut, taking his huff with him.

Phryne sat down on the seat. Nothing to see in the dark but little lights in humpies. This was not the select part of Williamstown where she had been wont to dine. The place smelt of frying, dirt and despair. She heard a baby crying. Another two joined in.

Phryne felt for her tobacco and rolled herself a smoke. A girl materialised at her side.

‘Gimme a drag?’ she asked.

Phryne handed over the pouch, keeping a close eye on it in case it was snatched. The girl was fifteen, perhaps, thin as a lath and dirty in that ground-in way which would take several hot baths, a gallon of yellow soap and a city-council broom to eradicate. The girl rolled a thin smoke and handed the tobacco back. Phryne struck a match for both of them.

‘You waitin’ for Mr. Smarmy?’

‘I expect so,’ said Phryne.

‘You wanna run,’ advised the girl. ‘’E’s no good.’ She began to sidle away.

‘I know,’ said Phryne.

‘Oh. Right then. Just thought I’d warn yer. None of ’em come back,’ said the girl.

‘It’s all right,’ said Phryne.

The girl took a close look into Phryne’s eyes.

‘You’re not like the rest of ’em,’ she said.

‘No, I’m not, but don’t give me away.’

The grimy hand came out, crooked into a claw. Phryne put a penny into it. The fist shut.

‘Good luck,’ whispered the girl. ‘Here ’e comes. I c’n hear his bloody truck.’

And Phryne was alone again.

Dirty sand sprayed up against her legs as a battered van screamed to a stop. A classic flash cully got out and opened the door for Phryne, ordering a man in overalls to load her trunk into the vehicle.

‘Milady’s carriage awaits,’ he said. Phryne was interested. She had not seen such a paragon among con men since her Paris years. Cheap, smart suit, purple socks, patent-leather shoes, flamboyant tie, very large cubic zirconia tie pin, fedora. He sat beside her, just a little too close. She did not move away. He smelt of bay rum and cheap Egyptian cigarettes, just as she had known he would. She herself was scented strongly with Night of Passion, a steal from Coles at sixpence a flask. It had an unfortunate overscent of cabbages, but this man would not notice that.

‘What’s your stage name, Princess?’ he asked, sliding a hand up her thigh. As she did not want him to find her armament, she pushed his hand away and held it in both of her own. He was wearing far too many rings.

‘Fern,’ she said. ‘Where’s the ship?’

‘Not far,’ he said soothingly. ‘Just enough time for you and me to get acquainted.’

‘I ain’t that sort of girl,’ said Phryne, with complete accuracy.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Be nice! You’re on your way out tonight to a new life! Could spare me a kiss.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Phryne. ‘Are you coming on board with me?’

‘Yes, but not for too long. You’re the last. They’re leaving tonight.’

‘And you’re not coming too?’ asked Phryne, striving to sound disappointed.

‘No, so you better take me while you’ve got me, eh?’

‘I might at that,’ said Phryne, raising hope in his heart. Had he but known what Phryne was thinking of doing to him, he would not have felt so sanguine.

The van rumbled along an unmade road to a dock. There the flash man conducted Phryne out and ordered the overalled worker to carry the trunk. The worker obeyed, shouldering the piece of luggage as though he had been carrying things all his life. They walked along a wooden pier, Phryne picking her way across the uneven surface. Meanwhile the De Vere arm had slid around her waist, and a De Vere hand was groping for her breast. Phryne did not mind what he might find on her torso: it was all hers. Was this part of his payment or gratification? Phryne wondered, bumping into him to fit a breast into the hand. Getting to take advantage of the girls before they were sent away to a vile fate?

The nasty little leech, she thought. I do so hope I get a chance to drown him.

The ship was small and dirty and very uninspiring, but it did not look like sinking just yet. The gangplank was down, the worker was carrying her luggage aboard, so Phryne followed. A man in a greasy cap, who must be the captain. Another man in overalls, who leered. It is my week for being leered at, Phryne thought, and I hope that next week won’t be.

‘Milady’s cabin,’ said De Vere, conducting her down through a maze of companionways to a small door. He opened it. Inside were two bunks, a porthole and a chair.

‘I’m sharing?’ she asked.

‘No, the other girl hasn’t turned up. She’ll miss her chance of a new life.’

Clever girl, thought Phryne. ‘Do you miss London?’ she asked De Vere.

‘All the time,’ he said, and there was an actual trace of truth in his affected voice. His accent veered from cockney to county. ‘Now, how about that kiss?’

Phryne pulled him into the cabin and shoved him into the chair. Then she sat herself on his knees. He was laughing until he felt the sharp knife which had miraculously appeared in her hand and was pricking his throat.

‘You gotta shiv!’ he whispered.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Phryne. ‘And now you are going to tell me about this operation, about the little girls, and many other useful and beautiful things.’

‘Or?’ he asked.

‘I’ll cut your throat,’ said Phryne flatly. ‘This dress will have to go in the rag bag anyway. Your choice, Mr. De Vere. And if you’re a De Vere I’m Gef the Talking Mongoose. However, this is your chance to save your miserable life. I don’t like pimps and slavers and rapists, so I might kill you anyway—no, don’t move. Talk or not talk. Which is it to be?’

‘Talk,’ he decided.

‘Very wise.’

‘Wotcha want ter knaow?’ Pure cockney now.

‘The girls. Where are they?’

‘Below.’

‘Do you know what happens to them when they leave here?’

‘Port Said. They don’t come back. That’s all I know.’

‘Your contact in Port Said?’

‘Jim Simmonds in the High Commission.’

‘Where are the documents for these transactions?’

‘In me pocketbook,’ he said. ‘Don’t kill me!’

‘Anyone else in this with you?’

‘Just Bill.’

‘And the little golden-haired girls?’

‘Special order. We only got four.’

‘Are they on this boat?’

‘Nah, the Thisbe. This boat’s only got the tarts.’

‘Right,’ said Phryne, and struck him hard and scientifically behind the ear with the hilt of the knife. He collapsed very satisfactorily. She got off his knee, searched him for his pocketbook and stuffed it in her shoulder bag, arranged him neatly in a bunk, and cracked open the door. Someone was right outside.

‘You seen Viv?’ asked a man in overalls.

‘In here,’ said Phryne, and crowned him with the chair as he came in. She could not get him onto a bunk so she left him on the floor, tying his hands and feet together with his belt and his unsavoury handkerchief. Two.