It was one of those fifty-fifty days in Sydney; half the sky was grey, half was blue and it might rain or the temperature might hit thirty. Just then, in my office, which has spare lines as to furniture and a draught under the door it wasn’t hot, but my client was sweating. Mr Matthews was the sweaty type-his suit was a bit tight for his early middle-age spread; he carried too much flesh to be comfortable except perhaps in the bath or in bed. Still, there were no holes in his shoes and he was my first client in eight days.
‘He’s like a leech, Mr Hardy’, he said. ‘Like a vampire.’
The two descriptions didn’t line up for me, did he mean something slug-like and fat or a sleeker, classier bloodsucker? But I got the idea and he was the client, he could use whatever similes he liked. It was his old mum he was worried about.
‘I’ve been told that you’re good’, he said nervously. ‘I mean.. ’
‘You mean I won’t blackmail you?’ I said.
‘That’s right, I’m no good at blackmail, I can never find the right words in the newspapers to make up the threatening letter.’
His hands were pale and puffy, and he clasped and unclasped them as if he was practising handshakes. He looked even more nervous than before-nervousness is standard in a client, a sense of humour is a bonus.
I sighed. ‘I’m pretty honest, Mr Matthews, and I might be able to help you. Tell me more about this leech who has his hooks into your mother.’
He looked at his watch and I guessed he was in his lunch hour; leisured clients are a vanishing breed. ‘My father died six months ago’, he said. ‘He was old, it was expected. He left my mother quiet well provided for. She has a house free of debt, his superannuation and some income from shares and such.’
‘Do you live with her?’ I asked.
‘Oh no, I have a flat quite close. I’m single, but I left home many years ago.’ He let the words hang there for a bit, awkwardly. ‘I didn’t get along with my father,’ he added.
‘I see. What was this vampire’s name again?’
He looked puzzled for a second, the colourful language he’d used wasn’t his usual style. ‘Oh, that was a bit excessive perhaps-Jacobs, Henry Jacobs. He handled the arrangements for my father’s funeral, that’s how he and my mother became acquainted. He’s been dancing attendance on her ever since.’
‘What sort of attendance?’
‘Flowers; I suppose he gets them cheap. He takes her to dinner, it’s appalling.’
‘How old is your mother, Mr Matthews?’
‘Oh, not old, fifty-five I suppose. She was younger than father.’ Again, he hadn’t finished, he seemed to have a need to explain. ‘I’m an only child.’
He was a man of thirty-plus, still referring to himself as a child. It sounded odd and had a scent of parlours and lavender.
‘Tell me about this Jacobs.’
He described Jacobs as middle-aged and portly. He thought he might be a foreigner from the way he dressed, mentioning particularly his highly polished shoes. His funeral parlour was in Manly where Matthews and his mother also lived. I wrote down the addresses and leaned back in my chair; it creaked dangerously and I came forward quickly; the desk was a bit rickety and the carpet square was arranged off centre to hide the holes. I needed the work but I had to give him a few hard truths first.
‘I charge one hundred and twenty-five dollars a day and expenses, Mr Matthews. I also need a retainer of two hundred and fifty dollars.’
He didn’t blink. ‘I’ll be happy to pay it’, he said.
‘I have to do something’. He got out a useful-looking cheque book and I waited until he was writing before asking the next question.
‘What does your mother say about Jacobs?’
He looked up. ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking her about her personal life’, he said firmly.
Keep writing I thought, and he did. That would be right of course, he wouldn’t ask her, she wouldn’t ask him and nobody would ask dad. Clean rooms, neat garden, polished car and a shandy at Christmas if you were lucky. It wasn’t exciting-it was drawn blinds stuff, a high hedge and a smile for the neighbours, but it has compensations, it can make for very healthy building society accounts; I gave him a businesslike thrust. ‘Do you know anything about Jacobs’ business associates?’
‘Not really. He has a solicitor crony who has an office nearby. He’s introduced my mother to him. I’m very worried about it.’
‘Why?’
‘I think he might be trying to get her to change her will.’
‘Aha’, I said.
Manly is like a foreign country to people like me who live on the other side of the water. The roads are wide and the hills are gradual; some of the streets and cul-de-sacs have a European feel. Henry Jacob’s funeral parlour was genuinely Australian, that is to say, a genuine copy of the Californian model. The building was long and low with smoked glass windows and courtyards covered with little white stones. The funeral column in The News had told me that a show was scheduled for that afternoon. I parked across the street and watched the people dressed in dark, hot clothes mope about while a couple of gleaming limousines disgorged the living and transported the dead. Jacobs wans’t hard to spot; he had the act off perfect, the slow movement, the solicitude, the Nazi-like direction of the underlings. He was carrying thirty pounds he didn’t need, looked swarthy and seemed to shine somewhat from a distance. His teeth were very white and he showed them a lot. After the cortege had left I walked across the street and strolled past the sanctum; a grey-uniformed zombie standing outside the entrance gave me a hard stare. Next to Jacobs’ place was a luxury car showroom, then a Vietnamese restaurant and then a nasty cream brick building which carried a brass plate in front-W J Hornfield, LLB(Syd), Solicitor. A fine profession, I thought; my mother had wanted me to go in for the law and my father had thought I’d make a plumber-I’d been a terrible disappointment to them both.
I turned to go back to my car and saw Jacobs, who’d sent his 21C to the burning, coming out of his establishment. The zombie stepped out of a silver grey Jag which he’d driven up, so the master only had to walk twenty feet to get behind the wheel. He drove off sedately and I re-crossed the road; a woman who’d been gardening out in front of her house was watching Jacobs’ car as it cruised off. I bustled up to her fence.
‘That was Mr Jacobs was it, madam?’
‘That was him.’ She was small and old, but not frail.
‘Damn’, I said. ‘Missed him again.’
‘Are you burying someone? Give Henry a miss.’
‘No, I’m a journalist, I’m writing an article on the funeral business and I wanted to talk to Mr Jacobs. But that’s an interesting comment, madam. Would you care to add to it?’
She smiled, and all the lines on her face responded; they seemed to have been etched by good humour. ‘I might; is it worth anything?’
‘Well… expenses… I could pay you for your time, say ten dollars for a half hour chat?’
‘Come inside.’
The house was brick and tile, solid and unpretentious. It was darkish, cool and well-kept without being fussy. She sat me down in the living-room and went off to make coffee. When she came back I had the ten out and gave it to her.
‘Thanks.’ She put the money on the mantelpiece between some china dogs. ‘Black?’
‘Please.’ I got out a notebook. ‘How long has Mr Jacobs been in business here Mrs…?’
‘Wetherell, Norma Wetherell. Not too long, four or five years, I’ve been here for forty. It was all different then.’
I’m sure. Why did you say he should be avoided?’
‘He’s a crook.’ She put three spoons of sugar in her coffee and stirred vigorously. ‘A friend of mine buried her husband with him; lovely man he was, it was a shame. I tell you if he’d been alive and heard what that man charged, he’d have punched his nose.’
I smiled. ‘Bit steep is he?’
‘Steep? He’s a thief. Extra for this, extra for that.’
I made some notes. ‘Umm, he’s got a nice car. But I suppose they all make money in that game. No law against it.’
She leaned forward. ‘He’s buried two wives since he’s been here’, she whispered. ‘Rich ones too I’ll be bound.’
I almost choked on the instant coffee. ‘How d’you know that?’
She grinned, pleased at the reaction. ‘Seen ‘em, both of ‘em. He’s got a flat at the back of the place. There they were, shopping, doing the laundry and then… phftt!’ She drew a finger across her throat.
‘When did this happen?’
‘One just after he got here; the other, let’s see, about two years back. Had your ten dollars worth?’
‘Nearly; how do you know they were his wives, actually wives?’
‘Notices in the paper. Course, he didn’t lay them down himself. It’s a wonder, though, still I suppose he got a cut rate.’
I got up. ‘Well thank you Mrs Wetherell, that’s all very helpful, I won’t quote you of course.’
‘Quote away’, she said cheerfully, ‘All true.’
‘We’ll see. Just one more thing, do you know anything about Mr Hornfield, the solicitor?’
She was sharp, suspicious at this development.
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I heard he and Jacobs were partners.’
‘Could be, the little rat.’
‘Have you heard bad reports on him too?’
‘No, not a word. But you should see him, he’s the image of Billy Hughes, image of him. Little rat.’
I thanked her again, and went out to my car thinking that I could probably get more from her if I needed it.
The computer is a terrible thing when it’s misused for bank statements and rates notices, but it beats everything for saving the eyes and legs of private detectives. A phone call to Harry Tickener of The News won me admittance to the paper’s computer room and an introduction to the pimply kid who ran the show. He looked about seventeen, but was probably ten years older. I told him I wanted to ask his friend all about Henry Jacobs.
‘Classifieds or news?’ His hands caressed the buttons on the panel in front of him like those of an archer smoothing the feathers of a shaft.
‘Both.’
He did all the things they do-punched buttons, looked at screens, ripped paper and swore until he handed me a bundle of tabloid-sized print-out sheets. I looked at it doubtfully.
‘More than one Jacobs?’
He nodded. ‘Several, and that only goes back seven years.’ He took a Mars bar out of a drawer, peeled it and chewed. ‘Lucky it wasn’t Smith’, he said through chocolate and caramel.
Back home, coffee and pen to hand I pored over the sheets and the coded summaries and they yielded up some of their secrets at last. One of Henry Jacobs’ hearses had been involved in an accident five years before; Henry had stood unsuccessfully for the local council around the same time; his wife Gladys had been laid to rest aged fifty-four five years ago and Ellen Mary Jacobs, aged fifty-six, had followed her but two years later. R.I.P. Henry was very busy at his trade; there were hundreds of notices of funerals he’d handled-men, women and children. After depressing myself with this data for a while I found a tiny nugget of significance-a high proportion of the folk who came posthumously into Henry’s care had shuffled off at St Mark’s Hospital, Harbord.
I pecked away at the typewriter for a bit, applying for copies of the death certificates of Gladys and Ellen and enclosing the correct fee and S.A.E. as directed to Dr C P Hardy, c/-Associate Professor P J White, Department of History, University of Sydney. Peter was accustomed to the subterfuge, it amused him to assist what he called the forces of reaction. Then I phoned Matthews; it was after six o’clock, definitely time for a drink and I wondered what Matthews was doing in his Manly flat. I had the answer when he lifted the phone-a burst of gunfire and a musical crescendo. He excused himself, turned the sound down, and I told him the gist of what I’d learned. I was hoping that he’d tell his mother and that would be the end of Henry. He was too stunned to reply so I fed this idea to him.
‘No, it wouldn’t work’, he said slowly. ‘She wouldn’t believe me. She thinks…’
‘Thinks what?’
‘That my regard for her is… unhealthy. I hated my father, as I told you…’
Oh, Sigmund, I thought. ‘Well, I’d better press on. How’s your mother’s health?’
‘First class, she’s never been ill to my knowledge. Mr Hardy, do you think she’s in danger, real physical danger?’
‘I doubt it. Still keeping well, is she?’
‘Oh, yes, as ever.’ His voice changed and a despairing, fastidious note crept in. ‘She’s seeing him tonight, they’re going to dinner. Mr Hardy, I don’t suppose you could, sort of keep an eye on them? I’m really very worried.’
I agreed to do some surveillance and pick the happy couple up at her place at 8 pm. I told Matthews to have a few drinks, and not to worry.
‘I don’t drink’, he said.
On that happy note I rang Harry Tickener, who stays at his desk until they turn the lights and air conditioning off.
‘How’d you go with the computer?’ he asked.
‘Great. Would there be a human being around there who could do five minutes work? The person would have to be able to read.’
He sighed. ‘That could be tough. Hold on, Martin’s here.’ I heard him shout away from the phone: ‘You can read can’t you, Martin?’ Martin must have replied heatedly because Harry laughed. Then he said: ‘Okay Cliff, Martin’s ready, what is it?’
I told him and hung up. He called back fifteen minutes later-it’s an efficient, tidy world we die in-Gladys Jacobs and Ellen Mary Jacobs had both been cremated.
I showered, shaved and dressed; dinner, I was thinking, didn’t sound like a bad idea. And a man like Mr Matthews with no discernible vices should be able to afford the tab. I drove back into that alien territory and parked a little way up the street from Mrs Matthews’ solid residence. It had some nice old native trees in the front of its rather wild garden; the front fence needed paint.
At eight precisely, Jacobs arrived in the Jag. He dropped a burning cigarette in the gutter and didn’t bother to step on it with his highly polished shoe. He’d changed from the creeping Jesus outfit into a dark suit; his cuffs and collar gleamed under the street light. He was inside for about five minutes and then he came out to the car with a woman on his arm. She was a surprise; taller than her son and taller than Jacobs, her hair was white but she carried herself well, and her face in profile was handsome. She wore a green dress of some soft material and had a light, lacey thing thrown around her shoulders. Jacobs handed her into the car with an almost professional air and we set off for the city.
The awful truth dawned on me as we crept through the city streets-our destination was the restaurant in the clouds where they charge you for the view, the carpet, the mirrors and the head waiter’s aftershave. I couldn’t face that. They parked, I parked and after making sure that they were strapped into their eating seats, I went across the road to a serve-yourself place and served myself. The steak and wine were good and Matthews saved some money.
It was well after ten when they came out; Mrs Matthews was laughing at Henry’s wit, his colour was high but he looked like a virile, mature man who enjoyed life perhaps a little too much. Mrs Matthews was no weeping widow-her handbag swung jauntily, she exuded style. It hit me that I knew nothing about her other than what her son had told me. I had that floundering feeling, like a man slipping down a steep roof with nothing to grab on to. They walked along the street to the Jag, stopping to look in windows, close together, sometimes touching, like two people who’d known each other a long time. I skulked behind, feeling lonely and voyeuristic. We drove back to Manly; Jacobs piloted the big car well, his wining and dining hadn’t affected his driving. They went into Mrs Matthews house, lights came on; I sat in my car and wished I still smoked. Lights went off, I drove home.
Next morning I phoned Matthews at his business number. A non-committal female voice told me that I’d contacted the Milton Insurance Company. It sent a shiver through me; I’d worked for a series of insurance companies as an investigator, the companies had got seedier and so had I. Matthews answered his phone with one brusque word.
‘Claims.’
‘Hardy, Mr Matthews. How’s business?’
He ignored the pleasantry. ‘I won’t be able to talk on this line, Mr Hardy. Did you… ah…?’
‘Yeah, I tagged along. It was interesting. I don’t think she’s in imminent danger. Tell me, what’s her profession?’
‘Oh, didn’t I mention that? She’s a nurse; well, a matron actually.’
‘Where?’
‘St Mark’s, Harbord.’
‘How long has she been there?’
‘Ten, twelve years, I’m not sure. What are you getting at?’
‘Too soon to say. You’re sure your mother only met Jacobs recently, after your father’s death?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘You sound uncertain.’
‘Well, I don’t live with her as I told you. I imagined that was the case. I mean, funeral director… who knows such people otherwise?’
It was a typical remark; who knows garbage men, sewer workers, lavatory attendants? Somebody does, somebody loves them, hates them. Matthews said something I didn’t catch, my mind was running along murky channels with bends sinister and causeways suspicious.
‘Who’s your chief investigator, Mr Matthews?’ I asked suddenly.
He was surprised. ‘We don’t have one, this isn’t a big firm, we use the Wallace agency. Really, Mr Hardy, I don’t see where this is leading.’
‘Bear with me. I won’t hold you now. I’ll be in touch.’
I rang off and called Roger Wallace immediately. Roger runs an honest shop and knows how to do a favour for a friend; I almost went to work for him once. After a short wait he came on the line and we exchanged notes on how well we were doing. He sounded tired so he probably was doing well at the usual cost. I asked him a few questions about the Milton outfit, and he promised to call me back at my office.
Primo Tomasetti was bent over a sheet of art paper as I came through his tattooing parlour after parking my car out the back. I leaned over his shoulder to see the drawing; there was a heart, a dragon, an anchor, two flags and the word ‘Mother’ all inter-woven. The effect was bizarre, like a surrealistic sketch of a Freudian nightmare.
‘What the hell is that?’ I said.
Primo turned to look at me innocently. ‘The ultimate tattoo’, he said. ‘I’m going for everything, I mean everything] How do you like it, Cliff?’
I squinted. ‘You haven’t quite got it.’
‘Yeah? What’s missing?’
‘Hells’ Angels, a swastika, a knife for the snake to curl around; come on, you’re not trying.’
He smoothed the paper. ‘You’re right, you’ve inspired me.’ He added a swastika. ‘Tell you what, I’ll put it on you anywhere you like-free.’
‘Put it on yourself, I said.
His eyes opened wide in genuine shock; Primo would die rather than be tatooed.
I pottered in the office for a while until Roger rang with the good, or bad, news-there was a one hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy on Mrs Matthews, and the beneficiary was Charles Herbert Matthews-my client.
That left me only two places to go. Well, the sun was shining, the breeze was soft and there are worse places. I drove the long and winding road back to Manly and fetched up outside Norma Wetherell’s house. I marched up to the door, hammered on it and held my licence card at the ready. She came to the door with flour on her hands and eyed me through the fly wire screen.
‘Back again?’
I held up the licence. ‘I’m afraid I lied to you, Mrs Wetherell; I’m an investigator, not a reporter. I hope you’ll answer a few more questions about Mr Jacobs.’
She rubbed her hands on her apron, some flour fell on the floor and she looked down crossly. ‘Why’d you lie?’
‘I didn’t want to alarm you.’
‘More alarmed by lying’, she grumbled. ‘Well, make it quick.’
No coffee this time. ‘Have you seen Mr Jacobs with a tall woman, white hair, about fifty? Well turned out?’
‘I have, she’s there often. Real lady muck.’
‘For how long have you seen her?’
‘Is there any money in it this time?’ I produced another ten dollars and she let the catch on the door come open far enough to let the money through.
‘Ta. Well, I’d say I first saw her about three years back.’
‘When the second wife was around?’
She grinned and scratched her head, dusting her wiry dark hair with white flour. ‘When she wasn’t around.’
Harbord is one of those places that used to nurture tennis stars and swimming champions. I suppose it looks like anywhere else in the rain, but when the sun shines it looks as if God has laid his finger on it. The hospital was in a road stuck high up above the esplanade, the parks and the wide, blue sea. The sea was so blue and the light so strong that just walking along the street felt like being in a movie filmed in Eastmancolour. St Mark’s was a smallish, private establishment, built of stone when they knew how to build and painted white by someone who knew how to do it. It looked like a pleasant place to work or be mildly indisposed in; for dying it would be just like anywhere else.
I parked up the street a little and did a slow reconnoitre. The place was enclosed by a brick fence, head high. The front, back and one side abutted streets; on the other side the fence was shared with a house that stood on a deep, narrow lot and a block of flats. The land on which the hospital stood sloped so that it had three storeys in the back and two in front; around two sides ran a balcony which gave the paying patients a good view of the ocean. There was a trellis covered with a vine of some sort on a section of the back wall; otherwise the walls were notable for an abundance of big windows.
I went through the gates and ambled up the drive towards the impressive marble steps in front of the building. For a plan I had the idea to engage an underling in conversation, and maybe hand over a little of what underlings don’t have enough of. There were patients and attendants taking the afternoon air on the balcony above me as I walked up the steps; the doors swung open automatically and then I was being watched from the reception desk by a woman in a smart blue uniform. I looked around at the spit and polish as I fronted the desk.
‘Yes, sir?’ She was a thirtyish brunette with good teeth. She looked as if she could head up a cabinet meeting or a commando platoon pretty effectively.
‘I… ah, wanted to know if you have a Mrs Hardy here?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir.’
‘No, well my mother is going to have an operation, nothing too serious you understand, but she’ll need some care while she’s recovering, and Mrs Hardy writes such good things about the place she’s in. She’s an old friend of mum’s and…’
The phone on her desk rang; she said ‘Just a minute’ to me and ‘Reception’ into the mouthpiece. I looked around the lobby which had a spotless parquet floor and a staircase made of the right sort of wood. A set of glass doors swung open and a white-coated man came through talking to a nurse. He was carrying a clipboard and she was listening hard. A woman in a dressing gown was talking on a telephone beside the stairs; a nurse ran in through the front door and bolted up the stairs where she almost collided with Mrs Matthews, who was descending with a stately tread. She checked the nurse and sent her on her way, came down the stairs, looked over or under me, and went out through the glass doors.
I drifted off after her while the receptionist was still occupied; I was hoping to find a cleaning person to charm or an orderly to yarn with but I never got the chance; two big men in white coats appeared at the end of the passage to bar my way. I turned and saw the receptionist making gestures from the other end of the hall. I didn’t wait, I marched back and nodded to her as I passed.
‘I don’t think mum would like it here’, I said.
At the foot of the outside steps I nearly tripped over a parked wheelchair and then the hospital building seemed to lean down and hit me behind the ear. I opened my mouth to yell and got hit again, in the stomach; and I was slammed down into the wheelchair and was moving. I struggled for wind to yell and move with but a hard arm pinned me back. I heard the wheels of the chair grinding on the gravel and we made a turn; a man said something in a language I didn’t understand and then my shirt sleeve was ripped and I felt a prick and a voice started counting: I went with it-one, two, three, four…
I came out of it in a room; it was a very atmospheric room; I mean it had stark white walls that ran down to the floor from a stark white ceiling. It had character that room, even purpose. I was lying on a bed watching a light above me swing just a little, fascinating. I got bored with it after a while and looked around; the room had no furniture to speak of, a metal cabinet by the bed and a metal chair by the window. I stared at the window wondering why it interested me so; I wasn’t usually interested in windows, fenetres, so what? Then it came through to me slowly; I hadn’t got here by myself and the door to the room had an uncomfortably tight look to it. I got off the bed and fell flat on the floor so I clawed my way back up on to the bed again. It was like climbing Mont Blanc, west face.
I lay on the bed again, but somehow everything was less interesting. I pushed experimentally at the cabinet, bolted down. The chair would be the same. I’d been right about the window though, it did have something to say-the light coming through it was broken up into eight inch squares by the bars. My throat was dry and my eyes felt gritty, love of mankind was not in me.
The door opened and Mrs Matthews and two big men came quietly in. They stood and looked at me and I lay and looked at them. Then I sat up and waited for the feeling of treading water to stop. One of the men spoke in that foreign language again so I concluded that they were the wheelchair kids. The woman was carrying something which she threw on the bed-my wallet; I hadn’t missed it because it isn’t very heavy.
‘Hardy’, she said. ‘Private investigator, it says. What does that mean in this day and age?’
‘What it says, Mrs Matthews.’
She looked at one of the men who said something I didn’t catch; the other man wandered across to the window. I put the odds on my leaping from the bed and knocking them both unconscious at about ten thousand to one.
‘How do you know me and why are you following me?’ Her voice was nicely modulated with a roughness to it, like a radio announcer who was a drill sergeant at weekends.
‘Who said I was following you?’
‘I saw you last night and here you are today. That’s why you’re in the trouble you’re in.’
It sounded like a pop song but I didn’t feel like humming along; the trouble was the truth sounded ridiculous-this Amazon needing protection from plump little Charles Herbert? I couldn’t think of a good lie, so I told her the truth.
‘Ridiculous’, she said. ‘Charles would never do such a thing. You’re lying.’
I shrugged. She said: ‘Dennis’ and the guy by the window moved across and hit me with a backhander behind the ear where it doesn’t show. I fell back on the bed and felt him use that hard arm on me again. He pinned me down and forced my head back to one side; it hurt.
‘Tell me’, Dennis said. His breath stank and a drop of sweat from his shiny, red forehead fell into my mouth. I gagged and the pain got worse; I swore at him and he increased the pressure.
‘Stop it!’ She’d moved forward and pulled at his arm. Dennis fell back, breathing heavily. The foreigner watched the show with a pleasant smile. Mrs Matthews said: ‘Inject him again, we can’t do anything now.’ The foreigner took a syringe and glass bottle from his pocket and mated them. I faked a collapse and let my breathing go ragged. She came close, smelling nice, and lifted my right eyelid roughly.
‘He’s all right.’ She shoved her hand inside my shirt. ‘He’s thin though, not too much.’ I was pricked again and went to sleep.
They didn’t give me enough, I’m bigger than I look. Coming out of it this time I knew what to expect an didn’t make any rash moves. When everything was working properly I went across to the barred window which was now letting in the last few rays of the day’s light. The bars were in the form of a one piece grill bolted into the window frame-the worst way to do it. This gives you something heavy to lever against something fragile if you can get any leverage. This depends on the bolts, sometimes they’re anchored deep into the wood, sometimes they’ve worked loose, rusted or are held firm only by an accretion of paint. Here at St Mark’s we had the latter kind. I took a few breaths and applied some pressure to the grill, it moved. I applied some more and it moved a lot. It was hard work for one in my condition but I stuck at it; eventually I’d jiggled and lifted the grill loose on one side. It was heavy but that helped; I peeled it back off the frame like unwrapping a slice of cheese.
I lifted the window sash and let the cool night air playing on my sweaty brow stimulate some thinking. I could stay and fight with the element of surprise on my side, or run. That didn’t take much thinking; Mrs Matthews’ friends were big and at least one of them looked canny, and I still had some kind of drug drifting around in my system that might take the power from my strong right arm. Run then, but where to? I had nothing that would interest the cops and there didn’t seem much point in knocking on Mrs Matthews’ door and asking for an explanation. Jacobs? Charles Herbert? The names did set me thinking and prompted action. I re-possessed my wallet, buttoned my ripped shirt sleeve, rubbed my sore ear and climbed out on to the balcony to sniff the air.
It was after eight o’clock, and quiet the way hospitals should be at that hour given that they wake the patients up with the sparrows. I sidled along the balcony to the back wall and gave the vine I’d noticed before a tentative tug-solid like the Country Party vote. I trusted the vine and the trellis all the way down to the ground.
I slunk along in the shadows, made it across to the fence and followed that along to a back gate. A dog barked across the street as I swung myself over the locked gate, but I toughed that out. Hardy rampant; I tested the physical equipment by jogging back to my car.
I stopped for some medicinal brandy and it was near enough to nine o’clock when I reached Jacobs’ place of business and abode. I cruised around a bit sizing it up; there was a section at the back that looked like the flat Mrs Wetherell had mentioned. I parked up the street, put my. 38 in my pocket and walked back. There were lights on in the flat; behind that was a garage big enough to house the Jag and a couple of hearses. I rubber-soled it along the side of the garage and looked in. Some street light fell on the Jag gleaming like a butler-polished tea pot.
‘What’re you doing?’ It was the goon I’d seen here before; he was in short-sleeves and bare feet now and he held a hammer. He didn’t look in any mood for discussion and I didn’t feel conciliatory myself. I felt strong enough and angry enough at the mistreatment I’d had at the hospital to take it out on him. I charged and hit him in the chest with a dropped shoulder; he went back against the concrete wall of the garage and bounced off it swinging the hammer. I kicked a leg out from under him and he went down hard. He’d lost wind when he hit the wall and he fell awkwardly, his head thumped the ground, the hammer clattered away and he lay still. I waited in the shadows but nothing stirred in the flat. I bent down by the man and checked him over in the half light. His breathing was okay, and his eyes looked normal under the lids. I slid him up into a sitting position by the wall-tongue free, nothing constricting neck or mouth, no blood to speak of.
At closer range I could hear music coming from the flat, something classical and relaxing. I imagined Jacobs with brandy and Beethoven-good. I took out the Smith amp; Wesson and rapped on the door with it. After a while another light came on inside, and a voice came from behind the door.
‘Herb?’
I grunted something affirmative-sounding imitating Herb’s voice as best I could. The bolt slid back and the door swung open. I crowded him and put the muzzle of the gun into the fold of flesh between his first and second chin.
There’s nothing here’, he gulped. ‘No money, nothing.’
‘I’m glad to hear it’, I said. ‘You’re going visiting.’
He was wearing a dressing-gown over his shirt and trousers, his feet were in slippers and he passed his hand over his hair while he looked down at himself. ‘Now? Like this?’ It struck me forcibly that vanity was his middle name; just possibly he was vain enough to tackle the gun. I prodded his neck.
‘Now. Come on.’
‘I can’t go out like this.’
‘You look wonderful; don’t make me put blood all over you.’
He came out and I pulled the door shut behind him.
‘Where’s Herb?’ he said.
‘Sleeping.’
I urged him across the street and up to the car; as he lowered himself on to the torn vinyl in the passenger seat he looked like a bedouin without his camel.
Jacobs put a few questions to me as I drove to Charles Herbert’s address but I ignored them. He jumped when I checked the. 38 over before getting out of the car. It was a street that treated its cars to garages and car ports, but there was a big Fairlane station wagon outside Matthews’s place. There were two letter boxes on the front gate and the number one stood out iridescently on the house’s front porch. Matthews had given his address as flat two. I opened the gate quietly and we went up the drive towards the back. When we were almost there we stopped as a sound cracked sharply inside the house. It came again, and then there was a long, thin howl like a cat trying to sound human. A voice was raised, then I heard a laugh and the sharp crack sounded again. I pushed Jacobs ahead of me and I could feel him shaking; I felt a bit shaky myself.
The commotion kept me up, and I moved fast around the back of the house to a door at the top of a short flight of steps. I motioned to Jacobs to stand still, he watched the muzzle of the gun like a roulette player watching the ball and nodded quickly. The crack again, the howl again, only going up this time, hanging mid-way and breaking. I went up the steps, wrenched the door open and stepped inside with the gun ready and my teeth bared too.
I was in a long, narrow kitchen that had a sink, dresser, table and chairs. Charles Herbert Matthews, with his pants down and his fat, white bum showing, was stretched across the table. The foreigner held his arms and Dennis was standing behind him with a thick leather belt, studded like a dog collar, in his hand. Mrs Matthews, the angel of St Mark’s, was sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. I pointed the gun at Dennis.
‘Drop the belt.’
He looked at Mrs Matthews, who shrugged, and he moved towards me with the belt swinging. I let him come. He whipped the belt at me clumsily, and I moved inside it; I set the catch on the. 38 with my thumb and smashed the gun against his cheekbone; he grunted, sagged, and I ripped him hard and low with my left. He went down and dropped the belt. I picked it up and let the heavy buckle dangle an inch above his nose.
‘Sit’, I said.
The other guy was still holding Matthews, who’d screwed around to see what was happening; there were three or four broad, red stripes across his buttocks running up to the pads of fat at his waist. I jerked the gun up and the foreigner let go. Matthews crumpled down and adjusted his clothes. When his face came up again it was tear-stained, but by no means unhappy. He was breathing heavily, his mouth was open and moist and he was staring at his mother.
I looked at her too. ‘Assault, kidnapping, conspiracy, you’re in trouble, Mrs Matthews.’
She blew smoke at me. ‘Ridiculous’, she said.
Matthews struggled for some dignity. ‘What are you talking about, Hardy?’ he snapped.
His mother gave him long look. ‘So it’s true’, she said. ‘I didn’t think you’d have the gumption, Charles.’ She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. ‘Well, Mr Hardy, it seems my son employed you to protect me. Do you think I’m in moral danger?’
I thought of Jacobs outside in his dressing gown and slippers. ‘No,’ I said. ‘But others are at that bloody hospital.’
She smiled, she had charm and force of character to spare. ‘I’d say that was outside your brief, wouldn’t you, Charles?’
‘Yes, mother.’
‘Jesus Christ! She’s been working a deal with Jacobs for years. She fixes it so he gets most of the business that comes out of the hospital. She thought you were on to it, why d’you think you were getting thrashed?’
Matthews said nothing. I looked at the two thugs who had their eyes firmly on the Matron-quite a woman.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised’, I went on, ‘if she helps a few of the old, sick ones along.’
‘Ridiculous’, she said again but it sounded as if she was thinking hard. She reached across and pulled Matthews gently down into the chair beside her. She patted his arm. ‘He couldn’t possibly have any proof.’
Matthews smiled back at her, thrilled at her touch. I felt desperate, like a man playing a game and not knowing the rules.
‘She’s known Jacobs for years, she probably got a special deal on planting your Dad.’
It was just the wrong thing to say; Matthews shrugged and his eyes slid off to look at the belt in my hand. I felt suddenly sick.
‘There’s proof, I said. ‘Jacobs’ records will prove it-signatures, names, it’ll stink like a sewer.’
Then there was a noise outside, and Dennis moved, and I had to talk to him sharply. Matthews was still breathing heavily, still looking at the belt. I wasn’t working for him anymore, I was working for myself.
‘I’ve got Jacobs outside’, I said. ‘He’ll talk, I’ll make him.’ I lifted my voice and called Jacobs in. Nothing happened. Mrs Matthews laughed.
Out on the street there was no sign of Jacobs or the Fairlane. I drove wearily towards Jacobs’ establishment and was passed by a fire engine on the way. When I got there a couple of firemen were running about and a few neighbours were huddled, disappointed. The fire wouldn’t even make the morning news. Mrs Wetherell, in her dressing gown, was part of the huddle. I went up to her.
‘Just a little one’, she said. ‘Back of the flat. Office and that.’
I worried about it for a few days and then let it go; they’d had a disturbing amount of aggravation and I felt pretty sure that Jacobs and Mrs Matthews would dissolve their partnership. What the hell business was it of mine, anyway? Then the death certificates came, same cause of death with minor variation, same doctor signing. I put them away in the file and wondered why my mother had never so much as given me a clip over the ear.