Wilma Shaughnessy, long legs, red hair and the temper to go with it, wanted money more than anything else in life. She had been born without it, had lived all her twenty-four years without it and was damned if she was going to die without it.
So far, however, things hadn’t worked out as she would have wished. The only way she knew how to make money was through a man but somehow it always ended up with her doing the work and the man keeping the money. Shanks bloody Patchett was no better than the rest.
Wilma had first met Patchett in the pub. He wasn’t much to look at but there had been something about his pale eyes that had caught her attention. They were knowing eyes. She could relate to that: she considered she was pretty knowing herself. When Patchett had talked to her about a business arrangement she had listened to him but, unfortunately, things had ended up as they always did, with her servicing the clients and Patchett keeping the cash. There were times when she wondered why she bothered but the fact was that in her sort of trade she needed a man. Blokes were more likely to try something on when a girl was alone.
Now she sat with Patchett in a corner of the bar and watched his weasel eyes as they studied the other men in the room.
He said, ‘Stubbs is thinking of going north.’
Stubbs was Patchett’s partner.
‘To do what?’
‘Look for gold. Make up for what he missed in Victoria.’
‘Maybe we should go too.’
Patchett was shocked. ‘Would you go?’
‘Got to be better ways of earning a living than this,’ Wilma said.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
Bloody men were all the same. ‘Fine for you, ain’t it?’
In truth she had never thought of living any other way but she wasn’t about to let Patchett know that. Keep ’em on the hop was her motto. Never let ’em feel sure of you.
He was unconvinced. ‘What would you do in the bush?’
‘I’d manage.’
Wouldn’t she just. She’d heard there were rich squatters out there, most of them unmarried. Looked at from that point of view, the outback might be her best bet yet.
She studied a man who had just come into the bar. She nudged Patchett’s arm. ‘That one might be worth a try.’
It was a cold, wet night and the stranger’s topcoat and silk hat were spotted with rain.
‘Slumming‚’ Wilma said.
Wealthy men with a fancy for rough trade came down to the docks from time to time to see what they could find.
‘Have to make sure he remembers his trip‚’ Patchett said, sliding out of his chair. ‘Leave you to it then.’
‘The usual?’ she asked him.
‘What else?’
‘Don’ be so fast this time‚’ she told him. ‘The last bloke still had his coat on.’
‘Better get a move on then, hadn’t you?’
He was gone. Wilma studied the man at the counter.
In his forties, perhaps a little more. Porky stomach, moustache, a head of expensively coiffeured hair gone grey over the ears. His dark coat, unfastened now in the warmth of the room, was of superior quality and what looked like a gold watch chain spanned his waistcoat. Eyes sealed in fat prowled the room.
Wilma, dressed in her stalking gear, all feathers and flounces, caught his eye, held it. A smile glimmered between them. Taking his time, the man unpeeled himself from the bar, came across to her table.
‘May I join you?’
She inclined her head, well into her Lady Muck role. She did it well: should do, she’d had enough practice.
The man sat down, sighing as he took the weight off his belly.
‘Would you care for some refreshment?’ he wondered.
‘Perhaps a gin and hot water,’ she said.
Sid the potboy took the order, winking at her when the man wasn’t watching.
‘An inclement evening,’ the man said, brushing drops of rain from his cuff.
‘What brings you to this part of town, Mr …?’
‘Brown,’ he supplied, a liar like all of them. He gave her what he probably thought was a roguish smile. ‘I like to browse.’
Makes two of us, she thought. Only I know what’s on the menu and you don’t.
‘I’m Sadie,’ Wilma said.
The gin came. Wilma sipped, little finger extended.
The man who called himself Brown said, ‘I hope it’s to your liking, my dear.’ Leaning back in his protesting chair, dark eyes gleaming. His fingers played with his watch. Also gold, Wilma noticed. The evening was looking better and better.
‘Very refreshing,’ she said.
Brown asked, ‘I wondered if we might discuss a … business arrangement?’
Her eyes met his. ‘Five pounds.’
He blinked. He had not been thinking of five pounds.
Cheap bastard, she thought. It wouldn’t make any difference in the circumstances but a girl had her pride.
‘If it’s too much for you …’
‘No, no.’ Hastily. ‘Not at all.’
‘Shall we go then?’
In the room she unbuttoned her dress and stepped out of it while his fat little eyes crawled all over her.
She walked across to him. ‘Let me help you …’
She hung the damp topcoat over the back of a chair. Jacket and waistcoat followed. Surreptitiously, Wilma tested the weight of the watch and chain. Heavy. Good.
She coaxed him. ‘Take off your shirt.’
‘You first.’
She kicked off her shoes and unpeeled her stockings, taking her time about it, not wanting him to see the knife strapped to her thigh.
‘Now you,’ she said, pretending to tease.
He took off his shirt. His white body drooped with fat. All to the good, she thought, so long as he didn’t drop dead on them.
‘Lie on the bed.’
A violent hammering on the door warned Wilma it was time to go into her act. She raised her hands to her mouth, miming terror. ‘Ohmygod …’
He jerked up, agitated, supporting himself on one flabby arm. ‘What is it?’
The door flew open before she had time to reply. Shanks Patchett stood in the doorway, on cue as always.
Wilma shrieked. ‘My husband!’
Gawd, she thought, it was like something out of the music hall.
‘What the devil do you think you’re doing with my wife?’ Patchett trumpeted.
Look at the round eyes, the open mouth. ‘Your wife?’
Her cue, once more. Bawling, hands to her eyes to hide the lack of tears. Tears? It was all she could do not to laugh.
‘I’ll kill you for this,’ Patchett bellowed.
‘My God, no!’ Skipping around the room, scrabbling for his coat. ‘Please … A misunderstanding. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement …’ He turned, pistol in his fist.
Now it was Patchett’s mouth that was hanging open; not that Wilma’s was much better.
Brown smiled at them, safe behind the muzzle of his gun. ‘Throw that knife over by the door. Easy, now …’
Patchett hesitated, then did as he was told.
‘The troopers will be interested in having a talk with you two,’ Brown said.
Wilma watched him. If Brown reported them they’d be in jail before they could turn round. She wasn’t having that, not if she could help it. Brown was watching Patchett. She whipped up her underskirt, grabbed the knife and stuck Brown in the arm before he could turn … Except that he turned anyway, moving faster than she had expected, and the knife, instead of skewering his upper arm, sank deep into his chest.
Wilma let go of the knife. Brown’s eyes, as wide now as his mouth, stared in utter astonishment, a tableau of terror and disbelief. The gun wavered and fell from his hand. He coughed. Blood ran in a slick stream from his mouth. He crashed full length to the floor.
That’ll teach you to mess with me, Wilma thought. She had often wondered what it would be like to kill a man. Now she knew; she felt absolutely calm. ‘Get the wrong side of me, Shanks, you see what happens.’
She started to go through Brown’s pockets.
‘What you doin’?’ Patchett was bleating like a sheep.
‘What’s it look like?’
Gold watch, gold watch chain, a fistful of sovereigns in his pocket. Better than she’d hoped. She yanked out the knife and wiped the blade on the dead man’s shirt.
‘We’ll have to leave town,’ Patchett gabbled, lips white.
‘Damn right,’ she agreed. The only question was where: Melbourne would be no good, nor any of the smaller towns. She grinned at him, thrusting the knife back into its sheath. ‘We’ll have to go north after all, won’t we? With your mate Stubbs.’