Twenty-three

The Veuve Clicquot had well and truly worn off as Billie parked outside the hospital in Katoomba, having driven there with some speed. Sam had hung on in the passenger seat uncomplainingly, having refused to return to Sydney and leave her to face potential danger alone.

By the time she sprang out of the roadster, Billie was feeling even more uneasy than when they’d departed the Hydro Majestic. She told herself the feeling could be illogical. Today had been a success. Her informed gamble about Adin Brown’s whereabouts, thanks to her conversation with Mr. Benny at the morgue, had paid off. She had found him alive, if not quite well, and that was not yet three hours ago. She should enjoy the success of another puzzle solved, another closed case. But the little woman in her stomach was not happy. There was an unmistakable cold dread there. The photograph, the auction, the doorman, the thugs. Those red marks on the boy’s wrists. It could be that she was conflating separate elements here, but the end result was fear for the boy, and she couldn’t shake it.

She hurried to the hospital building with Sam at her heels.

“I’m back,” she announced at the reception desk, slightly breathless and forcing a smile. The same helpful nurse was on duty. “My client is on her way,” Billie offered by way of explanation. “She should be here any moment, probably with her husband. Their name is Brown.”

The nurse looked confused. “Some friends of Mr. Brown arrived just a minute ago,” she said.

Either Nettie Brown drove a lot faster than Billie had imagined, or something else was going on. Her heart sped up. “Can we see him again now please?” she declared more than asked, and even as she said it she was running to the men’s ward where Adin Brown was laid up, the nurse striding quickly after her, clearly sensing something was wrong. Sam kept pace, and she saw his hand linger near his jacket, where his long-barreled revolver waited. He, too, knew what was at stake.

The scene in the ward as they entered was one of confusion. Adin Brown was not in his bed. He was on the hospital floor, or at least Billie thought that was him, as she could only see a blur of moving legs and arms. A man was crouched over the thrashing limbs. A patient several beds down began screaming. Others were staring and still others appeared sedated beyond consciousness, oblivious to the excitement. Billie felt eyes on her and looked up from the struggle on the floor to see one of the weedy thugs who had helped her tear her nice stocking in the alley behind the Georges Boucher Auction House. The same bloody thugs are here. Billie cursed in a decidedly improper manner and lunged toward the figure on the floor, who was still kicking out, fighting for life. The man crouched over Adin, for Billie could now see it was him, looked up and rolled away from the boy, then leaped to his feet. With his accomplice, he made for the door at the other end of the ward, hitting the nurse and nearly knocking her over in his rush to escape.

Adin was coughing and spluttering on the ward floor, his pillow next to him. They’d tried to smother him, Billie realized, and knew with certainty the men had not been sent as a warning; they’d been there to kill. There’d been no messing around. They’d outrun even the boy’s parents. Adin was out of breath but otherwise seemed to be relatively unscathed, and without delay Billie took off after the men, pushing past the nurse, who was calling for help.

“He needs medical attention!” Billie shouted, catching the woman’s wide eyes as she tore past. “And call the police!”

Sam was already ahead of her, pursuing the men and pulling the long-barreled revolver from his jacket.

“Call the police!” Billie shouted again as she ran toward the main entry doors, streaking past the administration desk.

Sam drew his gun as he reached the hospital entry and she heard two shots, coming from somewhere out of sight. Billie was hoping to get these two alive but was feeling rapidly less stuck on the idea. There was another shot, and Sam pulled himself back against the brick wall, part of which exploded with a small puff of white dust. He aimed his revolver and steadied it over his gloved hand. He pulled the trigger once, twice, the resulting noise so much louder than seemed possible. There was a cry as a shot made contact with one of the men. Billie, now beside Sam, saw the taller one grab at his leg, then continue across the street, dragging his injured limb. Still, he was moving. He was getting away.

“Careful!” Sam urged, and put an arm out as if to warn the hospital staff away from the under-fire main doors. Further shots were exchanged, and then the firing halted as the men concentrated on their escape by car. The second man zigzagged across the road and the two threw themselves into a battered tan-and-brown two-door Oldsmobile Sloper coupe that looked like it had seen better days. The engine was loud but uneven and the car’s tapered backside gave the impression of a scared brown dog running away with its tail tucked between its legs. Billie broke away from the protection of the hospital entry and ran full tilt toward her roadster, not for one moment accepting that these two could slip from her grasp. Sam bounded forward on his long limbs and was by her side as she flung open her door.

“Let’s go,” she said a little breathlessly, and he was seated in a flash.

Billie fancied that she saw Mr. and Mrs. Brown talking beside their car, not far from the hospital, oblivious to what was happening, as she threw the roadster into gear, the engine coming to life with a roar. The mad timing of it all! The road curved like the trap of a sink drain between the hospital and the highway, and she confidently pointed the car along the curves with speed. They were only a few lengths behind the Oldsmobile, and she noticed with some pleasure the surprising amount of traffic traveling down the mountain ahead. Automobiles were backed up bumper to bumper, presumably as the result of a prang below, or a flood of traffic let out of the level crossing up the hill, and Billie thought, I have them, yes, before blinking as the tan-and-brown car failed to stop and instead careened across the two lanes of waiting vehicles, clipping the front of a passenger bus and resulting in much pantomimed rage by the occupants of the waiting cars. Horns honked. Bumper bars crunched. Bus passengers stared. What do they think they’re doing? Billie wondered for an instant, but of course she knew. She knew they would do anything to escape and knew she had a chase on her hands as the driver took the Oldsmobile straight over the divider to the other side of the road and with a screech and a change of gears began roaring up the mountain.

“Hang on, Sam,” Billie said, a thrill in her veins. The traffic farther down the mountain had started to flow again, she could see, but automobiles on the nearest side of the road had not yet shifted, their outraged drivers too busy rubbernecking at the errant vehicle. Without hesitation, she took advantage of the brief opportunity to dart though the narrow path in the Oldsmobile’s wake, setting off another round of shouting she could barely hear above the roadster’s engine and the honking of horns. She made it through the gap expertly, not even scratching a corner of her beautiful motorcar, and soon the low divider went under them like a rock, and the black roadster was narrowly missed by speeding cars coming up the other side. Billie turned sharply with a deft spin of the wheel and joined the flow of traffic going up the mountain. She felt the stares—including Sam’s—but did not acknowledge them. She had other things to focus on. Billie shifted gears, put the pedal down, and set to catching up with the men who had made the grave mistake of first ripping her stocking in a crude alley brawl and now attempting to hurt—no, kill—her client’s injured son while he lay helpless in a hospital bed. For these men, evidently no bar was set too low, and this was an error in judgment they would keenly regret if Billie had anything to do with it.

Sam, evidently not as thrown by events as she had thought, had the presence of mind to reach into the glove box and pull out Billie’s leather driving gloves for her, which she managed to wriggle her hands into one at a time, not once taking her eyes off their target. Yes, she would need them.

“Good thinking, Sam,” she said, and used both hands again to weave around a bus full of schoolchildren, the leather providing an excellent grip on the wheel.

The drivers on the Great Western Highway were by now well aware of the sudden and alarming presence of the tan-and-brown Oldsmobile, which moved erratically as the driver and his passenger turned around repeatedly to mark the progress of Billie’s roadster. Her car was a faster one, lighter and with a larger engine, and Billie knew it to be in far superior condition, despite its age. Both vehicles wove around the traffic, speeding up from thirty-five miles per hour to forty. By the time they approached Medlow Bath they were doing near to fifty, dodging around cars, using the shoulder as the road narrowed. The Hydro Majestic hotel, where they’d triumphantly spent much of their afternoon, flew past. If the thugs wanted a chase, they had it.

“The roads are becoming less familiar. They’ll try to lose us along here,” Billie predicted. “We can’t let that happen.”

One of the two small sloping rear windshields of the Oldsmobile shattered with a bang as they sped through the intersection at Blackheath and passed Gardners Inn, scattering glass over the road outside the pub, where three men were perched on wooden benches, enjoying an afternoon beverage. Two of them stood with a start, shouting and waving their arms, and in a flash were far behind them. They certainly had the attention of the locals. Now the armed passenger in the motorcar ahead sat low, wind whipping his hair, the muzzle of his weapon falling temporarily from view.

“Keep the gun down when we go through the villages . . . if you can,” Billie shouted. “The cops are bound to catch up.” Though she wondered if that was true, considering the speeds they were hitting. This was not Sydney, where the police might meet them from any direction. “They shot out that window so they can hit us next,” she warned, watching one of the men crawling toward the back. “We have to stop them, fast.” They came around a bend, buildings falling away and the bush taking over. “Try the tires now!” Billie shouted above the roar of the wind and the engine. If Sam could get one wheel, they would end up on the side of the road and this reckless chase would be over. As they passed between a railway line and an old cemetery, Sam shot once, twice, the Oldsmobile swerving in front of them. No hits.

“I’m out!” he shouted with frustration. His Smith & Wesson revolver was a five-shooter, and there wasn’t time to reload now, even if he had the bullets. He held up his gun helplessly next to her.

“Take mine,” Billie said and pushed her left thigh toward him, flipping back her hem with one hand. “It’s in my garter.”

Sam hesitated. Her gun garter was a few inches wide and she had fashioned it to sit over the top of her stocking, and the effect, with the strip of lace and the delicate ribbon ties like the back of a corset, was pleasing as well as practical, she thought. But the sight of it strapped to her thigh evidently gave her assistant some pause, which was, at this moment, quite inconvenient.

“Sam, take it now,” Billie urged. The wind rushing through the car pushed up the hem of her dress yet farther and the little mother-of-pearl grip of the gun flashed.

Sam extracted the Colt.

By now the traffic had thinned considerably; for the moment it was just them and the Oldsmobile, which frustratingly had not slowed. They’d passed the intersection at Mount Victoria with the old hotel and the railway, the last spot Billie knew, and were heading west into unfamiliar territory. Now dense bush and loosely tended agricultural land hugged the road, the odd weatherboard house sagging into its foundations the only sign of human habitation. The barrel of a gun revealed itself, gleaming and deadly, from the back window of the motorcar ahead. “Look out!” she called, and a shot was fired, missing them narrowly. Billie steered in deliberate arcs along the road, making them a tougher target, her dark roadster holding the road expertly. And then the road opened up dramatically to reveal a precipitous descent into a valley awash with afternoon sunlight. The road turned left, winding downward in wide curves through a cutting, a convict-built rock wall on one side, the valley beyond. Having seen the descent, Billie braked gently, feeling the roadster pull forward to the right. In seconds it came back under her control. The pair ahead had stopped shooting, and now that Sam had Billie’s gun, he seemed ready to use it. But not here. Not now. It was too steep. Too much curve.

The Oldsmobile wobbled and veered left, a rear tire moving unsteadily, and the old motorcar swung dangerously, inexorably, past the edge of the lane, then onward, bursting through the timber guardrails.

In a plume of dust and shattered timber, the thugs were careering over the cliff, plummeting some three hundred feet to the valley below.