Feeling as if all eyes were on her, Joan made a quick exit from the Cairo and hurried back to her flat. She returned to find it deserted. Bernie had caught an early tram to Tempe and Jess was not yet back from the police station. Looking for a more secure hiding place for the secret letterhead, Joan slipped it in between the pages of her manuscript.
Changing from her skirt, blouse and overcoat into one of her only two casual summer cotton dresses, Joan set off along Macleay Street once more, this time at a more leisurely pace, savouring the warmth of the sunny autumn morning and feeling a fleeting sense of peace despite everything that had happened last night.
She walked on slowly, taking in, on her left, the stately white facade of the ‘Manar’ apartment blocks and the gaudy decoration, the balconies and turrets of the Gothic mansion ‘Maramanah’, each behind its own fancy stone- and iron-work fence. Joan loved the elegance of Macleay Street, which resembled what she imagined a Parisian boulevard would look like. A row of plane trees cast an iridescent green glow, giving the street an even more luminous air of enchantment. On weekend afternoons or workday evenings, stylish couples promenaded—the women in fur stoles and silk stockings, the men in grey fedoras and double-breasted suits—stopping to gawk in the windows of the delicatessens, the cafes, the wine saloons and dress shops.
There were other things to gawk at, too, for those who knew where to look. One might spot Mary Gilmore, the radical writer and communist fellow traveller (and one of Hugh’s pantheon of political saints), looking like an Edwardian governess or suffragist in her old-fashioned high-collared jacket as she dashed from her flat on Darlinghurst Road to the nearest fruit and vegetable barrow to buy something for her supper. Sometimes Joan saw the dapper Ken Slessor, poet by night and film critic and journalist for Smith’s Weekly by day, with his matinee-idol pencil moustache and rakish bow tie, off to dine at one of his favourite posh restaurants, the Paris House or Cavalier. Or, as sunset lured bohemians from their burrows, you couldn’t miss poet Geoffrey Cumine in his red velvet trousers, pea-green shirt and blue beret, an earring in each ear and a blue butterfly tattooed on his left cheek. Later in the night, people crossed the road to avoid the towering stooped figure of Professor Brennan, with his greasy hair and long black coat, shambling from flat to flat to discourse fluently on the French Symbolists or to recite from memory lengthy slabs of Paradise Lost, his favourite party trick, performed for a free glass of sparkling burgundy.
As Joan rounded the corner where Macleay Street turned into Darlinghurst Road, her heart quickened at the sight of her destination and the thought of unburdening herself. She hoped that Hugh had been able to get away on time. Over the footpath hung the neon-tubed cursive sign ready to burst into white-hot brilliance come nightfall: COFFEE ARABIAN. A breeze rattled the leaves of the plane trees and the cafe’s canvas awning, hanging over the upstairs balcony, rippled loudly, a striped and scalloped wave.
She pushed open the glass door and mounted the stairs to the second floor. There in the dimly lit interior she saw Hugh, gaunt and pale, hunched over a cup of tea at their usual table. He only came to this ritzy little cafe, with its aluminium tubular chairs, frosted Art Deco murals and small Buddha lamps on each table, for her sake. He was a fish out of water here with his shabby clothes and empty pockets, more at home in the cheap hash houses down on William Street.
Joan removed her hat and gloves and they kissed. ‘God, it’s good to see you. I feel like I’m going mad.’
‘That’s understandable, Joan. It’s not every day you see a dead body.’
Joan ordered a coffee, feeling her heart slowing and relishing the warmth of his hands on hers. She told Hugh about Bernice’s theory that Frankie Goldman was the killer. She went over some of the gruesome details again, just to hear Hugh comfort her and confirm her own feelings of horror and dismay. Yet at the same time, her retelling also dragged the night’s event out of the realm of private nightmare and into the clinical light of day. Hugh patted her hands, murmuring, ‘Poor love, how awful,’ without for one minute making her feel like a ridiculous, hysterical woman.
She felt a little bolder then and ready to take Hugh further into her confidence. ‘There’s something else I have to tell you,’ she whispered, leaning in as an older well-dressed woman entered and sat down only two tables away. ‘Something stupid I’ve done.’
‘What is it, Joanie?’
‘I, well, I … I took something from the crime scene. A note that was on Ellie’s nightstand. With a telephone number written on it.’ Joan felt her face burning. This was even harder than she had anticipated.
‘Are you serious?’ Hugh was staring at her, aghast. ‘That’s against the law—you do know that, don’t you?’
‘Please, just listen,’ begged Joan, beginning to wonder if she should have kept quiet.
‘Why on earth would you do something like that?’ Hugh’s voice was raised, his face flushed. She’d never seen him so upset about anything personal between them; he reserved this kind of anger for the great injustices of the age.
Joan stammered, ‘I don’t really know. Please let me try to explain …’
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ Hugh made a conscious effort to calm down. ‘It’s just that I’m concerned for you, Joan. You know what bastards the police can be. If they find out …’
‘I know, I know.’ Joan tried to unravel the reasons behind her impulsive act, even confessing to him how Bill Jenkins’s taunt had stuck in her mind as a permanent reproach to her abilities as a woman. ‘That was definitely part of it. And maybe the shock of seeing the Ladies’ Bacchus Club letterhead, knowing my aunt could be mixed up in it. I told you how she invited Ellie to take part in one of their meetings.’
‘Why would you want to protect your aunt? I thought you hated her.’
‘I think I did it for my mother’s sake. Her state of mind is, well, you know, very fragile. And there’s Bernie to think of too. If my aunt and uncle are mixed up in something shady, she’ll blame herself for getting Ellie involved.’
‘That’s understandable, I guess. So, what are you going to do now?’
‘I’ve already done something. I rang the number.’
Hugh stared at her, speechless for a moment. ‘And who answered?’
‘A secretary. Turns out it’s the number for Uncle Gordon’s law firm.’
Hugh’s whole face blanched, mouth gaping, eyes wide open. He blinked and tried to speak, but it seemed too many thoughts competed for his attention.
Joan nodded. ‘Strange, right? I have no idea what it means. But I have a bad feeling about it.’
Hugh hunched his shoulders, fingers drumming nervously on the tabletop. ‘You’re right to have a bad feeling about it, Joan. There’re a few things I think I need to tell you.’ Hugh cleared his throat and scanned the cafe before furtively slipping a small hip flask from his inside jacket pocket. ‘You might need a drop of this.’
Having added a dash of brandy to both their cups and taken a gulp from his own, Hugh began to talk. ‘I have no idea what your aunt or uncle’s involvement with the death of Ellie could be; that’s anyone’s guess. Maybe the police should be given a proper chance to investigate, I don’t know.’
Joan felt a pang of guilt then: surely this meant she should find a way to get the letterhead into their hands and give up on any fantasy of solving the case herself.
‘Listen to me carefully, Joan. If a word of what I am about to tell you leaves this cafe, I risk being expelled from the party. I’m telling you this only because I care about you and I want you to know what kind of person you’re dealing with.’ Hugh looked over his shoulder to check that the two staff were still at the counter, out of earshot. The only other occupant of the cafe at this early hour, the well-dressed older woman, was absorbed in her magazine. ‘We’ve been keeping a close watch on your uncle ever since he became part of the New Guard.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know how much I should tell you.’
‘I need to know, Hugh.’ Joan grabbed his arm across the table. ‘I’m already involved.’
‘Joanie …’ Another pause. ‘We’ve seen things that make us think your uncle may have ties to Phil Jeffs.’
Joan shook her head in disbelief. Her mother had hinted to Joanie that her uncle’s business dealings were not always above board, but ties to a Jewish crime boss? That seemed a bridge too far. For a start, Uncle Gordon was old-school Catholic with an anti-Semitic streak as wide as a country road.
‘We know he and Jeffs have had regular meetings,’ Hugh continued. ‘Maybe Jeffs is simply seeking legal advice, but the meetings have been at Jeffs’s clubs, not at your uncle’s law firm. I think it’s safe to say that your uncle is not really the upstanding citizen he would like us all to believe.’
‘Meaning what?’ said Joan.
‘He may have investments in Jeffs’s business empire, helping to launder his profits.’ Hugh lowered his voice a notch further. ‘To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that your uncle dabbles in a bit of snow now and then—all these rich fellows do—and is not immune to the charms of Jeffs’s ladies of the night. It’s a perk of doing business with Jeffs. He wouldn’t be on his own, I can tell you. Who do you think make up half the clientele at Jeffs’s nightclubs? The professional, cashed-up gentlemen of the North Shore and the Eastern Suburbs, that’s who.’
Joan cast her mind back to the well-heeled men in expensive tuxedos she had seen at the Fifty-Fifty Club that memorable evening with Bill. ‘Do you really think Uncle Gordon could have killed Eleanor?’
‘I doubt he would have done it himself. He probably would’ve paid someone. Ellie might’ve known things best kept secret. Pillow talk. I’m sorry if this is a terrible shock to you. We live in a cruel world.’ That was the second time Joan had heard that phrase in the last twelve hours. She did not need a lot of convincing.
‘So, what should I do?’ she asked.
Hugh sat in silence for a moment. ‘We both know Jeffs has crooked cops in his back pocket. We’re talking about the death of a prostitute. Who’s gonna rock the boat for that?’
Joan was more confused than ever. ‘Are you saying I just let the whole thing go?’
‘No, no—I have a much better idea. The letterhead is not much good now as evidence since it’s been removed from the crime scene and is probably covered in your fingerprints. But it may have another use.’
Joan stared at him in puzzlement. What could he possibly mean?
‘I’ll tell you what I think you should do. And I’ll help you.’ A conspiratorial smile was forming on his lips. ‘I think it’s time the Fielding-Joneses paid their debts.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘Blackmail, Joan. A game I’m sure Gordon understands very well. Except he calls it “negotiation”. Or “the cost of doing business”. Amounts to pretty much the same thing, though.’
Joan could not disguise her shock. The idea of blackmailing her aunt and uncle had never crossed her mind. But she could see the natural justice of it. Gloria and Horace had sacrificed two sons to the war while Gordon had come home unscathed. Now her parents were struggling to survive, barely able to care for Richard, while Olympia and Gordon splashed money about with gay abandon, salving their consciences with the odd charity ball.
It was only some months ago that Gloria’s utter despair as a mother had finally driven her to write a letter to her older sister, explaining that Richard’s shell shock had not improved over the years; in fact, his mental and physical decline had accelerated. Gloria had sent many letters to the Repatriation Department and the Inspector-General of the Insane but her son’s condition was not considered serious enough to receive treatment in a military mental hospice (as opposed to the appalling conditions of a civilian lunatic ward). At her wits’ end, she was turning to her sister.
In light of Gordon’s distinguished service in France … Gloria began her appeal. Perhaps a sympathetic word in the right ear or a letter supporting Richard’s case …
Olympia’s response was distant and dismissive.
I’m sure every mother of a wounded son feels he deserves special consideration, she wrote in reply. But I’m sure you of all people believe in fairness. It can’t be one rule for this family and a different one for the next.
Did Olympia forget how Gordon had bullied both Gloria’s sons into doing their patriotic duty? There blazed in her heart a righteous anger that insisted some behind-the-scenes string-pulling was the least Gordon could do to repay Gloria for the sacrifice of her two boys. Gloria explained her ‘disappointment’ in a strongly worded reply. Olympia wrote back: I have indulged your self-righteousness and jealousy of me for far too long. Enough is enough. Gloria was forbidden to trespass in Olympia’s opulent corner of the universe ever again. In short, she was ‘cut off’.
‘You have something that Olympia or Gordon would hate to see come to light,’ said Hugh. ‘Throw in a hint about Gordon’s shady dealings with Jeffs and we have a juicy front-page story for your old boyfriend Bill. I think we can easily convince Mr and Mrs Fielding-Jones to part with some hush money. And they’ll have no idea who’s behind it. What do you say?’
‘It sounds dangerous, Hugh.’
‘And hanging on to evidence from a murder scene isn’t? At least this way you get to help your parents. I pulled off things much trickier than this when I had that short stint in army intelligence.’ Hugh gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Why should the rich always get away with being such bastards, Joan? Just think of it as a more equal redistribution of unearned wealth. And once they’ve paid up we can tip off the police anonymously. If they’re guilty of murder, they won’t escape punishment, I promise!’ Hugh was very persuasive when he wanted to be. ‘Think it over. And for heaven’s sake, keep that scrap of paper well hidden. Or, better still, give it to me for safe-keeping.’
‘Thank you, darling.’
‘Celia thinks I’m at a branch meeting until late. How about we catch a matinee screening of The Cheaters? What do you say? To make up for last night.’
They both stood up from the table and Hugh signalled to the waiter for their bill. Joan went up on tiptoe to caress her lover’s face as she surreptitiously slipped a few coins into his pocket for the coffees. ‘I love you, Hugh Evans, you know that?’
He smiled. ‘I love you too.’ And they kissed with the fervour of two people willing to risk everything for each other if that was what life demanded of them.