The Gilded Madonna, Garrick Jones [best fiction novels txt] 📗

the local post box and then went home and took a bottle of sleeping pills before setting fire to her house. Everything incinerated.”

“So it couldn’t have been her who send the picture?”

“No. Even if she had asked someone to post it for her in Western Australia, it still came from a G.P.O. box here in Sydney. Billy managed to track down Trafford Olsen, who’s still going backwards and forwards between the mental hospital and rehab after losing both legs and an arm in New Guinea. He told Billy he remembered taking that photo, but as he couldn’t develop it himself while we were in Africa, he gave the roll of film to Sonny when he left to come back home, so he’d never seen those pictures.”

“And then there’s the envelope with green ink …”

He did know me well. I muttered a soft, “Yeah, that too.” I’d been dwelling on the coincidence. Two seemingly unrelated items arriving on my doorstep at the same time.

“You don’t think the photo and the green ink are connected, do you, Clyde?”

I shook my head. “I spent about an hour of my thinking time under the shower last night trying to find out how the kidnap and disappearance of two small children here in Coogee could possibly be related to Billy, me, Sonny, or Johnny. Johnny had no family. Besides, he was dead well before Sonny had arrived back in Australia on the troop ship.”

“Well, Clyde, do you want my advice?”

“I’d rather have something else, but as we’re out in public … go on.”

He nudged me with his elbow, I could have wound my arms around his neck and kissed him right there out in public for the brilliance of his smile and the care in his eyes.

“The photo is an enigma, agreed, and it seems futile losing sleep over it without more information. But, the two other things—the empty envelope with your name on it and your business card with your name written on the back—they have to be connected to the Bishops.”

“You think it’s like the Daley Morrison case when someone left a note with my initials on it in the evidence bag? Someone within the police force who wants me to investigate it from the outside?”

“Maybe. But you can probably be sure it’s neither Vince nor Philip this time.”

“Look, Harry. I get loads of fan mail from both my review columns and from my monthly crime report in the Sydney Morning Herald. Perhaps it’s some punter trying to say if the cops aren’t getting anywhere with the case, perhaps they need to bring in outside help?”

“Maybe you’re right, Clyde. Now, sorry to change the subject, but what are you doing tonight?”

“Well, I’ll give you a choice if you’re free. I have a review to phone in later today for tomorrow’s afternoon edition. We can either go eat somewhere, or there’s a new movie opened last night at the Boomerang.”

“What is it?”

I took out my notebook. “These Wilder Years. Cagney and Stanwyck.”

“Isn’t Cagney a bit old to be still playing gangsters?”

I laughed. “It’s a modern teenage angst movie from what I can tell. Walter Pigeon’s in it too. But if you like, High Society is showing at the Ritz cinema up at The Spot. It’s a musical with Bing Crosby, Grace Kelly, and Frank Sinatra.”

“Now you’re talking, Clyde. You’ve had enough angst for the day. Something entertaining is just what the doctor ordered. It’s something Mother might like, too. Do you mind if I invite my parents?”

“No, I don’t mind,” I said, my voice betraying me. With his parents along, there’d be no stay over after the movie.

“I’ll make it up to you, Clyde. I’ve told them I might be busy all weekend. I’ve arranged it with Shirley. She’s coming on Saturday morning and staying until Monday, and she’s very grateful for the extra cash. How those nurses manage on their pitiful wages, I’ve no idea.”

“You’re forgiven. It will be nice to see your mum and dad as well. Perhaps we could have an early dinner at the dining room of the Oceanic Hotel beforehand?”

“That sounds like a terrific idea. I’ll phone and make a booking. I know Mother wants to discuss something with you before your meeting with Billy on Monday anyway, so it will kill two birds with the one stone.”

*****

After we returned to the office, I phoned an old mate who worked at central records and asked him whether I could perhaps bend our arrangement and if I could come in later in the day. If I ever needed to trawl through any police files, he always gave me open slather on Wednesdays, as it was usually the quietest period during the week. It wasn’t totally above board, but as I still had my army investigation card, and he liked me from years of working together, he said there’d be no problem. So I left Tom with Harry to talk through some advertising ideas for his adventure tours business and then drove into the city.

A lot of guys who’d been cops before the war and who were approaching retirement had elected to transfer to the files sections of the police force, where they could still keep their hands in, but save on shoe leather. I usually learned more with a large cardboard box full of cakes for afternoon tea and a chinwag over a few smokes than from trawling through records—and it was a perfect opportunity to catch up on who was doing what to whom around the traps.

Mark Dioli was the reason I’d decided to pay them a visit. He’d transferred to Randwick barely a month after his D.S. exam, and I wanted to know why.

It took all of five minutes after I’d deposited my box of pastries and cakes on the afternoon tea table before I started to hear things like, “I heard they couldn’t wait to get rid of him”, “Stood on other people’s shoulders”, “Wouldn’t mix with the others”, “Stuck up”, “Quarrelsome, un-cooperative”. However, the phrase that