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

“I can’t, Clyde. There’s no way I could get down to Bowral and back in time for a meeting first thing on Thursday morning.”

“He’s invited us to the Union, University & Schools Club in the city.”

“Ah! That’s a nice place. Good dining room and very private.”

“You’ve been?”

“Only twice. Dad’s a member.”

Vince and Tom had left an hour ago, after we’d cleaned up. I’d promised I’d think about what Vince should do next. I couldn’t imagine the grief and pain the Bishop family would suffer when they found out what Dioli had done—if they hadn’t been consulted that is. It was inconceivable someone would have such little empathy and not discuss the plan with the family first to see whether they were willing to go along with such an obvious and hideously inappropriate stunt.

“Clyde?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“You didn’t finish telling me what Farrell said. You simply came back into the room before and didn’t say who’d called.”

“I just didn’t want to get back into a discussion about Farrell with the others. They both were so connected to the Morrison case, I didn’t want the conversation to veer away from how we could help Vince.”

“And?”

I laughed. He already knew when there were things I’d not said.

“And Farrell has inside information on Dioli and his grandfather. I guess someone in central records let him know I’d been asking questions when I took afternoon tea in for the fellas.”

“And?”

I kissed him. It almost turned into something else for the second time since our guests had left. We’d been stretched out on my bed, the sheets in disarray, and with the lights turned out.

“More kisses later, Smith. After you’ve spilled the beans.”

“He’s invited us for the long weekend over the new year.”

“To …?”

“To play tennis, go for walks, ride his horses, and swim in his pool. We’ll be his only guests for the holiday period. And, before you ask, I did make it perfectly clear that’s all we’d be interested in.”

“I’ll have to get clearance, Clyde. You know that.”

Howard Farrell had been Australia’s man on the spot, always at MacArthur’s side during the Pacific war, and nearly always seen in press shots, wearing sunglasses and standing behind the American general. He was one of the few men in the country who didn’t have an Army Intelligence file. I knew that because I’d tried to find out about him earlier in the year.

“We’ve got almost two weeks to organise someone to look after your parents while we’re away.”

“We’ve only just got back, Clyde.”

I said nothing. I leaned over him and picked up my cigarettes. I lit two and handed him one and then got out of bed.

“Clyde …”

I ignored him. I was angry—again. Although my parents had died years ago, while I’d been growing up I’d been given a lot of freedom. I’d never been asked where I was going or what time I’d be home. I’d loved them and they’d loved me back. I wasn’t used to the concept of parents needing to be looked after. I knew it was selfish, and had I been more confident about myself, perhaps I’d just have sighed and felt disappointed. But I wasn’t like that.

“Clyde!” he called out again a minute later.

I walked to the bedroom doorway from the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe.

“You know I—”

“I went to fill up Baxter’s water bowl, Harry. Didn’t you hear him meowing?”

“Come here,” he said, beckoning me with a toss of his head.

“Why?” I could smell one of Harry’s games in the offing.

“Come on,” he said, patting the bed.

I took a long puff of my cigarette and raised an eyebrow.

“Gimme a reason,” I murmured.

He pulled the sheet from over his waist and arched his back while he ran his hands between his legs and licked his lips.

“Come on, Clyde. Come back to bed …” His voice was dark and slightly gritty. I found myself responding, despite myself. He knew how much I liked it when he played these sorts of games.

“You miserable bastard,” I said, shaking my head, trying not to smile.

He crawled out of bed on all fours and began to playfully kiss my feet, occasionally glancing up trying to make me laugh. I made a token play of resistance, right up to the point when he licked my big toe.

“I’m sorry, Harry …” It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

“I’ll give you sorry, Clyde,” he growled.

“I’d prefer it if you gave me what you’ve been playing with while you’ve been sucking on my toes.”

He sat up quickly and leaned back. He was as hard as a rock. “What, you mean this?”

It was then I laughed.

“Harry Jones—”

I was a big man, but he picked me up effortlessly, draped me over his shoulder, and carried me back to the bed.

“Which side up?” he asked.

I don’t remember my answer. My mind tended to go blank when I cracked one. I guess I was not unlike most of the other blokes in the world in that sense. But, somehow, I knew we’d be spending four days enjoying Howard Farrell’s hospitality.

I could work miracles too when it came to Harry Jones.

CHAPTER SEVEN

On Monday morning I arrived at Billy’s chambers early. Our meeting was scheduled for ten, but I’d been feeling down in the dumps and had decided to check out a new European-style café in Rowe Street before our appointment. It had turned out to be a dud. Their idea of European was a few travel posters on the wall and a waitress in a dirndl with a paper flower poked into the bun at the back of her head.

I’d had the most dreadful row with Harry last night and he’d stormed out the door, slamming it so hard behind him I’d heard the crockery rattle on the sideboard in the kitchen. Baxter had gone into hiding under my bed and hadn’t reappeared until the wee hours of the morning.

I’d precipitated the argument. At thirty-six years of age, I’d finally lost my marbles over a man for