Make Me Rich E-Book

Peter Corris

• Herausgeber: Allen & Unwin
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Cliff Hardy Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 269

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The sixth book in the Cliff Hardy series It is just another party in Sydney's eastern suburbs, a routine security job for Cliff Hardy. It leads, though, to an interesting meeting and a dangerous job. No one is more familiar than Hardy with the sleazy back streets and pubs of Kings Cross, and he follows a twisted trail over dangerous ground. As well as a hitman out to get him he deals with politically protected criminals and corrupt journalists - and meets the intriguing Helen Broadway for the first time.

Leseprobe

PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see www.petercorris.net). In 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and has lived in Sydney for most of his life. They have three daughters and six grandsons.

The Cliff Hardy collection

The Dying Trade (1980)

White Meat (1981)

The Marvellous Boy (1982)

The Empty Beach (1983)

Heroin Annie (1984)

Make Me Rich (1985)

The Big Drop (1985)

Deal Me Out (1986)

The Greenwich Apartments (1986)

The January Zone (1987)

Man in the Shadows (1988)

O’Fear (1990)

Wet Graves (1991)

Aftershock (1991)

Beware of the Dog (1992)

Burn, and Other Stories (1993)

Matrimonial Causes (1993)

Casino (1994)

The Washington Club (1997)

Forget Me If You Can (1997)

The Reward (1997)

The Black Prince (1998)

The Other Side of Sorrow (1999)

Lugarno (2001)

Salt and Blood (2002)

Master’s Mates (2003)

The Coast Road (2004)

Taking Care of Business (2004)

Saving Billie (2005)

The Undertow (2006)

Appeal Denied (2007)

The Big Score (2007)

Open File (2008)

Deep Water (2009)

Torn Apart (2010)

Follow the Money (2011)

Comeback (2012)

The Dunbar Case (2013)

Silent Kill (2014)

This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2014 First published by George Allen & Unwin in 1985

Copyright © Peter Corris 1985

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: [phone] Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com/uk

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australiawww.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 76011 019 2 (pbk) E-book ISBN 978 1 92557 628 3

For H.M.F.

1

It was just another party job in Vaucluse. Mrs Roberta Landy-Drake was paying me five hundred dollars for keeping an eye on the valuables and the cars and throwing out the drunks gently. It was no fun working at a party, and these big money bashes were all the same. They had the same rhythm of arrival, mouths opening and closing to permit talking, eating and drinking, farewell and departure. Rich drunks are all the same too, and not different enough from poor drunks to be interesting.

But the money was okay and the work was steady and getting steadier. It seemed more rich people were having parties that year; maybe they felt better about being rich while everyone else was getting poorer. But they weren’t all bastards—the generous ones might give you a half scotch and soda at the end of the night and let you stick your finger in the cheese dip.

It was the second job I’d done for Mrs Landy-Drake; I never did find out who Landy and Drake were—ex-husbands would be a fair guess, judging from the abundant evidence of unearned income. The house had more rooms than there are names for, and if you’d backed a truck up to the door and taken away the paintings you’d have been set for life. Roberta, who got on first name terms within sixty seconds, employed people like me to keep a sharp eye out for trucks. Nothing went missing from the function I’d officiated at in the spring, so here I was, back for the summer one. It was clearly going to be easier—no furs to worry about.

Roberta, hostess of the year twice running, set the fashion style: her black dress was designed to show the maximum amount of suntan on her long, slim body. It had holes in it and scallops that made it seem more off than on. I was allowed to relate to the other help for a while—the drinks’ servers and food preparers—only letting me glimpse her from afar, before her sense of drama told her it was time for us to talk. She approached me as I was accepting a set of car keys from an early arrival who asked me not to let him drive home, no matter what he said. She gave me her carefully painted smile and took a sip from her glass.

“You were wonderful last time, Cliff. I’m glad you could help again.”

She liked the illusion that everyone was her friend and that there were no employees. Why dispel that?

“Happy to be here. Enjoy your party, Roberta.”

The first flotilla of guests sailed in and the mouth-opening started. I cruised around the grounds—tennis court, pool, barbecue pit—and checked the cars—Volvos, BMWs and their cousins. Inside, I renewed my acquaintance with the Drysdales and the Nolans.

The house filled up fast, and the guests spilled out under the marquee at the back where the caterers kept the food and the booze well up to them. At 9.50 I swept up a broken glass; at 10.25 I parked a car the owner was too drunk to do anything with but leave in the middle of the road; at 12.30 I earned the five hundred bucks.

The first time I laid eyes on him I could see he was drunk, but he wasn’t in charge of a car and he had all his clothes on so it wasn’t any of my business. That was around 11.30; an hour later he was raping one of the guests under a Drysdale in one of those unassignable rooms. She was screaming and he was grunting. He was a big guy, six two or so, and therefore had an inch or more on me and the weight to match. His grunts were deep and rhythmic. His shirt was hanging out at the back and I bundled up a fistful of it, pulled hard and swung him up and off the blonde teenager on the pile of cushions. The pull brought him around to face me; he stood unsteadily and yanked the long shirt-tail free.

“Put it away,” I said, “and go home.”

The blonde screamed and he grunted again as if he liked screaming. I looked away to the girl and that’s when he threw a punch. It wasn’t the first punch he’d thrown, he knew how to do it, but it wasn’t one of his best. The booze in him made him slow and indirect; I stepped inside the swing and dug my fist hard into his belly. The wind goes out of them when you do that, and if you can hit hard enough and quick enough in the same spot they go down. I did and he did. I helped the girl up and she pulled down her dress and adjusted things.

“Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head and a panicked look came into her eyes. “Don’t tell …”

“No telling,” I said. “Go that way and wash your face.” She grabbed up a detached shoe, stepped around the cave man, whose grunts were of a different quality now, shot past me and went out. I knocked the cushions back into shape, checked that no harm had come to the painting, and turned my attention to the man on the floor.

He was vaguely familiar; I’d thought so at his unsteady arrival and the feeling was stronger now, although it’s hard to place someone when he’s three shades redder than usual and is lying on the carpet fumbling with his dick. I was curious to know.

“Who’re you? Lover of the month?”

“Get fucked!”

“I doubt it, not tonight. And you neither. You’ve had enough party. Time to go.”

“I’m Colly Matthews.”

He was. It wasn’t a name you’d lay false claim to. Colly Matthews was a Rugby League front row forward, a regular member of a senior side when he wasn’t serving out suspensions. I’m a Union man myself, and I hadn’t even seen him play, but I knew from the back pages that his nickname was “Sin bin,” that he was under suspension at the moment and that there was a movement afoot to ban him for life. Or at least to ban his elbow, which would have banned the rest of him as well.

“I don’t care who you are, you should ask a lady’s permission first. You’ve got time on your hands, you should go to a charm school.”

“I’ll kill you,” he bellowed.

“They’d work on that, first lesson.”

He’d got himself back in order by this time, but every instinct told him to hit until something broke. Maybe they train them that way, I don’t know. He told me to get fucked again, and I found this very boring.

“Piss off, Matthews. I’ll tell the hostess you came over faint.”

He might have had another go; he pulled himself up off the floor as if that was in his mind, but just then another man appeared in the doorway and some party chatter flowed down the passage outside. Matthews finished adjusting his clothing. The new arrival laughed at the footballer’s buttoning and zipping; he was short and slight and not young, but laughing at “Sin bin” didn’t seem to worry him.

Matthews made as if to bullock past us but I eased him into the door jamb. I could hold him there a second because I was sober and had my balance.

“Are you driving?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“No leaves this party driving—that’s the rule.”

“I lost my fuckin’ licence!”

I stepped back and let him lurch through and away. I followed him down the passage; he looked back a couple of times and I made “go” motions with my hands and steered him toward the front door like a cattle dog. A few party persons stopped talking long enough to watch us, but they mostly regarded the incident as entertainment and their response was well-oiled laughter. Some of them would have laughed at a kneecapping.

The short man past his prime had followed me all the way.

“A mess,” he said, as the door closed behind Matthews.

“Yeah.” I wasn’t feeling chatty; drunk athletes don’t cheer me up, and I turned away from him to try for a handful of peanuts or something. But he stuck close.

“Are you a fan of the game?’’

It was difficult to talk to him, because to do so I had to look down and when you’re looking down you’re not looking around, which was what I was being paid to do. Still, what’s worse than being at a party and having no one to talk to? I looked down.

“No,” I said. “I’m not too keen on it; when they all pack down like they do I imagine I can hear the spines snapping. What did that bloke call it? Wrestling on the run? It’s all right when it flows, but it doesn’t seem to flow all that often.”

“Right.” He stuck out his hand. “Paul Guthrie.”

We shook. “Cliff Hardy. I’m here looking after things for Roberta.”

“Gathered that. Drink?”

I shook my head. “No thanks. I’ll have one before I go. I’d better go outside and make sure the football hero isn’t stealing the hubcaps.”

He nodded. “Talk to you again.”

My turn to nod; he walked away—a calm, self-assured little man with something on his mind and what looked like mineral water in his glass. He looked slightly out of place in the gathering, but it didn’t seem to worry him.

Everything was quiet outside. I stood near bush with a nice, strong scent and enjoyed the cool evening air as a break from the noise and the smoke. I’d left the jacket of my suit inside, but I still felt uncomfortable in tailored pants and a collar and tie. It was that sort of party though, and in my usual get-up of shirt and jeans I’d have stood out a mile as the crowd controller. The party was up at a loud roar; a few people trickled past, going in and out. They all seemed to be having a good time, and I wondered if their lives were fuller and richer than mine. Richer in worldly goods I could be sure of; they had expensive cars and credit cards to keep the tanks eternally full. My car was old and half a tank was all it was used to. On the other hand, jobs like these had pushed me into the black economy. Some of the clients wanted to pay in cash and who was I to quarrel? I’d had a conversation recently with Cy Sackville, my lawyer, in which he’d advised me to form a limited liability company in order to protect my earnings.

“I’d make a loss,” I said.

“That’s the idea. The shot is to get someone else to act as a director—your brother or someone …”

“I haven’t got a brother.”

“No? You’d probably be a better person today if you did—less selfish.”

“Have you got a brother, Cy?”

“No.”

I hadn’t formed the company, and tax problems were a possibility; even so, a year’s income wouldn’t buy most of the cars owned by Roberta’s guests. Against that, I could have the collar and tie off in an hour and spend the day on the beach.

Back inside everything was going swimmingly—some of them were actually splashing about in the pool—and the dry ones were happily getting wet in their own way. Roberta wafted up to me and put the hand that wasn’t carrying the champagne glass on my arm.

“Cliff, darling. So marvellous of you—getting rid of that awful footballer. Paul told me all about it.”

“Why was he here, Roberta?”

She looked at me with eyes that seemed to be focused on something that would happen the day after tomorrow, if then.

“Why are any of us here?’’

She drifted away and joined a group that was admiring the view across to Point Piper through a floor-to-ceiling window. A tall, strongly built woman with a lively, broad-featured face and short-cropped reddish hair broke away from the group and strode across the room toward me.

“Hello,” she said. “Been hearing all about you. So you’re the minder.”

She had a deep, husky voice like a blues singer, and her party clothes consisted of a black overall arrangement without sleeves, which zipped up the front and was gathered at the ankles. There were no doo-dads on it and she wore no jewellery.

“That’s just what they call it on TV,” I said. “I don’t get paid in Nelson Eddys or anything.”

She laughed. “D’you know much rhyming slang?”

“Not much, no.”

“I heard a good one the other day—’arris for bum. Know it?”

“No.”

“It goes—’arris is short for Aristotle, rhymes with bottle; bottles and glass equals arse. See?”

“Yes, good. What’re you, a writer?”

“No.” She waved the hand that held a cigarette; a wisp of the smoke went into my face; I coughed and moved back.

“Don’t!” she said sharply. “Look, it’s a Gitane; I only smoke one a day. Don’t spoil it for me.”

“All right.” I sniffed at the cigarette. “Wish I could smoke one a day.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I was a tobacco fiend for twenty years. Gave it up. Scared just the one would probably set me off again.” “Mm, might. Better not try. I’m Helen Broadway; I asked Roberta to introduce us but she didn’t seem to understand what I meant.”

“Cliff Hardy, hello. I think the champers has got to her. She’s Brahms.”

“And Liszt.”

I laughed. “Right.”

We moved away from other people, as if by mutual agreement. I looked around a bit, staying in touch, but most of my attention concentrated on her.

“Apart from the fact that you’re sober, like me,” I said, “and that you’re not wearing any jewellery, like me, I’m trying to work out what’s different about you—I mean, compared with all these people.” Mentally, I put Paul Guthrie in the “different” basket too.

She leaned toward a table and stubbed out the Gitane. She had a dusting of dark hair on her long, brown forearms.

“You won’t guess,” she said. “I’m not foreign, I haven’t got cancer, I’m not a lesbian. I’m from the country.”

“You’re not! That’s original—where?”

“Up near Kempsey, ever been there?”

I had, chasing people and being chased, some years back. Shots had been fired and a truck with people in it had gone up in flames. Not my favourite memories. But I was prepared to give the place another chance. I liked Helen Broadway.

I told her I did know the Kempsey district and we exchanged a few place names. I told her I should go on my rounds and she came with me, again by unspoken agreement. It was very pleasant; I almost felt as if I was at a party. It was cool outside; she wrapped her bare arms around herself and stood close, using me as a windbreak.

“Good name,” I said. “Broadway.’’

“Maried name. I’m separated though, I think.”

“How does that work? Thinking you’re separated?” We went back inside and I poked my head into a room where bags and other guests’ belongings were stowed.

“Mike’s given me a year off.His sister’s going to look after the kid. She’s twelve and she needs a break from me as much as I need one from her. I can do what I like for a year.”

“How long have you got left?”

“Well, it’s coming up for a six-monthly review any day. I can go back or stay on down here.”

“Which?”

“Don’t know.”

“How about money?”

“We had a good year on the farm and in the business. Mike gave me half.”

“What have you been doing?”

We were back in the main party room now; the noise level was still high but the party had thinned out. I was wondering whether Helen had an escort or whether she might like to stick around until the last reveller left. And what would my approach be? The matter was set aside by Paul Guthrie who planted himself squarely in front of me.

“I’d like to talk to you, Mr Hardy. Excuse us, Helen.”

I didn’t want her to excuse us, but Guthrie was one of those experienced social movers who knew how to get his way without giving offence. I gave Helen Broadway my best we-haven’t-finished-yet look before Guthrie guided me into a quiet room. There was a table covered with a white cloth which had a nest of bottles on it and some baskets and plates with crispbreads and wafers of smoked salmon and turkey.

Guthrie poured an inch of Jack Daniels into a glass and added an inch of water.

“You can have your drink now,” he said. “Party’s nearly over, and I cleared it with Roberta. I want to talk business. You want to sit down?”

I shook my head; I was leg-weary, but when I sat down I wanted to stay down. I leaned against a wall and took a sip of the bourbon, which tasted wonderful: I made a silent, private toast to Helen Broadway.

“You handled that rugby clown pretty well,” Guthrie said. He didn’t have a glass or props of any kind; he just stood there in his well-tailored lightweight suit with a soft collar and a quiet tie, and exuded his own brand of charm.

“He’d handicapped himself.” I held up my glass. “That elbow of his gets him into trouble in more ways than one.”

He smiled and nodded. Then the smile fell away. “How would you like to earn ten thousand dollars?”

I took another sip to give myself reaction time and looked down at him; concentrating on him now and not on the woman somewhere in another room. For the first time, I saw the strain in his face. He must have been over sixty, but his slim figure hid the fact. Now, very late at night, he had a greyish tinge and the white stubble on his face etched worn deep lines. He was old, tired, and deadly serious. That’s a combination to make you nervous and send you in the other direction. Worst comes to worst, you can lay a joke over it. I took another sip.

“Who would I have to kill?”

“Not for killing, Mr Hardy. For saving someone’s life.”

2

Paul Guthrie was exaggerating, of course; people usually do when they want something from you. But his problem was real enough. He was, he told me, sixty-two years old, a businessman with interests in sporting and leisure activities. He owned a couple of marinas in Sydney, leased game fishing boats to the rich, and had controlling shares in a ski lodge and a dude ranch. He used that expression with obvious distaste, which lifted his stocks with me. He’d rowed for Australia in the double sculls at the 1948 London Olympics.

“Unplaced,” he said.

“Still, a big kick.”

“Yeah, it was. A bigger kick was coming home through the States and seeing how they were organising things there. Business, I mean. You never saw anything like it. Marinas sprouting everywhere, airfields; lot of ex-service stuff going into recreational use. That’s where I got the idea for the leisure business. It was slow to take off here, but it has now. I built it up sure and steady.”

“Well, the Yanks were always long on ideas. You certainly got in early.”

“Right. Too early, I thought for a while. I worked like a dog at it. Blew a marriage to pieces in the process. I got married again ten years ago. She’s twenty years younger than me, and had two sons from her first marriage. They were about eight and nine at the time. I didn’t have any kids, and I helped to raise those two. I think of them as mine.”

The value of sentiments like that depends on the speaker. I rated Guthrie pretty high: he wasn’t big-noting himself about his business success, just filling me in. And he’d put it down to work rather than brilliance—always a sign that the person is a realist. Physically, he was impressive too; there was no fat on him and he looked as if he could still pull an oar. But his problem was eating at him, sapping his reserves.

“The boys are the problem, that right?”

“One of them, Ray—he’s the oldest, nineteen. Just under nineteen. I haven’t seen for four months.”

“That’s not so long.”

“It is for the way it happened. The other boy, Chris, he went up to Brisbane at the beginning of the year. He’s all right—went to university there. They’ve got special studies in race relations—Aborigines, Islanders and all that. That’s what he’s keen on.”

“What about Ray?”

He rubbed at his close-cropped grey hair, making it rough and spiky. “We had our difficulties. Started a few years back. We just didn’t get along as well as we once did. No serious stuff; just sulks and no cooperation. A real pain in the arse to have around.”

“That’s normal enough.”

“So they tell me. Now, Chris could be hard to handle too but he’d go off and hit the books. Ray’s no scholar. He’s not dumb, mind. Passed the HSC, but he wasn’t interested in going on.”

I finished the drink and thought about another. I was tired, and still had some clearing up to do at the party. It was a sure bet that there’d be someone asleep somewhere to be woken up and poured into a taxi. Besides, he was reluctant to tell me the trouble and that’s an attitude I’ve come across before. Sometimes it takes three runs before they come out with it and tonight I didn’t have the time. I wanted to let him down gently, though.

“I’m sorry, Mr Guthrie. It just doesn’t sound so different from a lot …”

“It gets different,” he said sharply. “We had a bit of a row the day Ray left. He wasn’t under the thumb, you understand. Lived on the boat … I’m sorry, I’m having trouble coming to the point.”

“You had a row.”

“Yes. He stormed out. No word since. His mother’s out of her mind. I asked around. Couldn’t find him, and then I heard about the company he’s keeping. Bloke like you would know what I mean. Apparently he’s hanging around with Liam Catchpole, Dottie Williams, and Tiny Spotswood … that lot.”

Those names changed things a lot. Catchpole, Spotswood and Williams were all crims. Not big-time enough to make their full names a household word—Liam Angus Catchpole or whatever—but consistent, professional wrong-doers. All had convictions, but it was rumoured that Tiny Spotswood had done things much worse then those he’d been convicted for. Bad enough, but there were other reasons to avoid them: I wondered whether Guthrie had the whole picture.

“Bad crowd,” I said. “Bad example for an impressionable lad.”

“It’s not the bad example I’m worried about. Those three are police informers.”

“Right.”

“And steerers!”

He meant agents provocateurs, and he was right again. Catchpole survived by steering men into gaol. Dottie did the same with women and she had a sideline as a drugs provider and procurer. I knew Catchpole had had some connection with Glebe in days gone by, but the details eluded me. I knew of no one who trusted him—not the crims he associated with nor the policemen he provided with information. He was almost, but not quite, a pariah. Tiny’s muscle helped to make people civil to him some of the time.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I asked. “Has the boy had police trouble?”

He shook his head emphatically. “Never. I’d have to say he’s moody and stubborn—but honest as the day. And he’s not lazy—worked like a bastard on the boats. In my experience it’s the work-shy that run into trouble first. Ray’s not work-shy.” Now that he had it all out in the open, he was determined to convince me. “Look, Hardy, you know your way around. I’ve seen you in action and Roberta speaks very highly of you. She’s a good judge of character, though you mightn’t think it. I want you to take this on. Find Ray, talk to him. Find out what’s going on. Get between him and that slime somehow, before he goes wrong.”

“He might have gone wrong already.’’

“I know it. I’m prepared for that. But I’m sure Ray’s basically solid. There’s something … what do the kids say? … bugging him. I know it doesn’t take long to go off the tracks. All the more reason to step in. Will you do it?”

It didn’t take much thinking about. I liked Guthrie, and the few times I’d seen Liam Catchpole up close I’d wanted to go and have a shower. Youth is worth saving. It sounded like a more worthwhile way to make money than some of the things I’d been doing lately.

“I’ll try,” I said. “The money you mentioned is too much—I’ll take seven fifty for a retainer, and work for a hundred and twenty-five a day, plus expenses.”

“Bonus for results,” he said.

“Fair enough.”

We shook hands and I felt self-conscious as some departing guests looked at us curiously. Guthrie’s hand was hard and corrugated, dry to the touch. He stepped back; he seemed almost sprightly. “Just come here to try to cheer myself up,” he said. “Pat couldn’t face it. I didn’t think I’d do anything positive about Ray.”

“Don’t get your hopes too high,” I said. “You can’t make people be good, you can’t make them be grateful, you can’t make them be anything. Not really.”

“Why d’you say that? About being grateful?”

“Most parents want their kids to be grateful.”

“You got any kids, Hardy?”

I shook my head. “I’d probably want them to be grateful if I did. And they probably wouldn’t be.” I grinned at him. “Too disappointing.”

“I don’t want him grateful. I just want him … safe.” He handed me a card; his colour was better already—action did him good. He checked his watch. “Ring me later today. Okay? We’ll get started.”

It was 2 a.m. I did a last check on the people and the silverware. Nothing seemed to be missing and when I put Mr and Mrs Olsson, who seemed to have shot for the “drunkest couple” title, in their cab I was through for the night.

Roberta was snoring gently in an armchair. One brown breast had fallen out of her dress and she had one silver shoe in her lap. I shook her gently.

“Roberta. Party’s over.”

She opened one eye theatrically. “Wasn’t it awful?” she groaned.

“It was fine—great success.”

“I’ll send you a cheque. Thanks, Cliff.” She dropped the eyelid.

I collected my jacket and took off my tie. In the kitchen I annoyed the clearing-up caterers by making myself a chicken sandwich. I took it out to the car with me, chewing slowly and wishing I had some wine to go with it. But I gave up keeping wine in the car a long time ago. As I started the engine I remembered Helen Broadway. I hadn’t seen her go and I didn’t know where she lived. I could ask Roberta—but not just now.

3

I got home to Glebe around 2.30 a.m. I’ve given up tucking the car away in the backyard; the strain of the backing and filling is too much and the local vandals seem to have decided my car isn’t worth their attention. The street is narrow, with a dogleg; my place is just past the dogleg. I let the wheels drift up on to the kerb and slotted her in—slapdab outside.

I glanced at a newspaper Hilde, my tenant, had left lying around while I got a few last dribbles from a wine cask. We had a commission of enquiry into the early release of prisoners scheme on the front page, and a commission of enquiry into the conduct of boxing on the back. Both dodgy was about all the reaction I could muster. I took the glass up to bed; there was light showing under Hilde’s door; I knocked softly and pushed the door open. She was sitting up in bed, reading. A long strand of her blonde hair was in her mouth, and she was chewing it rhythmically as she read. She lifted her blue, German eyes reluctantly from the page.

“It’s 2.30,” I said.

“I’m reading Gorky Park.”

“That explains it. Goodnight.”

I slept late. By the time I got up, Hilde had gone off to do her dental research. She tells me that fluoride in the water has cut dental decay by 84 per cent, so that the emphasis in her trade these days is on preserving and presenting the dentition. When I asked her what that meant she said, “Capping and straightening.’’ I understood that.

She’d left a pot of coffee on a low flame, and I got to work on that while I ran a routine check on Paul Guthrie through the telephone book and The Company Index. He lived in Northbridge, between the golf course and Fig Tree Point. It sounded like a well-preserved and presented address for a client to have. Guthrie Marinas Pty Ltd was at Balgowlah, Double Bay, and Newport. The ski lodge and dude ranch were probably called the Alpine this and the Western that. Guthrie Enterprises was listed as a private company; Paul Guthrie, principal.

I rang him at 10.30; he came across eager and energetic; he made sixty-two sound like something to look forward to.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I have to go up to Newport to look a few things over. Like to come up? Go out on a boat?”

“Is there any point?”