“Do you want me to check him out, Shyla? What would you like me to do?” Perhaps it was time for some real quid pro quo. Shyla had come to Billie with good information several times, and now perhaps she was coming good on the promise to ask for something more in return than simply some tea and some shillings here and there for her work.
Shyla nodded. “I promised I would do what I can, and you are someone who...”
Billie waited, anticipating the next word. “Someone who?”
“Someone who knows things. I know you are good at finding things out.”
“So are you,” Billie said truthfully. “I will make some inquiries on my end, give you the lowdown on this man; then you decide what’s next, okay?”
Shyla paused for a moment, thinking of something, or perhaps someone, then nodded and tucked into her cutlets. She was quiet for a while, but after she’d finished and wiped her mouth with the white napkin, she said simply, “I’m worried, Billie.”
“I understand.” Billie opened her handbag and passed her afountain pen and asked her to write the man’s name and address on the corner of the paper. When she got it back there was simply the name “Frank,” and “Upper Colo.”
Billie looked at it, disappointed. “No address?”
“The big house,” Shyla explained, holding her hands apart in a gesture to emphasize the size of the house. “By an orchard. It is easy to find, they say. Not far from the river.”
“Okay.” It was far less information than Billie would have liked, but she could probably track him down by the car and the big house, if Shyla was correct. “I’ll find out whatever I can about this Frank. Would the girls go to the police if they were in danger, do you think?”
“I can’t say,” Shyla replied, but her head was shaking as she spoke. That was hardly a surprise. A lot of Aboriginal people were suspicious of the police, or gunjies, as Shyla sometimes called them. Through conversations with Shyla, Billie had some of the picture—how contacting the authorities about anything might lead to being arrested for something else, or having the men taken, or having the Aborigines Welfare Board take children away “for their own good.” Stuff like that tended to ensure that trust was in short supply. That long and troubled history had not been forgotten and had created understandable tension between Aboriginal communities and the white authorities. That couldn’t simply vanish overnight. Much as Billie knew and liked a lot of police officers, she could hardly blame Shyla or her friends if their trust was lacking. Hell, Billie’s trust was often lacking, too. She had learned through her father that the New South Wales police force had its corruption issues—there were a lot of decent cops but a fair few rotten eggs to poison the mix. It was one of the reasons he’d given her for retiring and going out on his own.
“I’ll see what I can find out about him,” Billie repeated. “And I can see if the police want him for anything.”
“They don’t want any trouble out there,” Shyla said, stiffening. “I can tellyou,but no one else. No police.”
Billie got it. “I’ll look into who this fellow is however I can and get back to you. If the police need to speak with him about something, so be it, but I’ll keep the girls out of it.”
“That’s the best way,” Shyla agreed. “Thank you for the lunch, Billie.”
“You’re welcome. Anytime. How will I reach you when I have something?” she asked.
“I’ll find you,” Shyla said, as always. She rose from her chair and walked away, a proud if lonely-looking figure in the room of whispering passengers and staff.
Nine
When Billie returned to theoffice with the weekend papers, her thoughts swirling with speculation about the mysterious “Frank” and the girls Shyla was worried about, she found Sam looking triumphant and a touch fresher for the extra cups of tea he’d made himself.
“Don’t tell me. You found our missing page?” Billie guessed.
“Sydney Morning Herald,Thursday, November 21, 1946,” he said, holding up the newspaper in question. A section was ripped out of a page on the right-hand side.
This narrowed their focus even better than an entire missing page. “This is the only possibility?” she asked.
“Well, this is the only thing ripped out of these papers,” he said, his face falling a little, doubtless imagining another tedious run through soggy newspaper.
“Excellent work. And that gels with what the boy Maurice told me about the date. I’ll get you to head to the library and find out what was on that page,” Billie said.
“I have it here,” he said to her surprise. Again, her assistant’ssmile was triumphant. He held up a wrinkled copy and her eyes widened.
“Nicely done, good sir. What is it? Do tell.” She hurried over to his desk.
“It’s an advertisement for an auction that’s running this weekend. We still had our copy of that edition.”
He passed her the paper and she ran her eyes over it. Georges Boucher Auction House. This was not what she had been expecting at all. An auction? “How fascinating. I think we’ll have to attend this tomorrow.” The advertisement featured photographs of antiques and jewelry. A carved sideboard. Rings. An unusual necklace. It looked like high-end stuff. Why would it interest the boy, let alone enrage him?
“I suppose we ought to look into this George character and his business,” Sam said.
Billie laughed softly. “Georges,” she said, using the correct French pronunciation. “We’ll need the library anyway,” she decided. “Head there now, please, and research this Georges Boucher. Find out what you can about when he came to Australia and what his story is. I want a physical description, too,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’ll visit the fur shop. I feel like there’s some element missing in the story Mrs. Brown told me.”
