No one, but no one, was going to creep up on her again.
She did not sleep well, but she did sleep. And that was something.
Twenty
It was just past ninethirty, the pen pushers already well into their workday, when Billie strode into Daking House in a cinched rayon dress of navy blue printed with flights of delicate white birds, her little loaded Colt holstered beneath her slip, its outline visible only to those with the most keen and suspicious eye.
She could really have used more sleep, but there was, as her father used to say, plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead. Today there was much to do.
Billie wore her trusty fabric-soled oxfords—those of the satisfyingly soundless soles she’d so missed the night before—her dark navy driving coat slung over one arm and her hair wrapped neatly in a shining silk scarf of navy patterned with the soft shapes of cherry-red and white abstract flowers. A small tilt hat in navy completed her ensemble, her sunglasses round and impenetrable, her smile steady and painted as always with her last stick of Fighting Red. She felt optimistic, determined, wrapped in her clothes as if in armor. Her mind had been ticking over, and she had a plan.
Straight-backed and quiet, she was delivered to the sixth floor by John Wilson, who seemed, as always, enlivened by her presence. He looked sidelong at her finely sculpted profile without seeming to realize she could see him doing so, fooled as he was by her smoked glasses and the effect of her wrapped hair and hat, which made her look somehow like a fashion mannequin come to life. She slipped him a shilling, flashed him a wide ivory smile, and told him she would require him again presently.
Let this be the day,she thought, stepping into her office.
“Good morning, Ms. Walker.” Her assistant stood at attention behind his desk as she entered, looking slightly surprised by the relatively early hour of her arrival. Sam’s trench coat was already hanging on the coat rack; the newspapers were open across his desk. Despite the trials of the weekend, he looked no worse for wear. His eyes were clear and bright, his posture not at all that of a man who had been punched by cowardly assailants the afternoon before. He had probably expected that Billie would sleep in, and it was gratifying for her to know that he still got to work on time regardless of the strong likelihood that she would not walk in until close to eleven.
“Good morning, Sam,” Billie replied. She pulled off her round sun cheaters and ignored his move to help her with her coat. The waiting room was again empty, the magazines and journals untouched. No clients. But if she played this right, that might change—and many other things besides.
“There was a note slipped into the mail this morning,” Sam said. “Just a piece of paper among the letters slid under the door. I thought you might want to take a look right away. It could be something important.”
Billie wrinkled her brow. A note? She didn’t know whether toexpect a death threat or an invitation to tea, such was her professional life at the moment. She accepted the plain piece of notepaper. “Did you go okay last night?” she asked, and watched his expression carefully.
Sam nodded. “Yes. No one could have seen me. It’s done.”
“You did well, Sam,” she reassured him. “Con has been identified and his family in Greece are possibly by now being informed so they can make arrangements and grieve. It was a rotten thing, what was done to him. Rotten and unfair and I hope to make someone pay very dearly for it.”
Sam looked relieved, though the corners of his mouth were turned down. “It was hard leaving him there.”
He didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Fair enough. An ugly business, it was. Billie unfolded the piece of paper, revealing a short series of numbers and letters:XR-001.
She recognized Shyla’s distinctive hand. “A license plate number,” she declared, pleased. It was for a recently registered car, she noted, which fitted with what Shyla had told her about the man Frank being new to the country. Since Saturday the clever young woman had elicited the information and delivered it on a page with no other clues, so only Billie was likely to know the significance. Perhaps a trip to Upper Colo was in order, once other pressing matters were resolved? But it would have to wait at least another day. For now, she had a boy to find, and she wanted a hell of a lot of answers.
“Another matter,” she said to Sam, pocketing the piece of paper. “I made it to the morgue,” she went on. “That’s how I know about Zervos. But our boy Adin wasn’t there, and no one of his description has been through. One piece of good news, at least.” She checked his expression and saw that he still looked a touch glum, browspinched. Billie changed the subject. “On another note, how was the rest of your night? Did your date with Eunice work out? You were feeling up for it?”
Sam flinched and a strange look came over him.
“I mean... up for a night out, after the incident in the alley,” she clarified, wondering about his sensitivity.
“We went to the late session ofThe Bells of St. Mary’s,thank you, Ms. Walker,” Sam said rather stiffly.
Something about his night had not worked out well, but she decided it was best not to inquire further. “Are you up for a trip?” she asked. “A drive to the Blue Mountains?”
“Always,” he said, brightening. “I’ve only been there once... saw the Three Sisters. I’m parked not far away, unless you want the train?”
“No need,” Billie said to him, smiling. “It’s now December. A new month with new petrol coupons. I’ve brought out the roadster and filled her up already.” The opportunity to cruise the open road for a few hours was not one she would pass up. Following her chat with Donald Benny at the morgue, she had hopes for the case, which she didn’t yet want to reveal to Sam, in case they fell through, but even if things led nowhere on this Monday, at least they would enjoy a scenic drive and some mountain air. They deserved that, at least, after their record-breakingly awful weekend. “Let’s lock up here and hit the road.”
Her two-seater Willys 77 roadster was waiting near the entrance of Daking House, its top down, black paint gleaming in the morning sun and red leather interior beckoning. Billie thought she saw Sam actually lick his lips when he spotted the automobile. It gave the impression of being as much animal as machine, part black steed, or perhaps panther. It had few miles on the clock for its age, as it hadwaited patiently for its mistress while she was away reporting in Europe. The roadster had been a twenty-first-birthday present from Baroness von Hooft, who had so far given her only child a fast sewing machine, a faster motorcar, and a small Colt, in that order. All three appeared to have been chosen because the baroness recognized the power of the skills associated with them, even if she was not adept at those skills herself, and probably never would be—having no ability to sew or drive or shoot or, for that matter, cook. At least that Billie was aware of. Ella had been a modern woman for her time and her station, but her daughter, Billie, was of an altogether different era, and thanks to those gifts she could go anywhere, make anything she needed to wear, and protect herself in the unique line of work she had chosen.
On the bonnet of the roadster, leading the charge as it were, was the winged goddess Victory, or Nike, her head tilted back and nestled into her wings and long, wavy hair in what Billie fancied was a pose of pleasure. The ancient Greeks had worshipped Nike because they believed she could grant them immortality and the strength and speed to be victorious in any task, making her an appropriate ornament, to be certain, though Billie didn’t want to test the immortality theory too vigorously. No further than the dial could take them, anyway.
Sam strode forward and opened the driver’s-side door for his boss. Billie slid behind the wheel, inside the lush red interior. There was no question of her car being driven by anyone else. She pulled black leather driving gloves out of the glove box and eased them over her soft white hands as Sam got in the passenger side. He watched silently, seemingly a touch overcome by the automobile. She’d not had reason to take him out in it since his employment began.
With a grin she pumped the accelerator and pressed the starter button with her foot, and the engine cranked over, she felt it fire, and the beast that was her automobile began to warm to their presence. Driving was, to Billie’s mind, something every woman should experience, and often, though such possibilities were limited until petrol rationing ceased. For now, the restrictions prevented her from enjoying her beloved car quite as much as she’d like, but being behind the wheel on the open road was the kind of rare thrill that didn’t leave one with a hangover, social embarrassment, unwanted male attachments, or diseases, and who could argue with virtues such as those?
“You’ll want to hold on tight, Sam,” she said.
After nearly three hours of pleasant motoring, Billie pulled her roadster onto Woodlands Road, found a parking spot near Katoomba cemetery—cemeteries always being unnervingly close to hospitals—pulled off her leather driving gloves, and walked toward Katoomba’s Blue Mountains District ANZAC Memorial Hospital, her seemingly unrattled passenger trailing behind her.
