Brown & Co. Fine Furs
Strand Arcade, Sydney
Billie turned the card over a couple of times. That explained the fur all right. The Strand Arcade was north of Billie’s office, but not far. She recognized the company name, though she had never been inside the shop. It was downstairs at the Strand, from memory. There were a handful of successful fur companies in Sydney, the largest of which was a shop on George Street. She wondered how business was after the war. Had the restrictions been fully lifted?
“It’s a family company,” Mrs. Brown added. “Adin works the floor, sometimes does stocktake, looks after the odd jobs.”
“Do you have a lot of staff on this time of year?” Though winter sales would probably be more substantial, considering the goods, it was likely to be getting busy not so long before Christmas.
“Around Christmas we sometimes get one or two temporary salespersons, part-time, but we can’t afford any extra staff at the moment. There is just myself, my husband, and Adin.”
“And where is your husband today?”
“At the shop.” She looked at the thin watch on her wrist. “He’ll be closing soon. Oh, it’s been such a distressing couple of days.”
“I understand. Mrs. Brown, I’d like to drop into the shop this weekend, if that is acceptable. Perhaps tomorrow in the late morning? I can be discreet.”
She nodded and Billie got her to describe her son’s appearance in detail, run through his usual routines, and write down the names and addresses of his close friends.
“Would I be able to speak with your husband also?”
Mrs. Brown hesitated a little but nodded. Billie took a mental note.
“Does your son own a passport?”
Mrs. Brown’s eyebrows shot up. “No. Are you suggesting he might have left the country?”
“I’m not suggesting anything; I’m narrowing our search. Does he have access to any money, Mrs. Brown? His own, or someone else’s he might use?”
“Well... no. He’s a good boy, I told you.” Billie noticed she was now gripping the bag in her lap like a woman on a roller coaster. When it came to these initial meetings, clients were an even split in Billie’s experience—half of them loved pouring out every sordid detail of their lives and their traumas, and the other half were something like this, finding every detail painful or embarrassing to share with a total stranger, paid or otherwise. Mrs. Brown didn’t like this conversation.
Billie ignored the constant reinforcement of Adin Brown’s high moral standards. People did not come in just two kinds—good and bad—and in any event Billie wasn’t there to judge. “How much would he keep on him, normally?” she asked.
“Only a few pounds for snacks and the tram.”
You couldn’t get far on that. Billie leaned back in her chair again. The woman had barely touched her tea. “Is there anything else you think I ought to know?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” The tone was almost accusing.
“I don’t mean anything by it. The more I have to go on, the better,” she explained.
“He’s a good boy, Miss Walker. I...” She trailed off, unable tofinish her sentence, and looked down, her brow creased. The large brown eyes looked wet again.
“I’ll do my best to find your son for you, Mrs. Brown, and quickly. We’ll start right away.”
“Tonight?” It was now after four.
Billie nodded. “Yes. Normal business hours don’t apply to this work. And we’ll work through the weekend.”
Mrs. Brown’s features perked up a little, her mouth relaxing, the sense of immediacy seeming to put her more at ease. Or perhaps it was that Billie had accepted the retainer and something was being done. Billie stood and opened the communicating door for her, and bade her new client good day. Sam was sitting at his desk, pretending he hadn’t been doing his best to listen through the door. He opened the office door and stepped back to allow Mrs. Brown into the hallway.
“Thank you, Miss Walker,” Netanya Brown said again, and disappeared toward the lift as they watched, that fur stole having never left her shoulders.
Sam shut the door gently. “Nervy one,” he commented.
Billie nodded thoughtfully and wondered if she was the one who had called that morning. She was just nervy enough to hang up on Sam when she heard a male voice.
“She is quite anxious. Not without reason, perhaps,” she mused. “How much of thatdidn’tyou catch?”
