Thirty-two
“Seeing as you don’t liketo drink alone,” Sam remarked, and grinned all the way up to the corners of his aquamarine eyes. They clinked beer mugs and Billie smiled back across the table at him as he downed another large mug of foaming ale.
It was Friday, two and a half exhausting days since the fire and the discovery of the shed, and it was time to put the whole sordid affair to rest, time to somehow move on. In aid of that idea, Billie and her assistant had come downstairs to let off some tension in the billiards room in the basement of Daking House. Billie, true to her personal rule, was not drinking alone. Indeed, on this occasion she was in some wonderful company.
“Your father would be proud,” Baroness Ella von Hooft said, and instead of raising a glass she turned and loudly tried to order a bottle of champagne for the table for the second time. For the second time she was informed that the billiards room did not have any champagne. They didn’t have a waiter, either.
“Good goddess, can’t you just sip what’s in front of you?” Billieimplored her mother. This wasn’t The Dancers, but under the circumstances that didn’t feel like a downgrade. Alma clinked her mug with Billie’s, and they each took generous sips, leaving Ella to crossly watch them from beneath her penciled brows and flawless marcel waves.
“I don’t think the waiting room will be empty again for a while,” Sam said to everyone at the table. “Clients are lining up.” He took another swig.
That appeared to be true. While Billie had been in the Blue Mountains with Inspector Cooper and, later, had crept around Upper Colo, her assistant had fielded calls and visitors. The past two days had not slowed down, either. Word had spread about the spectacular fire and her uncovering of possible Nazi loot, and that along with the front-page coverage of the car chase had now attracted new clients. She’d not been entirely sure whether the publicity would scare people away or draw them in, but it had proved better than taking out an advertisement. In a way it was odd. Clients always wanted everything on the down low and hush-hush, yet with her sudden notoriety she had new cases lined up for weeks. The turn of events, professionally speaking, was cause for celebration, even if she hoped she wouldn’t need to investigate a similar case to keep Sydney calling on her little inquiry agency.
She looked around the party of revelers packed like canned sardines in a cozy booth in the basement billiards joint. It was an eclectic group, rounded out by Shyla and Constable Primrose, who was downing the off-license ale as fast as Sam could. Billie suspected such a group might never assemble in quite the same way again.
Shyla, who did not drink alcohol, raised her glass of Cherry Cheer courteously. “Another?” Billie suggested, and she shook herhead. For someone who could kill a rapist stone dead with one swing, she was very quiet, at least in this company. Franz, and indeed the late Georges Boucher, had massively underestimated her. Perhaps Billie had, too. It was a quality that would come in handy in the trade, if she could convince Shyla to join the agency. So far, Shyla had refused. One thing they were in agreement on, however, was that it was a relief that news about the young girls had not hit the newspapers. Not yet anyway. The last thing they needed was the lack of privacy that would bring. Cooper had done well, if indeed it was him who had managed it. The Upper Colo fire and the discoveries at the house had attracted a lot of speculation. Ruthie had already found a new placement, but as for Ida and Eleanor, Billie knew only that they were in hospital being treated for shock and minor injuries, and Shyla would update her when she could.
“To victory!” Sam said in an overly loud voice, bringing to mind the cry of 1945 and the end of the war, so recent and yet a lifetime ago.
“To victory,” the rest of them said in surprising harmony, even Shyla joining in.
They clinked glasses again and she smiled, trying to enjoy the moment of triumph.
Victory, in reality, was a mixed affair, not quite the glorious beast the posters and the songs so fondly announced it to be. It was the end of something, yes, a victory over some things, but it was also a time to take stock, a time to bury the dead. There was Con Zervos, who might still be breathing had Billie not come asking questions of him. There was what Adin Brown had been through, and what those young girls Ida and Eleanor had endured, things no shout of victory could erase. The police weren’t finished with them all, either. There was the matter of Boucher’s demise, and how that mightappear once the dust settled. Billie hoped it would be put down to panic in the fire, but he’d been a powerful man and that could spell trouble for a while, trouble she hoped she would be equal to. And there was the matter of identifying just who the man Franz was, and from whom he’d had help to acquire and ship so many precious things into Australia without attracting the attention of the authorities. And there was the matter of Moretti. Yes, Moretti. She had a word or two for him. Was Franz the one paying him? How much had he known? Billie was going to see to it that he came to justice for his part in all this if it was the last thing she did.
“I have something for you,” Constable Primrose said, putting down her empty glass.
Billie raised a brow. She was presented with a small package emblazoned with the wordTussy.“You didn’t...”
“I did. I found one of the last sticks of Fighting Red.” The constable smiled widely, her curls bouncing in her enthusiasm.
“How?”
She just smiled knowingly. Yes, she was a resourceful one, that Primrose. And she’d come through with the information on the owner of the car with plate XR-001, albeit too late as the drama unfolded in remote Upper Colo.
“Pardon me, Billie. I should go,” Shyla said, pulling Billie from her thoughts.
Billie looked into the young woman’s deep caramel eyes, and they exchanged an unspoken understanding. “Thank you for coming. Andthank you.” She paused. “I will do what I can to keep searching for your brothers.”
Shyla nodded. “Ruthie says hello. Things are better for her now,” she said quietly.
That could only be an understatement. The young woman had not been able to release the two girls herself in that isolated and violent place, but she’d alerted contacts of Shyla’s, and Shyla had in turn reached out to Billie. However Ruthie had managed it, she took a risk. She’d been brave. Franz was armed and had doubtless threatened them with severe consequences if they stepped out of line. If Ruthie hadn’t taken that chance, who knew how much longer they would have been trapped there? There was no way to undo what those girls had been through, but it was at an end now. The man responsible was in custody, and Boucher was no longer able to hurt anyone, either. The rest of the men in that notebook? Well, there was a reckoning still to come.
Constable Primrose was also making moves to leave. She flashed a toothy, gleaming smile. “Enjoy the lipstick. It’s good on you. I’m supposed to be off for the day, but I get the feeling Inspector Cooper might want some assistance. It’s a heck of a pickle, this whole thing, and having had him behind bars at Richmond.” She blew some air out of her mouth, a silent whistle, then grabbed her things, gave Billie a hearty squeeze, and went to follow Shyla up the stairs.
“Wait.A pickle?” Billie echoed, confused.
Primrose bit her pink lower lip. “I’ve spoken out of turn,” she said. “I’ll speak to you soon, I’m sure. Billie, you really aced it. I’m so pleased for the Brown family. Sock it to those Nazi bastards,” she added enthusiastically, punching the air, her blond curls bouncing once more.
“Indeed... but what did you mean by it all being a pickle?” Billie pressed, feeling anxiety building in her gut. Primrose was not forthcoming, bidding her friend adieu and clattering up the staircase.
Billie exhaled heavily and moved closer to her mother on thebench, feeling the tension of the past few days sliding back in. Now she worried that there was something she wasn’t being told.
“What is it?” Sam asked her.
In lieu of answering, she picked up her beer mug and examined its state of unacceptable emptiness with an exaggeratedly arched brow, and her assistant dutifully filled it again. He seemed to glean what was needed by way of osmosis, yet another quality to recommend him. Ella raised a penciled eyebrow at Billie, then glanced meaningfully at Sam. Alma, catching the exchange, shook her head ruefully and clinked glasses with Billie, who chose to ignore her mother’s pointed signals.
“I could sleep for a week,” Billie remarked, and meant it.
