Lips
glacé cherry-red. Raisin-dark hair swept back. Skin pale as blanched almonds. A
slight whiff of brandy. She reminded Kent of …
“Fruit cake?” Sylvia Preen asked.
Taking the smallest slice from the proffered plate,
he tried to balance the cake on the edge of his saucer. Milky tea from the cup
slopped onto it. Abandoning the challenge, he placed the lot on a delicate
table beside his chair.
Over Sylvia’s shoulder, a Catalina flying boat with
RAAF roundels slipped away from its moorings and began picking up speed across
Freshwater Bay.
In those distracted seconds, she’d morphed from delectable
Peppermint Grove baked goods to avian predator. Her head was tilted to one
side, eyes fixed on him. A seagull sizing up a discarded chip.
“I’m surprised a fit man like yourself isn’t in the
Services.”
“Invalided out,” Kent lied.
She appeared unconvinced. “I read in The West this
morning that we’ve retaken Kokoda from the Japs.”
“Then I’m definitely no longer needed.” Leaning
forward, he held out a soft pack of cigarettes. They lit from their own
lighters. “And I read Mr Preen has had an unfortunate accident.”
“If your idea of an accident is someone being
stabbed in the back while wearing silk pyjamas at dawn on our private jetty,
then yes.”
“You want me to find his killer?”
“Heavens, no, Mr Kent. The police asked me if my
husband had any enemies. I handed them the Perth telephone directory.” She
ashed her cigarette. “But I’m giving the matter more thought. Meanwhile, you’ve
a reputation for being discrete – a private, private detective. I want you to find
a very compromising sketch of me. I’m being blackmailed.”
Fifteen minutes later, Kent stood in the shade of a
peppermint tree, the river foreshore a few feet away. A seagull, balanced on
one leg, studied his polished shoe caps. Behind him, the Preen mansion almost
blocked out the western sky. In front, dinghies bobbed at peace. He didn’t want
to leave.
The car’s steering wheel was hot to the touch. Windows
down, the beginnings of a sea breeze drying the perspiration on his shirt and
suit jacket, he headed for Fremantle. His was one of the few civilian vehicles making
their way into the port. The roads were crowded with Allied trucks, the
footpaths with gob caps, duck caps, officers’ peaked caps. As he slowed at a
busy corner, a pair of US Shore Patrol masters-at-arms, watching for Unauthorised
Absence bluejackets, peered into the back seat of his car. In return, Kent
considered asking them for American cigarettes.
Polari’s rented room was above an Italian
restaurant. A knock on the room door went unanswered. Kent checked off a list
of other places Sylvia suggested.
Searches of the first two pubs proved fruitless.
Leaving the third, he saw the white singlet, the distinctive star tattoo on the
muscular shoulder and the newsboy-style cap moments before their owner turned
into a laneway.
“Polari!” Kent shouted.
The man could run, Kent gave him that. Left at the
first cross street, right at the next. Twice, three times Polari thumped into the
backs of ambling sailors. Obscenities followed the pair as they sprinted
towards the wharves. High chain-link fences stretched west and east. Polari
stopped, turned, pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and flicked it open.
Kent bent forward, fought to catch his breath, straightened and tugged a service
revolver from his jacket. “Bang, bang.”
Polari’s room seemed crowded even with just the two
of them. A cast iron bed, a woollen crocheted blanket, a quilted cover. By the
window, a large format book of sketching paper stood on an easel. The effect: austere
but homely. Except for the artwork on the walls.
Kent gestured for Polari to sit on the bed. “You’ve
a way with …”
“The ladies?” Polari cut in.
“Erotic illustrations. Are these the originals?”
“Of course, the world’s navies are in town. Those
boys only want copies. This is a sweet little business.”
Gun still pointed at Polari’s chest, Kent leant across
and tore a sketch from the wall. Sylvia Preen had at least had the decency to
wear suspenders. She looked younger.
Polari protested as Kent folded the paper and tucked
it into a pocket. Ignoring him, Kent pulled open the top drawer of a wooden
dresser. A crisp British merchant seaman’s identity card was tucked under three
singlets. More protests. Kent held up a hand. “Fake ID? Jumped ship? Purveying
pornography? Oh, wait, I forgot blackmail.”
“The last one’s not as lucrative as you’d imagine.”
Polari straightened up. “Do I get my knife back?”
“I’ll think about it.”
The maid said no. No Mrs Preen wasn't at home and
no he couldn't wait until she returned. Lips drawn back to approximate a smile,
he turned away. The breeze from the slamming door cooled his back. To the right
across the bay, the impressive bulk of a yacht club sat on a low hill. Along
the foreshore beneath the club, short jetties poked into the Swan River. A
figure in white stood out from their bleached, grey wood.
As he approached, he could see the familiar tilt of
Sylvia Preen’s head.
"Is this the jetty where your husband was murdered?"
"Are you making conversation or would you
genuinely like to know?"
"Both."
She pointed to a dark stain on the wooden planks. A
pause. “And the sketch?”
He drew the folded artwork from an inside pocket.
“To be fair, it’s quite a good likeness.”
Her hand shot out, snatching the paper away. One
quick glance to confirm it was the original then the tearing began. Within
seconds, a flutter of pornographic confetti floated down to the water. A
cluster of blowfish nuzzled the wet paper before losing interest.
Side-by-side they watched the paper drift amongst
the pylons. Touching his arm, she asked: “What are you thinking?”
Kent didn’t react. He was thinking the now very rich
merry widow had lured her unpleasant husband down to the jetty, killed him and
was about to put the knife-happy Polari in the frame for the murder. But first
she’d needed that sketch off the artist’s wall. Even a Fremantle copper would’ve
recognised her – with or without underwear. If this was a just world I’d immediately
turn her over to the police, Kent reflected.
But there was something more important than instant
justice. His invoice. “I was thinking we should celebrate with a drink and with you
paying my bill.”
“Cash or cheque, Mr Kent?”
“In this case, cash.”
# # #
* I’m
extremely remorseful for the countless copyright infringements in this story
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