The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

that was a lot of money for a not-quite twenty-three-year-old, but the look on Tom’s face made me think that perhaps working for me and for Harry at the same time probably deserved a bit extra.

“Well, if you decided you’re happy with our offer, the first thing you’ll need to do before I can employ you is to go to Bathurst Street, in the city, to register as a private investigator—I’ll give you the letter of employment—and then Harry and I can arrange for you to take a stenography and typing class—”

“No need, Clyde,” Tom said. “Already did that. My first job before I joined the police force was as a copy room hack in the Toukley Tatler, our local rag.”

I didn’t hesitate, my hand shot out as quickly as a furball from Baxter’s mouth. “Six quid a week, a desk of your own, flexible hours … what do you say, Tom?” He hesitated, biting his lip. “And I’ll call your mother and tell her I’ve selected you to be my personal assistant out of hundreds of qualified men.”

Tom rolled his eyes, but smiled and shook mine and Harry’s hands in turn.

“When do I start?”

“How about right now?”

I looked at Harry, who chuckled and then agreed.

“Any priorities for you, Harry?” I asked.

“Not until I get the ball rolling myself. I’ll have to get a bit of groundwork sorted before Tom and I can start to talk about my end of the business, so no, Clyde, you go ahead if you’ve got ideas.”

“I suppose what we need to sort out is how to manage phone calls if they’re to be routed through to the desk in Mr. Kovacs’ old office.”

“The easiest way is for me to apply to have his old telephone line switched into my name,” Harry said. “It doesn’t matter what the number is for the time being. It would make sense if you and I used the same answering service, so once I’ve registered the number to my business, I’ll speak with the service you use, Clyde—Brenda Brighteyes is always very professional when I leave messages with her for you.”

“Here’s an idea,” Tom said. “We used to have this system at the newspaper, because the boss ran a costume hire business as well—”

“A what?”

“Never mind, Clyde, it’s beside the point. But, I think if you both have registered business names, you can get a small console for the desk in the reception area—it’s a bit like a miniature switchboard—so I’ll be able to tell which of you incoming calls are for.”

“Leave that to me,” Harry said. “We’ve still got to the end of February before the investigation winds up. I’ll call into P.M.G. sales office in Bondi Junction later on today and have a look at what’s available. If they say it’s going to take forever to transfer Mr. Kovacs’ old number and get a desktop switchboard installed, I can always flash my Army Intelligence identification card and say it’s a matter of urgency, but I’m not at liberty to explain why.”

“My mother would call that queue jumping, Mr. Jones,” Tom said, but with a cheeky grin.

“Well, Tom, we could always be generous with the truth and say that if anyone is looking for either Clyde or me for anything to do with the investigation board, that our joint personal assistant could be the first port of call …”

Harry was a far better businessman than I was, and, before long, I found myself sitting back and agreeing to everything he suggested. He and Tom had connected quickly, their minds seemed to work in the same way, and they’d figured out a progression of what needed to be done in a far more logical and time-saving way than I could ever have done. While I listened, nodding occasionally and replying to questions aimed at me, I flicked through the mail. I also made occasional notes on their whys, whens, and wherefores, while I tried to sort out, from return addresses, which were bills, work offers, or fan mail.

“Clyde?”

“Yes, Harry? Sorry?”

“Tom and I are going up to the used furniture shop at Peter’s Corner. We’ll have a look for some office furniture. I won’t need much in here: a few filing cabinets, a large work table, and perhaps a desk and half-a-dozen chairs for talks to prospective clients to prepare them for a weekend in the bush.”

“That’s a great idea,” I mumbled.

“Are you coming?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll just pop Baxter in his basket and leave him downstairs with Miss Evans in the employment agency while we’re away.”

“What were you looking at?” he asked as I closed the office door behind me.

“What are you talking about, Harry?”

“You were a million miles away staring at that one envelope for ages. What was in it?”

“Nothing, Harry. Nothing at all.”

Nothing had been in it, and that was the problem. An empty envelope with a stamp on it, pushed through the letter slot at the bottom of my office door. No postmark, no address, just my name on the front written in green ink, in elongated capital letters.

“Nothing” was all comparative in my world.

*****

I had to hand it to Tom, he had a powerhouse of a work ethic. I’d remembered Sam had told me Tom liked to put his head down and get stuck into it. I’d been impressed with his attitude on the only case I’d worked on with him, but hadn’t had time to get to know him because he’d been donged on the noggin and hospitalised not long after we’d been introduced.

By the end of the day, he’d sorted through my mail and had used Mr. Kovacs’ still-connected telephone to retrieve my messages from Brenda Brighteyes. It had made me smile and feel good when I’d heard him introduce himself to her over the telephone as my new personal assistant. He had a great telephone manner; I tended to grunt down the phone.

“There are three piles, Clyde,” he explained. “This one is fan mail and letters in reply to your newspaper reviews.