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

“Why did they call him? Isn’t this Dioli’s case?”

“That’s the thing, Clyde. Vince was told Dioli’s in Balmain hospital. Fell down the stairs at home on Christmas morning.”

“There are no stairs at his house, Tom. Clarrie’s son told me it was all on one level.”

“Well, seems he is pretty knocked about, whatever happened.”

“So Vince is going to look at the case by himself?”

“Yeah, there’s been an explosion at the gas works in Anzac Parade, so the Kensington guys are all called out to that. He’s been phoning around, but most of the crew who are on duty are hopeless, or so pissed they can barely stand.”

“Where’s the body, Tom?”

“Clyde, this isn’t your business. I’m just ringing because Vince asked me to let you know.”

“If Vince asked you to let me know, that’s because he needs help, Tom. Now, where’s the body?”

“Pick me up in ten minutes and I’ll tell you. You’re not going by yourself.”

“Christ, Tom—”

“I’m your assistant now, Clyde. Let me assist, okay?”

I sighed and reluctantly agreed.

“Who was that?” Harry asked when I returned to the bedroom.

“There’s been another murder,” I explained, pulling on my underpants.

“Where are you going?”

“Vince needs my help.”

“But surely—”

The phone rang again. “Dioli’s in hospital,” I called out down the corridor as I raced to answer it.

It was the chief superintendent, who asked me if I could assist Vince as a special favour. The Silent Cop murders had been my case years back, and he said that seeing they were so limited for manpower, he’d work something out financially and pay me a consultant’s fee for my trouble for the night. I told him to save his pennies, all I needed was his authorisation to be there.

“Dioli’s in hospital?” Harry asked as he helped me into my shirt.

“Supposed to have fallen down the stairs, so Vince said.”

“So Vince said?”

“There are no stairs in his house, Harry. I think I need to pay that old bastard of a grandfather of his a visit—”

“Hold your horses, Clyde. Don’t interfere, all right? It’s not your business.”

“It is when it interferes with public duty, Harry. But, you are right. I’ll keep myself to myself.”

“How long will you be?”

“I tell you what. Have you ever been to a crime scene before?”

“Only the one where you got shot and stabbed and I held you in my arms thinking you were about to die.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot about that one …”

“Clyde Smith, are you asking me to drive you and Tom?”

“Nah, forget it. Stay here and keep our bed warm …”

“Too late, my friend, Baxter has that job already.”

“All right then, throw on some clothes. If you get bored hanging around, I’ll ask one of the uniforms to drop Tom and me back home.”

“Do I get to be an honorary private dick for the night?”

“Harry Jones, please tell me you haven’t been saving up that line?”

He laughed and began to get dressed.

*****

Baker Park was only a few blocks from the Bishops’ house in Bryon Street, and not far from the Returned Servicemen’s League club, or the R.S.L. as most of us called it.

I knew the park, we used to play there sometimes when we were kids. There were several large Moreton Bay fig trees and tall, unkempt scrub around the toilet block, which was not more than five or six yards from the street at the end of a concrete path. Dim light from a yellowed street lamp thirty feet away barely illuminated the entrance to the convenience.

The ladies’ toilet was situated on the other side of a low-fenced football field, which abutted the back of the men’s facility. Sometimes the park was used for cricket in the summer, so the men’s convenience also had a few showerheads protruding from one wall and opposite them a long, slatted bench with clothes hooks above it. The stainless-steel urinal and four cubicles were at the end of the changing room in a separate area. The neon light flickered off and on lazily in the changing area. More off than on. The lavatory section was in darkness.

“Sorry, I got held up,” I said to Vince. “The chief superintendent rang me just after I got off the phone from Tom.”

“So you’re here officially?”

“Yes, as a paid consultant. Everything seems to have gone off tonight all over town. All the stations are understaffed. Have you started yet?”

“I think he’s ex-R.A.A.F.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Wings tooled into the leather of his wallet, and he’s about your age. No driving licence or I.D. in it, just a few old tram tickets and two ten-shilling notes. Christmas night isn’t the best time to be searching records, but one of the new constables who hadn’t had a skinful is knocking on the door of the secretary of the R.S.L club to ask if he has an address for the man—there’s a numbered membership badge on his keyring.”

“Same modus operandi?”

Vince shrugged. “As far as I can tell on a cursory inspection. I’ve only been here a few minutes myself. But pants around his ankles, blood everywhere. I got Jack Lyme out of bed when I called into the station, he won’t be far away.”

“All right, I’ll have a look after Jack’s done his initial examination. Who was that outside under the tree at the top of the path? Guy sitting on the ground clutching his head with a junior constable standing over him. Obviously not the murderer, that would be too much to hope for.”

“Possible witness.”

“A witness?”

I couldn’t help but smile. A witness? What every investigator loved to hear; someone who was at the scene of the crime and may have seen what happened. Particularly welcome now, after five previous bodies with no leads. I loved putting cases to bed, especially if they’d gone cold. A witness? My inner “you beauty!” gave a little leap in my chest, despite the grimness of our present situation.

“Tom, go have a quick chat with the man. Be nice, now, eh?”

“Right you are, Clyde,” Tom said.

“I’m not sure if Tom …”

“I’m here on the