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

*****

As a special treat, I phoned Tom from the telephone box on the corner of Beach Street and invited him to join Harry and me for lunch at Stones. I’d seen the menu of the day and there was Hühnerpaprikasch—the German version of Hungarian paprika chicken—with noodles for six shillings and sixpence, accompanied by a salad, with a slice of Linzer torte and ice cream for dessert.

While we ate, both Harry and I went through our various agendas with Tom, giving him tasks he could be getting on with while we were away in the country. Harry’s list was quite small, mainly consisting of checking timetables of the trains out to Capertee in the west for his next adventure weekend, and asking Tom to contact the private bus company in Lithgow to see whether they could pick up the fifteen young men and women at the station on the Friday evening, drive them to the camp ground, and then return them to catch the last train home to Sydney on the Sunday evening.

My list, however, consisted of liaising with Jeff Ball, who’d arranged to have a ten-man squad to help search the storm water drains that the police hadn’t examined, and to comb the Kensington rifle range. Jeff had already notified the army captain in charge of the range that shooting would need to be suspended for two days before New Year to allow a group of trained men to sift through the areas that were free of live ammunition. There were always plenty of rounds that didn’t go off and it was very dangerous if you didn’t know what you were doing. I asked Tom to help Vince supervise the five policemen Brendan had arranged to be available for us from Bondi police station to do a complete and thorough investigation of all the vaults in the South Coogee and Bronte cemeteries.

I told him I’d call in to see the Bishops before Harry and I left for Howard Farrell’s, but also asked if he’d visit them on New Year’s Eve, with a small bottle of cherry brandy from Tom and me, and to tell them what we were doing about widening our enquiry into the disappearance of their children, but not to mention we were checking places where bodies might be found.

By the time the Linzer torte arrived, I had to admit I was feeling pretty full, but the sight of the golden, trellis-topped pastry case, lightly dusted with icing sugar, and the care and love with which Liesl Becker placed it on the table in front of us, immediately made my mouth water.

“Help yourselves, gentlemen,” she said, placing the knife on the table. “Cut the size you want. No skimpy helpings here. Your newspaper article has tripled our business, Herr Smith.”

“Ich habe mich sehr gefreut zu helfen, Frau Becker,” I said in my halting German.

She laughed at my attempt to explain I was only too pleased to have been able to help and gestured to her husband, who’d been peering out of the serving hatch while his wife had presented his wonderful-looking confection.

We waved and thanked him.

God, it was delicious! I was determined to get the recipe for his pastry. Sam could make the best pastry known to man, but this was outstanding. Short, buttery, melt-in-the-mouth—the man was a genius.

“What’s the jam?” Tom asked.

“It’s sour plum jam,” I replied. “The Germans and Poles love it.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s very moreish.”

“Another slice?” I asked.

“Give it here, Clyde,” Harry said, taking the knife from me and cutting two enormous slices for him and Tom.

“Where’s mine?”

“Can’t have you packing on the pounds, Smith,” he said with a wink. “Not unless you get more exercise.”

His knee nudge under the table did not go unnoticed. Tom gave me a wink and I returned it, accompanied with a soft chuckle as I cut myself another slice—bigger than both of theirs.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Zephyr was nothing like I’d expected.

I’d imagined a late-nineteenth-century wool baron’s mansion, all wrought iron and imported brickwork, or at least a Federation-style sprawling beauty, surrounded with tessellated tile verandas and stained-glass windows sporting Australian wild flowers in shades of red, green, and gold, like those of Mike Hissard’s house in Bellevue Hill.

What I’d not been prepared for was a spreading, two-storied affair of white wood, colonial balustraded magnificence that must have been surely one of the oldest houses in the area.

“Wow!” Harry had muttered as we’d turned around a bank of leafy rhododendrons halfway down the red-gravelled driveway. The house had slowly come into view, taking us by surprise. It could only have been built in the mid-1800s by a wealthy Sydney businessman as his summer retreat. It had all the hallmarks of unfettered wealth.

No sooner had I turned off the engine than the front door flew open and a young man bounded down the stairs. “Hey!” he said. Even in that one word, I discerned an American accent. He courteously, but firmly, moved Harry to one side and then retrieved our luggage from the boot of the car, placed it at the foot of the stairs, and then held out his hand.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do. How much was the going rate at a private house in the country? It was my first time away. “Keys!” he said, noticing my confusion and waggling his fingers.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. I handed the car keys to him, and he got behind the wheel of my convertible—we’d driven with the roof down—pushed himself back against the leather upholstery, and whistled low under his breath. “Nice ride, Mr. Smith,” he said and then beeped the horn and drove off.

I turned to Harry with a huge grin, but he gestured behind me. The twin of the young man had appeared on the veranda and had picked up our suitcases, my typewriter under his arm, and was waiting for us to follow him. “This way, gentlemen,” he said and then pushed the front door