I went back to straighten things up, drew the blinds, locked up and left by the goods lift at the back of the building. It let me out in a loading dock on the ground floor. The dock opened onto a crooked laneway which ran between the Manning Building and the Capitol Theatre. The only people who used the lane were garbos, truckies, and some shadowy blokes who came and went at odd hours. I tapped on a green doorway where an old sign said ‘Chinese Christian Seamen’s Welfare Association’. An aged character opened the door, then stood back to let me in. He closed the door behind me, put the bolts back in place and said, ‘Pipe?’ I nodded.
Mr Ling ushered me into the small room at the back. There were four blokes there, pretty beaten-looking Chinese guys of indeterminate age. They ignored me. Mr Ling directed me to a couch. I gave him ten bob and he brought out the makings. They had recently installed a record player in the room and ‘Quiet Village’ was playing. Which was an improvement on the Mantovani they’d had playing last time.
Mr Ling held a flame under the gooey stuff in the bowl. I drew on the pipe and felt a warming deep inside me. I sat back and drifted off while Fred Slaney, the yellow-shirted bloke, and every single member of the New South Wales Police Force quietly joined Ray Waters at the bottom of the sea.
Chapter 5
To avoid unexpected meetings with coppers, customers, or whomever, I thought it best to enter and leave the Manning Building by the back entrance. The Chinese downstairs were pretty wary, having already had one run-in with Cec Abbott’s drug squad, and these days they kept a watch out permanently. Not that you’d know. The few times I bumped into Mr Ling in the back lane, he gave a tiny nod which I took to mean something like ‘I note that you now regularly use the back entrance; you no doubt have your reasons and they are probably associated with crook goings on. We respect your privacy.’
Murray got sent off the field around that time. He told me he’d be in St Luke’s Hospital for a short stay, would I clear his mailbox while he was gone? I told him no risk.
A week later the estate agents sent a bloke around to change the lock on Murray’s door. Was there a problem? I asked. Apparently the tenant was going bad, the locksmith said, hadn’t paid any rent for months. Next day the agent came around to clear out the office. I asked him had he tried to contact Murray. He had—Murray rented a flat in Bondi from him as well and he had skipped out of that weeks ago, also owing back rent.
I said, ‘I’ve heard he’s been unwell, that he’s getting medical attention.’
‘He’ll bloody need it if I catch up with him,’ the agent said. Then he asked if I’d hold on to the new key, to let in any prospective tenants that he might send over. I told him I wasn’t always here, but he said that didn’t matter, it might save him a trip sometime. I said okay.
That afternoon I went down to St Luke’s. Mr Liddicoat has checked out, the sister said. She said she couldn’t say where to, but then she followed me out and asked if I was a friend of his. I told her I was and she said that as far as she knew, Mr Liddicoat had gone into the new ‘hospital’ at Moore Park, down the road in South Dowling Street. I asked her why Murray couldn’t be treated here. She hummed and ha-ed, then told me the Moore Park place was better for Mr Liddicoat. They specialise in the treatment of alcoholics down there, she said.
Down at the Moore Park clinic they treated me with open suspicion. Who was I and what did I want with Murray? I told them I was a friend. Wrong answer. To them that meant drinking mate and bad influence. I had to sweet talk for five minutes, quote a couple of Mr Ulmer’s epigrams to show what a solid citizen I was. I told them how I was managing Murray’s business affairs while he took this much needed time out. Finally the old duck consented to see if Murray was available. She came back a minute later and said he’d checked out that morning. Against the doctor’s recommendation, she added. They didn’t know where he had gone.
So I couldn’t tell Murray about the winding up of his business in the Manning Building. I’d done my Christian duty by him, to hell with it, I thought.
But I took to doing my work in Murray’s former premises, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to keep out of my own office for a while. It was because of that I became a kind of half-arsed private eye.
I had been in there writing letters and parcelling up orders, and had just decided to have a cup of tea before I went to the post office. After that maybe I’d call it a day, drop by Mr Ling’s.
A tap at the door, and a tall, thin, nervy-looking feller stuck his head around. He was looking for Murray Liddicoat he said. I told him he wasn’t available at the moment. He asked when he’d be back, I said I really didn’t know. He asked if I was a business partner of Murray’s and I said not exactly, but I was sort of keeping an eye on things. He advanced into the room and I gestured for him to sit down.
He said that his solicitor had given him Murray’s name, told him Murray might be able to help him with a certain matter, and was I sure I didn’t know when Murray would be back. No idea, I said. The electric jug came to the boil. I filled the pot, asked him if he’ d like a cup of tea. He said all right.
I poured two cups and gave him one. His hand shook as he took it. He was a little older than me, maybe late thirties. But his hair was completely grey and he was stooped. He was large boned and may have been athletic once, but he couldn’t have weighed more than ten stone now. He wasn’t wearing an RSL badge but I knew the look well enough.
He sipped his tea and said, ‘Rodney Irving’s my name.’ He held his hand out across the desk. I gave him my name and shook.
He smiled and said, ‘Well, since Mr Liddicoat’s unavailable, would you be able to suggest anyone else in that line?’
‘What line exactly, Mr Irving?’
‘Please call me Rodney. Well, you know, the “personal and missing friends” sort of thing.’ He smiled apologetically.
‘You want to find someone?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you mind me asking who, exactly?’
‘A, ah, lady friend has . . . well, she’s gone.’
‘I see.’
‘The solicitor warned me that it may cost quite a bit to hire a good man, but he said Mr Liddicoat had a good reputation for this sort of thing.’ He shook his head, took a last sip of tea, smiled and said, ‘Thanks for the tea. Sorry to have bothered you.’ He put the cup and saucer on the desk, stood up.
I said, ‘Listen, Rodney, if you’re prepared to let me know some of the details, I may be in a better position to make an assessment of your case.’ I opened one of the ledger books there on the desk, made like I was scanning the pages and said, ‘I may be able to refer you on, or it’s just possible that I may even have sufficient time over the next week or two to look into it myself.’
‘Could you?’
‘I’m not a licensed agent in the same sense that Murray is, right, but we’ve worked together on a number of important projects’—like elbow-bending at the Chamberlain Hotel, I thought—‘and I may be able to assist you in the event of Murray not being able to.’
‘Well, you seem a decent enough chap,’ said Irving, ‘and I’m not afraid of acting on my instincts. But, with all due respect, are you, ah, personally experienced in this sort of work?’
‘I’ve stood in for Murray in some very important inquiries.’ Like three weeks ago, I thought, when Murray sent me into the Covent Gardens to find out whether or not he was still barred.
Irving said, ‘Well, I suppose that’ll be all right then. What happens next?’
‘You tell me all about it.’