The Ghosts of Paris, page 16
Billie chuckled softly and took the article. The exposition featured images of Australia’s beautiful shores and wildlife, making a good advertisement for immigrants. It also seemed to feature some of that wildlife:
Reuters correspondent in Paris says that the exhibition in vivid miniatures affords French people a fine opportunity of learning what Australia has accomplished, also of seeing something of the natural beauties of the country. A baby wallaby so far is one of the stars of the exposition . . .
She wondered who else might have been stars. Beautiful young mannequins Richard may have become interested in perhaps?
* * *
A night out in London was precisely what the doctor ordered and what the case demanded. And if a nice drop of something was involved, all the better to Billie Walker’s mind. While the work sometimes involved searching through dusty archives, this was where she really shone.
By eight thirty in the evening of her first official day on the job in London, Billie was swathed in a figure-hugging ruby dress with diamanté-encrusted belt and matching tilt hat, standing in the basement of Australia House, sipping bubbly with Charlie Thompson of the Trade Commission. Much as Mary had anticipated, she had caught his eye and he seemed to think nothing of bringing her along to show off to his mates and colleagues. She could see this was an informal affair, as he’d warned her, but it was also a place to see and be seen for those wanting to climb the ladder at Australia House. Charlie was clearly such a creature.
The gathering was so far mostly made up of men from the staff, along with a couple of women who seemed paired up with them. It had a “boys club” feel, she noted, and as the high commissioner had an event on, the most important men on staff were likely absent. These would be the next tier, she surmised, the ambitious climbers and the long-standing gatekeepers of the institution.
“I don’t know if you are aware of this, but most of the building materials used in the construction here were imported from Australia, as a way of representing everything the country has to offer,” Charlie was explaining.
“Is that so? It must have been terribly expensive to ship it across,” she said somewhat absently.
“Indeed, it was. The building is Portland stone on a base of Australian trachyte,” he boasted, “and we have pale cream Buchan marble from Victoria, some Caleula marble in light and dark tones from New South Wales, and white Angaston marble from South Australia. The flooring timbers include varieties from all Australian states.”
“How very fascinating. What are we standing on, precisely?” she asked, looking at their feet.
He hesitated. “You caught me there, Ms. Walker. I don’t actually know. I just know the spiel,” he admitted, laughing.
“Well, thank you for sharing it.” She looked around the room and noticed a few couples sitting and chatting. “Actually, I heard this place is built on an old well of some kind, something from medieval days?” she added.
“That is true. It’s hard to access, otherwise I’d show it to you right now.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss out on your gathering. Perhaps some other time,” she said.
“Actually, while it’s still quiet, I have to say I was a bit taken aback to hear that you’re some kind of private detective,” he said. “I’ll admit I didn’t realize your search was of a professional nature.”
“Well, yes, it is,” she said, turning to him. “I’m looking for Richard Montgomery for his wife, back in Australia. I believe I mentioned it? I’m sorry if the nature of my work concerns you in some way.” She wasn’t sorry. Not in the slightest.
Charlie shifted on his feet. “No, no. It’s just that I had thought perhaps your reasons were personal.”
“I see.” One can only have so many missing husbands of one’s own, she thought. “Montgomery was with the Australian Bureau of Information, as I said. They were here in ’45. Miss Wood remembers them, so perhaps some of your friends do also?”
“I’ve not met a woman detective before.”
“We are much like the male ones, apart from the lipstick,” she said, pursing her Fighting Red lips.
“I do hope that’s not all.”
“Not in any ways that should affect the work. In Australia we’re called private inquiry agents, actually. We’re forbidden to use the term ‘detective’ in relation to our work.” It was about the only piece of legislation particularly pertaining to the trade. Even those with criminal records could operate agencies, and often did, their special skills and contacts being of particular appeal to some. Her nemesis in the trade, Vincenzo Moretti, came to mind.
“Women are not allowed to call themselves detectives? How fascinating. I suppose it makes sense.”
“No, not just women; no private inquiry agent, whether man or woman, is allowed to use the word, not being on the public purse. It’s reserved for police detectives, public detectives if you will, of whatever sex they may be.”
“Oh, I see. You are a fascinating woman, I must say. I haven’t met someone quite like you before, Billie Walker.”
She did the professional smile, the one with steel behind the ivory.
“Is this Montgomery character presumed dead, like . . . ?” He wisely stopped himself before mentioning her missing husband’s name.
“Not necessarily, no. Unlike Jack, his work was not dangerous, as I understand it, though the bureau is not terribly open about their business, it seems. They were mostly involved with promoting Australia, from what I can tell, and having read a bit about the exposition, I can’t imagine anything particularly controversial or dangerous about it. There’s certainly no obvious reason it would have put him in the line of fire, as it were.”
“And you have no other reason to be here?” Charlie asked.
Billie tilted her head. “Such as?”
“Well, I didn’t realize we had such a famous investigator in our midst, that’s all.”
“I’m not sure I follow?”
Charlie shifted again. “Wasn’t there some incident last year, in Sydney? After you left, I had it pointed out to me. Quite a story it was, too. There was a copy in the Reading Room.”
Of course. She had seen stacks of The Sydney Morning Herald. It stood to reason that Billie’s appearances in that paper had not gone unnoticed, along with the front-page drama of the high-ranking Nazi criminal found to be doing dirty business all the way over in New South Wales, so far from the sickening Ravensbrück concentration camp for women, where he’d made his name. “Yes. You know about that, do you?”
“Apparently I was the only who didn’t. You must tell me everything,” he said, and grinned in his mischievous way. His hair again flopped over one eye, and he smoothed it back behind his ear. “It looked like quite the derring-do. When I read that, I thought perhaps you might be working on something larger,” he suggested. “To come this far from your offices, I mean.”
Billie placed a hand on her hip, tilting her head. “Charlie, I must confess you sound rather like you have something in mind.”
“Charlie, my dear man,” came a voice, and her host was slapped heartily on his shoulder. “Who is this lovely woman you’ve been hiding from us?”
“Oh look, here’s Basil and Harold,” Charlie said, standing a touch taller, their conversation instantly falling away. He flashed a broad smile to the pair of older men, one of whom was bald, and the other tall and thin, with a full head of silver hair.
“These old dogs have been here for a while and might have met your man Montgomery,” Charlie explained, introducing her.
“What a charming woman,” Basil Aldrich, the bald one, said, and she half suspected he wanted her to do a little spin for them. “What man is this we might have met? Is he the lucky fellow?” From the way he said it, it was clear he meant “love interest.”
“Not so lucky, I’m afraid. He’s missing presently, though I hope to change that. The name is Richard Montgomery. He came out here in ’45 with the Bureau of Information.”
“Oh, Montgomery, yes. It was for that Paris thing, wasn’t it?” Basil said. “Richard was a good man. Very outgoing. What’s happened to him, exactly?”
“That’s what I hope to find out,” Billie said. “He has been missing since just after the exposition in Paris.”
“Curious thing, that is. I heard he decided to stay on.” Basil frowned. “I wasn’t aware that he went missing.” He said the word as if it was terribly dramatic of her to reach such a conclusion, what with only two years having passed.
Billie’s eyes lit up. “Do you remember where you heard that, about his choosing to stay on in Paris?” she asked.
“I think one of the gentlemen here told me that. I can’t be sure. I think that was the understanding, though. I wasn’t involved with the exposition, but certainly Montgomery was a solid man,” Basil said. “Great success it was, too, I understand.”
“Yes. I read a little about it.”
“They had this wallaby—”
“How long did you know him for?” Billie asked, gently intervening.
“Not even a couple of weeks, but he was always working on something, was Richard, looking for an angle to get the promotion working, that sort of thing. A very entrepreneurial fellow, from what I recall. We could use more men like that, couldn’t we, Charlie?” There was another back slap. “He was the kind of resourceful man you want on your team. I’m sorry to hear something may have happened to him.”
Harold nodded in agreement.
“Yes. It’s terribly difficult for his wife, Vera,” Billie said, meeting his eyes and holding them. “She’s a lovely woman. You’d like her, I think. She would be here herself, if she could, but sent me in her stead. If you would let me know if you do hear anything about Richard, or if you recall anything else, I would very much appreciate it, as would Mrs. Montgomery. I’m at the Strand Palace.” She presented her business card.
“Certainly,” Basil replied, and accepted the card. As he contemplated it, Harold bailed up her host.
“Charlie, what’s this nonsense you were telling me about the government scrapping the dictation test?” He was clearly agitated about the possibility. “What rubbish!” he cried.
“Let’s not get into politics again, Harry,” Charlie said with a chuckle, flicking a glance at Billie as if to say, Here we go.
Ah, the dictation test. This could only be a reference to the part of the so-called White Australia policy legislation that favored whites and the British, and demanded immigrants to Australia pass a dictation test in a European language. This neatly excluded non-European immigrants, including those from countries closer to Australia.
“You did say there’s talk about Chifley dismantling the legislation,” Harold pressed, his jowls shaking. “Is this true? Most alarming, if it is. Most alarming.”
Charlie shrugged in response, holding his drink close to his mouth. “Look, I don’t know how I feel about it either,” he said. “Australia’s national character must be preserved. But tonight is perhaps not the time.” He looked to Billie again and took another sip of his bubbly.
“Which aspects of Australia’s national character, precisely?” Billie asked before she could stop herself.
Charlie turned back to her, perhaps not quite knowing how to take her question. She strategically blinked a couple of times, her lashes seeming to ease her inquiry somewhat. “Well, the character of the nation, of course,” he answered. “Surely you do agree, Ms. Walker.” It wasn’t a question.
She opened her mouth to respond, but Basil interjected. “White jobs must be preserved,” he declared. “Australia will see low-class Indians, Chinamen, and Japs swarming the country if the legislation is dismantled. Mark my words.”
“And what of the considerable skills and contributions of those people wanting to join Australia from these nations?” Billie challenged. She wasn’t there to rock the boat, she reminded herself, and certainly not in front of Basil and Harold, who had actually met Montgomery and were so far the only ones who seemed to much remember him. “What of the highly skilled workers and thinkers from different backgrou—”
“We must not unnecessarily offend the educated classes of those nations,” her host, Charlie, interrupted. “But I agree, the legislation must remain in place for the preservation of the nation and economy.” End of story. He clearly found it important to side with his colleagues over his rogue date.
Billie took a breath, her smile just holding on. There was much she could say about the problems with the test and its political uses, but she was moving into dangerous territory, and she knew it. A Czechoslovakian Jewish political activist, Egon Kisch, had arrived in Australia in 1934, escaping persecution by the Nazis and their growing powers, and the government of Joseph Lyons went to extraordinary lengths to exclude him using the test, as she well knew. Kisch was highly intelligent and was fluent in a number of European languages, and after completing passages for the test in several languages, he finally failed when they demanded he do it in Scottish Gaelic. Scottish Gaelic. The debacle had made the papers and brought the test into considerable disrepute. In the end, the courts had found it was not fair use of the legislation to require someone to complete the test in Scottish Gaelic to be eligible to immigrate to Australia. Quite. That strange affair certainly showed how the test could be, and sometimes was, manipulated. It seemed to Billie that there were better ways to judge a person’s eligibility, character, or potential contributions. And here they were, on the other hand, advertising for new immigrants, just as Montgomery had been paid to do.
“Chifley is a levelheaded fellow. He’s not going to scrap it, Harry,” Basil chimed in.
“The Kisch affair made rather an impression,” Billie said in a quiet voice, finding she could not quite bite her tongue tonight. “And how right Kisch was about Hitler . . .”
There was silence among the group now. Billie took a sip of her drink, feeling the bubbles go flat, along with the mood of the gathering.
“My uncle is quite active with the ANA. They have it in hand, trust me,” Charlie said, trying his best to defuse the conversation.
“Thank heavens for that,” Harold said, but Billie was now thinking about how Charlie’s uncle was a member of the ANA—the Australian Natives’ Association. That meant he was well-connected in his area. Membership to the influential men-only lobby was restricted to white men born in Australia, and they campaigned tirelessly against non-white immigration. How interesting, she thought, that these well-to-do men called themselves “natives,” when it had not been a continent of white people at all—a fact Shyla could certainly attest to.
At last, the subject changed, which was a relief, and Harold went on his way to join another group, perhaps to complain about the same impending “threat” to Australia’s national character with a solely sympathetic audience. As the evening continued, the guest of honor, Charlie’s mate Thomas Dunbabin, still having not arrived, political discussions were thankfully avoided and Billie was able to gently ask around about Montgomery. Disappointingly, he was not particularly well remembered among those who had been working at Australia House at the time, perhaps thanks to his short time with them before heading to Paris, and many of the staff had changed since ’45.
They gathered a small circle of male admirers, with Charlie dutifully introducing her to each in turn. As she had guessed, the only women she met were there because they had been invited by their male dates. As small talk took over, Billie reflected on how, under normal circumstances, she might have expected that the disappearance of Richard Montgomery would have been the talk of Australia House, but the high turnover of staff and even high commissioners for the past couple of years, along with the considerable aftermath of chaos from the war, perhaps explained why it didn’t really seem to register with anyone as unusual. It seemed to Billie that if the man had died somehow, he might even have been left unidentified in a morgue, considering so few in Paris were likely to have known him. Was it as simple as Montgomery staying on for a fling with a Parisian woman—one of his “little adventures”—and then becoming the unknown victim of some type of accident? Perhaps he had not “abandoned” his wife, as she thought most likely, but had merely taken an ill-fated detour.
“Now, what’s this I hear about you being the girl in the papers last year, mixed up in that case with the war criminal in Australia?”
The question pulled Billie back into the group with a start. “Pardon?” It was Basil, the bald one, who had spoken.
“The case with that Nazi?” one of the younger men remarked. “What are the chances of a man like that ending up in Sydney?” Despite speaking about Billie, he directed his question to Charlie.
“I was apparently the last to hear about it,” Charlie answered. “We have a famous detective on our hands.”
The group gawped at her, fascinated. Now one of the wives had joined the throng, hanging back dutifully to allow the men to speak.
“I wouldn’t call it mixed up, per se,” Billie piped up. “I suppose you could say that my colleagues and I did what the courts in Nuremberg were unable to—the man having been sentenced to death in absentia.”
“Terribly sorry?” Basil said, confused.
“He was sentenced to death at Nuremberg,” she explained. “But he died near my . . . office,” she said in a low voice. She thought again of that oil drum she’d found hidden at his property, packed with gold fillings, and the wave of sickness swept back over her.
“What’s this?” Basil asked.
“The Nazi bastard is dead,” she said, clear that she had not a shred of regret about it.
Basil gasped audibly at her language, and Charlie laughed, trying to make light of her comment. “Fiery, isn’t she? And a private detective, no less!”
