Rewind further. Up in the flat. Fiona on the phone. Out the window, standing less than fifty metres from where I was currently standing, also on the phone, Spider Webb.
The Missing Link. I’d been battling to put Spider into the picture. He and Fiona Lambert were, after all, far from a natural pair. But now that I began to put the pieces together, an alliance between the two of them made a certain sort of sense. Each was working Eastlake from a different direction- Spider looking for the main chance, Fiona needing help to work her gold mine.
Spider. Warning me off. Tidying up the loose ends. Loose ends like the fact that Taylor had gone to the bottom of the moat with his keys in his pocket. So somebody had to go back the next morning and retrieve the duplicate Szabo and dispose of the evidence of the Austral forgery factory. Loose ends like the fact that I’d got there first and had to be locked in the basement with Willy the Whale. Loose ends like Salina Fleet.
I thought again of Salina’s reaction at the moat. Those frozen expressions on her face, caught by the flashing ambulance light. Shock, panic, fear. Did she guess what had happened? Was her insistence that Taylor had killed himself a hastily improvised way of protecting herself, of demonstrating that she could be trusted to keep silent? And her appearance at the YMCA? Was she acting on her own initiative, hastening to clear out all evidence of Taylor’s work? Or was everyone just after Taylor’s version of Our Home?
Then I had come along, sticking my bib in. Not content to remain locked in the basement of the YMCA, I’d kicked up a racket. When Salina inadvertently released me, I put her on the spot. She was a fast thinker, but not entirely convincing in the clinches. And, by then, I’d seen the picture on the easel in Taylor’s studio. By then, I was starting to make a real nuisance of myself. I sought out Giles Aubrey, a man who could be relied on to grab the first opportunity that came his way to stir the pot, and gone running to Eastlake with what he told me. But Eastlake, in turn, told Lambert. So Aubrey had ended up at the bottom of the nearest riverbank with a compound fracture of the corpus delicti. At least Sal had the sense to make herself scarce.
As I stood there, concealed by the grey folds of Moreton Bay fig, contemplating my responsibility for Giles Aubrey’s death, Fiona Lambert came out of the block of flats. Hands empty, teeth shining, looking exceptionally pleased with herself, she crossed Domain Road and walked towards the Centre for Modern Art.
It was, I decided, time to blow the whistle on Ms Lambert. Get the cops on the case while she still had the hundred grand stashed in her flat. Detective Senior Constable Chris Micaelis would be hearing from me, I resolved, very soon. Just as soon as I’d made a couple of phone calls.
Once Fiona Lambert disappeared into the CMA, I hurried to the Charade and headed back towards the office. It was getting on for 4.30 and the ebb tide of early rush-hour traffic had begun to flow out of the city. Anybody with half a brain had already clocked-off and was headed for the beach.
Something I’d overheard in Fiona Lambert’s flat was exercising my mind. The world of high finance was terra incognita. It was time I got hold of a tourist guide. Even as I turned into St Kilda Road, I was pulling up in front of the Travelodge and fishing in my pockets for coins.
I could find only notes. This meant that before I could use the pay-phone, I was compelled to go into the bar and buy myself a drink. A shot of Jamiesons with a beer chaser. I needed to be both alert and relaxed. I fed the change in a phone in the lobby and called the Business Daily. ‘You’re a finance journalist,’ I told Faye Curnow.
‘If that’s a news tip,’ she said. ‘You’re a bit late.’
‘Matter of fact, I do have a tip,’ I said. ‘A scoop. But first tell me about Obelisk Trust. It’s like a bank or a building society, right? Government guaranteed.’
‘Don’t you believe it. High returns, high risk.’
‘And what if I told you that Lloyd Eastlake has been sinking large amounts of Obelisk money into the Karlcraft project without his board’s approval?’
‘I’d say that he might well soon regret it. The rumours are flying thick and fast that the banks are about to refuse to roll over Karlin’s loans. If that happens, he’ll have no alternative but to file for bankruptcy.’
‘How would he go about that?’
It wasn’t complicated. ‘You lodge some forms with the Federal Court. A court-appointed trustee moves immediately, shuts the doors and starts liquidating your assets. Your creditors howl like stuck pigs. Then they sit around for the next ten years not getting their money back.’
‘So what would you say if I told you that, even as we speak, Max Karlin’s lawyers are approaching the court, bankruptcy forms in hand? And that, further, I’ve got my life savings in Obelisk Trust.’
‘I’d tell you that if you don’t get your money out of Obelisk by close of business tonight, you can probably kiss most of it goodbye. And I’d ask you how reliable is your information about Karlin.’
‘Straight from the horse’s mouth.’
‘Then you’d better get off the phone. I’ve got a story to break, and you’ve got a hasty withdrawal to make. Thanks for the tip.’
I didn’t get much thanks for my next call. In fact, I got a flea in my ear. ‘Murray Whelan here,’ I said. ‘Calling from Angelo Agnelli’s office.’
‘What now?’ barked Duncan Keogh.
This wasn’t going to be easy. The last time I’d rung the finance committee chairman, I’d hung up on him. ‘It’s about that deposit with Obelisk Trust.’
‘Thought I told you I’d done it.’
‘You did,’ I said. ‘Only there’s been a bit of a rethink in the strategy department. Angelo wants the funds withdrawn immediately and put back where they were.’ Eastlake wasn’t the only one who could play at this exceed-your-authority game. ‘Like you said this morning, Duncan. No need to get our shirt-tails in a flap.’
Standing at a pay-phone in the lobby of a budget hotel with a finger in one ear to drown out the muzak bouncing off a tour party of Taiwanese dentists’ wives was not the ideal location for a conversation of this nature.
‘You tell Agnelli from me,’ said Keogh. ‘That I’m still the finance committee chairman, not some bank clerk, and if he wants something done he should have the courtesy to call me himself, not get his office boy to do it.’
This was great. Keogh had finally decided to grow a backbone. ‘Listen, Duncan…’ But Duncan wasn’t listening. It was his turn to hang up.
This was not good. I went back into the bar and bought myself another beer. With the option of bluffing Keogh now closed, the only way left to get the party funds out of Obelisk before the balloon went up was to call Agnelli and have him speak to Keogh. That would entail a great deal of explanation. Frankly, given the choice, I’d rather have gone straight back up to F. Lambert’s kitchen, stuck my bare hand into her high-speed Moulinex blender and thrown the switch.
I racked my brain for a plausible lie. It was a fool’s errand. The truth, or a passable facsimile of it, was my only option. But first I would have to get through to the ministerial hovercraft plying the distant waters of Lake Eildon. I gorged the pay-phone with coins and dialled Agnelli’s mobile. ‘The mobile telephone you have called has not responded,’ said a female robot. ‘Please call again shortly.’
Shortly? Just how much time did she think I had? It was exactly five o’clock. If Obelisk kept standard business hours, it had just shut its doors for the day. I hung up. The phone ate my change.
I dialled the Arts Ministry and asked Trish for a precise fix on my employer’s whereabouts and contactability.
‘Somewhere in transit,’ she said vaguely. ‘Not due back in town until later tonight. Why, is there a problem?’ Trish’s discretion was a one-way valve. Nothing came out, but she was always open to input.
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Any messages?’
My contact at Corporate Affairs had called. Austral Fine Art, Pty Ltd, was an off-the-shelf number with a paid up capital of two dollars, incorporated the previous year. Its sole shareholder was a Lloyd Henry Eastlake of Mathoura Road, Toorak.