"Coming out of your cocoon?" she smiled.
"Don't tell me it's that late," I said.
"You've been in there all day," she answered. "How about telling me what you've come up with while you drop me off at my place?"
Major Rothwell had apparently already left. I shrugged and started for the door with Mona at my side. Her breasts brushed against me as I opened the door.
"Ever hear of a bar called The Ruddy Jug?" I asked as we drove toward her apartment. "It's in Townsville."
"Yes, it's a rough kind of place, mostly used by servicemen and working blokes," she said. "Townsville is about fifteen miles past my place. It's a copper town — copper refining and smelting, fabrication — even some copper jewelry."
"I might drop in and do a little checking around there tonight," I said. "But first I'm going to drop in on John Dawsey."
"The chap in the tank," she said quickly. "Don't think you'll get far, but good luck."
We halted in front of the Castle Apartments and Mona got out and leaned back into the car, her firm breasts jutting forward temptingly.
"Don't suppose you have time for drinks and something to eat," she offered. I gave her a slow smile that said something on its own. She was quick to get the message.
"I suppose you're right," she said. "I'm not much for doing things in a hurry, either. Be careful, I've a dinner date coming up."
"How could I forget?" I grinned at her and drove off.
Though John Dawsey had been dismissed from the service, his file showed an address to which they sent pay still due him. It was a Townsville address. As I entered the city I saw rows of dingy, gray houses, not unlike those in the mining cities of Wales. Though Townsville was Queensland's second largest city, there was a roughhewn air to it — an unfinished feel — the kind of a place where you feel that it's moving on to another chapter in its life. The address I had for John Dawsey turned out to be a house in the center of a staggered row of narrow houses — dull, dreary, and needing paint. A woman wielding a broom on the steps outside quickly told me that John Dawsey no longer lived there.
"He's gotten fancy," she said, emphasizing the broad «a» of the British upper-class speech. She gave me his new address, 12 Chester Lane, which she described as being in the "new part of town." Armed with directions from her, I found it after getting lost only once. It was indeed very new, very suburban and very reminiscent of the more expensive American suburban developments. I located number 12, a low, ranch-style brick and frame house, just as darkness started to close in. I rang the bell. The man who answered smelled of beer. A flattened nose sat in the center of the heavy face, and his eyebrows were thickened with scar-tissue. He'd spent some years in the ring — a kind of constant belligerency was a part of his countenance. It turned to open hostility when I told him I was there to get some more information on the tank incident.
"I'm out, digger," he growled at me. "They tossed me out and glad of it, and I don't have to answer a bloody question."
I wanted information, not trouble, and I tried the honeyed approach first.
"You're absolutely right, Dawsey," I smiled. "I happen to be making a check for the American government. We had a few people involved, and I just need a few minor points cleared up."
He glowered at me but let me move inside. The place was furnished not tastefully but expensively. A bottle of stout was on the coffee table, along with a half-dozen catalogs for sleek motor cruisers. I glanced quickly at them and figured the least expensive to cost about eighteen thousand. On the page of one of the catalogs I saw a column of figures noted in pen. Dawsey poured himself another beer, pointedly ignoring me.
"Let's get on with it," he muttered. "I'm busy."
"Thinking of buying one of these?" I asked casually, picking up a catalog.
"None of yer bloody business," he snarled, yanking the catalog out of my hands. I smiled pleasantly at him. "If you've any questions you better be fast with them," he said. "I'm busy."
"Yes, picking out your new boat." I smiled. "Pretty expensive stuff for a man just out of the service, I'd say."
Dawsey's eyes narrowed at once. He was a square man, not as tall as I and with a belt of fat around the middle. But I knew the type. He could be an ugly customer.
"Get out of here," he growled.
"New house," I said, looking around. "Expensive new house. Fancy boat catalogs. New furniture. You saved an awful lot of your service pay, didn't you, Dawsey? In fact, I'd say you saved more than you earned."
"Maybe I was left a bloomin' fortune by an old uncle," he snarled. He was blustering now, but behind his angry eyes there was sudden alarm. I was quick to press the point.
"Maybe you'd like to tell me his name," I said. "Or where he lived."
"You get the bloody hell out of here," Dawsey yelled, the bottle of beer in his hand.
"Not yet," I answered. "Not till you tell me the secret of how to leave the service and make a bundle overnight."
I saw his hand come down fast, smashing the bottle against the edge of the coffee table. His face was deep red, his eyes small and mean as he started around the edge of the table toward me, the jagged bottle in his hand still dripping beer.
"Goddamn you," he snarled. "I'll teach you to come around here with your smart questions."
He lunged and I twisted away from the jagged edge of the bottle as he thrust it at my face. I moved back carefully. I could have ended it with one shot from Wilhelmina, but I wanted him alive. No, not just alive, alive and worried and scared. He moved forward, and I saw he was on the balls of his feet, moving the way a fighter does in the ring. I'd made it a rule never to underestimate anyone. John Dawsey was not the man to violate that rule with, I knew. I let him move in again, swing with a wide blow and then catch himself. I saw he hooked with the bottle as he swung. I moved forward and he countered at once, hooking with the jagged glass weapon again. This time I shot a hard right under the hook. It hit him under the heart and I heard him gasp in pain. He automatically brought his right hand down and I caught him with a looping left high on the head. It opened up the old scar tissue with a thin, red line. He tried an uppercut with the bottle, coming up viciously with it. I sidestepped it, getting a fleck of beer foam in my face as it whistled past, and crossed a perfect right to the point of his jaw. He went back, over the coffee table, and sprawled across the sofa, the bottle falling to the floor. I knicked it out of the way and saw him start to shake his head. I waited a few seconds till his eyes cleared and he focused on me.
"I'll be back," I said to him. "You better start getting the right answers together, pal."
I slammed the door behind me, got into the Anglia and drove off. He didn't hear me humming to myself. I drove around the corner, stopped and hurried out of the car. I crossed the street, keeping clear of the beam of light from another house, and settled down at the foot of a young oak tree.
Right now I figured he was throwing cold water in his face, straightening himself up, putting a dab of ointment on the opened scar tissue — and worrying. I gave him another minute. I glanced at my watch. Exactly fifty-one seconds later he came bursting out of the house to rush around to a small, attached garage. I did a fast fade, crouching low, and returned to where I'd left the car. I let him start his engine, move out of his garage and go past the corner before I turned the engine over.
He was driving a little Sunbeam and I swung in behind him, letting his tail lights lead me as we moved through the surburban streets. When he moved into Townsville traffic, I switched on the headlights. He was an easy tail. He hadn't the faintest idea I was behind him and I was tempted to make bet as to where he was headed. When he pulled up in front of The Ruddy Jug, I paid myself off.