Ironbark (44 page)

‘Glad to hear it.' Jake felt awkward. ‘Be a good girl, eh?'

As he strode out the door he ran into Daniel, who was clearly guarding his goods and chattels. Surprised by the bridegroom's friendly invitation to stay and have an ale with him, Jake convinced himself it was rude to refuse a man's offer of grog.

Both cast furtive glances at Keziah through the window as they drank. In the past Jake had enjoyed amiable discussions with Daniel about the state of the colony and the system. Now they verbally fenced about everything except the subject uppermost in their minds – Keziah. They disagreed about the price of ale, crown land, the economy. They grew heated over the raging controversy around Alexander Maconochie, Norfolk Island's radical new superintendent who rewarded prisoners' good behaviour with a points system that reduced the length of their sentences.

Daniel was anti-Maconochie. ‘Most second offenders sent to Norfolk deserve to die there.'

‘Jesus wept! You've changed your tune, mate!'

The sole cause that firmly united them was their hatred of The Finisher, the colony's hangman. Daniel quoted from
The Sydney Monitor
how Green's drunken performances on the gallows caused many condemned men to die a bungled, agonising death. Embarrassed that Daniel was far more literate than he was, Jake bluffed about reading news he'd actually heard via the bush grapevine.

Jake finished off his ale and aimed his parting words at Daniel. ‘You'll take good care of them both, right?'

Daniel gave him a mocking smile. ‘Or else?'

‘Just see you bloody do, mate!' Jake leapt into the saddle and, giving a drover's holler to Horatio, sent the dust rising skywards in their wake.

He was quick to convince himself Kez was now Daniel Browne's
responsibility, but that same thought made him even more dejected. He'd grown used to Kez turning to
him
to solve her problems. He faced the truth and didn't like it. He didn't
want
to be let off the hook.

He forced himself to focus his mind on his search. In the three years since Jenny's desertion he had followed up clues as far north as the penal colony of Moreton Bay, as far south as Port Phillip Bay and Van Diemen's Land and as far west as the back of beyond – a network of thousands of miles. What did he have to show for it? A single sighting outside the Bald-Faced Stag Inn. And a letter from Jenny that had no address.

This Yankee detective will need to be a bloody miracle worker.

• • • 

In Sydney Town Jake rode down George Street between stores and warehouses that offered goods and services from the four corners of the globe. Imported, home-grown – or stolen.

The address he wanted was at the lower end before the street deteriorated into The Rocks. As always, he automatically searched the faces of all the small, blonde women who crossed his path.

In The American Investigations Agency office Jake unrolled Jenny's drawing on the desk between a paperweight and an inkwell and stated his case, admitting his lack of success. ‘For years I've been running around like a headless chook trying to find her.'

‘You a wife-beater?' The Yankee puffed on a cigar.

‘Shit no,' said Jake. ‘You don't pull your punches, do you!'

‘Saves time,' said Rogers, ‘time
you
are going to pay for.'

Jake studied the detective as he read Jenny's recent ‘invitation'. Benjamin Rogers's rugged face was heavily lined and topped with hair parted in the centre and slicked down with Macassar oil. His face was blank except for black eyebrows that registered doubt, cynicism or humour. A gold watch chain was slung across the waistcoat of a suit sombre enough for an undertaker. The hatstand was hung with hats of every description. No firearms in sight.

Rogers looked up from the letter. ‘Your wife's planted clues that suggest her fancy man is some kind of aristocrat. Any idea why she's changed her tune and wants you to find her?'

‘I reckon this letter is a cat-and-mouse game,' Jake volunteered. ‘Jenny enjoys rubbing my nose in it. She doesn't want me but she won't let me off the hook neither.'

Jake answered all Rogers's questions. No subterfuge about being a cuckolded husband – he was well beyond false pride. But he tensed up when he described Jenny at their last encounter, how she was done up like a Christmas tree.

Jake pressed on. ‘If this foreign mongrel's some kind of aristocrat, Jenny must move in flash circles. So why can't I find her?'

The detective butted out one cigar and trimmed another to follow it. ‘If her protector has a European moniker and knows you're gunning for him, no doubt they travel incognito.'

Jake was impatient for Rogers's verdict. ‘Do you reckon you can find them or not?'

‘First give me the truth, Andersen. No bulldust. I have my agency's professional reputation to safeguard. Do you have murder in mind for your wife's lover?'

Your wife's lover.
Jake felt the ugly reality of the phrase hit home.

‘I don't give a rat's arse about
my
reputation. I want Pearl to know her real father didn't desert her. Whatever action I take, I ain't never gunna go to prison.
Never again!
'

The detective nodded sagely. ‘A gaol bird. Thought as much. Get one thing straight. I've been in this game seven years. Believe me, until you walk in on this guy while he's enjoying your wife in bed, you won't know the meaning of rage. I'll wager my bottom dollar, Andersen. You're more than capable of murder!'

Jake accepted the warning. ‘You're dead right but what good am I to my daughter if I end up dancing on The Finisher's noose?'

Rogers was confident he would track Jenny and Pearl down. ‘I warn
you, it's a big country and I have expensive tastes. Can you afford me?'

• • • 

Jake came up with a plan of action and put it to him. If Rogers covered Sydney Town, Jake would follow up any long-distance clues Rogers provided. They shook hands on the deal.

Jake took up residence in cheap lodgings in The Rocks to be close at hand whenever Rogers delivered news of Jenny. Meanwhile he lived off a succession of prize fights staged in the Surry Hills and the myriad of taverns that lined the harbour front. He was ready to fight any bloke with two legs who agreed to the winner-take-all terms.

At face value The American Investigations Agency was a one-man band but Jake soon discovered the Yankee was nothing if not thorough. In the weeks since Rogers accepted the case he had briefed his informants in every major town in the colony, right down to Melbourne Town where the citizens were busy petitioning for separation from New South Wales. He had paid men to be his ears and eyes in Van Diemen's Land, the new colony of South Australia, the Swan River on the west coast and across the Tasman Sea in New Zealand. All were supplied with printed copies of Jenny's portrait.

Jake was elated when the half-pint Cockney street urchin who ran Rogers's errands delivered a most welcome message. Rogers had made positive identification of their quarry.

Jake bolted up the stairs to find the Yankee wreathed in his customary halo of cigar smoke – the poker face betrayed nothing.

‘I've got good news – and bad news,' said Rogers. ‘Hold your horses. The disappointment is temporary.'

‘No need to pull your punches,' said Jake, steeling himself for whatever was to come.

‘Last night I attended the premiere of a play at the new Olympic Theatre.
Venice Preserved
is an echo of
Julius Caesar
, a plot to assassinate the Venetian senate. You colonials love your drama full of blood and revenge, but I was there because I know Italians the world over are
irresistibly drawn to their culture, whether it's Italian opera or plays with Italian themes. No matter how god-damned awful the performance, they flock to cheer or boo.'

‘Jesus wept,' said Jake. ‘What's all this got to do with Jenny?'

‘I expected this play would flush out what's likely the sole Venetian in the colony. It did.'

Jake leapt to his feet. ‘You mean it was
him
? Why didn't you let me at him?'

‘If I had, you'd be in gaol right now charged with his murder! So sit down, shut up and I'll tell you what progress I've made. All is not lost.'

Jake reluctantly resumed his seat, cold with rage.

‘Seated in a private box was a Venetian
conte
– a count – the man on whom I've been building up a dossier for weeks. By his side was a lady of remarkable beauty who bears a close resemblance to your wife's portrait.'

Jake felt he'd been kicked in the stomach by a horse.

Rogers described her. Pocket Venus. Blue eyes, heart-shaped face, retroussé nose. Perfect English complexion. Jet-black hair but a natural blonde – he said he could always spot a theatrical wig.

Rogers's eyes registered the pain he was causing Jake.

‘Is the black mole on your wife's left breast a fake?'

‘Real. That's Jenny, all right. And you're sure it's
him
?' Jake didn't intend to risk a trip to the gallows for topping the wrong bloke.

Rogers nodded. ‘My informant positively identified him and overheard the conte introduce your wife as an Italian noblewoman.'

Jake forced a laugh. ‘Jenny would just love that.' He felt desperate to know what the mongrel looked like, but couldn't bring himself to ask for a description.

Rogers volunteered it. ‘Arrogant bearing, struts like a peacock. Taller than your wife.'

‘Jesus, who isn't?'

‘His immaculate evening dress featured a flashy medal. My opera glasses picked up the design on his gold signet ring. A rampant lion – symbol of Venice. Black curly hair, dark eyes, swarthy. Flashes his teeth when he laughs. Fleshy, clearly a man who indulges his appetites – all of them. You want me to go on?'

Jake nodded. ‘What happened when you confronted them?'

Rogers admitted that was the bad news. His exit had been blocked by a free-for-all brawl in the foyer when Currency Lads broke up a demonstration by the Total Abstinence Society. After breaking through the riot he had tracked them to The Britannia where they were booked under the imaginative name of Jones.

Jake nodded impatiently. ‘So what the hell are we waiting for?'

Rogers blew out a smoke ring. ‘Brace yourself. They sailed out on the early morning tide for New Zealand.'

Jake let out a string of expletives that would have impressed a bullocky.

Rogers reacted with maddening calm. ‘From what I now know of the conte's movements and lifestyle, we can count on his return. His money's tied up here. I warn you, it's not enough simply to
find
your wife. Men like the conte manipulate the law. I withheld this information from you until I had enough proof to give you the clout to gain custody of your daughter. Your wife committed adultery, remember?'

‘As if I could ever forget.'

Rogers pushed a folder across the desk. ‘I've found the key to the conte.'

Jake listened attentively as the detective outlined how the signs of the colony's predicted Depression had helped to play their quarry into their hands. His business associates were all in deep financial trouble. Last year their empires had seemed impregnable. Now one by one they were beginning to fall on bended knees to their bankers.

‘Are you saying Jenny's protector is broke?'

‘Not yet but he's skating on mighty thin ice. Last week a Melbourne
Town banker ended his life with a bullet to the brain. All because his bank went to the wall. He was the conte's financier.'

‘How does all this help me find my little Pearl?'

Rogers pointed his cigar at the dossier. ‘When the pair return from New Zealand, confront your wife with
this
evidence – she'll be mighty quick to trade your daughter. Read it!'

Jake glanced slowly through the file, unwilling to reveal his poor reading. But he reacted to one sentence with a slow whistle. ‘You're worth your weight in gold, Yankee!'

He realised this was almost literally true when he saw the size of the bill.

Rogers shrugged. ‘Champagne dinners and private boxes don't come cheap. I need to mingle with the Quality.'

Rogers opened a bottle of whisky. ‘Be patient. I'll inform you when the conte returns. At rock bottom little 'uns are the only thing worth a damn.' As if embarrassed to be caught in a sentimental vein, he added, ‘Keep that fact in mind when you spring your wife in
flagrante delicto
– being rogered by the conte. You can either commit murder or gain custody of your daughter.'

With this dossier now in hand, Jake felt cocky. ‘Maybe I can do both.'

Rogers's eyebrows registered a warning. ‘I spent years in the army hunting down Injuns. Not proud of that. Just a fact. Learned one thing. Revenge destroys a man. Eats into his soul. What's the so-called Good Book say? “Revenge is mine, I will repay, sayeth the Lord.”'

Jake knocked down his whisky feeling instant fire in his belly before he answered. ‘I'm an agnostic or atheist. Never sure which. So the Lord don't work for me. But Jenny is mine. So I reckon revenge is
mine
.'

They drank in companionable silence. Then the detective handed him a small box.

‘A Sioux brave I met claimed this is lucky. Got no use for it. It's yours.'

Jake was touched by the unexpected gift – a beautifully designed silver belt buckle in the shape of a sunburst. What do you say to a man who's transferring his good luck to you?

Rogers covered the moment. ‘Just stay out of prison, fella.'

They shook hands, but Jake made no promises on that score.

En route to the livery stables to bail out Horatio, Jake felt buoyed up. He now had all the evidence needed to bring Jenny to heel. It was only a matter of time.