The Phar Lap Mystery Page 3

  The Studebaker had never been found or traced, and its real numberplates remained a mystery. Dad said it was possible that it had been either scrapped or repainted and issued with new plates. ‘Why it could easily be cruising around right now, unrecognisable!’ he said to Mr and Mrs Bellini, who are taking a great interest in the ‘article’ he is supposedly writing. It’s funny, he seems to completely trust them, whereas he says he doesn’t like to say too much in front of the Foxes—he said Mr Fox is a strange bird, and as to Mrs Fox, she is a gossip. The Bellinis are interested, but not in an unsavoury way. Helpful and kind. Which is true. They’re really nice.

  Today Dad left me with them, because he says that for the next few days he is going to be following up leads in some unpleasant parts of the city and he doesn’t want me tagging along. But I want to help, so he’s suggested I make what he called a ‘ready-reckoner file’ on Phar Lap, about his life and his career up to now, which he says will be very useful to him. So I started that today. I’ve been looking up things in the newspapers—Mrs Bellini keeps bundles and bundles of old papers in the back laundry, and she was happy to let me cut out pictures. I’m going to write up as much of what I learn as I can. Mrs Bellini got interested herself and she helped me by finding things I hadn’t spotted. She also made us some really nice lunch—Italian food. It was noodles she called spaghetti, which she makes herself, with a thick tomato sauce that tasted quite different from the sauce you get in bottles but was really nice, and parsley and cheese on top. I had two big helpings!

  Billy came home unexpectedly when we’d just finished our second plate, and Mrs Bellini insisted he sit down and have some too (his mum and dad and Ruby were out). He gobbled it all up really quickly. Then Mrs Bellini asked him why he was home early and he said quickly that there was no school this afternoon, which I’m sure is a lie. Mrs Bellini didn’t ask him any more questions, but showed him what we were doing and asked him if he’d like to help. I could’ve told her he wouldn’t want to! Of course he said no, and rudely too, said he had his own homework to do thanks all the same. (He hardly even looked at me or said anything to me the whole time. Not that I cared!) He went off to his room and then a little later we saw him go out—Mrs Bellini tried to stop him but he paid no attention. She sighed and shook her head, and said, ‘Poor little mite, he’ll grow up to be a veritable savage if they’re not careful. I wish …’ She didn’t finish her sentence, but I thought, what a pity for Billy it’s not Mrs Bellini who’s his mum! When the Foxes came back a bit later she didn’t say anything about Billy having wagged school—which of course is what he did. When he turned up again at the time he should have been coming back from school, still she said nothing, but pretended everything was normal. She really is very nice and Billy is very lucky. Of course I said nothing either, as if I would!

  April 25

  I finished my ready-reckoner file on Phar Lap today, so I’m going to stick a copy of it in after this entry. But first I have to write down what Dad’s been doing over the last couple of days. He went to call on a couple of friendly bookmakers who had been recommended to him by one of the reporters at the Melbourne Truth. I have never understood before what a bookmaker was, but Dad explained really well today. I’m going to write it down here, so I don’t forget.

  A bookmaker is someone who makes a living by ‘making a book’ on a race—that does not mean he writes a story, as you might think, but that he makes a list of all the horses that are to run in that race, and grades them according to what is called the ‘form’, which means how well (or badly!) a horse has run in previous races. Then the bookmaker gives odds for each horse, which is basically the price they are willing to pay out on a money bet a ‘punter’ (a person who bets) makes about the outcome of a race. So depending on how the bookmaker thinks a horse will run, he will offer odds against, even money or odds on. Odds against is when a bookmaker thinks a horse is unlikely to win, so he offers, say, 3:1—so if you as a punter put up 1 shilling and the horse wins, you win 3 shillings plus your original shilling back. Even money is when a horse has a good chance of winning, so you win one shilling plus your original shilling. Odds on is when a horse is expected to win, so if it does you only win half (sixpence) plus your original shilling.

  Dad says the reason why people think crooked bookmakers might be behind the attempts on Phar Lap is because ‘bookies’ mostly make their money on punters betting on horses that don’t win (Dad says gamblers love to take risks). But Phar Lap wins so much that it throws a spanner in the works. Every man and their dog wants to back him, and even though it’s odds on and you only get small winnings, the bookies still have to pay out a lot of money. And not as many people bet on outsiders either.

  It makes the whole thing difficult even for ‘clean’ bookies, like the ones Dad went to see, but the crooked ones hate it even more. And they are often in league with gangsters, too. But though there are suspicions of crooked-bookie involvement in the shooting, no-one’s been identified, and the bookies Dad spoke to said they had no idea who it might be.

  Dad also went to the racetracks at Caulfield and Flemington and spoke to some of the people there. And of course he also went to see motor-car junkyards (car graveyards, as Dad calls them) and used-car dealers and scrap-metal merchants. But despite, as he put it, ‘wearing out shoe leather’ and being bailed up by a fierce dog in one place, he learnt nothing much.

  Except, he said, that people clam up pretty quickly when you ask them questions about those numberplates. One man even told him he should be careful, as nobody likes stickybeak reporters poking their nose into what wasn’t their business. ‘It’s a cold corpse, mate, that case,’ he said. ‘Best to leave it that way if you don’t want to end up like it.’ Mrs Bellini gasped when he told them that over afternoon tea, and said she didn’t like the sound of that, not at all. But Dad said none of us must worry, the man was just talking big. ‘He was a little squirt of a no-hoper trying to make himself look dangerous. I’m not scared of people like that.’ Dad’s quite a big, tall man with broad shoulders and strong fists, and I don’t suppose many people would like to take him on in a fight!

  Mr Bellini laughed then and said he knew just the sort of fellow. ‘Without their mangy dogs these people are nothing, not like you my friend, I am sure!’

  Mrs Bellini didn’t look convinced. She said she was glad Dad was not taking me with him and that she was very happy for me to stay with her every day, if that was what we both wanted. I don’t mind. It’s nice to be around Mrs Bellini, she’s so kind and warm. Today after finishing my ready reckoner I helped her make another sort of Italian noodle, a flat one called lasagne. Italians are very fond of noodles in general, or pasta as Mr Bellini calls them, and when Mrs Bellini married Mr Bellini, though she’s not Italian at all she decided she had to learn how to do it. I like the pasta very much, and so does Dad, but Mr Fox complains when it’s on the table and asks where the spuds are! Tomorrow I’m going with Mrs Bellini to the markets to do a big lot of shopping, and then we’re going to have a slap-up lunch somewhere. Lovely!

  April 27

  Dad likes my ready-reckoner file and says it’ll be very useful! He has been in contact with Mr Kane, the solicitor in Sydney, to whom he had sent his first report, and Mr Kane said the client was very pleased with the progress so far, that the numberplate lead sounded promising and that they eagerly awaited his next report. In the meantime they had wired more money. But even better news is that Mr Telford has replied to Dad’s letter. He does not have time to meet us himself, but said we could go to Underbank, where Phar Lap is at the moment. And Mr Woodcock has agreed to speak to us. So we’re going there in three days’ time! I am so excited, and so is Dad, though he tries to pretend it’s all for business reasons! The Bellinis are very excited for us, and the Quinns too (they are back from Sydney and they are young and very nice, though their baby Lenny is a bit of a screamer, he makes my head ache!). Mrs Fox is interested too, and so is Mr Fox, though he pretends not to be. But Billy ju
st looks at us all with glary eyes and sneers and gets sent to his room. Dad says poor little beggar, but I think he’s just tiresome and I can’t be bothered with him. Not that he bothers with me of course, I’m a girl and younger than him, and he pretends I don’t even exist.

  May 1

  Today Dad finally managed to see the policeman who had been the chief investigator in the Phar Lap case, Detective-Sergeant Brophy. He’s tried to see him before, but he was always out or unavailable. He didn’t tell the policeman he was a detective himself, as he reckoned he’d clam up then. He says the police don’t like private eyes nosing into their business! So he used the same story as with the newspapers, that he was a Sydney journalist called Field. Not that it helped him much. Det-Sgt Brophy was not interested in talking about the shooting. He said the case was closed and that was that. Dad asked him about the numberplates and the detective said that as the numbers had been out of circulation for quite a while, they hadn’t bothered investigating further. ‘I had the impression he knew something he wasn’t about to tell me,’ Dad said to the Bellinis, ‘but I have no idea what it was.’

  ‘A cover-up?’ said Mr Bellini excitedly. ‘Maybe he is crooked, like so many police. Here, Italy, America, it’s all the same. Maybe he get paid off by gangsters, yes?’

  ‘Well, I’d swear he was an honest cop,’ said Dad slowly.

  ‘Maybe it is the ones in charge of this motor registry then,’ said Mr Bellini. ‘Cars are registered by transport section of police, no? That is where numbers must have come from, in my opinion. That is why if this cop not crooked, he embarrassed, not want to talk. He knows policemen involved and feels ashamed.’

  ‘That was in my mind,’ admitted Dad.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Mr Bellini, with a shrug, ‘police protect their own, yes? Or if not police, then perhaps it was as Mr Fox says—they know someone did this as a joke. Newspaper-people.’

  ‘Piffle!’ said Mrs Bellini. ‘Why should the police protect journalists? Each other, yes, I can imagine that (though I hope it’s not the case!) but pressmen? Ridiculous! Coppers don’t even like the press!’

  ‘They do when they say nice things about them, my dove,’ laughed Mr Bellini.

  ‘Maybe so, but this! It beggars belief. And what they did was very dangerous. Even if these people did not intend to harm Phar Lap, just the fact of discharging a firearm in a public street is hardly likely to endear them to the police.’

  Mr Bellini shook his head. ‘You are very naive, Ethel, my dear. It is not the journalists but the newspaper owners they protect. Friends in high places, you see. Maybe your detective, he is honest but he has been told that he must go quiet from someone on high who is doing this as a favour for someone else, like a newspaper owner. They do not care about the little people—they do not want a scandal, that is all.’

  ‘Oh, double piffle, Alfie!’ said Mrs Bellini, firmly.

  ‘Maybe so,’ said Mr Bellini, with a grin, ‘but who knows, really?’ He turned to Dad. ‘You are putting much work into this story. Almost like a detective yourself! I did not know journalists worked so hard.’ His dark eyes twinkled.

  I held my breath. But—’Oh, you must only have seen Melbourne journalists at work,’ said Dad, without missing a beat. ‘In Sydney, we work our fingers to the bone.’

  Mr Bellini shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Is that so! Well! Did you hear that, my dove? It is not quite what we hear of your native city, Mr Fielding!’

  ‘Charlie, please,’ said Dad, smiling. ‘And strictly speaking I suppose Sydney is my city of adoption only. Wellington is my native city.’

  ‘Bah, New Zealand!’ said Mr Bellini in a tone of great scorn, making us all laugh.

  May 2

  Something scary happened today. Scary but in a way funny too, though Dad didn’t think it was. It was the early afternoon and everyone except me and Mrs Bellini was out. We were in the back parlour. Mrs Bellini was mending socks and I was reading some chapters of Anne of Green Gables to her. She likes being read to when she’s doing boring things like that, and she has never read Anne of Green Gables, which is my most favourite book ever and which of course I brought with me from Sydney, along with some other books.

  Two men came to the door, and when Mrs Bellini went to answer it, they demanded, loudly, to know where Mr Field was. Now of course that’s the name Dad’s been using when asking his questions, and it made me prick up my ears and creep out into the hall to see what was going on. They did not look like very nice men. One was a big bruiser with a potato nose who was bursting out of his suit, and the other was a little man with a narrow face like a weasel’s. Mrs Bellini didn’t miss a beat. She didn’t try to pretend she didn’t know Mr Field, but instead said he wasn’t here any more, he’d only been here a short time and had gone back to Sydney now, and no, he hadn’t left a forwarding address, and who wanted to know anyway?

  ‘Oh, just friends of his, lady, friends of his,’ said the weasel-faced man, showing sharp yellow teeth as he smiled—well it wasn’t really a smile, more like an animal baring its teeth. ‘Friends who are concerned for his welfare, you see,’ he went on, ‘and want you to pass him a message about staying healthy by keeping out of business that don’t concern him, see what I mean?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said Mrs Bellini.

  Then Weasel Face’s eyes fell on me standing in the hall watching. He smiled that horrid smile of his and said, ‘Good day to you, little girl, and might you perhaps have seen the gentleman goes by the name of Mr Field lately?’

  ‘She’s my husband’s niece over from Italy and doesn’t speak a word of English,’ said Mrs Bellini quickly.

  ‘Is that so?’ Weasel Face regarded me thoughtfully.

  I had the horrible feeling he didn’t believe a word of it, so I just opened my mouth and said, very fast and excited, ‘Spaghetti lasagne linguini fettuccine salami zucchini pasta mortadella!’

  There was a stunned silence. I began, ‘Mortadella—’ but Weasel Face held up a hand to shut me up.

  ‘Jeez, enough with the bloody dago talk. You learn her English, lady,’ he said, turning to Mrs Bellini. ‘She’s in Australia now, not bloody Italy.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Bellini humbly.

  ‘And if that Mr Field should come nosing back round here, you tell him his friends are concerned for him. Right?’

  Mrs Bellini nodded, and then the men left (the bruiser hadn’t said a word, just stood there with a blank expression on his face). Mrs Bellini closed the door behind them. She leaned against it and for a moment we said nothing till we were sure the men had definitely gone. And then she came over to me and hugged me and said, ‘Sally, you are a clever girl and no mistake! Chip off the old block, I’d say. But oh dear you took a big risk, what if they understood Italian?’

  ‘I was hoping they wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t laugh, either. I just said the first things that came into my head, all those things you bought at the markets and the things you made, and just counting on the hope they would never have heard of them.’

  ‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’ She was shaking her head, and smiling, and shaking a little at the same time. ‘I must say I had to struggle to keep control when all that nonsense came pouring out. And the look on that creature’s face! It was priceless. I think he thought you were cursing him. But oh dear, it could have been bad—could have been very bad. I am so glad your dad was not in, or …’ She broke off, her eyes narrowing, and said sharply, ‘Why good day, Mr Fox. I didn’t know you were home.’

  I spun around. Rob Fox was standing watching us, his hands in his pockets. I had no idea how much he’d overheard. For an instant he looked at us both, then he shrugged and said, ‘I wasn’t. Just came back. I’m looking for Billy.’

  ‘But—He’s not here, Mr Fox. He’s at school.’

  ‘Nah. Little beggar’s been truanting.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mrs Bellini, a bit shakily.

  ‘Reckon he’s been doi
ng it for weeks. Not seen him here when he oughta been at school?’

  ‘Oh. No. No, Mr Fox.’

  He looked at me. Quickly, I shook my head.

  ‘Blast the boy. No idea where he is. Can’t find him in the usual boltholes. Not the first time he’s run off, though. He ever talk to you about any place he likes to spend time in?’ said Mr Fox, turning to me.

  I shook my head. ‘Billy and I don’t talk.’

  He gave a sudden grin. ‘Nah. Don’t suppose you do at that. Don’t know no-one can talk to that little beggar.’

  ‘You might try the cinema. He likes the movies, Mr Fox,’ said Mrs Bellini gently. ‘Cowboy movies, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Tried there already. Ain’t there,’ said Mr Fox. ‘Well, never mind. He’ll turn up I expect. Bad pennies always do. And this time, no matter what Pearl says, I’ll tan his hide for him.’ He sighed. ‘Strewth, why can’t he be more like Ruby? Never a moment’s worry with her. Lovely kid. Bad blood, I suppose. His father …’

  ‘Mr Fox,’ said Mrs Bellini warningly, with a glance at me.

  Mr Fox shrugged and said, ‘Well, sorry to bother you, ladies. I’ll be off, then. If Billy does turn up, tell him he’s for it.’

  ‘Sure, Mr Fox,’ said Mrs Bellini, calmly. When he’d gone too we looked at each other. ‘Men!’ said Mrs Bellini, with a big gusty sigh. ‘Come on, Sal, let’s go and cook up a storm. It’s the only cure for all this nonsense!’

  When Dad came home a few hours later and learned what had happened, he was very upset. He gave up any pretence of being a journalist and told the Bellinis the truth. They didn’t seem very surprised! He asked us to describe the men carefully, and then said he might possibly have glimpsed someone like Weasel Face at one of the motor-car junkyards where he’d enquired about the Studebaker. He’d never seen the bruiser before, but Mr Bellini says that sort are ten a penny, hired muscle for gangsters. The pair of them had just been told to ‘put the frighteners’ (as Mr Bellini put it) on Dad. But what Dad was really worried about was not the threat against him, but the fact that they obviously knew where he lived, that Mrs Bellini and I had to cope with it on our own, and what might have happened if the men had not taken no for an answer. He was all for packing me off to Nan and Pop’s there and then. I had to beg and beg him to please let me stay, at least till he’d gone to Bacchus Marsh tomorrow, I so wanted to see Phar Lap. At last Dad said all right—but I would have to go to Newcastle after that and there would be no argument about it. I can’t see a way of changing Dad’s mind now, and so I am feeling really glum tonight as I write this up.