Well dressed. Well heeled, I’d say. Moustache. About forty-two or forty-three. They went to a café called the Petrushka.’
‘I know it,’ he said. ‘Commies, queers and Jews go there,’ and he gave each word an equal weighting of contempt. The venom in his voice made my heart sink. Was Clutterbuck some sort of fascist? Had I foolishly moved in with a black shirt? A sudden burst of laughter from Clutterbuck assuaged my fears somewhat. Perhaps he hadn’t been serious, but had wanted to shock me, to test my response to his remarks.
‘Not a salubrious place for a tryst,’ he said.
‘They went to the Menzies Hotel after that, and took a room. They’re there under the name of Mr and Mrs Cunningham.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘But that’s not six pounds worth, is it? I want you to find out who this Cunningham is. Has he got a wife? That sort of thing.’
A bitter little acid drop of bile rose to my throat. Was Clutterbuck planning on blackmailing this man? I walked to the bathroom door and leaned against the jamb. Clutterbuck had a washer across his eyes and didn’t see me.
‘This isn’t about blackmail, is it?’ I asked.
He didn’t flinch at the sudden closeness of my voice, but took the washer away from his eyes.
‘No, Will,’ he said. ‘This isn’t about blackmail. It most certainly is not. I’m in no position to blackmail other people about their sex lives, and when I get dressed we’ll have a drink and I’ll tell you why. I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.’
As he was paying me I suppose he had a right to dismiss me in this way, but I didn’t like it.
When Clutterbuck joined me in the living room the first thing he did was apologise.
‘I’m sorry if I sounded officious,’ he said. ‘I’m told it’s one of my least attractive qualities.’
Then he smiled, confident that his charm would be sufficient to repair my opinion of him. After the first, large single malt, I was reassured, but I now knew I would have to remain wary of Paul Clutterbuck.
‘While you were out tracking Anna and this Cunningham,’ he said, ‘I was having lunch at the Melbourne Club. I’m not a member. I was a guest. My fiancée’s father is a member.’
‘Gretel’s father is a member of the Melbourne Club?’
I was surprised in spite of myself. Clutterbuck looked at me for a moment, then produced a sputter that escalated into a laugh.
‘I’m not sure Gretel even knows who her father is but, whoever he is, I’m sure the closest he’s ever come to being a pillar of the community is in propping up a bar somewhere. No, Will, Gretel Beech isn’t my fiancée. That honour goes to Miss Nigella Fowler. Her father is big in banking; I’m not sure what he does exactly, but whatever it is he makes a lot of money out of it, and his daughter is keen on me. I’m certainly keen to marry her. My funds aren’t what they were before the war. So you see, Will, I’m in no position to blackmail anybody. My former wife knows about my little dalliances, and I don’t want to give her any reason to start blathering about them. Fowler isn’t entirely happy as it is with the fact that I’m divorced. If word got back to him about anything else, there’d be no wedding, I can assure you. And I’ll tell you quite frankly, Will, that this is all about money, not love — not on my side anyway. As far as I’m concerned this is a financial arrangement, and I fully intend to fulfil all statutory requirements in relation to sex and procreation. Nigella is not unattractive, and it will be no sacrifice to consummate our union when the time comes. Are you appalled?’
I couldn’t make up my mind whether there was something admirable about Clutterbuck’s frankness, or whether it pointed to a serious deficiency in his understanding of the limits of social intimacy. At least he was consistent in his amorality. His well-oiled smile was good camouflage, and even that wasn’t intended to disguise so much as to excuse. I could
‘I know it,’ he said. ‘Commies, queers and Jews go there,’ and he gave each word an equal weighting of contempt. The venom in his voice made my heart sink. Was Clutterbuck some sort of fascist? Had I foolishly moved in with a black shirt? A sudden burst of laughter from Clutterbuck assuaged my fears somewhat. Perhaps he hadn’t been serious, but had wanted to shock me, to test my response to his remarks.
‘Not a salubrious place for a tryst,’ he said.
‘They went to the Menzies Hotel after that, and took a room. They’re there under the name of Mr and Mrs Cunningham.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘But that’s not six pounds worth, is it? I want you to find out who this Cunningham is. Has he got a wife? That sort of thing.’
A bitter little acid drop of bile rose to my throat. Was Clutterbuck planning on blackmailing this man? I walked to the bathroom door and leaned against the jamb. Clutterbuck had a washer across his eyes and didn’t see me.
‘This isn’t about blackmail, is it?’ I asked.
He didn’t flinch at the sudden closeness of my voice, but took the washer away from his eyes.
‘No, Will,’ he said. ‘This isn’t about blackmail. It most certainly is not. I’m in no position to blackmail other people about their sex lives, and when I get dressed we’ll have a drink and I’ll tell you why. I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.’
As he was paying me I suppose he had a right to dismiss me in this way, but I didn’t like it.
When Clutterbuck joined me in the living room the first thing he did was apologise.
‘I’m sorry if I sounded officious,’ he said. ‘I’m told it’s one of my least attractive qualities.’
Then he smiled, confident that his charm would be sufficient to repair my opinion of him. After the first, large single malt, I was reassured, but I now knew I would have to remain wary of Paul Clutterbuck.
‘While you were out tracking Anna and this Cunningham,’ he said, ‘I was having lunch at the Melbourne Club. I’m not a member. I was a guest. My fiancée’s father is a member.’
‘Gretel’s father is a member of the Melbourne Club?’
I was surprised in spite of myself. Clutterbuck looked at me for a moment, then produced a sputter that escalated into a laugh.
‘I’m not sure Gretel even knows who her father is but, whoever he is, I’m sure the closest he’s ever come to being a pillar of the community is in propping up a bar somewhere. No, Will, Gretel Beech isn’t my fiancée. That honour goes to Miss Nigella Fowler. Her father is big in banking; I’m not sure what he does exactly, but whatever it is he makes a lot of money out of it, and his daughter is keen on me. I’m certainly keen to marry her. My funds aren’t what they were before the war. So you see, Will, I’m in no position to blackmail anybody. My former wife knows about my little dalliances, and I don’t want to give her any reason to start blathering about them. Fowler isn’t entirely happy as it is with the fact that I’m divorced. If word got back to him about anything else, there’d be no wedding, I can assure you. And I’ll tell you quite frankly, Will, that this is all about money, not love — not on my side anyway. As far as I’m concerned this is a financial arrangement, and I fully intend to fulfil all statutory requirements in relation to sex and procreation. Nigella is not unattractive, and it will be no sacrifice to consummate our union when the time comes. Are you appalled?’
I couldn’t make up my mind whether there was something admirable about Clutterbuck’s frankness, or whether it pointed to a serious deficiency in his understanding of the limits of social intimacy. At least he was consistent in his amorality. His well-oiled smile was good camouflage, and even that wasn’t intended to disguise so much as to excuse. I could
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