might take a while. Sailors also have a talent for vanishing.’
‘You do your best for me, honey, I need to find that man. I ain’t all that too sure of my man Ben. Now, who do you wanna find? Seem like us women always longin’ for some man.’
‘Charles Freeman,’ said Phryne.
Nerine choked on her lemonade, coughed, recovered, wiped her eyes and glared at Phryne almost as effectively as Ben Rodgers had done.
‘Why you wanna find him?’ she snapped.
‘Nerine, before I die of curiosity, what did Charles do to you? I wouldn’t ask what seems to be an indelicate question, but I happen to know that debauchery is just not likely.’
Nerine took a deep breath, which had the effect of causing the nearest males to lose theirs, and shook her mass of red hair. ‘You need to know?’ The voice was ragged with outrage.
‘I need to know,’ agreed Phryne.
‘He gave me the rush,’ said Nerine in a voice redolent with fury. ‘Sent me flowers, jewellery; took me out on the town, until I thought, I thought—this was before I decided to marry Ben. One night we were in his flat, the lights were down low and he was sitting beside me, and he said he had a proposition for me. And honey, I been expecting something like that, what with the diamonds and the orchids and all. But then, then . . .’
‘Then?’ asked Phryne breathlessly.
‘He wanted me to sing in a new band! He wanted me to leave Ben flat and go and join this band which a friend of his had! I tol’ him that I give Ten my word to stay with him. He laughed, one of them mean chuckles, and he said that women had no honour.’
‘Oh,’ said Phryne, uncertain of whether to laugh or not. ‘So he never laid a hand on you?’
‘Lady, I was expectin’ him to lay a hand on me,’ spat Nerine. ‘Then I realised that he was one of them funny boys—we have ’em down south, too—and I flung his diamonds and his flowers right back at him and left the place. I swore I wouldn’t never sing for him again, and that’s why Ten has to do without me when he plays the high spots, because I don’ never want to see Charles Freeman ever again in my life!’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘Georgia,’ said Nerine. ‘I came here with Billy—I told you that I was a sucker for sailors. Then I liked it here. Honey, if it wasn’t for Charles Freeman I’d stay here forever.’
‘He’s vanished,’ said Phryne, tasting the coffee, which seemed to have been made out of aged-in-the-wood beans that had worked hard for their living.
Nerine glowed. ‘He gone? Then I don’t have to go. I never been so insulted! To ask me to break my sworn-given word! I’ll have to tell Ben.’
‘He knows. Flat, you say? Charles Freeman has a flat? Where is it?’
Nerine gave the address. It was, she said, carved on her memory.
‘Nerine, did you tell Ben all about this, er, insult? Did he know about it?’
‘Oh, yeah, well, he knew I was going about with Charles. He’s awful jealous and we used to have some fine scenes. I tol’ him I’d love who I chose. He didn’t like that.’ She chuckled, evidently a woman who throve on conflict.
‘I bet he didn’t. Weren’t you running rather a risk, inflaming a trumpeter?’
‘He wouldn’t hurt me none, he needs my voice,’ said Nerine complacently. ‘I sing the blues better than any woman in this ole town. He knows that. But he was fierce against poor old Charles. I was right sorry for Charles, you know. Seemed like he didn’t know nothing about girls. And he didn’t,’ she added with a vindictive snap of fine teeth. ‘He didn’t. Well, I’ve helped you as much as I can, Miss Fisher. Reckon you can find that no-good man of mine?’
‘I’ll give it my best try,’ promised Phryne. Nerine groped her way back to the stage and shook herself. There was a collective gasp. The red dress, which had ridden up, slid down like a glove over the voluptuous body. Nerine had an unrefined sexual presence that should keep Ben in a fine
‘You do your best for me, honey, I need to find that man. I ain’t all that too sure of my man Ben. Now, who do you wanna find? Seem like us women always longin’ for some man.’
‘Charles Freeman,’ said Phryne.
Nerine choked on her lemonade, coughed, recovered, wiped her eyes and glared at Phryne almost as effectively as Ben Rodgers had done.
‘Why you wanna find him?’ she snapped.
‘Nerine, before I die of curiosity, what did Charles do to you? I wouldn’t ask what seems to be an indelicate question, but I happen to know that debauchery is just not likely.’
Nerine took a deep breath, which had the effect of causing the nearest males to lose theirs, and shook her mass of red hair. ‘You need to know?’ The voice was ragged with outrage.
‘I need to know,’ agreed Phryne.
‘He gave me the rush,’ said Nerine in a voice redolent with fury. ‘Sent me flowers, jewellery; took me out on the town, until I thought, I thought—this was before I decided to marry Ben. One night we were in his flat, the lights were down low and he was sitting beside me, and he said he had a proposition for me. And honey, I been expecting something like that, what with the diamonds and the orchids and all. But then, then . . .’
‘Then?’ asked Phryne breathlessly.
‘He wanted me to sing in a new band! He wanted me to leave Ben flat and go and join this band which a friend of his had! I tol’ him that I give Ten my word to stay with him. He laughed, one of them mean chuckles, and he said that women had no honour.’
‘Oh,’ said Phryne, uncertain of whether to laugh or not. ‘So he never laid a hand on you?’
‘Lady, I was expectin’ him to lay a hand on me,’ spat Nerine. ‘Then I realised that he was one of them funny boys—we have ’em down south, too—and I flung his diamonds and his flowers right back at him and left the place. I swore I wouldn’t never sing for him again, and that’s why Ten has to do without me when he plays the high spots, because I don’ never want to see Charles Freeman ever again in my life!’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘Georgia,’ said Nerine. ‘I came here with Billy—I told you that I was a sucker for sailors. Then I liked it here. Honey, if it wasn’t for Charles Freeman I’d stay here forever.’
‘He’s vanished,’ said Phryne, tasting the coffee, which seemed to have been made out of aged-in-the-wood beans that had worked hard for their living.
Nerine glowed. ‘He gone? Then I don’t have to go. I never been so insulted! To ask me to break my sworn-given word! I’ll have to tell Ben.’
‘He knows. Flat, you say? Charles Freeman has a flat? Where is it?’
Nerine gave the address. It was, she said, carved on her memory.
‘Nerine, did you tell Ben all about this, er, insult? Did he know about it?’
‘Oh, yeah, well, he knew I was going about with Charles. He’s awful jealous and we used to have some fine scenes. I tol’ him I’d love who I chose. He didn’t like that.’ She chuckled, evidently a woman who throve on conflict.
‘I bet he didn’t. Weren’t you running rather a risk, inflaming a trumpeter?’
‘He wouldn’t hurt me none, he needs my voice,’ said Nerine complacently. ‘I sing the blues better than any woman in this ole town. He knows that. But he was fierce against poor old Charles. I was right sorry for Charles, you know. Seemed like he didn’t know nothing about girls. And he didn’t,’ she added with a vindictive snap of fine teeth. ‘He didn’t. Well, I’ve helped you as much as I can, Miss Fisher. Reckon you can find that no-good man of mine?’
‘I’ll give it my best try,’ promised Phryne. Nerine groped her way back to the stage and shook herself. There was a collective gasp. The red dress, which had ridden up, slid down like a glove over the voluptuous body. Nerine had an unrefined sexual presence that should keep Ben in a fine
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