Chapter Nine

Phryne was the first to speak.

"Not many leads, Jack. What about the men's statements on Armstrong?" she pressed. "Anything in there? Do they know how he was making so much money?"

"Cooper didn't seem to care that much. He seems to be the opposite of ambitious – and the opposite of Schultz."

"So Schultz is ambitious?" asked Phryne interestedly. "Was he perhaps jealous of Armstrong's success?"

"Perhaps." Jack frowned. "But it's a competitive industry – they can't go around killing people just for being better at it than them!"

He scooted forward in his chair, planted his elbows on the desk and propped his face glumly between his palms. "Trying to find a reason to kill someone for making lots of money? I know your red-raggers would call it theft, but for the rest of the world, it's an all-too-rare skill right now."

"It was what brought you after me to London, though, in a way?" remarked Phryne pensively. "Too much money, wasn't that what Bill Cooper said?"

That had indeed been the reason the Chief Commissioner had sent Detective Inspector Jack Robinson haring half way around the world – or at least, the ostensible reason, and the crime in question had certainly been satisfactorily and comprehensively solved by them both.

The fact that they had at the same time finally been allowed to discover some clues to their own hearts was neither here nor there.

Jack realised that the rest of the room was drifting out of focus behind a gently smiling face, and brought himself hurriedly back to the present.

"Too much money – yes. Absolutely."

Phryne grinned inwardly, but straight-batted her response. "Did you get the chance to check Armstrong's papers?" she asked innocently.

"Of course. It was all just instructions to trade, and copies of contract notes, and letters confirming trades – really, nothing but that," he said.

"There must be more than that. What if there's something he was hiding? Did you bring them away with you?"

He shook his head. The likelihood of finding the clue to a murder in an order to buy five hundred shares in the Dunlop Rubber Company – even in code – seemed so remote as to be not worth bothering about.

"Can I come with you to have another look? Please, Jack?"

He considered. "I don't see why not. After hours might be best, so that we're not observed by our suspects – I'll have to clear it with Rowlands, but he's keen to have the thing cleared up. It can't be today, though. The Chief Commissioner's having a reception at four, and I've got to be there, and then it's the wretched dinner tonight."

Phryne's lips twitched. There was a very good reason that her husband had stuck at the level of Detective Inspector – it was chiefly down to the healthy loathing he had for any kind of ceremonial event, and the Chief Commissioner's Dinner was a typical example of Hell On Earth for him.

"But Jack, what if someone tries to get rid of evidence …?"

"Tomorrow, Miss Fisher," he said firmly. "At the moment they don't think we suspect them, and we're not even sure what it is we're looking for. And no, you may not go on your own. Quite apart from the procedural question, we've got your condition to consider."

She subsided. If he hadn't already been fixated with the prospect of a stiff collar and endless speeches, it might have occurred to him to worry about reasons why.