Chapter Nine
Three buses pulled up in a back street of Williamstown, scarcely more than a mile from the harbour, an hour after dark that night. One disgorged Tom Derriment and the South Melbourne Gym contingent; the second was packed with Footscray Warriors. The third was driven by Cec Yates, who was trying simultaneously to drive and to keep the peace among his motley crew of red-ragger wharfies. He almost found it in himself (but not quite) to envy the job of Bert Johnson, his fellow cabbie and sometime employee of the redoubtable Miss Fisher. All Bert had to do was keep Mrs Collins quiet and calm at 221B.
On reflection, Cec was glad to be exactly where he was.
The samples of opium had been passed round and dutifully sniffed. "Just in case you don't know what you're looking for, lads."
Having been told the full story behind the search, the samples were even returned – respectfully.
Within minutes, a small army of foot-soldiers was swarming the quiet backstreets around the harbour of Williamstown. They were down at heel; they were scruffy. They were not inclined to attract the eye, and the eye slid past them quite willingly – especially the bulk of some of the boxers, with whom even the most belligerent of passers-by decided they need not argue.
Residential streets were lent scant attention, but the commercial structures near the water were all given a very delicate once-over.
For fully half an hour, there was nothing but pacing streets and peering in windows.
Then – a distinctive two-toned whistle.
And a whistle in reply.
A chain of communication made its way swiftly back to Detective Inspector Jack Robinson and the Honourable Phryne Fisher (yes, he had genuinely tried to suggest she might want to stay with Dot, but she gave him such a pitying look that he hadn't bothered to press the point) at their station by the trucks. They sprinted off, and came to a warehouse which was surrounded by a posse that was doing its utmost not to be a lynch mob.
Miss Fisher afforded them entry to the office door, while Tom, Alvin and Cec covered the rear of the building. Once inside the office, Jack led the way to a second door under which a single strip of light shone.
Oh-so-softly, Jack turned the handle to open it. It squeaked a little as it opened; they decided simultaneously that cover was blown and were through it in an instant, police-issue and pearl-handled revolvers respectively drawn.
They needn't have worried. A cat-like tread certainly wasn't going to rouse these two monuments to crime – or even, come to that, a herd of stampeding elephants.
Perhaps it was the opiates in the atmosphere that had them snoring in stentorian chorus.
Nonetheless, the Inspector and Miss Fisher took the precaution of snapping on the handcuffs simultaneously.
That, at least, woke the miscreants, but as Miss Fisher was already letting in reinforcements while the Inspector held them covered with his gun, their expostulations were swiftly silenced. Cec, Tom and Alvin then entertained their captives with opinions of the proper treatment of those who killed infants for money, while Jack went to telephone City South from the office, setting off the raid on the pharmacy.
Phryne, in the meantime, was running all over the building, and finally came to a locked door in the basement.
"Hugh?"
"Miss Fisher? Is that you?"
More work for the lock pick, and sharp knife to cut the ropes binding him, and a rather disreputable-looking Senior Constable was brought blinking into the electric light. He didn't smell particularly attractive, but Miss Fisher clearly thought he looked Just Lovely, because she gave him the most enormous hug before dragging him by the hand from the noxious depths of the warehouse.
The Inspector was less demonstrative, but as handshakes went, it was Quite Firm. The various representatives of law and order then filed, in a lawful and orderly fashion, out into the street.
Even as they stepped into the road, a taxi with Bert Johnson at the wheel raced up and screeched to a halt. A door slammed, and a small whirlwind dressed in tasteful autumnal colours whisked past Jack and Phryne and hurled itself at Senior Constable Collins. He didn't dodge it – he opened his arms to it, though its sheer momentum rocked him on to his heels.
"Hugh" breathed Dot into his neck.
"Dottie" whispered Hugh into her hair.
She reached up to frame his face with her hands, searching his eyes for signs of mental or physical strain. Finding both, she pulled his head to hers and kissed him soundly. The Polite World looked the other way, while Phryne, the red raggers and a variety of athletes from Bantam to Heavyweight watched approvingly.
Alvin turned to Tom.
"Right. You've got your coach back. So when we beat you on Saturday, we'll be winning fair and square."
Tom narrowed his eyes.
"Bring your best. You're going to need it, Al."