smiled briefly. 'Something like that.'
Walenski held all the cards and I knew it. I'd have to do it his way or not at all.
Even if I convinced the surviving band members to talk, now that I knew about the book, I wanted Walenski's insight to compare with what they said. It sounded like the band had something to hide and, since his agenda was to exonerate O'Toole, he wouldn't be glossing over the band's part in Genevieve's murder.
'Still got the tapes?' Monty asked. It was off tangent, but a good point.
Walenski nudged an ancient cassette player with his shoe, pushing it out from under the coffee table. I shivered, imagining him listening to the tapes before we arrived, communing with the dead. I seemed to hear the whisper of long gone conversation and felt the walls press in on me. Breathe, Antonia, breathe.
'Can we have a copy of the tapes?' Monty asked.
'No,' Walenski snapped. I glanced at Monty.
'Only a copy,' he said. 'To authenticate your book.'
Walenski sighed. 'The tapes are private; O'Toole rambles. He gets maudlin, rages against his ex-wife and rants about the drugs and prostitution on the Street. He said things to me he would not have said to anyone else. You have to understand. He was close to a nervous breakdown when I first met him. His wife had dumped him for another man and it was eating away at him. He adored his daughter and she, well, she loved him but she was trying to make a life for herself. When he first moved in upstairs, he was in such a bad way he couldn't sleep, that was why he drove the taxi at nights, to stop from going crazy.' He glanced at a battered briefcase on the floor next to his chair. 'The tapes are private.'
'Hang on,' I muttered as something clicked. The boarding house where Walenski and O'Toole had lived burned down several hours before the murder. 'You can't have the original tapes. According to the police all of O'Toole's personal effects were destroyed in the fire. Your stuff must have gone up in flames too.'
'That's what everyone thought. But the very afternoon the flats burnt down O'Toole insisted we pack an overnight bag and go stay somewhere else. I took the tapes because I happened to be working on a story at the time.'
Seemed plausible, but why had O'Toole insisted they move out?
Walenski gestured to the manuscript. 'O'Toole could never have hurt Genevieve. He loved her, we all did,' Walenski's chin trembled. After a moment he went on. 'When he committed suicide it wasn't because he'd killed her, it was because he hadn't saved her!'
Monty snorted softly.
Walenski glared at him, an old man's ineffectual anger.
'Okay. You've got me hooked,' I said quickly. 'According to you, this book will tell us what happened.'
'Yes.' He nodded. 'In the last week before she died.'
'How do we know you're telling the truth?' Monty countered.
Walenski pulled himself upright, furious and frail. 'I've laid myself bare in this book. What more do you people want, a pound of flesh?' The anger drained from him and he cast Monty a weary look. 'Read it. Then ask yourself if I'm hiding anything. Now, get out!'
Back at One-Eight-One, I unlocked the sliding door and noticed the cat had eaten his food. Monty put a pizza on the kitchen table and flipped the lid open, while I poured the wine. The pizza smelt good. My stomach rumbled as Monty passed me a plate and cutlery. For once he didn't tease me about eating pizza with a knife and fork.
I grinned, riding a surge of excitement as I slid the manuscript out. I was holding something that had never come to light. Except for Walenski, no one else knew what we were going to discover.
'Do you suppose Arthur's read this?' I asked.
'Walenski said no one had. But Arthur obviously meant him to give it to us.'
'So he must think there's something in it that we should know. It's his way of settling Genevieve's ghost. He said he owed her.' My palm itched and I was suddenly very aware of the dark night outside. I got up, crossing to the sliding doors to adjust the vertical blinds.
Monty gave me a questioning look.
'There was a gap. Someone could see in.'
He grinned. 'The back fence is as tall as me.'
'They could still climb the fence.'
'Paranoia reigns supreme.'
I stiffened. I was not loopy. I was nothing like my mother.
Monty studied me.
Either I had revealed too much, or Monty saw too much.
Hurriedly, I crossed to the table and sat down, scanning the front page of the manuscript. 'Walenski's started the book on Monday afternoon. Genevieve was killed the following Sunday. Six days to set up her murder. He doesn't believe in mucking around.' I looked up, meeting Monty's eyes. 'Ready?'
'Just try and stop me.'
CHAPTER 3
Monday Afternoon.
Sleeping days, working nights meant I started my day as the sun went down just like the Count, but then so did a lot of people in St Kilda. I pocketed my front door key and headed for the day driver's place to pick up the cab.
My tomcat followed me down the steps, a black shadow weaving back and forth. Lucky for him, the place had once been a fancy boarding house and the steps were wide enough for me to avoid standing on his tail.
In the foyer we ran into Mad Moll clearing her mailbox. She stooped to pat Pangur Ban, then stabbed me with an arthritic finger. 'They were at it again last night. What a racket!'
'They were?' The stray cats?
She fixed suspicious black eyes on me, pursing her ruined lips. Long ago, someone had taken a carving knife to her face, leaving permanent seams which had blended into a lifetime of wrinkles. 'Those punk rockers next door started up well after midnight. Screaming and screeching. Call that music?'
Was she going to start another vendetta? Maybe I should warn the punks.
Poor Moll. Before the punks moved into the terrace house some harmless students had lived next door. Mad Moll became convinced they were Satan worshippers and hounded them until they moved out. This left the house free for the punk rockers to move in and serenade the neighbourhood. The irony of it was lost on Moll.
'Genevieve and what's-his-name been having another domestic?' I asked. I only knew the girl's name because he was always shouting it.
Moll gave a derisive sniff and bent to stroke Pangur Ban again. He purred loudly, abasing himself for her. He only tolerated me, but for her… If this had been another century she would have been burned as a witch. She straightened, glaring at me. 'There'll be trouble. I can feel it building. St Kilda's growing hungry again. It thrives on suffering and misery, feeds on souls of the innocent. Another one will die soon. You'll see!'
With that, she stalked off - and this was one of her better days. At some time in her eventful life, the
