Make Me Rich by Peter Corris

have a phone.”
    â€œI could send him a telegram asking him to ring,” Guthrie said. “Or get a message to him at the university.”
    â€œThat’d take days.” Pat Guthrie looked at me appraisingly and seemed to find in my favour. “Perhaps Mr Hardy could go up there and see if he can help bring Ray to his senses. I’m worried about him ranting around, especially in strange places. I think Mr Hardy and Chris would get along all right.”
    Did that make me the reflective type
, I thought, scholarly, even? Flattering.
    â€œGood idea,” Guthrie said. He went across the kitchen and put his strong, oarsman’s around his wife’s slim waist. “Hardy?”
    I said I’d go, got the address and details on Chris Guthrie’s university courses from them, and left. I didn’t have to drink the tea.

10
    I got some money from the autobank at Railway Square and a surprised look at home from Hilde when I phone-booked a seat to Brisbane. She followed me as I ran around the house gathering things.
    â€œNow?” she said. “It’s night time.”
    â€œWe never sleep.”
    â€œThat could be true,” she said. “You certainly didn’t sleep here last night.” I made a face at her and she went on.
    â€œAnd from the look of you, maybe you didn’t sleep much anywhere. Mmmm?”
    She was wearing a tracksuit and sneakers, prepared for one of her long, late night runs. I grinned at her and mimed running on the spot.
    â€œSleep or not, I beat a pennant standard tennis player 9-7 in the tie-breaker today.”
    â€œIs that so? I’m sure Helen Broadway would love to hear all about it, point by point. How was your serve?”
    I grabbed her arm. “I’ll break it, I swear, if you don’t tell me everything you know.”
    She laughed and I let her go. “She rang a couple of times. Said she’d be out tonight but you could ring in the morning. Sexy voice.”
    â€œGreat voice, yes. Thanks, Hilde. I’ll see you.”
    â€œWhen will you be back?”
    â€œDon’t know.”
    * * *
    I had my picture gallery, my gun, some clothes and books, and a collection of burglary tools in an overnight bag. If they were scanning the hand luggage I’d have to put the gun and tools in a locker and go naked in the world. In my wallet I had my private enquiry agent’s licence which would mean about as much in Queensland as a Fantale wrapper. I had credit cards, which everyone would like, and electric shaver and a toothbrush, which no one could object to.
    It was late and the airport was quiet; I parked, got seat-allocated and walked straight into the departure lounge—no scanner. My fellow passengers were a mixture of business folk and family folk. A couple of kids, up too late, were giving their mother hell, and the benign smiles of the two nuns opposite only made her more agitated. Me too.
    We took off on time and I ordered a double scotch as soon as I could and settled down with Howard Hughes. The kids went into first class, which was a relief; the nuns were back in second class, but they didn’t make any noise. I was reading about Hughes’s big-fish spending to corrupt the politicians in the little pool of Nevada and trying to tell myself it couldn’t happen here, when we landed in Brisbane.
    I like Brisbane: I like the warm air and the houses up on stilts and the suburban gardens that are like small jungles. I hired a yellow Ford Laser at the airport, which was the least gaudy car they had. It had nothing on the clock but its springs were shot: it had a Brisbane street directory though, and at that time of night I was glad to be hiring that as well as the springs. I drove to the address I had for Chris Guthrie in the suburb of Paddington.
    The same things have happened to Paddington, Brisbane, as have happened to Paddington, Sydney (and Paddington, London, for all I know): it’s an inner-city