Chapter Nine
Nine
When Billie returned to the office with the weekend papers, her thoughts swirling with speculation about the mysterious “Frank” and the girls Shyla was worried about, she found Sam looking triumphant and a touch fresher for the extra cups of tea he’d made himself.
“Don’t tell me. You found our missing page?” Billie guessed.
This narrowed their focus even better than an entire missing page. “This is the only possibility?” she asked.
“Well, this is the only thing ripped out of these papers,” he said, his face falling a little, doubtless imagining another tedious run through soggy newspaper.
“Excellent work. And that gels with what the boy Maurice told me about the date. I’ll get you to head to the library and find out what was on that page,” Billie said.
“I have it here,” he said to her surprise. Again, her assistant’s smile was triumphant. He held up a wrinkled copy and her eyes widened.
“Nicely done, good sir. What is it? Do tell.” She hurried over to his desk.
“It’s an advertisement for an auction that’s running this weekend. We still had our copy of that edition.”
He passed her the paper and she ran her eyes over it.
Georges Boucher Auction House. This was not what she had been expecting at all.
An auction? “How fascinating. I think we’ll have to attend this tomorrow.
” The advertisement featured photographs of antiques and jewelry.
A carved sideboard. Rings. An unusual necklace.
It looked like high-end stuff. Why would it interest the boy, let alone enrage him?
“I suppose we ought to look into this George character and his business,” Sam said.
Billie laughed softly. “Georges,” she said, using the correct French pronunciation.
“We’ll need the library anyway,” she decided.
“Head there now, please, and research this Georges Boucher. Find out what you can about when he came to Australia and what his story is. I want a physical description, too,” she said.
“Meanwhile, I’ll visit the fur shop. I feel like there’s some element missing in the story Mrs. Brown told me. ”
“Like what?”
“We’ll see,” she said, leaving it at that.
She bade her assistant adieu and strode into her office, making her way to her modest corner balcony, where she opened the doors, a fresh breeze blowing in with the sounds of the city below.
She stepped out and leaned against one of the two Roman-style pillars, gazing out over the top floor of nearby Station House, which was connected to Daking House by a small safety bridge, and the bustling Rawson Place and George Street below.
It was humble as balconies went, with barely enough room to turn around, but it was one of only three balconies on the sixth floor, and only half a dozen in the whole building, the rest being on the first floor.
It had been a favorite contemplation spot of her father’s.
Naturally she’d saved this spot for herself when necessity meant subletting the other offices.
Seconds later, Sam appeared among the foot traffic below, strolling along the footpath in his trench coat, soon blending into the moving crowd.
In a few minutes she’d take the lift down herself and walk to Brown her startled doe eyes fixed on Billie.
Today the woman wore the same suit, the same fine mink stole, the hairs brushed down and gleaming, but her hair was tucked under a turban of brown and emerald green, knotted at the front and secured with a circular brooch encrusted with diamantes.
It suited Mrs. Brown. But despite her show of style, the past day had not been good to her, it seemed.
Dark circles were forming under those uncertain brown eyes, and the lines of worry on her face seemed yet deeper.
“Oh, Miss Walker,” she said, and scurried over. “Is there any news of our boy?” Her tone was heart-wrenchingly hopeful.
“Nothing yet,” Billie replied gently. “We hope today may be fruitful. Perhaps I might speak with you and your husband for a short time?”
“Of course,” she said, though with a hint of uncertainty.
Looking around, Billie noticed how widely the garments were spaced on the racks.
The Browns were putting up a good front, but it wouldn’t surprise her if they didn’t have a lot of stock.
They certainly wouldn’t be alone if that was the case.
The importation of luxury goods like fur pelts had been banned in New South Wales in 1942, as was the manufacture of new luxury garments, though Billie believed the ban on general fur manufacture had been relaxed to account for utility items and a shortage of warm clothing.
Having previously focused on importing luxury pelts, Sydney’s furriers had become creative about using rabbits, goats, sheep, and even water rats, said to loosely resemble mink, to make garments.
She recalled her mother commenting on all the curious “new” animals used by the trade, and it was through those eyes that she surveyed the coats on display.
Mrs. Brown seemed to catch her thoughts. “We get new stock in next month in time for Christmas. We’re organizing a display with Father Christmas and the reindeer.”
“How charming,” Billie said.
A man of perhaps fifty emerged through a door at the back of the shop.
“This is my husband, Mikhall,” Mrs. Brown announced.
He walked over and shook hands with Billie.
Mr. Brown was perhaps five foot eight, and slim, but with a rounded belly.
His hair was curly, what remained of it.
His shoulders sloped and he appeared to be shy, his eyes meeting Billie’s for just a moment.
Next to him, his reserved wife seemed a bold and forthright person.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have much English,” Mr. Brown said in a heavy accent, perhaps a touch ashamed of the fact. “I try, but it’s not so good.” His accent was certainly much more pronounced than his wife’s, who had clearly worked hard to dampen it. It was a German accent, Billie noted.