Chapter Twenty-eight #3
Billie swept her eyes from side to side through the darkness and moved steadily along the uneven roadway toward the wooden gate, relying on the light of the moon and not daring to use her torch in case it was visible from the house.
She’d worn her quiet, trusty oxfords, and they managed the unsteady terrain with little difficulty, falling soundlessly on dark pebbles and churned-up earth that was a deep maroon in the soft moonlight.
She reached the surprisingly dilapidated wooden gate, where two tire tracks led like a driveway to the house, then started at the sight of a huge, skull-like face.
Death.
Billie brought a hand to her chest.
No, not Death. This was a large, hunching sooty owl, staring at her, its face white, its dark and penetrating eyes almost comically oversize. For its part, the owl said nothing of curiosity and the cat, or of women who wandered to strange places alone in the dark, but flew off, leaving her to it.
The gate was now locked with a chain and padlock, Billie noticed.
It clearly broadcast the man’s desire not to be disturbed, but it was little more than a bar for vehicles, as the fencing was so eroded on either side that she could walk straight through it.
The big Packard had vanished, doubtless now garaged in one of the sheds.
Was this a trap? Billie wondered again. But what were the chances that the man was expecting her in the mountains that day?
Expecting her to follow him? On the other hand, what did she think she would find in this place?
The specter of abuse, particularly against young women, was something Billie did not wish to encounter again after all she’d seen during the war.
Despite all the talk of Britain’s “finest moment,” the war had seemed to bring out both the best and the worst of humanity, and even the Allies had not been without blemish in that respect.
The vulnerable women and children freed from concentration camps had been abused by their Soviet liberators, Billie had heard.
Yes, war brought out the worst, and as her mother pointed out, Billie’s work showed it all to her, the worst of human instincts and behavior.
She had seen and heard enough unnecessary suffering and abuse of power for several lifetimes, and her stomach tightened at the thought of encountering more of humankind’s worst, but so also did her focus sharpen.
Step by step she moved up the side of the dirt drive, staying in the shadows of the trees and bushes as much as possible.
Lights were on at both ends of the homestead, and as she neared it, she could see that the dwelling was old and not terribly well kept, the verandah sloping to one side, paint peeling.
Not quite as grand as it had first appeared.
The grounds, too, had been neglected, bush creeping up to the house on three sides.
Now close to the house, picking her way around the unruly bushes and the remains of what might have once been a garden, Billie sensed movement in one of the rooms and dropped into a crouch, her driving coat sweeping the ground.
She listened intently. It sounded like footsteps on a wooden floor.
One set of shoes. They sounded too light to belong to the tall, white-haired man.
Billie rose a touch to try to see what was happening, but bushy tendrils like clawed fingers clutched at her coat, snagging her.
Turning and cutting a hand, she cursed the surrounding Acacia horrida.
Some genius had imported it, evidently unconvinced that Australia was sufficiently furnished with things that could claw, stab, or bite you.
With some effort she unhooked herself, and sucked on her pricked and lightly bleeding hand.
As the sound of footsteps faded, Billie eased slowly to her full height.
The window opened onto a sitting room illuminated with candles and a kerosene lamp, and next to it a second window revealed a dining room, darkened and empty, lined with odd shapes.
Curious. Billie moved closer to the glass and cupped her hands around her eyes to get a better look, then immediately leaped back as a pair of bright, slanted eyes met hers.
Again she brought a hand to her chest, and stifled a laugh.
These were not living eyes, but eyes carved of shell.
Out of place in this rustic setting, a pair of imposing carved wooden figures, one facing her at the window, the other turned away at an angle, stood as tall as Billie, the closest one rather unnervingly meeting her eye to eye.
She again cupped her hands against the glass to better see.
What were they? Satyrs? No, it was Satan and his wife, and it was Mrs. Satan’s shell-inlaid eyes that glittered in the moonlight and seemed to follow Billie’s movements.
The sharp wooden face was set at a downward angle, the mouth upturned in a dark grin.
Billie could not see Satan’s face, but his long hand was held out to support a silver dish, in which calling cards could be placed.
What exquisite, if unnerving, carvings they were.
And how odd to stumble across them in Upper Colo, in this rather ramshackle homestead.
She’d seen such a pair in Europe once and had been told they were Italian and all but priceless.
Next to the Mephistophelian pair were smaller objects, Billie now noticed, of perhaps similar value.
A gold candelabra. A china figurine of a woman and a fawn.
A small ornate chest. This odd arrangement of valuables was juxtaposed against an assortment of rustic, even rudimentary, pieces of furniture.
The dining table, though laid with good silver, appeared to have been knocked together using wood from the property.
The surface was uneven. A cabinet in the corner, stacked with more small figurines, looked to have been repurposed from work in a kitchen.
The legs were sawn down and Billie noticed small hooks screwed into the shelves from which teacups or mugs would once have hung.
A figure moved past the open doorway, rousing Billie from her speculation. She slipped back into the darkness and moved carefully through the bush, silently cursing as sharp twigs and thorny vegetation tore her stockings and scratched at her hands.
Now she could see more clearly into the sitting room. It was large, with a fireplace stacked with firewood but unlit this summer evening, though the temperatures here would drop dramatically overnight, she guessed. The figure moved past again, walking into the light, and Billie stiffened.
Shyla!
Shyla, who had asked her to find out about this place.
Shyla, who had warned her about the white man who was a foreigner, and no good.
Shyla, who’d said she was getting a job in the house.
She was already here. Billie drew a breath.
It might not have been her who had given the note to John Wilson, then.
It could have been someone passing information along a chain.
Or maybe she had arrived but a short time ago?
Either way, she was inside. Billie bent and picked up a small pebble, and moved to throw it at the window, then paused.
It was too risky, the house too quiet. They might be heard.
Carefully, Billie moved around the perimeter of the building.
Where was Frank? Where were the other girls?
The Packard now came into sight, peeking out from behind a shed, gleaming in the moonlight. Wouldn’t you want to protect such a costly motorcar, out here in the bush? Billie mused. If that fine motorcar wasn’t in the shed, it meant something else was.
Torch still off, Billie looked over one shoulder, then the other, and strained to hear the slightest sound.
Slowly, she approached the closest of the two run-down sheds.
Like the front gate, its door was secured with a basic padlock, English made and the likes of which Billie had picked many times before.
She pulled a long, sharp pin from her hat, examined the ornamental pearl on the end, decided she liked it too much, replaced it, and pulled out another.
She took the chosen pin in hand and with some force bent the end until it formed an L shape about the depth of the lock, then inserted the end into the keyhole.
In relative darkness and going by feel, she spent a moment listening for the lever inside the padlock.
Come on . . . Got it! She lifted the lever and the padlock fell away.
Billie pocketed the hatpin, regretting that it was probably never going to sit quite right again, and quietly pulled the shed door, stepping into the deep darkness, then closed it behind her, shutting out all light.
A strange, musty smell hit her nostrils, and even in the blackness she could tell the shed was tightly packed. There was barely any space to move. Her shoe hit a box or drum of some sort. She took a breath and switched on her torch.
Paintings?
Billie had not been sure what to expect, but this was not it.
The shed was packed with oil paintings—portraits, landscapes—and objects of all kinds, some concealed by drop cloths.
Some of the paintings appeared quite old.
If they were cataloged or arranged in any way, she could not tell.
They seemed simply to be stacked for storage.
Billie was no art collector, but her mother had been at one point, and some of these looked to be quite good.
A stack of frames sat on top of a cluster of oil drums next to her.
So that was what she had bumped into. There were a lot of similar drums stored in the shed, she realized, finding the combination of oil and paintings curious.
They were not traditionally a good mix. Billie’s torch illuminated a surprising assemblage of dusty objects made of china, of bronze, of gold.
Cherubs. A ballerina. An elaborate candle holder.
A menorah. How odd to leave these treasures in a shed like this, she thought.
So impressive was the array that Billie marveled that the paintings and objects were not behind glass, proudly displayed for envious acquaintances to admire—and that brought to mind another location: Georges Boucher’s auction house, with all those valuables slipping through the heavy curtains to be gazed at and coveted and bid upon by Sydney’s wealthy set.
If this man had come after the war, he had brought a lot with him.
That in itself was highly unusual. So many came with barely a suitcase, or only the clothes on their backs.
And then she knew. The little woman in Billie’s belly knew precisely, with horror, what she was gazing at, how it all fit.
Billie found a crowbar on the ground next to one of the drums, cleared the frames away from it, and pried the top off without much effort, suggesting that the drum had been opened recently.
It was not filled with oil or with liquid of another kind, and when her torch revealed the contents, she was not even surprised.
The sense of familiarity was like déjà vu.
Like a nightmare she’d had many times before.
Gold. The oil drum was filled with gold.
She reached in and pulled a piece out. It was about the size of . . .
She dropped it.
A gold tooth.
Billie swallowed. The space seemed to get smaller, the shed’s walls closing in.
This was an oil drum filled with gold teeth and fillings.
Billie’s stomach, which had already twisted as the realization first struck, knotted further.
She dry retched once, twice, and brought a hand to her mouth.
Quickly, she switched her torch off and rushed out of the shed and into the moonlight, welcoming the night air on her face as a world of abstract color burst behind her eyes, her lids closed tight.
She could almost feel Jack’s hand in hers, feel the cold dread that had seized her that day back in Vienna when she’d first seen with her own eyes, first really realized what they were dealing with.
But now she wasn’t in Vienna. She was in Australia and the war wasn’t over. The war had come to her.
A sobbing cry rose in the air and Billie stiffened, pulled from her memories.
She held her breath, listening in the darkness.
In this quiet, remote place, there had been crying.
Then, as quickly as the cry had reached her there was a murmur of voices, and all was quiet once more.
The night was still again. She heard the owl in the distance.
A rustle of wind in the bushes. It had not been her imagination, her memory of Vienna; it had come from the house.
The distinct sound of sobbing had come from one of the rooms at this end.
It was a room with no curtains, she realized. It was a room boarded shut from the outside.