Browning Battles On by Peter Corris

Author:Peter Corris [Corris, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-02-09T05:00:00+00:00

14

I must admit that something of the doubt Doris had raised entered my mind when Finch invited me back to his flat. On the other hand, he had no money and I was pretending to have none, so perhaps it was all above board. We staggered out of the club and Finch set off deliberately in an easterly direction.

'Where's your place?'

'Kings Cross. Bit of a walk, but I could get there blind, I mean blindfolded.'

That joke carried us along for a few blocks. It had been a good many years since I'd staggered drunk through the streets of Sydney, but some things hadn't changed. Instinctively, we avoided the dark lanes where danger might lurk and we lifted our hats to women who looked at us with disgust. There were plenty of servicemen about, including a lot of Americans—fresh-faced, wearing well-pressed uniforms and many with a girl on the arm.

'Good chaps, Americans,' Finch said. 'Friendly, good manners. I'd like to work there.'

I thought of some of the people I knew in Hollywood. They were about as friendly as King Kong and their manners were worse. I grunted and concentrated on not being shouldered off the footpath by a band of half-drunk sailors singing 'Waltzing Matilda'. I realised that Finch was humming along and pretty much in tune. He seemed to be in the process of sobering up again.

'Here we are, old sport,' he said, producing a couple of keys on the end of a piece of string. The string was attached to his braces. We had made several turns away from the bright main street and stood outside a small block of flats in a dark cul-de-sac. He unlocked a door that opened into a small entrance hall.

'Up one.' Finch sprang up the stairs like a ten-year-old. I plodded up after him, feeling my years and reflecting that God only knew what he was like when he was rested and sober.

Finch unlocked another door and entered the flat, snapping on lights and still humming. The flat was small with a sitting room, one bedroom and a tiny kitchen. The first piece of furnishing I saw put my mind at rest—it was a framed photograph of an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She had high cheekbones, slanted eyes and a sensuous mouth.

Finch smiled when he saw me staring. 'My wife,' he said. 'Weren't worried by what that slag Doris said, were you? Not interested in men. Plenty of offers, but just not interested. You?'

'The same. I'm married too. Wife's Chinese. Yours looks a bit . . .'

'Russian. Tamara Tchinarova. Dancer.'

I glanced towards the bedroom door. It was hard to imagine why a man would spend his time boozing at the Journalists' Club with a woman like that to come home to. 'Is she here?'

Finch, who had thrown his hat and jacket on a chair and lit a cigarette from a packet he'd found on a shelf, shook his head. 'Away on tour. Dancing in some god-forsaken country hole. Fancy a drink?'

'Have you got any coffee?'

"Fraid not.

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