A Thing of Blood by Robert Gott Read Free Book Online

There were some rather beautiful nudes among the pretentious still lifes and brooding landscapes, and I was surprised that such a book had not been seized by the police. I could see that the Leonardo catered for a literary crowd that differed markedly from book-buyers in Melbourne’s more staid establishments. I imagined that material of a particularly racy nature could be obtained under the counter from the corpulent owner.
    There was one other customer in the Leonardo when I entered. He was a man who looked to be in his early forties, and was clean-shaven, though sporting a neat, Ronald Colman moustache. He was wearing a Dedman suit, the austere lines of which had been softened by its being made from expensive material. This compromise made me think that he might work in a government position where adhering to the clothing regulations would be expected. Perhaps he’d come down from Parliament House, which huddled behind sandbags just a few minutes’ walk away. He looked up expectantly when a woman came in, but returned his eyes to the page as soon as he’d seen her. This shabbily dressed creature was unmistakably a comrade. Her hair, dragged back from her plain face, was ragged from the rigours of self-cutting.
    ‘Gino,’ I heard her say, and she kissed the proprietor on both cheeks.
    As she did so, a second woman came into the Leonardo, and this, without a doubt, was Anna Capshaw. Clutterbuck had exaggerated her beauty, but she was rather remarkable nonetheless. If she had been impoverished by her divorce it didn’t show in her appearance. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and fell in carefully regulated waves to her shoulders. No penny-pinching Victory Bob for Anna Capshaw. When I saw her face in full light I couldn’t help but notice that she bore an arresting resemblance to Hedy Lamarr.
    Anna Capshaw went over to the man with the neat moustache and they touched each other lightly on their respective forearms. I found the gesture peculiarly intimate, more intimate than a social kiss. There was something furtive about the touch, something deliberately restrained which nevertheless revealed that their relationship was sexual and illicit. They left immediately and I followed them.
    In Little Collins Street they headed uphill towards Parliament House, but ducked into a café on the way. It was called the Petrushka, and as soon as I went inside I realised that I had entered a grim ventricle of Melbourne’s bohemian heart. Heads were raised when I came in and lowered when people had reassured themselves that I was neither a literary enemy nor the police. The café was noisy, and if the food was as poisonous as the place smelled I didn’t think its patrons could look forward to a long life. Anna Capshaw and her male companion were sitting at a table at the back of the café. I caught her eye unintentionally, but it seemed to be of no more consequence to her than if she had caught the eye of anyone else in the room. I sat down and a waiter asked, ‘Wine?’ This was such a singular question to be asked in a café that I automatically replied, ‘Yes.’ A chipped mug was placed before me containing a liquid that was wine only if that term is expanded to include sump oil. I took a small sip, and felt that if I had any more my teeth would dissolve.
    I couldn’t hear anything of what passed between my quarries, and couldn’t get any closer, but they were deep in conversation and, from the looks on their faces, this wasn’t chit-chat. They left at exactly two thirty. This is noteworthy only because Anna Capshaw arrived at the Leonardo at exactly two. She seemed to be running to a timetable.
    Once outside, they began to walk briskly towards Parliament House again but before they reached the top of Little Collins Street, they turned down an alley which cut through to Collins Street. This was the sort of narrow space where American servicemen took their dates for a quick exchange of fluids. I followed warily. If one