The Undertow by Peter Corris Page A

approached the table and looked at me with eyes that had a milkiness suggesting cataracts forming.
    â€˜Mr Belfrage,’ I said.
    â€˜Doctor Belfrage, if you please.’
    â€˜What’ll you have, doctor?’
    He lowered himself into a chair. ‘I’ll have a middy of black and a large brandy.’
    I bought the drinks and when I got back he’d lined up a packet of fifty cigarettes and his lighter, and drawn the ashtray closer. He accepted the drinks without thanks, took a sizeable sip of the brandy and a long pull on the middy after inhaling smoke. He exhaled and leaned back in the chair letting the drugs do their work. The area we were in was quiet but activity was beginning in the cafeteria adjacent, and further off the pokies were whirring.
    â€˜Private investigator, eh?’ he said. ‘I used to employ blokes like you when my clients didn’t pay up. Do much of that sort of work?’
    â€˜Not much.’
    â€˜I hope you brought the brandy.’
    I lifted the bottle in its paper bag from the chair beside me. ‘Hennessy,’ I said. ‘Hope that’s all right.’
    He went through the smoke-inhaling drink-absorbing ritual again. ‘It’ll do. What d’you want to know?’
    â€˜Do you remember a doctor named Bellamy being murdered and his partner, Heysen, being convicted of conspiring to kill him?’
    â€˜Vaguely.’
    â€˜I’ve been told Heysen and another doctor were performing illicit plastic surgery.’
    â€˜In what sense illicit?’
    â€˜I mean clandestine and for people wanting to change their appearance for other than cosmetic reasons.’
    â€˜Nicely put. Well it happened, certainly.’
    â€˜But you can’t confirm it in this case.’
    â€˜It’s a long time ago. Your lady friend traduced me, you know.’
    It was clear he was going to play a very cautious game with diversionary tactics.
    He smoked and drank some more and looked around as if he’d lost interest in the conversation. His skin was grey and drawn tight over the bones of his face. His greasy, dun-coloured hair was plastered across his skull like a smear of mud. His hands, one holding the cigarette, the other wrapped around a glass, were thin with long fingers and bloodless nails. Lily was right—you wouldn’t want him to touch you.
    I decided to be direct. ‘I’ll try a name on you—Dr Karl Lubeck,’ I said. ‘Have you heard of him?’
    He looked at me with the milky eyes. ‘Yes, he worked with Heysen in Darlinghurst.’
    â€˜So you do remember about Heysen’s sideline?’
    â€˜I do, and I can probably remember a deal more if I see the money and . . .’ he tossed off the rest of the brandy and beer, ‘I get another drink. Same again.’
    This time when I came back a garishly dressed old crone with a corrugated face was standing next to Belfrage, who was lighting the cigarette she’d obviously bludged.
    â€˜Give Dulce a few dollars, Hardy, so she can dream of a jackpot.’
    I handed the woman some change and she mooched away.
    â€˜One of your clients, doctor?’ I said.
    â€˜Watch your mouth.’
    â€˜I’m getting sick of this, Belfrage. I know what a defrocked, discredited, dis-fucking-grace to your profession you are. I’ve got the money and you can have it if you tell me something useful. Otherwise you can sink those two drinks and fuck off without the money or the brandy.’
    He sat very still and lit another cigarette. ‘Don’t smoke, do you?’
    â€˜Not anymore.’
    â€˜How did you stop?’
    â€˜Stubbornness.’
    â€˜Yes, I can believe that. What do you want to know about Karl?’
    â€˜Where he and a woman named Pixie Padrone are.’
    â€˜Pixie!’ He tried to drink and laugh at the same time and was overwhelmed by a coughing fit that shook him from head to toe. The cigarette fell from his fingers and