Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(15)
The statement seemed to get the other man’s attention. ‘So Charlie, this is most interesting. Can I ask – your wife, she wears a red coat, yes?’
Berlin was startled by the question and his answer was wary. ‘She has a red coat, yes.’
Lazlo pointed his finger at Berlin. ‘A lady tall and slim, perhaps thirty I might guess, but only just, with dark hair, yes? And somewhat beautiful?’
The word ‘somewhat’ threw Berlin; he wasn’t sure if Horvay was being complimentary or not. ‘Sounds about right.’
‘I saw that your lady was of great comfort to the widow of the soldier at the church and also at the graveside. It was most touching, even to an avowed cynic like myself.’
‘That sounds like my wife.’
Horvay glanced up towards a first-floor window of the funeral parlour then down at his wristwatch. ‘And now, while I have a lifelong aversion to associating with the police, no offence intended, might I suggest, Charlie, that we adjourn to a nearby early opener of my acquaintance for a beer and perhaps a pie? It is just a short walk.’
‘Thanks for the offer, sport, but I’m off the grog.’
‘Just a pie then, Charlie, but humour me. Perhaps I have seen something that may be of interest to you. Something that might concern the matter that has brought you here this morning.’
Berlin considered the suggestion for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘why not?’ It was a long time since breakfast and still a ways to go till lunchtime but right now the idea of a hot pie was tempting. As was finding out what this character Lazlo might or might not have seen.
ELEVEN
Berlin was sticking with ginger ale. His eyes had found the bottle of Haig’s best on the top shelf of the bar but he resisted the temptation. The pub was quiet, perhaps only a dozen drinkers, but more than half of those had acknowledged Lazlo’s arrival with a nod or a wave. A sign on the tobacco-stained tiled wall said lunch was from twelve but the barmaid took their order for two pies without comment, yelling it through an opening in the wall. Berlin bought the first round, the barmaid well ahead of him on what Lazlo would be drinking.
The two men sat at a battered wooden table. Berlin tried to avoid twisting in his chair in case it collapsed under him. Lazlo raised his beer in a toast and smiled. ‘I all us has wan at eleven, just as the poster says, eh Charlie?’ He nodded towards a faded, fly-specked framed poster on the wall advertising Carlton Ale. The white-bearded old bloke leaning on the bar in the turn-of-the-century photograph looked like a gold miner, though not a very successful one. But at least, according to the picture, he could still afford a mid-morning schooner.
Lazlo sipped his beer. ‘The grammar is poor perhaps, as is the spelling, but I agree most heartily with the sentiment.’
Their pies arrived quickly, delivered by a scowling waitress in a grubby cardigan and worse apron. She had a line on her face for every slight and injustice done to her in the past forty years, Berlin decided, and there had obviously been a lot of them. The pies, on the other hand, looked pretty good, golden-brown pastry topped with a red smear of tomato sauce. Each lay nestled up against a bulwark of greyish mashed potato and green-grey peas boiled almost to oblivion. Berlin cut his pie open, carefully quartering it. Steaming gravy oozed out on to the plate. He decided to give it a minute or two to cool, his eyes flicking around the room while he waited.
Lazlo poked sadly at his peas with a fork. ‘As a policeman, Charlie, are you not outraged daily by the unseemly acts of violence perpetrated against vegetables in this country?’
‘Does everyone in Hungary speak English like you, Lazlo? Where did you learn it?’
‘My father, before the war, you understand, before the Germans came, was a professor of languages. He always insisted my sisters and I learn as many languages as possible.’
‘That sounds sensible.’ Berlin put a small forkful of pastry and meat into his mouth. It was still too hot but the texture and flavour were both excellent. Not as good as Rebecca’s of course but for a pub pie it was okay.
‘My father was a wiser man than he ever knew, Charlie. He always said that none of us knew what the future held, or where we might find ourselves one day.’
‘And after the Germans came?’
‘Then many things changed, none for the better. But my father was right about the value of languages and about us not knowing where we might find ourselves one day.’
‘You mean like Melbourne? Lucky you.’ Berlin’s head swivelled to the right. His peripheral vision had caught the movement of two men entering the pub. Suits and ties, shiny seats to the trousers, clerks or bank tellers probably.
Lazlo followed a piece of pie with a sip of beer. ‘Melbourne is not too bad, and believe me, I passed through many far worse places on my way here.’
Berlin nodded without looking up, finishing the last of his pie in one bite. It took less than a minute for the remaining mashed potato and peas to disappear from the plate. When he put his knife and fork down and looked across the table, Lazlo seemed to be studying him. He saw that while Lazlo had finished his pie he had left the potato and peas untouched.
‘You eat like a man who has known hunger, Charlie. Real hunger, I mean, not simply a meal delayed or a dinner missed.’
‘And how is that?’ Berlin asked.
‘Your eyes leap constantly from the plate to those around you, watching, checking. I have the feeling that if I made a sudden lunge for your dinner you would go for my throat.’.