Red Herring Read Online Free Page A

and men who thought they were powerful, had done it now for more than thirty years, and wasn’t bothered by it. Part of the job.
    But Walsh was Walsh. His war was the class war.
    Both sides.
    The doorman brought up his arm in a polite salute. “Morning, Mr Walsh,” he said, with a deference he usually reserved for judges of the Supreme Court. “Another beauty.”
    Walsh gave his name and hat to the duty manager and said he was there to see Henderson. The manager rang an electric bell and a maid in a black uniform and white apron appeared. He told her to show the gentleman to the library. She bobbed and glanced at Walsh. Pretty, he noticed. On the plump side, which he liked.
    He followed her up stairs hung with portraits of long-faced Englishmen, governors-general and the like, club patrons since 1869. She had a behind that Walsh could have grabbed with both hands. Her buttocks rolled like two Tahitians dancing in a sack. Was shesending him a message or was she simply climbing the stairs? She reminded him of a girl he’d kept in the Arundel Private Hotel, along the road in Waterloo Quadrant, before the war. Jane something. Or Julia.
    At the top of the stairway was a wide wood-panelled corridor lined with prints from the Maori Wars. A faded blue and green Persian runner, held in place with polished rods, led to a set of tall double doors halfway along. The girl stopped. “This is the library,” she said. “Would you like me to knock, sir?”
    “In a minute,” said Walsh. “What’s your name?”
    “My name?” She looked around. “It’s Brenda.”
    “You’re an attractive wee thing, aren’t you, Brenda.”
    “Oh yeah? Mum warned me about fellers like you in the big city. Men of the world. All hands.”
    “A wise woman. Where are you from?”
    She rolled her eyes. “Otorohanga, I’m embarrassed to say.”
    “But you got out. Which shows you have ambition.”
    “Ambition! No one’s ever said that to me before!”
    “Here’s another thing I bet no one’s said. How would you like to go for a ride in an American motorcar? Bet you’ve never been in one of them.”
    “American? Not American. Lots of ordinary ones though. I like going in cars.”
    “I bet you do. Tell you what. Be waiting out the front at nine tomorrow morning. I’ll take you for a drive in a Plymouth. That’s a real car.”
    “Oh, love to, but can’t, sorry. Working.” She pointed at the floor. “He’s put me in the laundry the whole day. I’m ‘on probation’ according to him.”
    “That ponce downstairs? Don’t worry about him.”
    “I’m not. Have to pay the bills though.”
    “How much do you get here?”
    “Cheeky!” She paused. “A pound a week with room and board.”
    “You live on the premises?”
    “Eight girls in the attic. Gets so hot at night.” She fanned herself.
    “Tell you what. Come and work for me. I’ll give you thirty bob a week for starters and find you a nice place to live. On your own? With another girl? Whatever you like.”
    She was unsure. “What’ll I do? For a job and that?”
    “Not sure yet. This is not the place for a girl who wants to get ahead in the world, I know that much.”
    She thought about it.
    “Nine o’clock?”
    “Out the front with your suitcase packed.”
    “All right.” She winked. “Sir.”
    Good girl.
    “Now you can knock.”
    They heard a chair scrape, and footsteps.
    The door opened. A man about Walsh’s age, wearing a dark suit of some expensive London weave. Tight-mouthed. Rimless glasses. Thinning hair parted well to the side and brushed back with a light layer of Brilliantine. He had the look of the late Prime Minister, Peter Fraser, but with none of Fraser’s warmth.
    “Walsh,” said David Henderson.
    “Henderson,” said Walsh.
    Brenda curtsied.
    For a moment both men watched her go, then Henderson showed Walsh into the library, a dark, high-ceilinged room with bookshelves lining one wall, and along the other, large double-hung windows looking out