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Chas through a face full of stubble.
    ‘That’s why you are growing a beard?’ Phryne was amused.
    ‘It’s all right for you capitalists,’ exclaimed the young man bitterly. ‘I get five shillings a canvas if I’m lucky and the canvas itself costs a shilling, not to mention the paint. I’ve moved so often that my furniture’s got wheels. Meet my model. This is Blonde Maureen.’
    ‘Hello,’ simpered Blonde Maureen, taking Phryne’s hand, holding it for a moment and then dropping it. She was undeniably blonde, listless and pretty. ‘Well, hoo-roo, Chas. See you tonight at Theo’s.’
    ‘Wait a moment,’ said Phryne. She produced the picture of Joan Thompson. ‘Do you know this woman?’
    ‘Why, what’s she done?’ demanded the model.
    ‘Nothing. I just want to talk to her. Do you know her? There might be a few shillings in it,’ hinted Phryne.
    ‘Nah,’ decided Blonde Maureen. ‘For a moment I thought she looked like Darlo Annie, but now I ain’t sure. Sorry.’
    They heard her clatter down the stairs.
    ‘Well, Chas, how about you?’ Phryne offered him the photograph. ‘If you can find her for me, I’ll pay your rent.’
    ‘True dinks, Phryne?’ exclaimed the artist eagerly. ‘Give us a look.’ He took the photograph over to the light. This was provided by a large gap, innocent of glass, which might have been meant to have a shutter in the days when this house had been clean, respectable and ordered, fifty years ago.
    Chas Nuttall had always been a thin young man, careless of haircuts and dressed in old flannels and whatever shirts came to hand. He was still underfed, scruffy and badly dressed, and his nascent beard accentuated his resemblance to a sundowner who had been on the wallaby far too long. Phryne liked him because, however poor, he had always resisted the siren call of work. Chas Nuttall was devoted to his art and, like all artists, was always ready to shamelessly sacrifice everyone else, as well as himself, to his Muse.
    It was a pity that his Muse did not inspire him to paint anything recognisable. His canvases were splashed with roughly cube-shaped bridges, houses and nudes, garishly coloured and carelessly drawn. Phryne was leafing through the paintings stacked against the wall—the frying pan might have disgraced a stockman’s camp and the bed might not have been made in the present century, but his paints were all laid out in meticulous rows and his palette was exact—when she heard him exclaim, ‘Cripes! It is her!’
    ‘Is who?’
    ‘Blonde Maureen was right, I think,’ said the young man, biting his lip. ‘I think this is Darlo Annie. Looks a good bit younger here and…er…not so glamorous, but I reckon it’s her.’
    ‘Good. Where can I find her?’
    ‘She’ll be at Theo’s tonight. She’s always at Theo’s. Though come to think of it I haven’t seen her for a few days. Works out of Palmer Street, usually.’
    ‘One of Tillie Devine’s women?’ asked Phryne.
    ‘Maybe. I don’t…I haven’t got the money to…and in any case I don’t like to…’ stuttered Chas.
    Before Dot could say anything, a nasal voice and a sharp knock interrupted.
    ‘I know you’re home, Mr Nuttall, you come out here! If I don’t get my rent then it’s out of my house you’ll go neck and crop and all your nasty paintings. You owe me seventeen and sixpence and I’ll have my money!’
    ‘The landlady?’ asked Phryne.
    ‘How did you guess?’ asked Chas, scratching his bristling chin.
    Phryne opened the door and smiled at a scrawny woman in a wrapper and down at heel slippers. ‘Hello, here’s the back rent.’ She counted it out into an astounded hand. ‘Here’s an extra month,’ She counted that out as well, then instructed, ‘Leave the receipt on the hallstand. Goodbye,’ she said and shut the door.
    ‘Now, Chas dear, you don’t need to grow a beard; have a shave, there’s a good chap, or even the Artist’s Ball will be shocked. You look like a swaggie.