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to me.’
    ‘They would,’ Phryne pointed out, ‘if they were successful murders.’
    Jack Robinson nodded. ‘You’ll have to look at them here,’ he said regretfully. ‘But you can have the next office if you want to make notes. Old Smithy’s on leave. Getting married! Smithy! Strewth, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Smithy’s a confirmed bachelor, that’s what we all thought. Then he ups and sweeps this young typist off her feet. Nice girl, of course. Seems devoted to Smithy. But I would have given good money . . .’
    Robinson gradually became aware that his cheerful patter was not going over well with Miss Fisher. The glare of her green eyes finally penetrated his amusement. He coughed.
    ‘Yes, well, as I said, the office is empty. Here’s the gen on our old mate Billy the Match, too. He’s out. Been out a good three months. Supposed to be living with his old mother in a boarding house in Fraser Street, St Kilda—he’s a neighbour of yours, Miss Fisher.’
    ‘Oh, good,’ murmured Phryne.
    ‘Here’s his photo,’ said Robinson.
    She looked at a smallish, dullish face, scant as to chin and forehead, with a big nose and a wide mouth. He had beetling eyebrows, the only sign of character. The notes said that he was mousy, with blue eyes.
    ‘Face you could pass in a crowd,’ said Phryne.
    ‘Not as anonymous as he once was. He got on the wrong side of some people in jail and he’s got a scar on his face now. Right across it, apparently. Slashed with a bottle. He was weeks in the infirmary, but he wouldn’t tell who did it.’
    ‘Honour among thieves?’ asked Phryne, with conscious irony.
    ‘No, I reckon it was just fear of what they’d do to him if he told. His associates are unknown. He doesn’t seem to have had any friends inside. Now, I can’t haul him in for a little chat unless you tell me more about these fires and we get an official complaint.’
    ‘I’ll talk to the owner,’ promised Phryne. ‘If he agrees, I’ll tell you all about it and you can take action. I’m sorry I glared at you, Jack dear. Mr Butler has just given me notice.’
    ‘Mr Butler?’ gasped Robinson. ‘I thought he was set for life.’
    ‘So did I, but . . . well, he’s decided he can’t stay in a house where . . .’ she struggled for a euphemism, ‘he risks getting a headline in Society Spice , if I can put it that way.’
    Jack Robinson was very fast on the uptake. And, it seemed, a confirmed reader of Society Spice .
    ‘Who’s the married bloke?’ he asked.
    ‘Lin Chung.’
    ‘Miss Fisher,’ Jack Robinson took Phryne’s hand and patted it. ‘That’s awful. I suppose Mrs Butler goes too?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Real awful,’ he repeated.
    Phryne had to agree.
    Safely ensconced in the absent Smithy’s office, she examined the account of the death of Alan ‘Conger’ Eeles. The coroner certainly hadn’t extended himself on the subject. Mr Eeles was twenty-nine years old, married with two small children, and made his living as a delivery man. Three weeks ago he had been found dead, with the front wheel of a truck crushing his chest. Massive internal injuries, heart crushed, ribs broken, huge internal bleeding, death by exsanguination . . . Evidence had been given that the jack had slipped, though no one had asked what he was trying to fix in that position and why, if there was something amiss, he had been trying to do it in the dark. His two-ton truck was examined by a mechanic and found to be in sound condition. So was the jack. The conclusion that it had been placed on an unstable surface seemed optimistic in explanation of his death. Good mechanics do not take any chances with jacks, knowing that their lives depend on them not slipping.
    Odd, thought Phryne. She had mended a fair number of cars herself, in her ambulance days—was everything conspiring to remind her of France?—and offhand she couldn’t think of any part of the engine easily reached by lying under the front