The Case of the Chinese Boxes

by Marele Day

  I was starting to fall asleep, close enough to Steve to feel his body heat but not touching. ‘Carol thinks I’m going to round them up,’ I said drowsily.

  In the dark Steve chuckled. I could feel the ripples. The air stirred slightly and brushed the sheet against our bodies.

  Before I finally sank to the depths of sleep an image flickered into view. It was of James Ho eating my fig. The feeling it gave me was not entirely unpleasurable.

  It was 3 a.m. and I was sitting in Steve’s bath composing an ad. The doors were open and thin moonlight defined the edges of the jungle in the courtyard. There was probably more oxygen in those four square metres than in the rest of Newtown combined. Two cat’s eyes flashed as the animal prowled by intent on doing whatever it is cats do who are up and prowling in the small hours. It wasn’t even garbage night.

  You see different sorts of things when the city is supposed to be sleeping. And think different thoughts.

  There were people out there in the sleeping city who knew who had done the bank job. Three people at least.

  I imagined, as I’d imagined when looking at the photographs and reading the newspaper reports, that I was there with them. And I imagined the days before the job, the discussions they must have had, the planning. It may have started out as a wild idea over dinner, or after a game of squash. In the pub after a few quiet beers. And the plan had been formulated. A list of equipment drawn up? No. Nothing on paper. Sussing out the bank, casing the joint. One of them may have been familiar with it. To know that unlike safety deposit boxes in other banks which usually held only important documents, these ones held treasure. And the layout? You could always get a detailed plan of the building. All you had to do was dress like an architect and ask the council for it. And the night? Of course that night was ideal. Even more so than any other New Year’s Eve. The eve of the Bicentennial. Starting it off with a bang.

  I went through it all, putting myself in those size nine shoes. Went through it step by step as the photos had shown it. Weeks later now and the cops had no leads. No-one had come knocking on my door. I’d pulled it off. No hitches. Twenty million dollars and a lot of trinkets richer.

  What were they doing now? Sleeping soundly in suburbia on a mattress of money? Or were they awake like me, thinking about it?

  I closed my eyes. The water was cold but I hardly noticed. I was thinking about them. Now. A month after the job.

  A month after the job and the trail dead. Nothing in the newspapers, nothing anywhere. No-one else knew a thing. The biggest job in Australia’s history and no-one knew.

  And that was the trouble. No-one knew. The event had been anonymous. You’d pulled off the greatest robbery in Australian history and no-one knew that it was you who had carefully planned and executed it, carried it through. Wouldn’t you want to shout out: ‘That was me, that was my work, my brainchild!’ If you knew you would be safe, if there was an absolute guarantee that you would not be prosecuted for speaking, you’d get up on top of the Harbour Bridge with a megaphone and shout it to the whole city.

  It might even be enough, just enough, to whisper it to one person in private.

  As I pulled out the plug I began composing the ad. It was the first week of February. I now had a date picked out—the fourteenth. I would place it with the Valentine messages.

  When I’d asked Lucy to tell me more about the Chens she’d directed me to her father. ‘He did welfare work in Chinatown for years. Still goes down there a couple of times a week. He’ll probably tell you all you want to know and more about Chinatown. But Claudia, do it discreetly, hey?’

  We met at the Swan Cafe at the corner of Goulburn and Dixon Streets. There used to be a service station here before sanitisation. A drunk had been found dead outside it for no apparent reason. In those days I checked out all the dead derros to see whether one of them was my father. That was in the days before I became a private investigator, but looking in garbage had stood me in good stead. So had going to university.

  There was a dark green pagoda structure in front of the cafe that looked a bit like a bus-stop. You went up a few stairs to sit in the cafe, either on the terrace or inside. It looked like an Italian espresso bar but as well as coffee they served things like sweet almond milk. There were young Chinese men sitting outside and some mums with crawling babies.

  Mr Lau wanted to sit inside. People in the cafe said hello to him. He was clean-shaven and neatly dressed in a shirt and tie. He looked too young to be Lucy’s father.

  Lucy introduced us fairly formally. It wasn’t her usual style.

  ‘You will stay, Lucy?’

  It was a question of faint hope.

  ‘For a while, Dad. I have to get back to work.’

  She slid into the bench opposite and we ordered coffees.

  ‘Lucy tells me you are interested in the history of the Chinese in Australia.’

  ‘Well actually . . . ’ I felt Lucy kick me under the table, ‘. . . yes, I am.’

  He launched into what appeared to be one of his favourite subjects.

  ‘I have done welfare work in Chinatown for thirty years. In the early days my family had an import-export business here but not any longer. The building was demolished a few years ago to make way for the new property development. I do not regret it; we got a good price for it. Good enough to put my children through university.’

  Lucy rolled her eyes a little and I brought the conversation back to things less personal.

  At the end of an hour I had not only the story of the Lau family but a rather panoramic history of the Chinese in Australia.

  The first Chinese in Australia settled in the Rocks in the 1830s then moved to the Haymarket when real estate got too expensive. And talking about real estate, the famous L.J. Hooker was Chinese. His given name was Tin You. In the early days there were 8000 men to one woman. The Chinese could bring out their menfolk as labourers but they had to be property owners before they could bring out women. Owning property also made a man a better marriage prospect back in China. So the brides who came out were often better educated and from higher social classes than their husbands. As a consequence they became influential members of the new community. They still were.

  There were political divisions and religious divisions. When the Chinese arrived in Sydney they went to where their clan was and only did business with people from their own village. Now nobody cared about this, said Mr Lau, only those keepers of tradition—the old ladies. The joss houses were associated with clans as well. The Ko You one in Alexandria and the Sze Yap in Glebe.

  Once, there had been many opium dens and gambling houses. Fantan. Mr Lau was proud to have been one of the Chinese who had helped clean up Chinatown. As an influential Chinese man the police had asked him how this might be done. Of course a white face wouldn’t have a chance of getting in through the door. But the door wasn’t the only way. There were also the roofs. The Fire Brigade got their ladders up there and busted the joints. And that, as far as Mr Lau was concerned, was the end of it.

  Lucy looked as if she’d heard this story many times. She had to go.

  ‘You will ring your mother, won’t you?’

  ‘Bye Dad,’ she said in a strained voice, ‘bye Claudia.’

  ‘My third daughter has moved away from our community,’ he said rather sadly. ‘She is more Australian. But that is the way of things. That is progress. I have liberal views. I gave my daughters the same opportunities as my sons. I belong to many associations. I want what’s best for our children and our community.’

  ‘Does Victoria Chen also want what’s best for the community?’

  ‘Mrs Chen is on many committees.’ He reeled off a list of what sounded like high society charities. ‘I sometimes meet Mrs Chen at one association or another but I also concern myself with the poor. Chinese people are envious of the good fortune of others. It is not good to have others envy your success. If you are in a position to help those less fortunate than yourself you have a social obligation to do
so. For the good of the community.’

  ‘How did the community feel about the robbers at the National Bank?’

  ‘They did not care much,’ he said, without batting an eyelid. ‘Those who lost valuables were mainly newcomers from Hong Kong. They do not care about the community. Mainly they invest outside Chinatown, to allay envy.’ Campbell had said it was the traditional banking spot, and I’d seen the photos of old, well-worn safety deposit boxes. They didn’t look like the boxes of newcomers. Now seemed like a good opportunity to turn the conversation to Triads.

  ‘A good media story,’ he said, laughing. ‘It is nothing. There are some gangs of youth who come into a restaurant and say they are going to make trouble if you don’t pay them money. They show you the dragon tattoo on their arm and say they will tell Big Brother if you do not pay. You ask them to take you to Big Brother and they can’t. Because Big Brother doesn’t exist! The gangs are just naughty boys, they belong to no organisation.’

  All afternoon he’d been telling me about associations, clans and communities. I’d bet my bottom dollar crime wasn’t going to be left out of that sort of structure. More than half the heroin in Australia came in through Chinatown. This was more than naughty boys.

  ‘Why the dragon tattoo?’

  ‘It is the throne, the emperor.’

  Big Brother.

  The sun was setting behind the Swan Cafe and it was time to go.

  ‘I have some books here,’ he said, delving into a briefcase. ‘They will perhaps be of help for your research project.’

  So that’s what Lucy had told him, that I was doing research. Well in a way I was. It never ceased to amaze me how malleable was the bright rod of Truth.

  Which was just as well. Because everyone I talked to about Chinatown had a different story to tell.

  The Painters and Dockers pub in Rozelle was a rose by another name but everyone called it the Painters and Dockers. Because of the clientele.

  I ordered a mineral water and put the change into the juke-box. The records hadn’t been changed in fifteen years. Joplin started belting out Piece of My Heart. She sounded like she was trying too hard.

  It wasn’t a pub I was particularly fond of—they watered down their spirits and never emptied the ashtrays. All the drinkers seemed to know each other and conversation would stop when a newcomer, especially a woman, entered. There were only one or two women among the locals, their faces wrinkled from a lifetime of beer and cigarettes. When I started chatting to the barman as if I knew him conversation started up again. I did know him, vaguely. I’d met him once or twice through Jack. Jack wasn’t overly fond of Dennis and without seeking out his company maintained the wary friendship of fellow traders. They had their separate niches in the trade, with different clientele. It was in this pub seven years ago that Mickey Doolan had shot a man dead and bought off all the witnesses. No-one testified against him. So it seemed an ideal rendezvous for me and the underworld.

  Besides, I didn’t want to shit in my own nest.

  Sitting there looking at every man who walked in and some who were already there, I felt like a hooker sizing up potential. I decided no amount of money would entice me into that ancient profession, even though you did get to keep your own hours.

  I’d told Brian to use my surname when he passed the message along. They could remain anonymous but as a gesture of sincerity they could have that much.

  The first guy stood next to me, leaning on the bar.

  ‘Valentine,’ he said, looking straight ahead at the shelves of bottles.

  ‘Sorry mate,’ said the barman, ‘no cocktails.’

  The guy mumbled something, then more audibly said, ‘Give us a schooner of new then.’

  ‘I could possibly fix you up,’ I said.

  He turned and looked at me. He was fairly neatly dressed for someone who looked like he’d just come out of jail.

  ‘You wanna know about that bank job?’

  His subtlety knew no bounds.

  ‘I coulda done that, I’d been planning it. That was gunna be me next job once I got out. Those bastards beat me to it.’

  ‘Which bastards?’

  ‘Bastards,’ he said softly, more to himself. ‘It was no great shakes. I coulda done it. All you needed was a good bit of gelly. I’d staked that joint out before I went inside the last time. I was gunna do that then retire.’

  ‘They were pretty smart bastards. Lot of planning went into that job. Who would you have on your team?’

  ‘That weren’t so smart, anyone coulda done it. It would have been easy blowin’ that safe. And I wouldn’t have needed fellas to help me, I woulda done it on me own.’

  I was getting nowhere fast with this one.

  ‘Do you know how they did it, these bastards?’

  ‘Read about it in the papers. Like taking candy from a baby. Bastards.’

  His conversation had a circular quality and no matter how I varied the questions the answers were all the same. He wasn’t there to give me information, he was there to peel some sour grapes.

  Unfortunately the pub turned out to be full of men like him. As the night wore on a few more sidled up to me—people who really didn’t have a clue but who rankled with professional jealousy. I had a few enquiries as to what a nice girl like me was doing in a place like this to which I replied that I didn’t come here often. Things weren’t looking good.

  ‘Ms Valentine?’

  I swivelled around. It was Detectives Campbell and Rawlins.

  ‘Enjoy the cricket?’

  ‘It was business,’ said Carol, not looking all that comfortable, ‘like tonight is.’

  ‘Is it business that precludes drinking?’ I asked, offering.

  ‘A dry martini,’ said Carol, emphasising the ‘dry’.

  ‘They don’t do cocktails here.’

  ‘A glass of white wine then.’

  ‘Same for me,’ said Campbell. ‘Got to watch the weight.’

  The weight wasn’t the only thing he was watching; he was also scanning the room. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to us.

  ‘Shall we sit at a table?’

  ‘I was sitting here at the bar for a particular reason but now that I have company I don’t think I’ll be getting any more offers.’

  ‘A shame,’ said Carol, ‘because it was those offers we were interested in.’

  ‘News travels fast,’ I said in a tone as dry as the martini Carol wasn’t having. ‘What brings you out of your nice big office?’

  ‘Just thought we’d come along and see how things were progressing.’

  ‘So now you’ve seen. Want to go to the toilet, Carol?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Want to come and watch me?’ I said more pointedly.

  ‘Scuse us, Jim,’ she said as we stood up.

  I opened the door that said Ladies. It was a grotty tile job, the tap in the basin didn’t work and there was no paper.

  ‘You don’t seem very pleased to see us,’ said Carol.

  ‘Well what do you think? You and your mate there stand out like the Salvation Army at an orgy.’

  ‘And you want to have this little orgy all on your own, do you?’ She became more urbane. ‘We just wanted to scan the guest list. Never know what an invitation like this might bring out of the woodwork.’

  ‘Did you think they were just going to walk in here and slip their wrists into your handcuffs? The party’s over now, Carol. No-one’s going to be asking me to dance now that you’re here.’

  ‘Are you going to go to the toilet?’

  ‘In here? You’re joking.’

  ‘You’ve been in worse places.’

  ‘Not for a while, Carol. How are these guys going to trust me if I bring along the uniformed brigade?’

  ‘We’re not in uniform.’

  ‘You don’t have to be. These guys can smell a cop a mile off.’

  ‘My aftershave?’ said Carol sarcastically.

  ‘Your big feet. That you’re always put
ting in things.’

  ‘OK, Claudia, that’s enough of the smart cracks. We only came for a look.’

  ‘At them or me?’

  ‘Should we be watching you, Claudia?’

  ‘C’mon, let’s get back to your mate. Can’t leave the boy unprotected, can we?’

  Campbell had ordered another round of drinks which sat on the table like so much extra time.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not bad, not bad at all.’

  I wondered how he’d feel if I turned up unexpectedly at a verbal.

  ‘Well keep enjoying. I’m going.’

  ‘What about your drink?’ asked Campbell.

  ‘I didn’t ask for it.’

  I was glad to get out into the polluted night air, it was better than the polluted air in the pub. I liked being alone; that’s how I handled things best. I hadn’t been getting any results but at least people were talking to me. It wasn’t like Carol to inch in on me like that. She’d been persuaded. And persuading Carol was no easy feat.

  These thoughts surrounded me like a little fog as I walked the dark streets towards home.

  ‘How was it?’ A voice sliced the fog like a knife through butter. James Ho. In his immaculate suit and Italian leather casuals. I hadn’t even smelled him.

  ‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’

  I was fed up with people wanting to know how my business was going.

  ‘I am far from my home while you are near yours. I thought you might invite me in for a cup of tea. Or a fig.’

  ‘Let me tell you something. I don’t appreciate being followed and I especially don’t appreciate it when it takes place on my home ground. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here for the waters,’ he said, a faint smile in the shadows of his face.

  ‘The harbour’s that way,’ I said, pointing down the street from which he’d emerged. ‘High faecal count but you might enjoy the company.’