by Morris West
Paul gave me a quizzical Galliclook and remarked, ‘You seem to be under great pressure, Martin.’
‘I am. I’m trying to cover myself across a very big board.’
‘It is not always possible. Sometimes it is not even advisable.’
‘I’m listening, Paul.’
‘You’ve been away a long time. You have learned to think and work like a European – everything by legal definition, options under different jurisdictions, case-histories, precedents… If ever you are challenged in court, you have chain-mail defence, beginning with a clear intent to act within the law. In this country, in this State, it doesn’t work like that. Oh, the foundations of law, the precedents and the principles are the same as in England – but the respect for them, the insistence on them? No! There is too much careless drafting, too much flippancy about consequences. What is the Australian phrase? – “she’ll be right, mate!” Unfortunately, things are not always right or rightly done. There is still the outlaw complex, the worship of the successful rogue… So you may find that, instead of covering yourself, you are leaving yourself wide open to attack… the enemy walks around the Maginot Line and mounts a blitzkrieg from the air… Forgive me, I am intruding into your family affairs.’
‘Not at all. I’m grateful. I’m feeling very isolated just now.’
‘Any time you need to talk, I am here. If you want a safe place to hide, the bank keeps a couple of apartments for visiting officials… Also I have a holiday house at Whale Beach…’
‘You’re a good friend, Paul. Thank you.’
‘For nothing. I hate bullies and intimidators. There are too many in this great country – too many by half.’ He signed the certificate and handed it back to me. ‘Walk warily, Martin.’
Fifteen minutes later I was face to face with the Premier and Rafe Loomis, the two likely lads who had inherited the mantle of Charles Parnell Cassidy. Loomis seemed sour and a little drunk. The Premier was at pains to be cordial.
‘I’m delighted you’ve decided to trust us, Martin.’
‘Has Mr. Loomis outlined the conditions?’
‘A certification of all documents in your presence. A clear agreement on which are Government property and which a part of Cassidy’s estate. An official receipt for all articles of which we take delivery.’
‘And you both agree, Mr. Premier?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. Last night I went to Cassidy’s house and opened his safe. I put the contents in four sail-bags and delivered them immediately, by sea and motor transport, to Paul Henri Langlois, of the Banque de Paris in Sydney. He sealed them in my presence and had them taken next morning to his bank, where they now rest, still sealed, in the strongroom.’
‘Any witness to the act? Any inventory?’
‘No. I left a receipt with Marco Cubeddu, the houseman. I also have a receipt from the Banque de Paris.’
‘Did you examine the contents of the safe?’
‘Only in the most cursory fashion, as I packed them.’
‘But now you volunteer to display them, on request, to authorised officials of the Government.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, for the present, we are happy to leave them in your custody. Thank you for your co-operation, Mr. Gregory.’
I felt like a gape-mouthed idiot. I must have looked it, too; because Loomis gave me a jowly grin and said, ‘You see? It didn’t hurt a bit!’
I put the question to the Premier. ‘Only three days ago Loomis here was screaming for possession, talking misprision of felony if I concealed as much as a laundry list. What’s changed his mind?’
‘I have.’ The Premier seemed somehow a little taller. ‘I’ve convinced him that while we’re wading through the surf that Gerry Downs is kicking up, unknowing may be better than knowing. If we don’t know we don’t have to hedge or lie. We just promise a full enquiry. If we’re asked about documents, we say that Cassidy’s private papers are in the hands of his executor, who has promised full co-operation in uncovering all matters relevant to our investigations.’
‘It seems I could have saved myself the bother of this visit.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Loomis blandly. ‘You’ve just won yourself a whole column of commendations.’
‘So now, perhaps you’ll take your policemen off my tail.’
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’
‘Do it, Rafe!’ The Premier was testy. ‘Do it now!’
Loomis picked up the telephone, punched out a number and ordered someone called Batterbee to ‘call off the bloodhounds and assign ‘em to normal duty’. Then he put down the phone and said, with a shrug, ‘You’re on your own now, lover-boy. If I were you, I’d stay away from dark alleys and dark women!’
The Premier stood up and offered his hand. I had the odd feeling that if I kissed it he wouldn’t take it amiss. He said, with seemly gravity, ‘Thank you for your confidence in us, Martin. I hope we’ll meet again before you leave for England. Rafe, why don’t you offer Martin a drink?’
Loomis waited until the Premier’s footsteps had receded down the long corridor. Then he burst out: ‘God! He’s a pompous bastard! Give him three months in office and he’ll be acting like bloody Napoleon! You don’t really believe he worked out this afternoon’s ploy, all by his little self?’
‘What should I believe?’
‘That I’m a little brighter than I look… What will you drink?’
‘Scotch, please. A light one. I can’t stay long.’
As he poured the liquor, he asked, ‘When you opened Cassidy’s safe, did anything jump out and bite you?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like items of special interest?’
‘I told you. There’s a whole mess of stuff to be examined. I couldn’t spare the time. I wanted to get it packed and out of the house.’
‘Now you can have all the time you need,’ said Loomis agreeably. ‘Take a long cruise and work on board ship… By the way, I hear you sacked Micky Gorman.’
‘You heard wrong. I offered him the probate job. He declined, on the grounds of conflict of interest. Gerry Downs retains him now.’
‘Is he still holding any of Cassidy’s papers?’
‘None. I’ve collected them all and paid his bill. It was routine stuff: title deeds, stock certificates and the like.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Gorman and Downs – they make a very odd couple.’
‘Did Micky tell you what brought ‘em together?’
‘No.’
‘Ask him – or, better still, ask Gerry Downs.’
‘I’ve never met the man.’
‘Don’t you think you should, seeing he’s about to smear your family across the front page of his weekend magazine?’
‘I’ve never thought of Cassidy as my family.’
‘That’s the joke, isn’t it? Living, you were sworn enemies. He wouldn’t even acknowledge his own grandchildren. Dead, he’s hung round your neck like a bloody albatross.’
He tossed down his drink at a gulp and poured himself another four fingers of raw spirit. He took another large swallow and then rounded on me again.
‘You’re a wasted man, Martin Gregory!’ He was spoiling for an argument. I was determined not to give him one. I shrugged and grinned and sipped my drink and let him rant on. ‘You’ve got brains and guts and you can design a tiger-trap with the best of us. But you’re cold. You’ve got no fire; you’ve spent it all hating Charlie Cassidy… I admired him. He was a big man. He ran the Party like a racing machine. His only mistake was that he never groomed a successor. You could have been the one. You know that, don’t you? Even now, you could nominate for his seat and win it at the by-election – not on your name, but on Charlie’s, no matter what muck Gerry Downs prints about him! But… oh, shit! What’s the use? You’ve got a bellyful of bile and you’ve still got “Made in England” stamped on your backside, like Grandma’s chamberpot… Here, have another drink.’
&n
bsp; ‘No thanks. I’ve got a dinner date.’
‘I hope she’s pretty. I’ll have my driver take you to your hotel.’
‘Thank you.’
He fixed me with a red and rheumy stare.
‘A couple of questions before you go. That list of companies I gave you. Have you turned up any references to them in Cassidy’s papers?’
The question concealed a snare and I spotted it just in time.
‘Not yet. I’m still working through the formal documents: the will, the trust deeds, and so on. The rest of the stuff will have to wait. Besides, now that you’ve decided that ignorance is bliss, there’s no hurry, is there? What was your other question?’
‘How are you going to handle Cassidy’s creditors?’
It seemed a stupid question for a lawyer to ask. I shrugged it off.
‘The normal routine. We advertise the settlement of the estate. Creditors render claims. If they prove valid, we pay.’
‘I used the wrong word,’ said Loomis, with a grin. ‘I told you from the start, Cassidy was the paymaster for the machine. He kept the books. He held the funds.’
‘Where?’
‘I should have thought under his own hand, in safe-deposit perhaps.’
‘Whom did he pay?’
‘I’ve never asked. Sometimes we made suggestions for special patronage. But Charlie kept the full list to himself.’
‘How did he pay?’
‘Cash, gold, stones, sometimes drugs. That’s why I asked whether anything jumped out and bit you.’
‘I’ll check and let you know what I find.’
‘Don’t bother.’ Loomis took another mouthful of liquor ‘You’re the one who’ll have to answer when the monthly payroll falls due… And before you start telling me about legal debts and illegal graft, let me tell you something. These boys break legs and stick bombs under cars and kick you about in dark lanes… You didn’t want to trust me. You didn’t want police protection. Fine! You’re on your own, Mr. Gregory. And the best of British luck!… I’ll call the car pool and tell them you’re on your way down.’
He looked like a basset hound and dressed like a tailor’s nightmare, but, my God, he was bright! The Premier might pretend to be Napoleon; but Loomis was Fouché in the flesh; supple, complaisant, all-seeing, all-knowing – and absolutely implacable.
I got back to the hotel at a quarter to seven. In London it was a quarter to eight in the morning. I called Pat. The call was switched through to our answering service, where the duty operator told me that the family was already en route to Heathrow to catch an early morning flight to Switzerland. They would be in Klosters by mid-afternoon. The address there was Haus Melmont. There were two telephone numbers and a telex code. There would be no problem communicating with them. The difficulty would be to explain all that was happening to me.
It was the word ‘happening’ that stuck in my gullet. I was not in control of my life any longer. I was simply responding to events arranged by others. I was being manipulated by people who a week ago were as alien to me as little green men from Mars. Cassidy himself was determining my destiny from whatever lodging he had found himself on the other side of the grave.
Each day I was becoming more isolated, more impotent for lack of information and allies. It could take me weeks to master the details of Cassidy’s Byzantine activities. It could take double the time to make contact with half the shadowy personages involved. I needed help. I needed legal support, constitutional advice. Most of all, I needed a safe guide through the nether world of State politics.
Suddenly I was enveloped in a wave of weariness, a near-nausea that made me feel drained and dizzy. I stretched out on the bed, closed my eyes and lay quiet until the nausea subsided. It was a trifling incident, the natural by-product of fatigue, frustration and the tension of a fear that I was unwilling to call by its real name. But it did make me see the loom of another problem. What if I fell ill or met with an accident or fell victim to thuggery on a dark night? Who then would deal with the mess of pottage Cassidy had left me and my family?
First thing tomorrow morning I had to find myself a replacement for Micky Gorman, someone to handle the probate of the will and the disposition of the trusts. Tomorrow? Why not now? I leafed through my address book and found the address of a man whom I admired more than any other in the law: Julian Steiner, Professor Emeritus of Constitutional Law, scholar, humanist and mentor of some of the best men in the profession. Thank God, he was at home, spry and rasping as ever. He said: ‘Martin! I heard you were in town. I thought of sending condolences. Then I wasn’t sure they’d be appropriate. I’m delighted to hear from you.’
‘I need help, Professor. Help and advice.’
‘What sort of help?’
‘I need a bright and honest lawyer to handle the probate of Charlie Cassidy’s will.’
‘That’s a tall order. You could start, like Diogenes, by buying a barrel and a storm lantern. On the other hand, you could call Arthur Rebus, of Fitch, Rebus and Landsberg. Mention my name.’
‘Thank you. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.’
‘I’ll see if I can contact him tonight to put him on notice. A question, though – how complicated is the job likely to be?’
‘So far as the will and the trusts are concerned – and so far as I’ve been able to determine – everything’s straightforward, clean and unencumbered.’
‘Good.’
‘As for the rest – what you used to call the ambient areas – that’s where I need advice. Could you possibly give me an hour of your time?’
‘My house. Ten-thirty tomorrow morning.’
‘Thank you, Professor.’
‘You sound a little fatigued.’
‘I’m suffering from a bad case of culture shock.’
‘It’s like clap. You get it by keeping the wrong company. Be consoled. It’s an uncomfortable illness, but not fatal.’
‘How right you are, Professor! I’ll see you in the morning – and thank you.’
Half an hour later, shaved, showered and dressed in cotton slacks, sports shirt and espadrilles, I was on my way to dinner with Pornsri Rhana. Her apartment was in a new tower block, with a northward aspect and a panoramic view of the harbour from the Heads to the Harbour Bridge. I had made fantasies about how it would be decorated – traditional Thai, with gilt carving and silks and brocades, and she herself in the formal costume of a woman of quality. Instead, I found the same cool colour scheme which prevailed at Cassidy’s place, the same open, uncluttered look to the furnishings and a matching collection of local paintings. The only reminders of her origins were a beautiful bronze Buddha, with a bowl of rose petals in front of it, and the brocaded robe and slippers which my hostess was wearing. We exchanged the traditional salute, hands joined, palm to palm, the head bowed in respect. She called me Mr. Gregory as she had done at our first meeting. I called her Madam, because I was afraid of stumbling on her name. Then I asked, ‘Please, will you call me Martin?’
‘And will you call me Pornsri.’
She stretched out a hand to draw me across the threshold, then led me through the lounge and out onto the terrace to see the lights of the harbour and the glow of the city.
She said simply, ‘I love this place. It’s like living on a mountain. You can’t imagine what that’s like for a woman like me, born and brought up in the flatlands of the delta. When I go home, I have to rearrange my mind completely.’
‘Does your daughter like it here too?’
‘She prefers Europe. She feels less conspicuous than she does here. Thailand makes her uneasy. There is much of her father in her. She will never be the subject woman.’
‘Was Cassidy fond of her?’
‘When she was little, he doted on her. When she began to be a woman, he wanted to take control of her life, determine her education and her friends. I had to explain to him that she was an exotic and that I was the only one who could teach her both Asia and Europe. What she needed from him was l
ove and protection.’
‘And he gave both.’
‘Oh yes! He was a good father – perhaps because he had learned from his first failures. By the way, have you told your wife that she has a sister?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You should think about it. It would not be good if she heard the news from someone else.’
‘Knowing Pat, she may ask to meet your daughter.’
‘If she wants, we can arrange an encounter. For my daughter it would not present a big problem. In Thailand there are many polygamous families, children of different mothers by one father…’
There was a flurry of cold wind out of the south. She shivered and drew me inside, closing the doors against the chill. She made me sit down in what she called ‘the comfort hole’ – a sunken area surrounded by low cushioned steps, with a large square table in the centre. She served drinks and a dish of spiced lobster pieces, then sat crosslegged in front of me while we chatted in desultory fashion about everything except the man who had brought us together. It was easy talk, so easy that I missed the subtlety of it, the unspoken presumption that Cassidy had created, willy-nilly, a web of relationships in which we were all bound together by gossamer threads.
It is a notion which to us in the West has become alien but which, in Asia, has long and subtle consequences. The man you help after a car accident has claims on you. You are in debt to him, not he to you. You have intervened in his life. You are responsible for the consequences of that intervention.
All this, of course, is hindsight. All I knew then was that for the first time in days I felt rested and at ease. There was none of the sexual tension that had marked every exchange between Laura Larsen and myself. It was like drifting on placid waters, over shallow pools where there were no deeps, no hazards, no sinister caverns in the banks.
The meal fitted the mood: a succession of small dishes, spiced or bland, sweet or sour, fish and fowl and beef. There were hot towels for the hands and a sorbet to cool the palate after the hot sauces. Pornsri served the meal Thai style, kneeling at the low table. She explained the dishes and talked of her childhood in her father’s big house, with the gilded spirit-dwelling at the entrance and the lilyponds inhabited by great golden carp. She talked of her mother, the dancing beauty whose fingers were so supple that she could bend them backwards to touch her wrist. It was like listening to a fairytale or a chapter from Marco Polo’s voyages – until the table was cleared and fresh tea was served and she faced me with the blunt question: ‘I have to know, Martin – are you willing to help me?’