Dragons at the Party

by Jon Cleary

  “It’s all the bad things,” said Claire, the reader, the lover of books, “drugs, rape, porno movies—”

  “Righto,” said her father, “get out to the kitchen and eat your cornflakes.” He thrashed a threatening hand and the children, squealing and laughing, tumbled off the bed and ran out of the room. He lay back beside Lisa. “For God’s sake—porno movies, rape . . . What sort of books do you let her read?”

  “Mills and Boon.” Lisa got out of bed, slipped off her nightgown, stood nude. “Relax.”

  Malone looked at her, admiring her and, as ever, marvelling at his luck. “How can I when you flaunt yourself like that?”

  “I don’t mean your crotch. I mean, relax about Claire and the others. They’re all right. They’re all pretty sensible—for a policeman’s kids.”

  “What d’you mean by that?”

  But she just smiled and went into the bathroom. Women, he had learned, always liked the last word or gesture. Then Claire came to the bedroom door and threw the morning paper at him. He opened it and Madame Timori stared out at him. She had been photographed with a long-range lens entering the front door of Russell Hickbed’s mansion. Someone must have called to her, for she had turned her head and was staring straight at the camera, her mouth open in what he knew would have been an angry and caustic last word.

  He put the paper down and listened to the noise coming from the kitchen. The children were squabbling, but laughing at the same time: it was a sound he had come to love, but that he heard too seldom. In the bathroom Lisa was half-singing, half-humming under the shower. The number was “Moon River”: she could not have been more than a year older than Claire was now when she had first heard that. He listened to the small inconsequential sounds: they were like balm on the wounds he felt. He should take a desk job, give himself more time to listen to such music.

  An hour later he was driving into town, through a morning that presaged another hot day. The Herald had told him there were bush-fires raging on the city’s outskirts; the residents out there and the volunteer firefighters would not be celebrating anything. Tonight’s fireworks might be a bitter joke.

  He expected, he hoped, it would be a morning of paper-work and maybe some interviews in the office; he did not want to have to do any leg-work in the promised heat. He turned on the car radio, something he rarely did because he did not like being chattered at and preferred to drive in silence. Someone was chattering at him this morning, one of radio’s sages:

  “I’d like to ask how many innocent Australian citizens, ordinary people like you and me—” an ordinary citizen on two hundred thousand a year at least, Malone thought “—how many of them are going to be killed because foreign politics have been brought into this country? The police, I’m sure, are doing their best—”

  Malone switched off the radio. There would be more of the same during the rest of the day; the newspaper editorialists and the columnists would be sounding the same message; they had run out of things to say about the Bicentennial. Phil Norval was now treading on dangerous political ground; pretty soon even his admirers would be asking questions. Who was more important, a foreign ex-President seeking asylum or ordinary Australian voters wanting no more than a safe ordinary life? Foreigners could kill each other, that was acceptable: Australians had always been tolerant in that direction. But it was a different matter when the bullets started to stray, or the rope and the knife claimed the lives of the natives.

  Clements and Graham were waiting for him at his desk in Homicide. Clements still looked tired, but Graham might have just come back refreshed from a month’s leave. “We’ve come up with something, Inspector! I’ve been going through the computer lists of everyone we’ve checked in the hotels—”

  Malone hung up his jacket, loosened his tie and sat down. “What have you come up with?”

  “A name—Gideon. Michel Gideon, a Swiss. He’s on the hotel list, in a pub out at Rozelle, the—” he checked his notebook “—the Coach and Horses. I’ve also got his name here in my book—he was in that group at Central last night, but he told me he was staying at the Central Plaza!”

  Malone wished his own excitement could match that of Graham; but all he felt was a sense that they were already too late. “Who was he?”

  “A blond guy in some sort of white jacket—he was standing next to that troll you questioned.”

  Malone stood up, reached for his jacket. “Righto, let’s go out to Rozelle. You come with me, Russ. Get back-up, Andy, the same as last night.”

  “SWOS men?”

  “We’d better have them. Let’s go out the back way. There’s some reporters outside—let’s see if we can do this without any publicity. At least till it’s over.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” said Clements. “Those bastards are like ferrets.”

  Today was not a public holiday; but absenteeism was a form of patriotism. The crowds were already on their way into the city hoping for a preview of what they might miss tomorrow. Clements drove through the streets at a good pace and Malone, beside him, began to feel the excitement mounting in him. Maybe they would not be too late after all, maybe by tonight this whole mess would be over and done with, at least as far as he was concerned. There would still be the Timoris, but they were the politicians’ problem.

  They turned off a main road into a side street. “Is this it?”

  “The pub’s down the far end,” said Clements. “I raided it years ago when I was on the Gambling Squad. All the pubs around here ran SP.”

  “Righto, pull up. We’ll walk from here. I don’t want to get too close before the back-up arrives.”

  They got out of the car and walked down the street, past the narrow-fronted houses and the occasional cheaply-built block of flats. This was a working-class area, inhabited by the ordinary people who would resent intruders like the Timoris and Abdul’s would-be assassin. Many of the locals had been foreign-born, but they had chosen this life here and they did not want it disturbed or, even worse, violated by the sort of violence that many of them had left behind them.

  This was the sort of street where none of the houses had a garage. Cars lined the kerbs on both sides; men in singlets and thongs were tinkering with engines or washing the cars. Children were playing in the street and some women stood at a gate gossiping. As Malone and Clements passed them, the women abruptly shut up, turned their heads and looked after them.

  “Police,” said one of the women in a foreign accent and the others all nodded and looked worried as well as curious.

  Fifty yards short of the hotel Malone paused and looked back. “Hold it!”

  Four police cars had come in from the main road, followed by two SWOS wagons. Instantly, though no sirens were blowing, front doors opened and people came out to their gates. Then three TV vans and four radio cars, followed by three taxis, swung in from the main road. “Bugger it!” said Malone and stepped out into the middle of the street.

  All the vehicles pulled up, creating their own traffic jam. Pressmen jumped out of the taxis at the end of the jam and came running towards Malone; they were followed by the radio reporters and the TV cameramen, the latter with their cameras growing out of their shoulders like a second square head. Malone turned to Clements, who had come out into the middle of the street beside him.

  “Get everybody back! Jesus, what a balls-up! Why didn’t they come in with their bloody sirens blaring? Where’s the SWOS sergeant?”

  “Here, Inspector,” He was a different man from last night, a bony muscular man in his mid-thirties with close-cropped hair and a thick black moustache. “Do you want us to go in first?”

  “Better not. We don’t want to frighten the pants off the pub owner.”

  “I’m afraid the element of surprise has gone. I’m sorry about that. We got no instructions on the terrain, no battle-plan.”

  He’s got to be ex-army, thought Malone, or I’m out of touch with the new approach. “My fault. I shouldn’t have called you in till I’d looked over the pla
ce. I was just afraid he’d do a bunk. If he hasn’t already . . . Put your men in position to cover me. I’ll go in and see the pub owner, see if Seville is still there.”

  He waited while the SWOS sergeant deployed his men and the other police who had arrived. Clements had ushered all the spectators back into their houses, telling them to close their doors and stay away from the windows. “You’ll see it all on TV tonight. Do what you’re told and stay away from the windows. There may be some shooting . . .”

  If Seville is still in the hotel, Malone thought, he’s got to have heard or seen what’s going on out here. There was no uproar, but there had been the revving of engines as Andy Graham had cleared all the traffic away from the middle of the street. Two of the police cars had gone on down past the hotel to block off the other end of the street; two others had gone back to station themselves across the entrance from the main road. All the private cars were still parked along the kerbs on both sides and the TV, radio and SWOS vans had been backed further up the street. We should have sent him a telegram, Malone thought. Christ Almighty, wasn’t anything going to go right on this case?

  He walked down the street, on the footpath now and keeping close to the fences along the fronts of the houses. An old man, a twin of his own father Con, inquisitive and aggressive, stood at an open front door.

  “What’s going on, mate?”

  “Better get back inside, dad.”

  “Who you telling what to do?” He stood amongst his geraniums and zinnias on his front porch, king of his own castle.

  You’ll always find one of ‘em, Malone thought, the man or woman who couldn’t stand authority, especially from a copper. “Get back inside,” he snapped, “unless you want your bloody head blown off!”

  He didn’t pause, just kept walking, and was relieved when he heard the front door slam behind him. He came to the hotel on the corner. The door to the bar was open and the footpath outside it was glistening with water, steam rising from it in the heat; someone had hosed it down in the last ten minutes. There were no drinkers outside the pub and Malone hoped there would be none in the bar. He loosened the flap on his holster, looked over his shoulder to see that the back-up men were in position, then he took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the bar, swinging it wide, and stepped in.

  There were already half a dozen drinkers in the bar, building up ammunition against the day’s coming thirst. Two of them were young men; the others looked like pensioners. They all turned towards him as he came in the door and all instantly froze. They never miss, he thought, they have an unerring nose for a cop.

  Malone said to the middle-aged man behind the counter, “You the owner?”

  “Nah.” He was bald and red-faced and had Irish written all over him; the Irish had once been very strong in this area. “They’re upstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Brigham. You want ‘em?”

  “Don’t bother, I’ll see them. Which way?”

  The barman nodded towards a door and Malone moved towards it. Then he paused and said softly to the nearest drinker to him, a grey-haired man in a T-shirt that advertised the Bicentennial, shorts and thongs. “Get your mates out of the bar. No fuss, just do it as quietly as you can.”

  The man frowned. “Jesus, what’s up?”

  “Go on,” said Malone. “No fuss, as quietly as you can. Out the back way.”

  The man swallowed the last of his beer, got up from his stool and jerked his head at the other men. One of them said, “What’s the matter, Bert, you want us to help you splash your foot?”

  The others laughed, but the grey-haired man said softly, “Come on!” The other men looked at Malone, then they got up and followed the grey-haired man. Malone noticed that they all took their beer glasses with them: they weren’t going to waste their money. The barman looked at Malone and the latter nodded towards the rear door. The barman hesitated, then followed the drinkers.

  Malone waited a moment, then took another deep breath, took out his gun and stepped through the inner door into the private hallway. A flight of stairs led to the upper floor. Coming down it was a grey-haired middle-aged woman carrying a briefcase and behind her, holding a gun to her head, was the blond man with glasses whom Malone had seen last night at Central Station.

  “Good morning, Inspector. Don’t try anything or I shall kill Mrs. Brigham. Drop your gun.” Malone hesitated, then dropped the Smith and Wesson on the floor. “Put your hands above your head.”

  Malone put up his hands. “Miguel Seville?”

  Seville gave a half-smile. “If you like. Names don’t matter now.”

  Mrs. Brigham looked on the point of collapse; she stared at Malone with terrified eyes. “Don’t let him shoot me, please . . .”

  Malone shook his head. “I’m not going to do anything foolish, Mrs. Brigham. What do you want, Seville?”

  “You have quite a force out there, Inspector. I’ll need you and Mrs. Brigham to get me through it.”

  “You’ll never make it, not all the way.”

  “I’ve been in this situation before, Inspector. Luck falls both ways. It isn’t always on your side.”

  Malone looked at the landlady. “Where’s Mr. Brigham?”

  “Upstairs. He—he hit him with that gun.” She was terrified, but she was not going to collapse after all. Malone had seen her type before, the resourceful woman who knew how to handle drunks and hoodlums. She had just never met a coldblooded killer before. “He could be dead . . .”

  “He’s not,” Seville told Malone. “He’s unconscious but he’s not dead.”

  “You’ve killed enough already,” said Malone. “Don’t add to the score.”

  “That’s up to you, Inspector.” He reached down quickly, picked up Malone’s gun and put it in his pocket. “Now we’ll go out and get into Mrs. Brigham’s car—it’s the big white one right outside that door there. She has the keys to it and she’ll drive. If your men attempt to stop us, one of you will die. Possibly both,” he added as if as an afterthought. “You can give them that message as soon as we step out into the open.”

  Malone nodded. He knew there would be an SWOS man coming in from the rear of the hotel; he could only hope there would be no gunfire. If Seville was worried, there was no sign of it. He was cool and in command of the situation; for the moment at least. And that, Malone knew, was what counted: the moment. He and Mrs. Brigham were only going to live from moment to moment and that was how the game would have to be played.

  Malone opened the door from the hallway out into the street. He stepped out into the heat of the morning, his hands above his head. Seville and Mrs. Brigham remained inside the doorway.

  “Tell them, Inspector.”

  Malone had to clear his throat before he could shout. “Sergeant Clements!”

  “Here, Inspector.” Clements stood up from where he had been crouched behind a car across the street. He had no gun and kept his hands in clear view in front of him. “What’s happening?”

  “He has me and the landlady—she’s right behind me. He wants clear passage out of here or we both get it in the head.” Behind him he heard Mrs. Brigham make a whimpering noise. “Tell everyone to back off and let us through. We’re going in Mrs. Brigham’s car.”

  “Tell them no one is to follow us,” said Seville behind him.

  “He says no one is to follow us,” Malone shouted.

  He imagined he could see the frustration and bewilderment in Russ Clements’ face at that instruction. Then: “Okay. Tell him he can take you through.”

  At once Seville pushed Mrs. Brigham through the doorway and stepped out after her. He turned the gun on Malone, standing close to him, while the landlady, after some fumbling, unlocked the car and opened the two kerbside doors. Malone could see several rifles aimed at Seville, but the terrorist was standing too close to him for the marksmen to take the risk of firing. Too, Seville’s gun was held at the back of his neck.

  Seville motioned to Mrs. Brigham to get into the driver’s seat, then he pushed Malone into the
rear seat and quickly followed him, slamming the door closed after him.

  “Give me my brief-case,” he said and Mrs. Brigham passed over the case. He put it on the seat between him and Malone and leaned back in the corner, the gun pointing at Malone’s chest.

  “Both of you put on your seat-belts.” He smiled at Malone. “That’s the law, isn’t it. A fifty dollar fine or something.”

  “I take it you’re not going to put yours on.” Keep ‘em talking: he had learned that drill from several encounters with psychopaths. Though he doubted that Seville was a psychopath.

  “I don’t think so, Inspector. I hate restrictions of any sort. Drive, Mrs. Brigham. Straight up the street, then towards the city when you get to the main road. And don’t act foolish or smart. I shall kill you both if I have to.”

  Mrs. Brigham started the engine, forgot to put the car in Drive and revved it up. She made another whimpering sound, jerked the gear lever into the right notch, and the car lurched forward.

  “Faster!” said Seville, who now they were moving seemed more tense.

  Mrs. Brigham speeded up the car. She was a good driver, but fear had affected her judgement; she almost collided with one of the police cars at the end of the street as it was a little slow getting out of the way. Malone, sitting back in his own corner of the rear seat, caught a glimpse of the SWOS men swinging their guns round to cover the big white Ford LTD as it swept by them. For Christ’s sake don’t fire! Then they had swung left out of the street into the main road, swinging into the stream of traffic and causing two cars to side-swipe each other. There was an angry chorus of horns and the screech of brakes and tyres, then the Ford was in the main stream of the city-bound traffic and moving easily with it.

  “Don’t pull up for any red lights,” said Seville. “Get up to the head of this line and just keep going.”

  “I can’t get up any further—they won’t move over!” Malone could see Mrs. Brigham’s nervous hands gripping the steering-wheel; her knuckles were white. “You don’t know what Sydney drivers are like!”

  “Blow your horn!” Seville was growing angry.