Dragons at the Party

by Jon Cleary

  “Report direct to me, Inspector,” said Zanuch; and suddenly it was Danforth who was swept out of the room, out of the case. The big man looked angry and uncomfortable, like a newly castrated bull; but there was no bellowing from him, just a big fat silence. “What’s your first move?”

  It was going to take Malone a little time to get used to Zanuch’s gung-ho efficiency; or was it just the image of efficiency? “Sergeant Clements from Homicide has gone back to the pub where Seville was staying. He left his luggage behind—there may be something in that. In the meantime I have a meeting in my office in—” he looked at his watch “—in twenty minutes with a solicitor and a banker who may be able to help.”

  “In what way?”

  “Their names were in a book we picked up after the first murder, the Masutir one. I think one way of stopping Seville might be to find out who is employing him.”

  “You think someone is employing him?” Either Zanuch hadn’t read all the reports on all the cases or the speed reading had missed that line.

  “I’m sure of it, sir.”

  “Good. Keep me informed.”

  Zanuch stayed behind with the Commissioner as Malone and Danforth walked out. As soon as the door was closed behind them Danforth said, “You ought to think twice about going off this, Scobie. If you flop again, it’s not going to do your career any good.”

  “It hasn’t done it much good so far. I’ve got to stick with it, try and make up for my mistakes.”

  “The Dutchman’s not too happy with the way things are going.”

  “The Dutchman? Vanderberg? What’s he got to do with it?”

  “He’s the Premier, for crissakes.” Danforth, like a lot of slow-thinking men, could be annoyed by the slow thinking of others.

  “Has he been talking to you?”

  “Not him personally. One of his minders was on to me. They want it all cleared up before tomorrow.”

  Malone laughed, hardly believing what he was hearing. Yet he knew that anything was credible in this State’s politics. Lisa, better educated than he, had said that Machiavelli would have had trouble holding his own amongst the local politicians. He would have been just another struggling ethnic.

  “Harry, it could take us weeks, months, to get to the bottom of this. Even if we get Seville, it’s not going to be the end of it. There’s an accessory before the fact, someone who’s paying him to try and kill Timori.”

  “Does it matter whether we get them?” Danforth did not like complicated cases, never had.

  “I’ll bet it does to The Dutchman.”

  He had met the Premier only once, at a police function where he had won a commendation. Two minutes’ chat with Vanderberg and half an hour of watching him in action had only confirmed what he had heard and read about The Dutchman. The little man was a manipulator, his smile as untrustworthy as his soul, or vice versa, the sort who gave politics a bad name but whose natural field could only be politics.

  “I’m having a drink with the minder this evening.” Danforth had spent his whole career having drinks: with political minders, informers, criminals; his big belly was testimony to his search for clues. Or so he liked to think. “What’ll I tell him?”

  “That we’re doing our best, time will tell.”

  “That’s a political answer.” He had occasional moments of shrewdness.

  “Then he’ll understand it.”

  Malone left him on that; Danforth was the sort of superior officer you could walk away from without being dismissed. There weren’t many like him left in the force, the bulls of the past—“bulls” had once been a slang term for detectives, but it was now out of fashion. The worst of them had gone, the ones more corrupt than the criminals they had chased; but Danforth was corrupt only in small ways, not worth the disgrace he would bring on the force if he were fired. So he survived, a chair-warmer, kept out of harm’s way so that he could cause no harm. Though, Malone wondered why one of The Dutchman’s minders, all of them shrewd men, should bother with someone like Danforth.

  Clements was back from the pub in Rozelle and was waiting with three men when Malone got back to Homicide. “This is Mr. Quirke and Mr. Tidey. And, of course, Mr. Sun.”

  Malone hadn’t expected the Chinese, but he showed no surprise. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No, no, Inspector, we’re early.” Quirke, the solicitor, was a man with a pear-shaped body and a pear-shaped face, his head topped by a shock of prematurely white hair that grew up and outwards; he had bright blue eyes and a bright sincere smile, all three of them dimmed at the moment by apprehension. “Jim and I are only too glad to help, if we can.”

  “And you too, Mr. Sun?” said Malone.

  “Of course he is,” said Tidey, the banker, a roly-poly man with a bald head and rimless glasses that he seemed to be able to angle so that the light fell on them and obscured his eyes. “We’re here to advise him.”

  Or the other way round, thought Malone. He looked at Clements. “Did you find anything out at Rozelle, Russ?”

  “Nothing that will help us here.” Clements nodded his head at the three men, treating them as if they didn’t speak English.

  Malone nodded, smiling inwardly at Clements’ contempt for the lawyer, the merchant banker and the Timoris’ aide. “Righto, shall we start? Mr. Quirke, how many times did Mr. Masutir visit you in the past eight months?”

  “Mr. Masutir?”

  “The dead man, the one shot on Friday night,” said Malone patiently. “You haven’t forgotten him already?”

  “Oh no, no. I know whom you mean.” Whom: Quirke was precise about his grammar, if a little imprecise about his clients. “An inoffensive little man. Not one you’d expect to be shot.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I only met him when he was dead.” Malone guessed these men needed to be shaken up. He saw them both shift uncomfortably, but Sun showed no reaction at all. “How many times did he visit you?”

  Quirke hesitated, looked at Tidey as if for confirmation. “Seven or eight? Yes. I could check in my diary.”

  “Do that, Mr. Quirke. Why did he pay you so many visits? What was their purpose?”

  “Inspector, what’s your purpose?” said Tidey. He had a rich roly-poly voice that went with his build; the words fell out like over-ripe plums. “The purpose of your questions?”

  “Mr. Tidey—” Malone’s own words sounded in his ears like dried prunes. “We’re investigating a murder—three, in fact. You’ve read in the papers that our principal suspect is a man named Seville—we think he is after Mr. Sun’s boss, President Timori.” He looked at Sun, but there was still no expression on the Chinese’s face. Talk about the inscrutable Oriental! “Seville isn’t acting on his own account—someone is paying him. Mr. Masutir may be a lead to whoever that is.”

  “I take it we’re not suspects?” Several sour plums were dropped.

  Malone smiled. “Not at all, Mr. Tidey. Not if you co-operate.”

  “In what way?”

  “What did Mr. Masutir want with you?”

  This time Quirke and Tidey looked at Sun. The latter didn’t rush to reply and Malone said drily, “I think it’s your turn to advise them, Mr. Sun.”

  Sun still took his time, then at last he said, “Mr. Masutir was looking into investments here in Australia.”

  “Who for?”

  “Madame Timori.” For a moment Sun didn’t look quite so inscrutable.

  Malone looked back at Tidey and Quirke. “I take it you invested her money for her? In the stock market, property or what?”

  “Do we have to answer these questions?” said Quirke.

  “No. But I can refer it all to the Corporate Affairs Commission and they might ask even more questions than me. I’ll have access to their report. I’m just trying to save you time. And maybe some embarrassment.”

  Glances were exchanged again, like surreptitious notes. Then Tidey said, “We set up several companies. We bought property—” He named two of the top commercial buildings in the city.
“A cattle stud and a horse stud and a sheep station. We also bought substantial parcels of shares in blue chip companies.”

  “Does Madame Timori have any partners in the investments?”

  Quirke and Tidey glanced at Sun. Again he took his time, then he said slowly, “Myself, in a small way—five per cent. Mr. Tidey and Mr. Quirke, one per cent each. And Mr. Russell Hickbed.”

  “How much does Mr. Hickbed hold?”

  “Twenty per cent.”

  “No other partners?”

  Again there was the hesitation; then: “No.”

  “President Timori has no holding in the investment?” He put that question to Quirke and Tidey.

  Both of them looked flustered. Then Tidey said, “Well, no-o. Not as far as we know. We don’t know anything of the arrangements between the President and Mrs. Timori. It could be her own money or it could be their joint wealth . . .”

  “From what I read in the papers, it’s Palucca’s money.” He looked back at Sun, but, as he expected, there was no reaction from the Chinese.

  “That’s an insult to our client, Inspector,” said Tidey, all ripe plums again.

  “Yes, I suppose it is. How much was invested overall?” It was none of his business, but he knew Corporate Affairs would ask that question.

  “Seven hundred million dollars,” said Quirke, who seemed keener to answer questions than the other two.

  It was Malone’s turn to look inscrutable; he almost tore every muscle in his face trying to be so. “And you say President Timori has no interest in all this?”

  “Of course he has.” Sun had suddenly decided to volunteer an answer, as if the questions, if allowed to go on, might cut too close to the bone. It was obvious that he regarded Malone, and even Clements, as the enemy; nor did he have much time for Quirke and Tidey. Racism is not a one-way street, an obvious fact often overlooked. “He and Madame Timori share everything. But she is the business brain and he allows her to handle all their affairs. The President knows about the investments here and approves of them.”

  “Who else knows about them?”

  “What do you mean?” Quirke’s bright smile had disappeared completely.

  “I told you, I’m looking for whoever might be employing this man Seville to kill President Timori. People kill for money. Sergeant Clements and I have seen plenty of that.” He looked at Clements, who was sitting quietly in the background taking notes. “We’re not sure that the attempted assassination of the President was a purely political act.”

  “Does that mean we are suspects?” said Tidey.

  “Not necessarily, Mr. Tidey. Let’s say we hope you’ll help us with our enquiries.”

  “They say that all the time,” Quirke, the lawyer, explained to Sun, who nodded as if he had heard it all before.

  “I understand you’ve just spent some time in the company of this man Seville,” said Tidey, making it sound as if Malone had had tea with the terrorist. “Did you ask him who was paying him?”

  I should have, but I didn’t. “He was holding a gun at my head. Would you ask him a question like that if he was holding one at your head?”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Clements and fixed Tidey with a look that seemed to shrink the roly-poly banker.

  “How much of this interview is confidential?” said Quirke. The bottom seemed to be falling out of his pear-shaped face; he looked almost ridiculously lugubrious now, like a bad actor in a horror film. “We shouldn’t be at odds on something like this.”

  “I can’t promise anything. A report on it will go to my superiors.” Where it will be speed-read and you’ll be up before Assistant Commissioner Zanuch before you can get your second breath and all your second-thought answers ready.

  “There are several important personages who know about the investments,” said Quirke reluctantly, and a flash of annoyance crossed Sun’s face.

  “You mean several politicians?” said Malone, and Quirke nodded. “Federal or State?”

  “We’d rather not name them,” said Tidey, voice all at once flat. He tilted his head and his glasses were suddenly opaque.

  “I can guess a name or two. But maybe I’d better leave that to my superiors.” Keep them worried, he thought. Maybe Quirke and Tidey would come back with more information when they’d had time to go away and think about their association with Madame Timori. There would, however, be nothing forthcoming from Sun, not unless he was put on the rack and that, unfortunately, was not part of the New South Wales Police Force’s equipment. Civilization had a lot to answer for. “Righto, gentlemen, you can go. But I’d like a list, within twenty-four hours, of all the investments and companies, if any, that you’ve registered in the partnership’s name, plus nominees, if you have used any.”

  “I don’t think we’re at liberty to disclose those without our clients’ permission.” Tidey made one last try at bluster, dropped a few more plum notes.

  “Mr. Tidey, you know better than that. I can get it all from Corporate Affairs. But I thought you wanted to leave them out of it, for the time being anyway?”

  “Of course, of course,” said Quirke, butting in. “You’ll have the list, Inspector. You’ll be working tomorrow, the Big Day?”

  “We never stop,” said Malone and grinned at Clements. “Do we, Sergeant?”

  “Never,” said Clements, standing up and snapping his notebook shut. “Who knows, we may have Mr. Seville by tomorrow and then he’ll tell us everything.”

  “Do you think so, Mr. Sun?” said Malone.

  “I don’t know how an assassin’s mind works, Inspector. I’ve never met one. We’re a gentle people in Palucca.”

  “Yes, you told me that before. But somehow you’ve been responsible for a lot of violence here in Sydney since you arrived.”

  Sun had no answer to that; his face closed up again. The three men left abruptly, only Quirke managing a brief smile of farewell. Malone slumped back in his chair and looked at Clements.

  “We’ve got the Speed Reader on our back. He’s in charge now.”

  Clements swore and sat down heavily, as if everything was all at once too much for him. He sat in silence for a few moments, biting his lip, then he looked up, took out his notebook again.

  “I didn’t get much out of the pub at Rozelle. The Brighams are okay—the old man’s got a bit of a sore head, that’s all. Seville kept to himself, never went down to the bar for a drink. He had two suitcases, but there was nothing in them to tell us anything about him, except he seems to have bought all his clothes in Beirut. We’ll get nothing out of anyone there, you can bet on it. He took everything that might identify him with him in that brief-case. We got some more fingerprints, but they mean nothing, now we know who he is.”

  “He’s still looking for Dallas Pinjarri. I’ll bet my neck that Dallas had a gun in that bag he was carrying when you tailed him. Concentrate on finding Dallas. Go back to Redfern and see if Jack Rimmer can help, tell him I sent you and I’ll owe him if he can give us a lead on Dallas.”

  “They don’t like me out in Redfern.”

  “Now’s your chance to alter your image.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going out to Point Piper to see the Timoris again. I’ll let you know what life’s like out there amongst the silver-tails.”

  III

  Life amongst the silvertails was not going well.

  “General Paturi’s arrived here, did you know that?” said Russell Hickbed. “He got into Sydney last night on a Garuda flight and went straight on down to Canberra. Phil’s just been on the line to me.”

  “Has he seen Philip?” said President Timori.

  “Not yet. Phil’s doing his best to dodge him, says his engagement book is full. He went down to Canberra first thing this morning and he’s due back tonight for the Bicentennial Ball.”

  “Have we been invited to that?” said Madame Timori, who loved every social occasion except a funeral.

  “I don’t think so. Come off it, Delvina. You sh
ould be lying low, keeping your head down.” Hickbed loathed social occasions, but only because they required social graces.

  “Have you been invited?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going?”

  “At a time like this?”

  “We can’t remain cooped up here for ever,” said Timori mildly. The Hickbed mansion and grounds were bigger than Kirribilli House but they were like a chicken-run compared to the palace back home. He was a sentimentalist, but only for the richest of memories. “We have to come out in the open sooner or later.”

  “Not tonight, not yet.” Hickbed was wishing his guests had gone elsewhere. Canberra, preferably: he had suggested that to Phil Norval when he had spoken to him this morning. Norval’s reply had been more like a back-bencher’s than a Prime Minister’s, a vulgarity that would have had him banned from the air had he still been a TV star. “You could go out to Kootapatamba.”

  Kootapatamba was the 100,000-acre sheep station that their partnership had bought in western New South Wales. “We don’t want to be that much in the open,” said Madame Timori. “Out there amongst all those sheep and flies and those bush people. Abdul would die of boredom.”

  “Better that than a hole in the head,” said Timori, who knew nothing of sheep, flies or bush people, whoever they were. He turned as Sun Lee came out on to the terrace where they sat. “You look worried, Sun.”

  Hickbed looked at the expressionless Chinese, but could see nothing; Abdul must have X-ray vision. “Things are going from bad to worse, Your Excellency. I have just spent an uncomfortable half-hour with that Inspector Malone. I and Mr. Tidey and Mr. Quirke. They told me afterwards that a great deal of your affairs may become public in a day or two. As soon as the celebrations are over, the media will be looking to stir things up.”

  “It’s public enough already, isn’t it?” said Hickbed, steaming up his glasses in the morning heat. He took them off and wiped them. “The bloody newspapers are trying to out-do each other in guessing games.”

  “Conjecture, just guesses, as you say,” said Madame Timori. “Conjecture never hurt anyone.” She had become regal, she had forgotten how vulnerable the common herd could be. Hickbed could have told her, but refrained.