Dragons at the Party

by Jon Cleary

  He looked at the jewel-box still standing on the end of the bed, though Delvina had closed its lid and locked it again. It was only part of their treasure, petty cash in the form of diamonds, emeralds and other precious stones. He was a rich man, one of the world’s richest, though not in the same bank as his neighbour, the Sultan of Brunei. At one time he had had ambitions for expansion; he had looked at territories that might come under his influence; he would be the Sultan of Spice, a heady title. But as soon as his ambitions became known they had been knocked on the head. Indonesian guns began to growl; the Sultan of Brunei tried to buy the entire British Army, which needed the money at the time; the Americans, worried enough by their losses in Vietnam, told him to be a good little dictator and stick to his own domain. So he had sacrificed his ambition for power and settled for plain greed, a more acceptable aim amongst the world powers.

  Even if General Paturi succeeded in confiscating his Australian holdings, there were the assets in the United States, Canada, Europe and Hong Kong; there were also the cash and gold and more gems in the bank in Switzerland. He would not be penniless, no matter where he finished up; but riches would not amount to much if he had to live in Paraguay or some Central African republic. He would settle for the French Riviera, where he had mis-spent a lot of his youth; or the Bahamas or the more respectable parts of California like Santa Barbara. But above all he wanted to return to Bunda, to the power and the palace that had once been his.

  He patted the jewel-box, as if it were a talisman. Delvina might think of it as hers, but he was a Muslim. He still had the power in their marriage.

  He sent for Sun Lee, who came in soft-footed as usual. Even on some of the marble floors in the palace in Bunda he had moved as silently as a ghost. The effect had never worried Timori before, but now it did.

  “Why do you have to be so cat-footed, Sun? Are you sneaking up on me?”

  “Why should I do that, Excellency? I am just naturally quiet, I suppose. It was the best attitude for a Chinese in Palucca.”

  Timori couldn’t remember his ever having referred to his race before. “You thought I persecuted you?”

  “Not you personally, Excellency. But the police and the bureaucrats—yes. I was fortunate to have your protection because of my position.”

  “I couldn’t do without you, Sun. What would you do if I were assassinated?”

  “I’ve never considered the possibility.”

  “Why not? That bullet on Friday night was close enough to be a probability.”

  “I think you lead a charmed life.”

  Timori smiled. “I think you’re a charming liar, Sun. If I divorced Madame Timori, would you stay with me or go with her?”

  An eyebrow flickered; it was the only reaction. “Are you going to divorce Madame?”

  Timori sighed. “Probably not. We’ve had enough publicity. I was just testing your loyalty. Tell me, Sun, about our investments.”

  “Which ones, sir? Where?”

  “World-wide. Don’t let us confine ourselves. Sit down and tell me everything. And remember—your head may depend upon it.”

  An hour later he dismissed Sun, He sat in a chair staring at the windows. The Paluccan housemaid had forgotten to draw the drapes and Timori left them as they were. There had been countless servants to perform those sort of chores in the palace; or perhaps he thought the curtains drew themselves. In any event he had too much on his mind this evening to look at the view the windows offered. One flood-lit garden looked like another: they had always been part of the security precautions in Timoro Palace.

  He went to one of his bags and took out a gun, a Colt .45 automatic. He had never fired it in anger and he wondered if he would fire it tonight. He sat down in the chair again and the gun, somehow, gave him unexpected comfort. He began to feel a little less afraid and he again ran his hand over the jewel-box, as if luck lay there amongst the gems in the treasure chest.

  V

  Delvina Timori had suddenly grown bored with the ball and everyone attending it, especially those here at the Prime Minister’s table. Insults are like sex: one needs exceptional stamina to keep up the standard. Anita Norval was now blatantly ignoring her. Philip Norval had suddenly developed a passionate interest in the Prime Minister of New Zealand, a lesbian lady who hoped the Australian PM, a woolly ram if ever she’d met one, didn’t think she was double-gaited. Everyone else at the table, including Russell Hickbed, looked exhausted. Delvina looked at her watch: 10.40, still a young night. But it was time to go. She was not only bored, but disturbed. What had Scobie Malone been hinting at with his warning?

  She stood up, nodding to Hickbed, who was relieved to get the command. Anita Norval turned round, all at once all smiling concern. “You’re not going! I meant to tell you—I love your dress! It fits so perfectly.” Every nook and cranny. “What there is of it.”

  “One dresses for the occasion. If there’s no one to be impressed, one doesn’t wear much. Good night. Thank you for a lovely evening. Enjoy yourselves.”

  “We shall,” said Anita, voice silent under the band’s “Lay Your Love on Me,” “now you’re leaving.”

  Philip Norval turned away from the New Zealand PM, much to her relief, and gave Delvina as many teeth as he could show in a good night smile. This was to have been his Big Night before the Big Day tomorrow; Delvina, the bitch, had stolen it from him. Tomorrow night he would be on to Washington, telling Fegan he would be putting the Timoris on a plane and telling the pilot to keep flying till he saw a landing field with the Stars and Stripes fluttering above it.

  Delvina had made an entrance; she was not going to leave without making an exit. With her hand resting lightly on Hickbed’s arm, she made her way down the length of the hall, skirting the dance floors yet somehow managing to suggest she was in the centre of them. Some guests nodded to her, not out of friendliness but out of habit; they were the sort of spectators who always saw themselves as part of the action. On Judgement Day they would nod to God in the same familiar way.

  Hans Vanderberg saw her go, but he did not rise to say good night. He just lolled in his chair and grinned at her and Hickbed. He had milked them of all they had to offer tonight; he could already see tomorrow’s headlines. Beside him his wife did not look in Delvina’s direction; she knew Madame Timori would not be looking at her. Nobody had ever snubbed Gertrude Vanderberg: she was always a glance or two ahead of them.

  The Dutchman leaned across to John Leeds, who had just joined the Premier’s table. “I’d like to see Inspector Malone at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, John. Can you see to it?”

  “It’s unusual, Hans. Why don’t you see Bill Zanuch? He’s just over there—I’ll call him, if you like.”

  “I don’t want to see Zanuch—I want to see Malone.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Yes.” Vanderberg grinned. “But you won’t get an answer. Not for a day or two anyway.”

  “Hans, he’s one of my men. I could refuse to let you see him.”

  “You wouldn’t do that, John. Care for some of Gert’s pumpkin pavlova? It’s better than this cake they’re serving.”

  Malone, squeezed in at a wall table for two with Clements, a thundering rock band right above them, saw Delvina go and was relieved. Then he saw the Commissioner beckoning to him. He got up and made his way round the rocking dancers to the Premier’s table. Here the decibels were much lower; just by leaning down he could hear Leeds’ quiet voice.

  “The Premier wants to see you in his office at eight tomorrow morning. You’d better go home and get some sleep.”

  “What’s it about, sir?”

  Leeds looked at Vanderberg, who was watching them with a crocodile’s eye. “I’ll leave him to tell you in the morning.”

  “Does Mr. Zanuch know I’m to be there?”

  “I’ll tell him. You go home and get a good night’s sleep. You may have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Not if can help it. But Malone couldn’t tell the Commissioner about his
plans to take Lisa and his family out on the harbour. Leeds might understand and sympathize, but he was a policeman: duty came first.

  Malone went back to Clements, who stood up from his half-eaten dinner, bellowed, “Too much bloody noise!” and followed Malone out to the lobby. There Zanuch was waiting in ambush for them, as if he had expected them to sneak off early.

  “Where are you going, Inspector?”

  “Home, sir. The Commissioner’s orders. I have to report to the Premier’s office at eight in the morning.”

  “What for? Why wasn’t I told?”

  Malone had no answer to either question.

  Zanuch knew he had just been stripped of some of his authority by the Commissioner and, he had no doubt, the Premier. But he had to show he had some left: “On your way home go out to Point Piper and see that Madame Timori has arrived safely.”

  “Me, too, sir?” said Clements, eager to be gone.

  “No, you stay and keep an eye on General Paturi. He is still our chief suspect. Stay with him till he goes home to the Consulate. He may try to contact Seville—there he goes now! He’s leaving now!”

  General Paturi, bored almost to the point of sleep, deafened by what the Australians evidently thought was music, had had enough. It had not taken him long to realize that Premier Vanderberg was on his side; but to what effect and to what extent he did not know. He was ignorant of State and Federal politics in this country; it seemed to him, having lived under a virtual dictatorship all his adult life, that Australia was over-governed. But he understood jealousies and the animal instinct of the territorial imperative and he knew Premier Vanderberg would never do anything to help Prime Minister Norval. Instead, he might do an awful lot to help General Paturi and his colleagues.

  But Paturi could suffer just so much in the cause of Paluccan democracy. He thanked The Dutchman, saluted him and Gertrude, and marched out of the huge hall while the nearest band, at full blast, belted out “Papa, Don’t Preach.”

  Malone and Clements went their separate ways, each following his own quarry.

  Delvina sat in the back of Hickbed’s Rolls-Royce, well away from his tentatively groping hand. “None of that, Russell. I had enough of that from the New Zealand PM.”

  “You were the one who wanted to go to the ball.”

  “I made a mistake.” She made few mistakes and rarely admitted them. “The sooner we are out of Australia, the better. Even Upper Volta would be preferable to this.”

  He had no idea where Upper Volta was; and she only knew because she had been studying atlases this past week, looking for havens. “I’ll try for Upper Volta, if you like.”

  “You would,” she said witheringly.

  “Don’t get too nasty, Delvina, or I’ll kick you and Abdul out of my house. I don’t have to put up with your tantrums. Without me you’d have been out on your arse on some beach in Palucca, with all the Aussie hippies.”

  “God forbid!”

  They sat in sullen silence for the rest of the journey back to Point Piper. When they got out of the Rolls-Royce she strode into the house without saying good night, went up the curving staircase and along to the main guest bedroom at the front of the house. She had been upset that she and Abdul had not been given Hickbed’s own bedroom, with its magnificent view of the harbour, but Hickbed never stretched his hospitality too far. She flung open the door and marched in, in no mood for further argument with Abdul.

  He was sitting in a chair facing the door, his hands folded in his lap.

  “I’ve come to get my night things,” she said. “I’m sleeping in another room.”

  “With Russell?”

  “No, not with Russell.” She snatched up her night-gown, then moved to the dressing-table to get her creams and lotions. She stopped, looking at him in the mirror, suddenly caught by his very still composure. “What’s the matter with you? Are you sick or something?”

  “A little. I’ve been talking to Sun.”

  “What about?” She turned round, one hand screwing up the night-gown.

  “Just about everything. I know who’s paying to have me murdered.” He stood up and for the first time she saw the gun in his hand.

  “Who?”

  He had moved away from the chair, stood with his back to the window, the yellow silk drapes framing him on either side. He lifted the gun and pointed it at her.

  “You.”

  Then, as he pulled the trigger of the Colt .45, the window glass behind him cracked and he stumbled forward. He fell across the foot of the bed, hitting his head hard on the iron-bound corner of the jewel-case, then he crashed on to the carpet.

  8

  I

  WHEN MALONE got out to the car park from the Exhibition Centre he was accosted by Thumper Murphy, in uniform and a bad mood. “Night, Scobie. Been enjoying yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Me, neither. I’m over here in charge of a detail looking after four thousand bludgers who should be paying for their own security. All the crims on my own turf must be having the time of their lives, breaking and entering and raping old ladies.” Then he said quietly, “I hear you had a bad trot this morning with that bastard Seville.”

  Who hadn’t heard of it? Some deaf Laplander north of the Arctic Circle? “I wouldn’t want it to happen again.”

  “I’m glad you got out of it okay.” Thumper Murphy was a man afraid of sentiment; somehow he managed to make his sympathy sound like abuse. “Don’t shove your neck out too far. No one’ll ever appreciate it.”

  Malone smiled and nodded, suddenly warmed by the rough old cop’s support. He walked across to his car, his own Holden Commodore in which he and Clements had come to the ball, got in and manoeuvred his way out of the packed car park. He took his time, in no mood to go tearing after Delvina Timori and Russell Hickbed. As Thumper had said, they should be paying for their own security.

  He drove leisurely out to Point Piper. There was a lot of traffic and he just let himself be carried along with its current. At one point he found himself wishing Seville could end the situation by killing Timori; but of course the situation would not be ended nor would he have peace of mind. There had been times in the past when he had felt no regrets, indeed had felt satisfaction, at the murder of some vicious criminal or a child molester or a brutal rapist; there had been just a simple atavistic sense of justice having been done. He had, however, never before wished for a man to be murdered; though he had, on one occasion, wanted to kill a man. That had been in New York on a trip he and Lisa had made before the children were born. They had won twelve thousand dollars in a State lottery and decided to blow half of it on a cheap world trip before they settled down to having a family. In New York Lisa had been kidnapped by a pair of Anarchists; her kidnapping had been accidental, since the Anarchists’ real target had been the wife of the then Mayor of New York. Malone had spent an agonizing couple of days and when he had finally sighted the male kidnapper all thoughts of law and order had been wiped from his mind: he had wanted to kill the man. He had stopped being a policeman; he had become a desperate, avenging husband. Fortunately he had been caught in time, but he had never known such rage before or since.

  He felt no rage about Seville or the Timoris, just frustration and a sour cynicism and disgust. If he felt any anger at all it was at the future his children faced, a world where corruption and greed were no longer capital sins.

  He had just got out of the car in the narrow street in Point Piper when he heard the shot. At first he thought it was another firework rocket going up; he instinctively looked up towards the sky over the harbour. But the sky remained dark; then he knew there had been a shot. Perhaps two: he couldn’t be sure. He ran towards the Hickbed mansion, was held up for a moment at the gates by a Federal policeman who didn’t recognize him in his dinner suit. Then he was in the driveway, was joined by Joe Nagler who had come panting up from the waterfront.

  “Where did that come from? Inside?”

  “I think so—I dunno. Were there two
shots?”

  Kenthurst had now appeared; he looked as if he had been asleep somewhere. They banged on the front door and it was opened almost immediately by Hickbed.

  “Upstairs—the front room!” He had lost his glasses or forgotten to put them on; his face was blank with shock. “It’s the President!”

  Malone led the way upstairs at a run. The door to the front bedroom was wide open; Sun Lee stood there with hand spread as if inviting them to come in. Delvina sat slumped on the big silk-covered bed. Abdul Timori lay face down on the yellow carpet, a gun clutched in his right hand and blood oozing from both the top and the side of his head. It was only later that Malone would remember that there was a remarkable silence in the room, that there was no sound at all out of Delvina or Sun and certainly none out of the seemingly dead Timori.

  “Get the emergency unit!”

  He dropped to his knees beside Timori as Kenthurst picked up the phone and dialled the Police Centre. Malone saw the extent of the two wounds on Timori’s head and was certain the emergency unit was already too late; but when he felt the President’s throat there seemed to be the faintest hint of a pulse there. He looked up at Nagler, who was bending over him anxiously.

  “There’s still a flicker there. But they’d better hurry!”

  He took the Colt .45 from the President’s hand, smelled the barrel, checked the magazine, then looked for a sign of the bullet that had been fired. Delvina saw what he was looking for and without a word pointed to the hole in the silk coverlet beside her on the bed.

  He looked down at Timori lying face down on the floor, then he turned to the window and saw the bullet-hole and the star effect in the glass. He stepped to the window and looked out and up, saw the old house on the high ground on the opposite side of the street. He saw two uniformed police down in the front garden. He pulled up the window, careful not to shatter the glass.