by Jon Cleary
“I suspect this may be another curare job, Scobie. All the symptoms. I can’t find any evidence of any wounds, not even a bruise. I’m not going to strip him for the benefit of these bastards.” He waved a bony hand at the cameramen, who were just out of earshot but gave him sour grins, anyway, from behind their eye-pieces. Gaynor was a tall thin man, taller than Malone by several inches, with a narrow face in which all the lines, indeed all the features, seemed to run down to the long spade of his chin. He was one of the old school who believed there should be no publicity for the dead, especially the murdered dead. “I’ll let you know in the morning. If it is another curare job, I’ll turn it over to Dr. Keller, if her plate isn’t too full.”
Malone thanked him, left Clements to talk to the PE team and went across to the local sergeant of detectives. “What’ve you got, Irv?”
Irving Rubens was one of the few Jews in the Department, a solidly built, handsome man who, as a detective constable, had worked with Malone some years before. “We got the call at the station about an hour ago, maybe less. When we got here, the TV mob was already here. It’ll make great TV, a dead man hanging out the boot of a bright red Porsche. It’ll be a change from the war pictures.”
“Don’t be sour, Irv. Leave that to me, that’s what I’m paid for. You get anything on who called the TV people?”
“It was a call to the stations’ switchboards. None of the switch-girls could remember whether it was a man or woman’s voice—the girl at Channel Fifteen said the voice sounded as if it was disguised. Maybe she watches too many detective series, who knows?”
“What about Lugos, the dead bloke?”
“A real dude—you knew him?” Malone nodded. “He’s never been seen around here before, not by us, anyway. We found a cardboard cake-box under the body. Would you believe, a passionfruit pavlova on top of a nice little bundle of heroin packets. Whoever did him in evidently didn’t know what he was carrying.”
“How much heroin?”
“At a rough guess I’d say at least a hundred thousand bucks’ worth, maybe more.”
“What have you done with it?”
“It’s in my car, waiting for the Drug Unit fellers to come and claim it. In the meantime, we’ve been around the corner and pinched the owner of the cake shop. I haven’t talked to him, he’s down at the station with one of my men. You wanna see him? If you don’t mind me asking, Scobie, what brought you out here tonight? You’d have had it all on your desk at Homicide tomorrow morning. You looking for work?”
“Instinct, Irv.” He then told Rubens about the murders of Grime and Sally Kissen. “I’d already talked to this bloke—” He nodded at the shrouded body of Leroy Lugos being loaded into the ambulance; the cameras swooped like metal birds. “Can you get rid of this mob? Close off the whole street, at least till we have the car taken away.”
There must have been a hundred or more in the crowd, mostly young people. None of them appeared shocked, just curious; some of them feigned boredom, the laid-back look that had replaced the smart-arse cracks of Malone’s generation. Today there was an acceptance of death amongst the street gangs that was almost callous. He wondered if the same stoical attitude prevailed amongst the young about to die in the Gulf war. He doubted it.
“Who are these? Locals?”
“We’ve got the lot around here, Scobie. A lot of good, honest workers—”
“It was like that when I was born here. My mum and dad still live down the road, in Erskineville.”
Rubens looked surprised, as if, somehow, he had expected Malone to have come from some silvertail area. “Yeah? How about that! Yeah, well, there’s lots more than them around now. We’ve got gays, lesbians, junkies—we put out two thousand needles a month in our needle exchange programme—neo-Nazis, kinky perverts—you name it, we’ve got it. Including more crims to the square mile than anywhere else in the country. For some reason they all come back here as soon as they get out of jail, like this is some retraining centre for them to get back into whatever game they were in before they were sent away. I can put up with the crims. It’s that lot there—”
He nodded to about a dozen youths standing in a tight group beside the ambulance. They wore a uniform of heavy boots, torn black jeans and black sleeveless T-shirts; their heads were shaved along the sides, with a flat spiky crop on top. One of the youths turned round as a television camera focused on him. On his black T-shirt was a white-lettered threat: Fuck a Wog With a Boot. He grinned fiendishly at the camera, then spun round. On his back was another threat: Fuck a Jew, Too.
“Some of ’em live around here, some of ’em come in from Christ knows where. They’ve caused the uniformed boys a lotta trouble, busting in the windows of some of the wog shops—the main street’s full of ’em, Lebanese, Turkish, Greek, Thai—King Street’s full of cheap eats. There’s a Jewish jeweller, they’ve done him a coupla times, but so far we haven’t been able to catch ’em.”
“They cause you any bother?”
“Because I’m a Jew? They know me, they know I’d circumcise ’em with a chain-saw if they tried anything.”
“Leroy was a wog. Maybe he was lucky they didn’t get to him before he was stuck with the needle.”
“You sure that’s the way he was killed?”
“No, but I’m willing to bet on it. Let’s go and see the cake-shop owner. I’ll get Russ.”
Newtown police station was only five minutes from the scene of the crime. It was a nondescript three-storeyed building next to the fire station; if ever terrorism comes to Australia, the authorities have, too often, conveniently located possible targets close together. Or perhaps, Malone thought, they had worked on the assumption that, if the police station was bombed, the fire brigade would not have far to come to put out the blaze. Though he doubted if the authorities would have been as far-sighted as that: the long view was not a national habit.
Malone and Clements followed Rubens up to the first floor, to the detectives’ room. The cake- shop owner was in the interrogation room, a windowless cubicle designed to give first-time offenders an idea of what confinement meant.
The two Homicide men sat down in chairs against the wall while Rubens went outside with the young detective constable who had been minding the suspect. Malone introduced himself and Clements. “You mind telling us a few things about yourself?”
“The name is Mitre, Sydney Mitre. I own the Matilda cake shop. I think that’s all you need to know.” He was wearing lightly tinted glasses, taking any shine or glint from his eyes. He had thick loose lips, but Malone guessed he would not be loose-lipped when it came to questioning. But he had an air of resignation about him, something an experienced cop can smell, and that was promising. “Yours is the next move, Inspector.”
Rubens came back, sat down on the chair on the opposite side of the small table from Mitre. The four men crowded the room and Mitre, as if suddenly feeling oppressed, shifted his chair back till it was against the wall behind him.
“Mr. Mitre, did my constable tell you what they found in the back of your shop?”
“No, Sergeant.” Mitre, it seemed, was naturally polite.
“Four cake-boxes containing packets of heroin, with a street turnover, we reckon, of between four and five hundred thousand dollars. Plus the heroin we found in one of your cake-boxes in the boot of a Porsche around the corner from your shop. The car boot, incidentally, also contained the body of a young man named Leroy Lugos. I don’t think things look too good for you, Mr. Mitre.”
Mitre looked at Malone. “I love Jewish humour. Do you think I should get my lawyer to join us?”
“I think it might be an idea,” said Malone. “Suspicion of murder, dealing in heroin—I think you’ll need your solicitor and a couple of QCs at least.”
Mitre held up a plump hand pale with flour. The flour that streaked his T-shirt and apron and arms somehow made him look less heavy than he was, as if parts of him were ectoplasmic. He ran his hand through his hair, turning it greyer. “Hold it
, gentlemen. No murder talk, I know nothing about that. I want to call my lawyer.”
“Sergeant Clements will call him for you.”
“I think I’m entitled to make my own call—”
“Normally, yes.” Malone avoided Rubens’ eye. “But the public lines are out tonight and we can’t let you use the police private lines.”
“You’re harassing me—”
“Yes, I think I might be. But what witnesses have you got?” He didn’t look at Clements or Rubens, but he knew their faces would be blank. “Give him your lawyer’s name, Mr. Mitre, and then you and I will have a little chat while we’re waiting for him to come. Okay?”
Mitre hesitated, then he gave Clements a name and a number. Clements went out, closing the door, and Mitre leaned his chair back against the wall. “How did the deceased—is that what we call him?—die?”
“We’re not sure yet. We think he died from curare poisoning. A curare synthetic called Alloferin. You’ve heard of it?”
The tinted glasses had tilted slightly, catching the light. “Yes. I was a chemist before I became a pastrycook.”
“That’s quite an admission—in the circumstances.”
“Do you think I’d have admitted it if I’d given the deceased the syringe?”
“How do you know a syringe was used?”
“How else would you administer it?” He shook his head and a thin film of flour rose from it. “Don’t let’s waste our time on the murder, Inspector. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Okay,” said Rubens, coming in a little strongly; he looked as if he felt his prisoner was being taken away from him. “Let’s forget the murder. Let’s talk about the heroin.”
“Ah no, Sergeant. Not till my lawyer arrives.” He looked up as Clements came back into the room. “He on his way?”
“You’re out of luck,” said Clements. “That was his home number, was it? All I got was his answering machine. I left a message, said it was urgent.”
“You’re lying, Sergeant.”
Clements moved round to the corner of the table, stood over Mitre. “The last time a prisoner said that to me, I accidentally fell on him. Make another remark like that and I’ll squash you like one of your own eclairs.”
Mitre was not intimidated. “I know you won’t do that, Sergeant, not after all the bad publicity the police have had over the past year. You’re bluffing and I don’t blame you—it’s always a good ploy. Incidentally, I don’t make eclairs. I can, but I don’t run a patisserie. My selling point is that the Matilda is a good, old-fashioned, dinky-di Aussie cake shop. Lamingtons, raspberry-jam-and-cream sponges, pavlovas, even rock cakes. No foreign muck, is my motto. The funny part is, the wogs love them.”
“Heroin is foreign muck,” said Rubens.
The plump face was suddenly still, the glasses turned downwards, catching no light. “I’ll wait for my lawyer. May I have a cup of tea? Milk, no sugar.”
“Would you care for a couple of lamingtons with it?” said Malone.
Mitre smiled, but said nothing. The three policemen left him alone and went out to the main room. “What d’you reckon?” said Rubens. “You think he had anything to do with killing that guy?”
Malone shook his head. “He’s too smart to have someone bumped off so close to home. Let’s look him up, see if he has any record.”
The computer showed no mention of Sydney Mitre. “I’ll try the Pharmacy Board in the morning,” said Clements. “Why would a chemist give it up to become a pastrycook? There’s more money in a chemist’s shop than selling lamingtons and custard tarts.”
“Maybe he wasn’t a pharmacist,” said Malone. “Maybe he was an industrial chemist, something like that. Let’s wait for his lawyer, see who turns up.”
“The name he gave me was Evans,” said Clements.
And that was who turned up: Caradoc Evans. The Welsh have never made as much impression in Australia as other emigrants from the British Isles: it may be that their devotion to rugby and choral singing, not nationwide sports Down Under, has not fitted them for success. Caradoc Evans, however, was a criminal lawyer, a field where putting the boot in and hymnal eloquence are assets, and he was a definite success. Malone wondered how an honest pastrycook could afford him.
“Well, what are they accusing you of, boy?” Evans still had a Welsh lilt and he played the part, as if he had arrived only yesterday from the Rhondda. He was in his fifties, bald, short and stocky, a pensioned-off scrum-half who would grab the balls of any heavier opponent who tried to dump him. He knew how to play dirty, but disguised it with light charm. “Perhaps you’d like to fill me in, Inspector?”
Malone did so. “I think Sergeant Rubens has him dead-set on the heroin charges. I’d like to talk to him about the murder. I’m sorry you had to be dragged out in the middle of the night. We suggested not calling you till the morning, but your client wouldn’t hear of it.”
“I came as soon as I got home and heard the message. I’ve been to a preview of Godfather Three. Very disturbing, makes you thankful we live in a law-abiding country like ours.”
“Wales or New South Wales?”
Evans winked, a Welsh wink full of suspicion masquerading as bonhomie; they had been using it on the English since the days of Owen Glendower. It did not work with Malone, another Celt. “We’re on the same side, Inspector, aren’t we? That of law and order. May I consult with my client?”
Malone looked at Rubens, who nodded.
The detectives left Mitre and his lawyer alone in the interrogation room. Ten minutes later the door opened and Evans beckoned them in. “My client has decided to come clean, as the saying is. He denies any connection with the murder, but he admits you may have found some illegal substance amongst his pastries. He will plead guilty, as a contribution to law and order.”
“I’d like to ask him a few questions,” said Rubens.
“Ah no, no. You won’t be answering any questions, will you, boy?”
“No,” said the middle-aged boy. “No questions.”
“We might be able to offer you a deal,” said Rubens. “You tell us who brings in the heroin and we’ll see what we can do with the Crown Prosecutor.”
“My client tells me he has no idea who sent the heroin to his shop. It just turned up instead of an order for self-raising flour. A mistake, obviously. The regrettable part is that my client took advantage of someone else’s mistake—temptation is a terrible thing. He decided, as the saying is, to get into the act.”
“And Leroy Lugos turning up to collect a cake-box full of the stuff?”
“Purely fortuitous.”
“It wasn’t very fortuitous for Leroy,” said Malone. “A poisoned needle in your bum isn’t everyone’s idea of a lucky dip.”
Clements, so far, had been silent. In rugby terms he now came in from far out on the wing: “Mr. Evans, don’t you represent Denny Pelong?”
It had been a wild pass and Evans, caught on the wrong foot, had taken it; now he looked as if he wished he could pass it on. “You know, Sergeant, I can’t discuss other clients.”
“Sorry I mentioned it,” said Clements. “Do you know Denny Pelong, Mr. Mitre?”
The tinted glasses caught the light as Mitre raised his head; they were opaque, he looked utterly blind. “Pelong? It’s a peculiar name. No, I don’t think I know him. What does he do?”
“Just about everything criminal,” said Clements.
“I think we should prepare the statement you want and my client will sign it.” The lilt had gone from Evans’ voice; we’re deadly serious now, boy. “Then we can all go home.”
“Not quite,” said Malone. “He’ll be held till we put him before a magistrate in the morning. There may be another charge by then.”
“What charge?”
“An accessory before the fact of murder.”
II
When Caradoc Evans rang Denny Pelong at 11.30 that night with the news of Leroy Lugos’ murder and the heroin bust, Pelong went outside and, fully
clothed, flung himself into his swimming pool, where he beat the water in a fury. His wife, in a shortie nightgown, her face glistening with night cream, came downstairs when she heard the commotion and out to the side of the pool.
“You’re disturbing the neighbours, sweetheart. You know how they hate all-night swimming out here in the suburbs.” She came from Redfern, where the neighbours don’t have to worry too much about swimming pools and what time of day they are swum in.
Pelong told her to get fucked.
“The neighbours don’t like that, either, sweetheart. Not out in the back yard.” She started to walk back into the house, then paused. “You want me to get the dogs to jump in with you?”
Then she went into the house, smiling like a cat that had just scratched the eyes out of a Rottweiler.
III
Malone left it to Rubens to appear in court the next morning with Mitre. “Hold him as long as you can without bail.”
“Give the magistrate some Old Testament stuff,” said Clements.
“What’s that?” said Rubens.
“Doctored evidence. You Jews invented it, didn’t you?”
Rubens looked at Malone. “Is he anti-Semitic?”
“He’s just anti-religious. You should hear what he has to say about us Catholics. He’s a lapsed born-again Christian, they’re the worst. Christ gave him away.”
Rubens grinned. “Did they ever tell you at your Catholic school that old fable about the Apostles being in that locked room and Christ turning up from the dead to say there was no God?”
“Not at school, they didn’t. But I picked up an old drunk priest one night and he told me about it. He told me to give it the deaf ear. He said, ’We’re all doubters at some time, son, and it doesn’t do to encourage ourselves.’ It’s good advice that I’ve stuck with. Don’t let’s doubt that we’ll nail Mr. Mitre.”