by Jon Cleary
“You wouldn’t want it otherwise. I’ve gotta go. Phil is ready to start on another cigarette. I’ve got to save him from lung cancer.”
“He won’t thank you.”
Malone hung up, waited while Truach butted his cigarette and got back into the car. He popped some gum into his mouth, looked at Malone. “Where to now?”
“Let’s go out and talk to Mother Gert.”
“How much separates her from everybody else in this mess?”
“The width of Botany Bay, I’d say.”
II
But Gertrude Vanderberg wasn’t at home. Wearing a grey outfit with flounces that made her look like a giant dove ruffling its feathers but also made her as inconspicuous as she would ever get, she was having lunch in a private room at the Golden Gate restaurant in Chinatown. With her were Jack Aldwych and Leslie Chung, the two owners of the restaurant; Madame Tzu and Camilla Feng; and General Wang-Te. And Barry Rix, who sat quiet and ignored, like an afterthought.
“We were great admirers of your husband,” said Les Chung as they sat down.
“So was I,” said Mrs. Vanderberg.
That left a little silence into which Madame Tzu finally put her foot: “He was a pragmatic man.”
Gert Vanderberg gave her a smile like an aid worker in a foreign country. She would teach Madame Tzu how aid worked. “Oh, he was that all right. So am I. A pragmatic woman.”
Aldwych had never had much time for the pragmatism of women, though he conceded that Madame Tzu could link cause and effect more effectively than any man he had met. Except himself, of course. He just hadn’t expected Gert Vanderberg, the Mother Teresa of Boolagong, to be like this.
“That’s what makes the world go round,” he said. “Idealistic bull—baloney, it never moves anything. You must of learned that, all the time you were married to Hans.”
Gert Vanderberg was the sort who thought everyone at a table should have a say: “What do you think, General?”
“In my country idealism died when the Great Leap Forward fell on its face.” He waited to be struck dead for such heresy, but here in the Golden Gate heresy was frequently part of the menu. Still, he hedged: “Basically, that is.”
Barry Rix waited to be asked his opinion, but Mrs. Vanderberg had passed on: “We’re talking—pragmatically and basically, that is—about the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars you put into my husband’s election fund? Am I right?”
“You put your finger right on it,” said Aldwych.
She toyed with her prawns, looked at Rix, bringing him in from the edge of the world: “Was Hans going to bring in a casino bill, Barry? He never spoke to me about it.”
Rix had been brought in from the edge of the world, but he was still out on a limb; The Dutchman had had the same habit. “I think he liked the idea, Gert. Coffs Harbour has always been a dicey seat. With all the retired people up there, nothing to do but look at each other, play golf and bowls, things like that, he thought they’d welcome a casino. Be something else to do.”
“For the tourists, too,” said Les Chung. “People like to gamble. It’s an Australian thing.”
“And a Chinese thing, too, I’ve heard,” said Gert Vanderberg. She ate a prawn. “Are you a gambler, Madame Tzu?”
“Not in casinos,” said Madame Tzu and sounded almost pious, a thought that brought on mild vertigo.
“What about you, Miss Feng?”
“Occasionally.” On men: but she didn’t say that. She had been sitting quietly, comparing Mrs. Vanderberg and Madame Tzu, wondering which one would prevail in the deal that lay ahead. They were as dissimilar as two women could be. The one sleek, elegant, as cold as a Sinkiang wind, the other bluff, over-dressed, as warm as a westerly breeze: she wouldn’t bet on who would win. But she saw more in Mrs. Vanderberg than the three men at the table did.
“I’m not a gambler,” said Gert Vanderberg. “People have come to me telling me how it’s ruined their lives.”
“You can’t change human nature,” said Aldwych, who had never tried unless he held a gun.
“It wouldn’t be built in time for the Olympics,” said Rix, desperately holding his place in the conversation.
“No, no,” said Les Chung. “It would be the end of the year at least before we could start. The plans have been drawn—”
“You were pretty confident?” Mrs. Vanderberg finished her prawns and wiped her fingers delicately on a napkin.
“No,” said Madame Tzu. “Well prepared.”
“That would always be your motto, Madame Tzu?” said Mother Gert.
“Always.” Madame Tzu recognized a worthy opponent.
Camilla Feng sat silent, learning from watching these two older women. She wished Jerry Balmoral were here, to learn how out-matched he would be if and when he ran up against them.
“I’d hate to see the Olympics spoiled by bad publicity,” said Gert Vanderberg. “That we are turning into a nation of gamblers.”
You’re two hundred years behind the times, thought Aldwych. And what did she think last year’s Olympic corruption scandal had been but a gamble? A gamble against being found out. He was always amused at the naivety of women.
Then she said, “Of course there was that corruption business last year. They should have all been shot. But we don’t want anything more to give our Olympics a bad name. Hans’ Olympics,” she added and for a moment Barry Rix thought she was going to bow her head.
“We’d hate to see it, too,” said Aldwych. “We’re all right behind the Olympics.”
“What’s your favourite sport?”
“Oh, the synchronized swimming.” Aldwych looked for amusement in all sport; it was the only way he could take sport seriously, except cricket. He was amazed at times at how unAustralian he was. “It’s the funniest act since Wilson, Keppel and Betty.”
“Wilson, Keppel and Betty?” said Rix, coming in from Ultima Thule. “Lawyers?”
“No, a Pommy music-hall act. They did a cartoon sand dance, dressed up as a couple Gyppos and their dancing tart. I used to fall over laughing.”
“I like synchronized swimming,” said Mrs. Vanderberg.
“Well, there you go,” said Aldwych, unabashed.
“When we get Barry elected, he won’t be able to do much to push through a bill for the casino. He’ll be just a very ordinary member.”
Rix tried not to look like a limp penis.
“We’ll have to talk to Billy Eustace,” said Gert Vanderberg. “He won’t be a pushover, Barry tells me.”
“What if Jerry Balmoral upsets the apple-cart and wins pre-selection?” asked Camilla Feng.
Gert looked hard at her. “Do you know something Barry and I don’t?”
“I’ve been out with him a couple of times. He’s so sure of himself.”
The stare hardened even more. “You’re his girlfriend?”
Camilla laughed softly. “Let’s say he thinks I might be his girlfriend. He’s wrong, but I’m not telling him yet. We want to find out a bit more about him. He’s so damned ambitious, I wouldn’t write him off getting pre-selection. He’s not going to go away just because you ask him to.”
“I know that. But my husband must be spinning in his grave—” Abruptly she stopped. It was the first hint that grief was still gripping her like a virus. Aldwych, watching her, all at once felt sympathy for her: I’m getting old and soft, he thought. Then Gert Vanderberg went on: “I can’t let that happen. We’ll stop him, won’t we, Barry?”
“All the way,” said Barry Rix and for a moment looked assertive, challenging.
“If Mr. Balmoral wins,” said Madame Tzu, whose eyes at times looked like the keys on a cash register, “what happens to our money?”
Gert Vanderberg looked at Rix. “Did you declare it to Party head office?”
Rix looked as if he had been asked if he had declared it to the Taxation Office. Though he admired her, he sometimes thought Gert was too honest for her own good; or anyway the party’s good. “No, it’s in a private a
ccount. Hans said he would give it back if he couldn’t get the casino bill through.”
Like hell he would, thought Aldwych. He never blamed another robber for being pragmatic.
“We wouldn’t want it to get into the wrong hands,” said Les Chung. “As a matter of principle.”
Aldwych was debating what to do with the money they had donated; he had no doubt that someone could be bought with it. Over the past few years the national opinion of politicians had gone downhill. He shared the cynicism of a majority of voters in the State that honest politicians were as rare as celibate rabbits.
“Leave it where it is for the time being,” he said at last. “Is it in an interest-bearing account?”
“Of course,” Rix sounded offended, as if he had been accused of not being able to handle money.
“If we take the money back, you can keep the interest.” At four per cent for three months that would pay for stamps. His idea of charity was no more liberal than Madame Tzu’s.
“Thanks,” said Rix and sounded as if he had passed wind.
Then Madame Tzu said bluntly, “Who do you think killed your husband?”
Camilla Feng looked shocked; even Aldwych and Chung raised their heads at the question. General Wang-Te sat impassive and Barry Rix, for the first time ever, put a hand over Gert Vanderberg’s.
But if she flinched, it was inwardly; no one saw it. “If I knew, do you think I’d be sitting here?”
“No,” said Aldwych, shutting out Madame Tzu before she could deliver another hammer blow. “And neither would we.”
Then General Wang-Te, who had been silent most of the meal, tried to save China’s reputation. These bloody women, as the Australians would say: they had been the ruin of China. The empresses; the Soong sisters; Chiang Ch’ing; his wife . . . “Should we employ security to look after Mrs. Vanderberg and Mr. Rix?”
“A good idea,” said Les Chung, and Aldwych and Camilla Feng nodded. Madame Tzu took her time, then she, too, nodded.
“Thank you but no,” said Gert Vanderberg. “Hans never let a security man near him. He said they kept the voters away . . . Well, it’s been a nice lunch so far. Usually I don’t like Chinese food—” She gave Madame Tzu her foreign aid worker’s smile again. “But we must learn to share our tastes, mustn’t we?”
“One does one’s best,” said Madame Tzu in tones she had learned at Oxford years ago. “It’s just a pity Western cooking has so much catching-up to do.”
Later, driving back to her home in Brighton-le-Sands, Gert Vanderberg said, “Do you think we fooled them, Barry?”
“I think so, Gert.”
“They took us for naive. Shows how much they’ve all learned, even Jack Aldwych, about Labor politics.”
“What will you do with the money?”
“We’ll use some of it to win you pre-selection and then the election. After that I think St Vincent de Paul and the Salvation Army are going to get a windfall. I’ll get them to send a thank-you card to Madame Tzu.”
“What about the casino bill?”
“Forget it.”
“Hans would of been proud of you, Gert.”
“I know that. I was thinking of him all the time we were there at lunch.” She turned her head and looked out of the car. The surroundings went by, blurred as if by water.
III
When Malone and Truach got back to Strawberry Hills Gail Lee followed Malone into his office: “Good news. They’ve just been on to us from Surry Hills. The boys over there have traced a credit union account for Janis Eden out at Sutherland.” The southernmost shire of Sydney. “They got a warrant and had a look at it. One hundred and forty-four thousand dollars. She drew out fifteen thousand a month ago.”
“Janis or Joanna?”
“Joanna—actually, that’s the name on the account. She seems to have dumped Janis Eden as a name . . . Fifteen thousand wouldn’t have hired the hitman, but it could have been a down payment. She drew it in cash.”
Was it chauvinistic or genderless malice that he felt? Whatever, there was a certain satisfaction that the finger was now pointing, no matter how waveringly, at the cold and callous Janis. “I think we should go and have a talk with her. Where is she now—at work?”
“I’ve checked—”
Of course; why would I have expected otherwise?
“—she’s at home, she’s still being watched.”
Malone went out to tell Clements where he was going. The big man was reading from his computer screen: “It says here that leading figures in the community are questioning the competency of the New South Wales Police Service . . . Are you competent?”
“Point out to me one of those leading figures in the community and I’ll belt him in the ear.”
“The proper response. So you’re going over to see Janis? Gail told me what’s been dug up. Good luck. Be competent.”
“Up yours.”
He and Gail Lee drove over to Neutral Bay; or Gail drove and he sat in the passenger seat with his toes clenched in his shoes. Though it was a working day it was still the summer holiday season; they drove amongst traffic where so many looked pleasure-bound. Murder, unemployment, drug addiction were problems on another planet. The hunt for the Premier’s killer was already on the inner pages, was a secondary item on television and radio news. Australia had lost 4 wickets for 56 yesterday evening and things couldn’t get much worse. Despite what leading figures might say . . .
Gail Lee saw the two men in the car parked across the street from Joanna Everitt’s apartment. She drew in behind the car and Malone got out and walked along to the two men. They were Detectives Gregan and Styron.
“She’s inside, sir.” Both men got out of the car.
“She had any visitors?”
“Only Jack Aldwych. But—”
Another but: Malone waited.
“About an hour ago that suspect John June, or August, whatever his name is, he drove down here. He slowed when he drove past, but he didn’t stop. We didn’t know who he was till we recognized the two guys from the task force, the ones tailing him.”
“It was sorta crowded,” said Styron with a grin.
Gregan went on: “He drove right on down to the end of the street, turned round and come back, driving slow like he was looking for a number. Then he drove off and the two guys went after him.”
“Righto, call up Surry Hills and tell ‘em to send two blokes over here to knock on all the doors in this street, ask if anyone had booked a handyman to come and do a job for them. You two just sit tight, keep tabs on our girl if she comes out. Constable Lee and I are going in to have a chat with her.”
“She knows we’re tailing her, sir.”
“I’d be surprised if she didn’t. Not your fault—she’s just so damned smart.”
“Women usually are, aren’t they?” Gregan flashed a smile at Gail Lee.
“There’s no competition,” she said.
Crossing the road Malone said, “Are you a feminist?”
“No more than most women. I just get tired of the obvious Don Juan.”
Malone made no reply, never having considered himself a Don Juan. He had had success with women before Lisa, but he couldn’t remember if his approach had been obvious. Possibly, even probable: fast bowlers had never been noted for subtlety.
They climbed the stairs to Joanna Everitt’s apartment. “They don’t build them like this any more,” said Gail. “I think that’s real marble in those steps. And look at all that woodwork. That’s quality timber.”
Malone was out of breath; he would have to increase his sets at Saturday tennis, do more laps in the backyard pool. “I thought she’d go for more glitz than this. This would’ve been conservative even back in the twenties.”
Joanna was waiting with the door open. “I saw you down there with those two dummies who’ve been following me. I keep an eye on them occasionally out of the window. I don’t want the neighbours complaining. What do you want this time?”
“Invite us in, Jo
anna. You haven’t met Detective Constable Lee, have you?”
Joanna looked her up and down, then nodded. “How do they employ you? As a housekeeper?”
“Occasionally,” said Gail, not looking at Malone. “May we come in?”
Joanna led them into the apartment. She was wearing a pale pink skirt with a black shirt; Gail, who had an eye for such things, remarked that she was wearing expensive shoes, possibly Ferragamo. Her own outfit was stylish, but her shoes were comfortable, not costly. Italian shoes were not meant for chasing crims, not even Mafia.
Gail took her eyes off the shoes and, without moving her head, quickly looked around her. The furnishings also were not cheap items.
“Don’t do sums in your head, Constable Lee,” said Joanna, sitting down and waving them to chairs. “I can afford what you’re looking at.”
“I’m sure you can,” said Gail, voice almost demure. “With the money you have in the Cooperative Credit Union at Sutherland.”
Joanna stiffened. “You’ve got a bloody hide!”
“They also had a warrant,” said Malone. “It wasn’t us who did the prying, Janis—”
“Joanna.”
“Joanna. Why did you withdraw fifteen thousand in cash?”
“Is it any business of yours?”
“Maybe. We could add fifteen thousand to other amounts we don’t so far know about and it could all add up to what you paid the hitman.”
“What hitman?” But she said it as if to herself. She looked from Malone to Gail Lee, then back at Malone: “It was a pay-off. Someone was blackmailing me.”
“Why?”
She hesitated, but not as if looking for words; she was still in control of herself if not of the situation. “Someone found out I had a jail record. If the casino knew that, they’d sack me. I’m Joanna Everitt there, spotless as a nun.”
“And you worked in Las Vegas? Some nun. Who’s the person blackmailing you, Joanna?”
“It’s none of your business.” She was adamant, one could see the concrete setting around her.
“I’m afraid it is. Otherwise we’ll disbelieve you and reckon you gave the cash to the hitman. Jack Aldwych has been to see you—if we told him about the money, he might think the same as us—”