by Jon Cleary
“Hitler said that.” Had he? It seemed something that all the fanatics of history would have said. But, as he was honest enough to admit to himself, probably a host of honest men had also said it. “Go on, Your Grace.”
Kerry Hourigan hesitated, then went on. “The bill of sale says they are for Saudi Arabia. The export order will say the same.”
“Does anyone in Canberra know about that?”
Again the hesitation; then: “Yes.”
“Do the Saudi Arabians know?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s paying for it? Them?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“I am,” said Fingal Hourigan.
Malone kept his surprise to himself; then after the initial reaction, there was no surprise. Ten million was nothing to a man of Fingal’s wealth; some profligate playboys spent that much on a yacht or a plane. But Fingal had never had a public profile as a rabid anti-Communist. Was he being just an indulgent father? It was hard to believe such a proposition. Fingal, he would have thought, was the sort of father because of whom charity would have left home.
“Do the Saudis know that?”
“No,” said Fingal. “They don’t need to know. They’re willing to put their name to the order in support of a good cause.”
“That’s a great combination—the Saudis and the Catholic Church. How ecumenical can you get? All that, just to get rid of the Sandinistas in Nicaragua? Okay, you’ve told me all that and that explains where the Archbishop and Mr. Paredes were Saturday night. It doesn’t explain where Domecq was after he left the brothel. It would take only one man to kill your niece, Your Grace.”
He said it brutally and it had its effect on the Archbishop. The big man seemed to slump in his chair: he had been hit by conscience, against which even a full stomach is no defence.
“When was my—my granddaughter murdered?” said Fingal.
“The medical examiner put it between ten p.m. and two a.m., give or take an hour or so.”
“Then it couldn’t have been Señor Domecq. He was with Mrs. Mosman, Tilly Mosman, till seven in the morning.”
“How do you know?”
“I checked with him and then with Mrs. Mosman. He didn’t leave the brothel, as I gather she told you. He was upstairs in her private suite.”
Who isn’t in your pay? But Malone didn’t ask that question. That would mean laying his cards on the table and Fingal would see that it was a dead hand.
“How do you know Tilly Mosman?”
“I don’t.” He knew she could be trusted. “I had someone visit her. I’m investing money in these two men. I investigate everybody I back. It’s just plain business sense.”
Malone suddenly felt light-headed. He wanted to adjourn the interrogation. But that would mean losing his grip on the whip-handle; it was tenuous enough already. He sat up, held out his cup and Zara, the closest he had to an ally in this room, poured him more coffee from the silver pot. He gulped it down, forced himself at least to sound alert, if not to feel so. How did statesmen, shuttling across the world, keep wide awake when bargaining for peace? Would historians in the future take into account the effects of jet lag as now, writing of the past, they took into account those of syphilis and porphyria and a dozen other maladies of the past? He finished the coffee and put down the cup.
“Righto, that’s Saturday night accounted for. Now we have Tuesday night, when Father Marquez was murdered and someone tried to do me in, too.”
“I was at the airport, waiting to board the plane for here,” said Kerry Hourigan.
“And Señor Paredes and Domecq were at my home,” said Fingal Hourigan. “You have my word for that, Inspector.”
What’s that worth? Ten million? But insults would never get him anywhere, not even if he were wide awake and on top of the situation. They might arouse the unintelligent, who might lose their tempers; but Fingal would never lose his, any rage would be instantly under control. He stood up, knowing he had lost this round.
“I’ll sleep on what you’ve told me. I’ll be back again tomorrow.”
“I’ll have Paolo drive you home,” said Fingal, not bothering to rise. He had the smug look of a manager who, with his boxer, had just scored a knock-out. In his own eyes, though, he would never have given himself such a lowly image. He was a king-maker; or anyway a pope-maker. He was looking for a throne, not a champion’s title belt.
“No, thanks, I’ll walk,” said Malone curtly and left.
Outside in the night air he breathed deeply, trying to clear his lungs and his head, trying to stay awake. He knew that if he had accepted the lift back to the pensione he would have been asleep in the car before they reached there and Paolo, and probably Pirelli, would have had to carry him up to bed.
It was still early by what he guessed were Rome’s standards; the streets had none of the deserted look of midnight Sydney. He felt less light-headed, but he knew that if he had to break into a run for any reason he would just stumble and fall headlong. He walked carefully; how did modern cricketers turn out for net practice only a day after a twenty-four hour flight? He’d better have a check-up when he got back to Sydney; maybe there was something wrong with his blood pressure. Maybe the Hourigans were a health hazard.
He passed the ruins of the Forum, where the ghosts of ancient assassins lurked, and turned into the street where the Pensione Pirelli was, glad that he had only a few yards to go to his bed. Then he heard the footsteps behind him, heard them quicken into a run and he turned. The quick turn-round, with his light-headedness dizzied him and at the same time saved him; he fell against the man as the latter came at him with the knife. The fall saved him: he hit the man in the midriff with his shoulder, a thumping tackle. The man staggered back, hacked at him with the knife; Malone felt the blade hit the bone in his shoulder and he gasped. He fell away, kicking at the man as he came at him again, rolled over and came up on his feet and saw the attacker coming at him with the knife thrusting up for the kill. Then a gun went off right beside his ear.
The attacker stopped in his tracks, a gaping wound in his throat. He stood upright for a moment, his mouth open as if in surprise, then he toppled backwards. Malone turned and saw Captain Goffi, his gun still held for a second shot. Then the last thirty-six hours caught up with him in a black wave and he fell in a limp heap beside the man who had tried to kill him.
III
“He was a Mafia hit-man named Morello, brought in from Milan,” said General della Porta. “Captain Goffi has identified him.”
“I don’t believe the Mafia are involved in this,” said Malone.
“Of course not.” The General sounded as if he wanted no Italians involved, not even the Mafia. “Morello was a contract man, he did outside work if the pay was good enough.”
They were in della Porta’s office. After Goffi’s shot had rung out in the quiet side street it had been only a moment or two before an excited crowd had gathered. Goffi had been kneeling beside Malone when the latter had regained consciousness. He had leaned down and whispered in Malone’s ear, “Don’t say a word, just keep quiet.”
Then Signor Pirelli, in pyjamas, dressing-gown and a state of high concern, had appeared. “Signor Malone! What have they done?”
Goffi had taken over at once, giving Malone no chance to reply. “Get back to your phone, Dino, and call the ambulance.”
“And the police?”
“I am the police!” Goffi snapped, not wanting the city police to poke their noses into this affair. “Start running!”
The ambulance had arrived within five minutes. Malone, his shoulder numb, had remained dumb. He had got shakily to his feet and leaned against the wall behind him. He had looked down at the dead thug, but someone had thrown a sheet or curtain over him and he was now just an anonymous lump. When the ambulance arrived the body had been lifted in and then Goffi, who had disappeared for a few moments to talk to his cousin, had come back and helped Malone into the ambulance.
“I�
��ve told them to take us to carabinieri headquarters first. We’ll have a police surgeon look at your shoulder. If it’s bad, we’ll have to take you to a hospital. If it’s not, then we can keep this to ourselves. I’ve told my cousin not to speak to the newspapers.”
“I don’t care who knows,” said Malone. “I was bloody near killed tonight! If it hadn’t been for you . . .”
“You’ll think differently in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
But this morning, after ten hours’ sleep, he had felt differently. The police surgeon had said last night that the wound would heal without any serious consequences; the knife had skidded off his shoulder-blade and plunged down without much damage to the muscles. The shoulder was still sore and hurt when he moved his arm; but it was his left arm and he was right-handed. When he had woken he had had a bath instead of a shower, keeping the wound dry; the long sleep and the bath had made him feel much better. When Goffi had picked him up and brought him here to carabinieri headquarters he had been prepared to listen to what General della Porta had to say.
On the way across town he had said to Goffi, “Were you tailing me?”
“Yes,” said Goffi. “The General told me I wasn’t to let you out of my sight.”
“Was that bloke tailing me, too?”
“No, he was waiting for you in a doorway. He knew where you were staying—”
“Nobody else did but you and the General.”
Goffi smiled, unoffended. “Are you suspecting me or the General?”
“No. Sorry. Yes, there was someone else—Monsignor Lindwall.”
“Don’t be too suspicious, Inspector. I think you may have been tailed from the moment you landed at Fiumicino. You were fortunate I was right behind you. Otherwise I think you would have been dead.”
“He used a knife, the same way they killed the nun back in Sydney.”
“There may be a connection, but I don’t think so. Knives are just quieter than guns.”
“You can say that again.” Malone could still feel, rather than hear, the roar of Goffi’s gun beside his ear.
Now, in della Porta’s office, he said, “Had Morello been in Australia?”
“No,” said the General. “We checked with Milan—he was seen twice there last week. He didn’t commit your Sydney murders, Inspector.”
“Have you interviewed Archbishop Hourigan or his father?”
“No.”
Malone wanted to ask why not, but managed to bite on the question. His concern, however, must have been apparent, because the General said, “Is something worrying you, Inspector?”
Well, here I go for the high dive, Malone thought, and not for the first time: “General, how well do you know Mr. Hourigan and his son?”
Della Porta stared at him coldly, all the friendliness suddenly gone from his plump handsome face, bone seeming to show through the jowls. “You dare to ask me a question like that in front of one of my junior officers? You may go, Captain.”
Goffi rose. “Yes, General.” As he turned away, with his back to della Porta, he shot a warning glance at Malone.
When they were alone the General said, “I have been trying to help you, Inspector. I don’t like to be rewarded by that sort of insult, especially in front of a junior officer.”
Malone had had to eat crow before, but it had never been his favourite dish and it had never tasted worse than now. “I apologize, General. Twice in the past week someone has tried to murder me. I think I’m becoming desperate . . .”
Della Porta’s face didn’t soften. “You’re an experienced man, Inspector. Commissioner Leeds said he had the highest regard for you. You should know that someone in my position can’t always choose his bedfellows. I have to be a politician as much as a policeman—and sometimes a priest, too, since I have to deal with the Vatican. I was very good friends with Signor Berlingeur when he was chief of the Italian Communist Party, but that didn’t make me a Communist. I sat beside Licio Gelli, the head of P2, at dinners, but that never made me a Fascist. I’m sure it happens back in your own country, Inspector. Archbishop Hourigan, whom I’ve known for several years, telephoned me and asked me to join him and his father at the papal Mass. Perhaps they were using me as window-dressing—I don’t know. I may have been in the window, Inspector, but I assure you—I am not a store dummy!”
Malone could see the genuine anger in the man, even though he was holding it in control. He felt a sudden shame at his suspicions; and a quick stab of apprehension. If Commissioner Leeds got to hear of this, he would be reduced in rank and bound for Tibooburra.
“I’ll try biting my tongue, General, when I get out of here—if I get out—”
Delia Porta’s stern face abruptly broke into a smile. “I accept your apology, Inspector. You just needed to be taught a lesson. I’m not sitting in this chair because I scratched people’s backs and genuflected in the right direction. I occasionally have to do that, but it’s not the reason I hold the job. Corruption is endemic in public life in Italy, but nobody has ever offered me money—they know they would be in prison before they could put their hand back in their pocket. I hope you are the same way. Now what are we going to do about Archbishop Hourigan?”
“I want to take him back to Sydney. I think if I leaked something of the story to the media—”
“No.” The carabinieri chief stroked his moustache with his knuckle. He had once cultivated the media: he had thought of himself as unique, an honest civil servant, but the media, made cynical by local history, hadn’t believed him. “Let’s keep it between ourselves and the Vatican. Perhaps if Monsignor Lindwall could be persuaded to drop a few hints to those who run the Curia . . .”
Malone was driven across the Tiber with the General; the driver this time was a man who had had no Mille Miglia ambitions. “I like a stately progress,” said della Porta and in a moment of frank immodesty added, “I think I was a king in a previous existence. What were you, Inspector?”
“I’ve never considered the possibility, General. Whatever I was, I don’t think I was on the side of the angels. If I was, the buggers have let me down in this life.”
General della Porta smiled. He had never thought of himself as on the side of the angels, even in a fanciful existence as a king. They, he thought as they crossed the river, were with those on this side of the Tiber.
Monsignor Lindwall’s white eyebrows rose when he saw Malone’s arm in its sling. “What happened? Has the General been twisting your arm?”
“No, Monsignor,” said della Porta, smiling at the little man; these two had a great deal of respect for each other, they were real friends, not political ones. He told Lindwall what had happened, then said, “We need your help, Guy.”
“What happened to the man who tried to kill Inspector Malone?”
“He committed suicide,” said della Porta blandly, ignoring Malone’s quick glance.
“Voluntarily or involuntarily?”
“Don’t ask too many questions, Guy. It’s not your mission to straighten out the truth, not on our side of the river. Now what can you do for Inspector Malone to get the Archbishop on a plane for Australia?”
“Can you leave the Inspector with me? Let’s see what can be done with the truth on this side of the river.”
General della Porta stroked his moustache, left them with a wink and a nod and went back across the Tiber, into the country of poets, plotters and lions that, before they turned to stone, had once had a fundamental way of dealing with those in the Church. Perhaps, he thought, I was an emperor and more than a king . . .
Guy Lindwall took Malone for a walk in the Vatican gardens. The spring sunshine was warming up; the statuary looked as if sap might begin to flow in it. Staff were coming and going, all carrying folders, like good civil servants, all looking preoccupied if not busy: bureaucrats are the same the world over, Malone thought. Two cardinals passed, neither carrying a folder: Permanent Secretaries who had to do nothing to justify their employment.
“Cardinals Fellari and Lupi,” said Lindwall. “Two men we might talk to if it’s necessary . . . They, too, dream of being Pope some day.”
“Too? Who else?”
“Why, our own Archbishop, of course. He’ll be a cardinal before long and then it’s just another step . . . He thinks we don’t know about it, but we do, at least those of us in our Department. But we never discuss it. Who knows—he might make it. And who wouldn’t want to be on the Pope’s personal staff? On the periphery of the centre of attention, the trips abroad . . . And, of course, guaranteed entry into Heaven.”
“Not you, I’ll bet.”
The little man grinned, looked like a white-headed mischievous boy. “Think of the chaos I could cause!” Then he sobered. “I think we should go and see His Grace now.”
Malone put his free hand on his arm. “Guy, wait a minute . . . I don’t want you shoving your neck out on this. You have to live with this man. If I don’t nail him on some charge back home, he’ll be back here. And where will that leave you?”
“My dear boy—” Guy Lindwall suddenly sounded very English, more so than at any time since Malone had met him. The public school, the manor house in the Cumbrian dales, Oxford: all of it was a long way behind him. He was, if anything, more colonial than Cumbrian; but three centuries of influential family can’t be wiped out in a lifetime spent in foreign climes. Malone knew the feeling: sometimes he felt he pissed Irish bog-water. “My dear boy, at my age there are no risks, only whims. Detective stories are my favourite reading. Conan Doyle, Freeman Wills Croft, the American, Raymond Chandler—they were my salvation out in Africa, not my breviary. If I can help you solve who murdered your young nun and the priest, The Lord will take care of me. He always has up till now.”
Malone grinned. “If ever I go to Confession again, I think I’ll wait till you’re in the confessional.”
“Glad to be of service. Now let’s see how much service I can be in this other matter.”
Archbishop Hourigan was in his office, a room small enough to have compacted his conceits. He started up in surprise when he saw Malone. “Inspector! What happened? An accident?”