by Jon Cleary
Clements, puzzlement creasing his big face, said, “Then where the hell have you been?”
It was not something Malone wanted to discuss in front of Chilla Dural. He, Leeds and Dural had gone back to Kirribilli. Fortague had followed, Walter Springfellow riding with him, and the two ASIO men who had been on the stake-out had brought up the rear. Malone and Dural had sat outside in the Commodore and it had been almost an hour before the Commissioner had emerged.
He had paused some distance from the car and called Malone over to him. “Sorry we’ve been so long. Fortague had to talk to all of those with the need to know.” He twisted his mouth, as if he found the phrase and the process behind it distasteful. “The Director-General down in Canberra and then they had to get someone from SIS in London out of bed.”
“Did they tell the PM?”
“An ex-TV chat star? He’d never be able to resist making an anecdote out of it. No, there’s only the D-G of ASIO, Fortague, those two men who were with us this morning and whoever it is at SIS in London.”
“And you and me.” Then he looked across at his car. “And Chilla Dural.”
“Yes,” said Leeds. “He’s the real risk.”
Malone wasn’t certain, now, that Dural would be a risk. But, of course, no one could be certain of what confidences were kept or exchanged in the loneliness of a prison.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” he told Clements. “What happened to Broad?”
“The beak gave him bail, a hundred thousand and his passport surrendered. You wouldn’t believe it, he had the hide to ring Venetia and ask her to stand surety for him—I think he’s around the bend, in a cold-blooded sorta way. She must have told him to get stuffed, because he got off the phone looking ready for another murder. He threatened me and you.” He looked at Dural at that.
“I dunno the guy,” said Dural, all true innocence. He was going home and he wanted no more fights with the police.
“Who put up the bail?”
“In the end he raised it himself. He got the magistrate to accept his car and his flat as surety and his bank lent him the money on the strength of those. He left the court about an hour ago.”
“Has he still got it in for you and me?”
“He’s got it in for everyone—”
Then the shot rang out and the bullet bounced off the roof of the Commodore. It hit Chilla Dural right between the eyes and he died without time to regret anything. He fell against Malone, who went down under his weight. Clements dropped behind the car, looking wildly around for the gunman.
“Where the hell is he?”
Malone rolled out from under the dead Dural and got his gun awkwardly out of his holster. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that two uniformed officers had come out of the Centre and were crouched behind two pillars.
“Can you see him?” he yelled.
“He’s up there behind the green Porsche!”
“It’s him!” said Clements. “What the hell’s he trying to do? Take on the whole force? What a place to choose!”
If he’s after me, thought Malone, better here than out in a quiet street in Randwick, with Lisa and the kids cowering inside the house and him outside trying to battle Broad on his own.
Another bullet hit the car, this time slamming into a tyre which went down with a loud hiss. Broad was evidently trying to fire under the Commodore, but Malone and Clements were lying flat on the pavement, protected by the height of the kerb. A car came up the street and drove directly between the gunman and the police officers, its driver unaware that he was crossing a battlefield. Broad waited till he had gone, then he fired again, this time at the two officers crouched behind the pillars. Malone, glancing back, saw figures behind the glass doors of the lobby; even as he looked at them, a splintered star suddenly appeared in one of the doors and two people in the lobby dropped to the floor and crawled away. He glanced down to his left and saw the Tactical Response team in their protective vests coming on the run up from the underground garage.
“He’s a goner now!” Clements got up on one knee, held his gun with both hands and fired in the direction of the Porsche. “They’ll fix him!”
Malone raised himself cautiously, looked over the bonnet of his car and up the street. He saw the barrel of a rifle come up over the roof of the Porsche and he ducked as a bullet smashed the windscreen of the Commodore. “He’s got a bloody rifle! Where did he get that?”
A marked car screeched its way up the ramp of the garage, swung left and went down to the end of the street, where it slewed to a stop, blocking two cars and a truck as they came up from Wentworth Avenue. They slammed on their brakes, but the two cars still managed to crash into the truck. A car turned in at the top end of the street and cruised slowly down as its driver looked for a parking spot. Broad fired at it, smashing a rear side-window; the driver slammed on his brakes, as if he were going to get out and start a fight with whoever had damaged his car. Then he saw Broad aiming his rifle at him again and he abruptly changed his mind. He stepped on the accelerator and he went down the slight hill and swung into a side-street in a tyre-screeching turn that almost put his car on its side.
People were hanging out of windows in the buildings opposite the Police Centre; someone, through a bullhorn, advised them to pull their heads in and the spectators suddenly disappeared. The Tactical Response men were working their way up the line of parked cars on the opposite side of the street from Malone’s Commodore. Broad would be totally exposed to their fire in another moment or two.
All at once he stood up, in full view of everyone, put the end of the rifle barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Malone shut his eyes, not wanting to see the terrible sight, even at a distance; then he opened them and Broad was still standing there, looking frighteningly ridiculous, the gun barrel still in his mouth while he kept jerking at the trigger. Then he threw the gun away, screaming at it, walked out into the middle of the roadway, sat down and put his face in his hands and began to weep.
“The bugger’s mad!” said Clements.
Malone stood up; he felt he had been crouched down for hours. He looked down at poor, dead Chilla Dural; then he took out his handkerchief and spread it over the bloody face. He wondered who, if anyone, would grieve for the ex-con and made up his mind that he would be there when Dural was buried.
Then he walked up the street, his legs unsteady, towards where the Tactical Response men were hauling Michael Broad to his feet.
“Where did you get the gun?” he said.
But Michael Broad was past giving a sane answer to any question.
14
I
“HE CAME here looking for me,” said Venetia. “But my mother and I had gone out to Mulawa early, to the prison. We had to see Justine before she heard the news about her father. We expected the worst, that something terrible had happened to him and she would hear it on the radio before we’d even told her that he was alive.”
“How did Broad get into the house?” said Malone.
“Why wouldn’t the security guard let him in? Or Mrs. Leyden? They didn’t know he’d been arrested and charged. There was a news flash on the radio after he’d been charged at the magistrate’s court, but neither the guard nor Mrs. Leyden heard it. You kept it out of the news last night that you’d charged him.”
“We had to,” said Malone. “We wanted all the evidence in first. We’ve got it all now, the Crown Prosecutor has it. That’s how your daughter was freed this afternoon. What did he do when he got in here?”
“He smashed the gun cabinet, as you saw. Mrs. Leyden had left him alone, to go and get him some coffee. When she came back he’d gone with the gun—was it a Winchester? Something like that—and he’d taken ammunition from the bottom drawer.”
They were in the big drawing-room: Malone, Clements, Venetia and Alice Magee. It was early evening and the lights were on; beyond the darkened sun-room and the black garden there were moving lights on the harbour. Malone could not remember having lived a
longer day, yet his watch told him it was only 6.30. The day had better be finished or he was going to give up.
“Did you know there was still all that ammunition in that drawer?”
“Inspector, we never opened it,” said Alice, taking over. Venetia was pale and drawn, looking her age and even beyond it; her day, Malone guessed, had been even longer than his own. “Why would we? The security guards checked it once a month, but we left it there. The drawer is sealed tight, Walter had it made that way . . . Michael knew it was there, he arranged all the insurance. I don’t think he came here looking for a gun, but when he saw the cabinet with all the guns in it . . .” She looked at Venetia almost accusingly. “We should have got rid of it, all the guns, everything, years ago. Then maybe none of this would have happened.”
Malone said gently, “You would have had to have got rid of it before Sir Walter took the Colt from it. It’s no use talking about ifs and maybes . . .”
Then Walter and Justine came into the room. They were holding hands, and Malone noticed the constraint that still gripped each of them. They were not yet father and daughter, not as Malone and Claire or Maureen were. That might take months, but Walter Springfellow had left it too late.
“I want to thank you, Inspector. And you, too, Sergeant.” Justine took her hand out of her father’s and put it out to Malone and then to Clements. “I hated you both for a while, you were so determined to . . . But you’ve both been fair. You could have stopped looking for the real murderer.”
Malone didn’t look at Clements, but he could feel the other’s discomfort. “There were certain things that nagged at us. We just followed them up. That’s all police work is—following up things.”
“Well, I’m grateful, anyway. So is my—my father.”
“Yes,” said Walter. “We’re grateful for certain other things, too.” He looked at Clements. “Inspector Malone has explained the situation to you, Sergeant?”
“In the car coming over here,” said Clements. “Scobie and I have no secrets from each other. Otherwise we couldn’t work together.”
Get the knife out of my ribs, Russ.
“The Commissioner has had a word with me, too,” said Clements. “If ever I open my mouth, I’m to be shot.”
Walter shut his eyes for a moment and Malone shook his mind, if not his head. “You shouldn’t have put it that way, Sergeant. Enough people have been shot. Poor Chilla Dural—”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Clements bit his lip, looked as if he also wanted to bite his tongue.
Venetia said, “Will Justine or I have to give evidence against Michael Broad?”
“I’m afraid so,” Malone told her. “We’ll probably never know why he shot your sister-in-law—she must have had something on him, something to do with the takeover. Losing everything in the Crash could have tipped him over the edge—maybe there was a history of family madness or instability, but I don’t know if the Czechs will ever give us any help on that. They’ll just put it down as another symptom of capitalist greed.” He saw the sudden amused look on Venetia’s face and he realized that, like Clements, he had just put his foot in his mouth.
“Well, Inspector, it might just be the truth.”
She doesn’t believe that, he thought. He went on, “He won’t be allowed to plead, not the way he is at present. The trial won’t be for another six months at least. By then . . .”
“We leave on Monday,” said Venetia. “Justine and I will be going in our company plane, but my husband—” She hadn’t hesitated, as Justine had in claiming her father, “—he’ll be going by Lufthansa. We don’t want our own crew suspecting who he might be.”
“You’ll have to tell us where you’ll be,” said Malone. “Just in case.”
“We’ve already told that to ASIO and Commissioner Leeds,” said Walter. “We’re going to a village in the Black Forest in Germany. I lived there years ago, when I first—disappeared. But nobody will remember me. At least not enough to be suspicious of me. I’ll just be Mr. Skelly, who’s come back for a long holiday with his wife and daughter.” With him, too, there was no hesitation in the claim.
A short holiday, thought Malone; and saw the look of pain in the faces of the three women. “Well, if we need you, Lady Springfellow, though I don’t think we shall—”
“I’ll be here,” said Alice Magee. “Keeping an eye on things.” And you knew she would be, too. “Getting rid of a few things, too. I’m going to sell your gun collection, Walter.”
“Whatever you say, Alice.” Walter smiled: he was at peace with everyone, with whatever they wanted to do.
“If we have to go to your company, Lady Springfellow, I mean to look at Broad’s papers—”
“Edwin is coming out of retirement,” said Venetia. “He’s going to run everything till—till I come back. He’ll be cooperative.”
There was nothing more to say. Malone and Clements shook hands all round, then went out to the front door. Venetia followed them. Malone had noticed that this evening she was not wearing her trademark colours; the pink and grey had given way to a pale blue. She noticed his look.
“It used to be Walter’s favourite colour. I’ve had it for years—it’s a little tight—”
He wondered how many other women kept a garment in a closet as a memento (or a reminder of guilt?) of a missing husband. He also wondered how many women could fit into a dress they had last worn twenty-two years ago. It would be something to discuss with Lisa. John Leeds and Guy Fortague had decided the list of those with the need to know about Walter Springfellow; Malone had added Lisa’s name to the list, though the Commissioner and the ASIO chief would never need to know that. There were certain debts that had to be paid to a policeman’s wife.
“We’ll never be able to repay you,” said Venetia.
There was nothing to say to that. Truly charitable men don’t add up what debts are owed to them; and Malone and Clements, each in his own way, were charitable men. Clements smiled and said, “Just let me know when the next stock market boom is going to start.”
“You’re an investor?”
“Through and through,” said Malone. “He’s a little long in the tooth, a late starter, but he wants to be a rich yuppie.”
II
Three months later, almost to a day, Commissioner Leeds rang Malone at Homicide. “Walter Springfellow died yesterday. Venetia and Justine are going to bury him in Germany, then they’ll be coming home.”
“So it’s all over.”
There was silence at the other end of the line, then Leeds said, “Yes, I suppose as much as anything is ever over. Some day someone will discover the secret of it all. I just hope we are all gone by then.”
A couple of days later Jack Montgomery rang from the Herald, “Scobie, you never got back to me about that Russian, Uritzsky, and the disappearance of Walter Springfellow.”
He’s heard something, Malone thought; but all he said was, “Nothing ever came of it, Jack.”
“We-e-ell—” The slow drawl seemed stretched out even more than usual. “If it ever does, you owe me, Scobie.”
“You’ll be the first to know, Jack.”
But not from me. He was working on another homicide. The Springfellow files, both sets of them, had been taken away. Russ Clements had a new murder box and the running sheets had a new name at the top, a new reference number. Life, and death, goes on.
THE END
FREE PREVIEW OF THE NEXT SCOBIE MALONE MYSTERY:
MURDER SONG
1
I
IT WAS a perfect day for aviators, bird watchers, photographers and sniping murderers. The air had that clean bright light that occurs on some days in Sydney in the winter month of August; the wind blows out of the west, across the dry flat continent, and scours the skies to a brilliant blue shine. Thin-blooded citizens turn up their coat collars and look east to the sea or north for the coming of spring. But hardier souls, depending upon their pay or their inclinations, welcome the wind-polished days of Augus
t.
The construction worker, in hard hat and thick lumber jacket, was alone on the steel beam of the framework of the twentieth floor of the new insurance building in Chatswood, a northern suburb. He was leaning against the wind, holding tightly to the safety rope, looking north, when the bullet hit him in the chest. He did not see it coming, despite the clear light; if he cried out as he died, no one heard him. He fell backwards, away from the safety rope, was already dead as he went down in a clear fall to the ground two hundred feet below.
Several of his workmates, horrified, saw him fall. None of them at that moment knew he had been shot. None of them looked for the murderer, so none of them saw him. The shot could have come from any one of half a dozen neighbouring buildings, all of them occupied, but the time was 9.10 in the morning and bosses and workers were still settling down at their desks. It was too early in the day to be staring out of windows.
The dead man was Harry Gardner, a cheerful extrovert with a wife and four children and not an enemy in the world. Except the unknown man who had killed him.
II
A week later, on a cold rainy night when no one had a good word to say about August, Terry Sugar, a twenty-four-year veteran of the New South Wales Police Department, was getting out of his car in the driveway of his home in Mount Druitt, a western suburb of Sydney, when the bullet hit him in the neck, went down through his chest, came out and lodged in the car seat. He saw his killer, though he did not recognize him, but he died almost instantly and had no time to tell anyone.
First Class Sergeant Sugar was married and had two sons, one at high school and the other in his first year at university. Naturally, as a policeman, not everyone was his friend: that was the Australian way. He had, however, received no death threats; for the last year he had been in charge of the desk at the Parramatta Police Centre and had been working on no outside cases. The detectives assigned to the murder attempted no written guesses, but amongst themselves they put the killing down as the work of a crank who had a grudge against all police, a thrill-killer or someone who had mistaken his victim for someone else.