by Jon Cleary
He was no longer smiling. “As soon as Mr. Deng returns I shall call you.”
“Before we go,” said Malone, “what do you know about a woman named Tzu Chao? Madame Tzu, as she likes to be called.”
“I think Mr. Deng should answer that.” He had retreated behind his own Great Wall. “I shall call you as soon as he returns.”
Outside in the street Gail Lee said, “Where to now?”
“I think we’d better go and see Madame Tzu before she bolts.”
IV
The Vanderbilt was one of the oldest apartment blocks in the central business district, built right after World War One. There were few Australian millionaires then, so such style and luxury had to be named after the American super-rich; the American invasion has been around much longer than the cap-on-backwards, basketballing, guys-and-gals generation know. Nobody bought off the plan; that sort of gamble came later. But as soon as the building was finished, buyers fell over each other to be amongst the chosen few. For the next seventy-five years living in the Vanderbilt retained its cachet. It was in Macquarie Street, the finest street in the city. It rose twelve storeys above the Botanical Gardens and was halfway between the Opera House and Parliament House, equidistant from harmony and discord.
The concierge was missing from his cubicle and Malone and Gail Lee walked straight through the foyer to the lifts. The timber panelling of the lift looked as if it was polished every week; the button-panel was a brass mirror.
“I like luxury,” said Gail. “This old-fashioned kind.”
“Notice how slowly the lift travels? Nobody in this building has to rush to earn a dollar.”
“I wonder how the other tenants feel about having Communists as neighbours?”
“Rich Communists—there’s a difference. Anyhow, do you think Madame Tzu is a Communist?”
The Bund apartment took in all the tenth floor. It was expensively furnished, with only the occasional Oriental piece, as if the interior decorator had been given a nudge. The big living room did have a large silk rug laid over the plain white carpet. The pictures on the walls were Oriental scenes, but none of them suggested anything that might remotely resemble Chairman Mao’s philosophy. The Great Leader had faded from the scene, at least here.
Madame Tzu hadn’t bolted. She received Malone and Gail Lee with the impeccable charm of a professional hostess. The smile, perhaps, was put on like make-up; she showed them to chairs as if seating them at ringside. If she was wary of them she gave no sign of it. She was absolutely at home in the Vanderbilt.
Malone, as soon as he had stepped into the apartment, had a feeling of familiarity. He must have betrayed it in some way because Madame Tzu said, “You are looking for something, Inspector?”
“No,” he said, suddenly remembering, “I was here in this apartment eight or nine years ago. “The woman who owned it was murdered.”
She showed no shock, gave no shudder. “How interesting. I haven’t noticed any ghost. Were you expecting to see one?”
“Homicide detectives never look for ghosts. We’d never sleep if we did.”
She offered them tea, rang a bell on a side table and an elderly woman in a blue smock appeared from a rear door. Madame Tzu said something in Chinese and the woman disappeared. Then she sat down, arranging herself in a gilt-armed chair as if granting them an audience. She was wearing a grey silk dress and a single strand of black pearls. This morning she was not wearing sunglasses and Malone, for the first time, saw the calculation in her eyes. Ghosts would never disturb her.
“So how can I help you?”
Malone plunged straight in: “Madame Tzu, on Saturday you told us that you and Mr. Shan had known each other since student days. You also told us you had once worked together in the Central China Department of Trade. Would you care to alter your story?”
There was a sudden remoteness in the dark eyes. “In what way?”
“Well, for one thing, Madame Tzu, Mr. Shan never worked in the Department of Trade. For another, I doubt if you were ever students together. He must have been older than we thought—when he was retired from the army five years ago, he was a general—General Huang Piao. You knew that, of course?”
She sat very still, saying nothing.
Malone went on, “Even in the Chinese army I don’t think they have generals who are barely middle-aged.”
Her smile was white lacquer. “You are guessing at my age again.”
She’s playing for time. “We’re guessing at a lot of things.”
They were interrupted by the maid bringing in a tray; Malone wondered if a kettle was kept on constant boil out in the kitchen. Tea was poured from a china pot into thin china cups: it was pale tea with a slice of lemon, take it or leave it. But the biscuits offered with it were Aussie icons: Monte Carlos.
“Do I have to answer your questions, Inspector?” Madame Tzu sipped her tea, nodded her approval at the maid, who slipped out of sight again. “Perhaps I should have a lawyer here with me? I seem to be under suspicion of some sort. You like your tea?”
“It’s fine, thanks. You can have a lawyer, if you wish, but I think you can handle our questions without any outside help.”
Madame Tzu looked at Gail. “Is he flattering me?”
“I’ve never known him to do it before,” said Gail, not looking at her boss.
Madame Tzu seemed to be searching for answers in her tea leaves; then she said, “Yes, Mr. Shan was an army general. But we did know each other as students—he came to Oxford to study History. History as the West has written it, that is.”
“He was older than you?”
“Yes, he was a colonel at the time. A mature student, I think they are called these days.”
“Did you ever work for the Department of Trade?”
“Yes, I did. So did Mr. Shan after he left the army—he was an outside consultant. I take it you think I lied to you?”
“I think you believe all truth is relative.”
Madame Tzu looked at Gail again. “You have taught him Taoism?”
“He’s a quick learner,” said Gail.
Malone said, “Madame Tzu, let’s cut out the—”
“Bullshit?” The word hung on her lips like a cold sore.
“That wasn’t the word I was going to use, but okay, it’ll do. I take it you knew the two young engineers who worked at Olympic Tower? Tong and Guo?”
“Worked? They still do, as far as I know.”
“I don’t think so. They didn’t report in this morning and we’ve been to their flats. They’re both gone.”
She took refuge in her teacup again, considered, then said, “Yes, I know them. I have no idea why they have disappeared.”
“A student named Zhang and a girl student Li Ping—did you know them?”
“No.”
But she had hesitated. “You’re sure? We asked you about Zhang on Saturday morning—you didn’t appear surprised that he had been murdered.”
“If I didn’t know him, why should I be surprised? You are a homicide detective—are you surprised by murder?”
“It’s our trade.”
“Inspector, I’m old enough to have seen a thousand murders. My country went through a terrible period . . .” She put down her cup; there was just the slightest agitation in her hand. “No, I am not surprised by murder.”
“Not Mr. Shan’s?” said Gail.
The older woman looked at her. “You are one of the lucky ones. You have our heritage but none of our tragedy. Don’t start judging what you’ve never experienced.”
“Were you a Red Guard?”
“No, I was not!” All the composure was gone; she was consumed with hatred, anger that made her ugly. But not at us, thought Malone: “Those idiot fanatics murdered my parents and my brother!”
Thirty years on was a little too late to offer sympathy; both detectives remained silent. Madame Tzu faced away from them for a long moment; then she slowly turned back. Her face was expressionless; it was as if nothing had happe
ned. “Do you have any more questions?”
“Not at the moment,” said Malone, rising. He was no fisherman, but he had learned the value of a long line. “But I’m sure there’ll be more questions. Thank you for the tea.”
At the door he turned back. “Do you have any contact with the media, Madame?”
“None at all. I’ve never found them necessary.”
Oh, if only we could have that attitude. “Keep it that way. As a favour.”
“Tell me when you’re coming next time,” she said, “and we’ll do it with a little more ceremony.”
“That’ll be nice,” he said. “Why did you visit Mr. Tong on Friday night?”
He had jerked on the line: she stiffened. “I thought you said Tong had disappeared?”
“He has. But someone saw you at the door of his flat on Friday night. They described you to a T, Madame Tzu.” A little exaggeration never got in the way when questioning. “Was he still alive then?”
Her mouth was tight, she looked as if she would refuse to answer; then: “Yes, he was alive. He gave me no hint that he was going to—to disappear. We talked about how Olympic Tower was coming along, then I left. I wasn’t there more than half an hour.”
She’s too glib. “Was anyone else there? Mr. Guo?”
“No. I got there at eighty-thirty and left at nine.” Precisely: he waited for her to show a timesheet.
“Well, thank you. We had to ask.”
“Of course. You wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t. I hope you find Tong and Guo.”
Malone opened the door, ushered Gail out ahead of him. “Oh, we’ll find them. We always do. Dead or alive.”
She didn’t blink, showed no expression at all; just said, “You mentioned that the woman who owned this apartment was murdered. By her husband or a lover?”
“No, by a business partner.”
V
“Something is rotten in the State of Denmark.”
When Lisa got pompous, which was rarely, Malone knew they were in for serious discussion. Monday night, now that television was in the non-ratings seasons, was a poor night for entertainment. Maureen had gone out to a girl friend’s, Tom was in his room weaving strings on the Internet, and Claire and her parents were in the living room, each with a book.
Malone put down his book, a paperback by Carl Hiassen. He rarely read crime novels, most of which seemed to him to be written by the Muscle Beach school of writing; but Hiassen and Elmore Leonard made him laugh at the crims they invented. Lately he had found that, more and more, he was looking for humour in his reading. He had recently discovered Gwyn Thomas, a dead dyspeptic Welsh humorist, who, as far as he could gather, no one else in Australia had read. Thomas’ sour humour had begun to appeal to him.
Lisa had closed her own book, a history of the Olympic Games. It was her homework, but she had confessed it was boring her; when she had applied for the job at Town Hall no one had thought to ask her if she was interested in sport. Claire closed her book, a David Malouf paperback. None of them would have remarked it, but three books open in the same room at the same time was an oasis in a gradually growing desert.
“I’m talking about the Town Hall,” said Lisa, “I was at a meeting today. Something came up about Olympic Tower and suddenly I and the secretary, Rosalie, were asked to leave.”
Malone knew about exclusion from committees; corrupt cops, especially senior ones, had never wanted an honest one in attendance. “Go on.”
“Raymond Brode was going to be asked some questions that outsiders, like Rosalie and me, weren’t supposed to hear. There was a hint there might have been a handout, a bribe. There are four more floors due on Olympic Tower that none of the works and planning committees knew about.”
“What would happen,” said Malone, “when the tower is finished and someone looks up and starts counting?”
“That would depend, according to Rosalie, who seems to know about these things. Probably nothing, unless some architects or builders who missed out on the job decided to get nasty and ask questions.”
“How did they find out?” asked Claire.
“Through me. I put in a report that gave the game away.” Lisa explained what had happened.
“You should follow it up,” said Claire, already half a lawyer.
“No,” said Malone. “Let it lie. This Olympic Tower business looks dirty.”
“But how can they get away with it? What if the building is unsafe with the extra floors on it? I mean, surely someone can spill the beans?”
“Self-protection,” said Malone with the weariness of long experience. “It’s the skin on every committee. If someone does add up the new level and compares it with the original plans and then asks questions, the committee will say the extra floors were approved. They are not going to admit they were asleep or hadn’t been near the site since the plans were first approved. It’s called survival of the slickest.”
“Oh my God, how can you be so cynical?”
“You’ll learn, when you become a lawyer.”
“Rosalie explained it all,” said Lisa. “From now till the Olympics we’re the squeaky clean city. No scandal, nothing.”
She was not naïve. She knew that corruption was part of the body politic, that in most of the world it was the aspirin that kept the circulation going. She had been isolated in a happy marriage, where there was only the sweet corruption of love. It was not enough just to read about venality, as one did almost every day. In newsprint one did not get the smell.
“You still haven’t said whether it will make the building unsafe.” Claire had a lawyer’s persistence: in another year or two, thought Malone, she’s going to be a real pain in the arse.
“I don’t know,” said Lisa. “I could ask one of the council engineers—”
“Stay out of it.” Malone was adamant, “I told you, this could be a really dirty business.”
“Explain yourself,” said the trainee lawyer.
“Pull your head in,” said her father. “I’m not in court. Just accept what I’m saying—it’s going to get dirty. There have been four murders so far, three people are missing—” He saw the shine in Claire’s eyes, a sort of madness that he had seen grip young legal eagles; eventually, as cynicism set in, the infection would subside. “Calm down. You’ve got a long way to go before you’re a Crown prosecutor.”
“Well, someone should find out if the building’s going to be safe. Sydney won’t be squeaky clean if a five-star hotel collapses and kills a load of tourists.”
“I’ll talk to someone. In the meantime, don’t you talk to any of your mates at law school—”
“As if I would—”
“As if you wouldn’t. Women were the first gossips, lawyers were the second—”
Both women threw their books at him. The Olympic Games history, a hardback, hurt the most.
5
I
TUESDAY MORNING Boston came to Malone after the morning conference. He had always been neat in appearance, but now he seemed even neater, as if his wife had run an iron over him before he had left home and he had come to work on foot so as not to disturb the creases. There was also a newly ironed look to his demeanour. He had thrown out last week’s sullenness, looked keen to impress. Too late, mate, thought Malone; but made no comment.
“I went back to Union Hall this morning—early.” As if to underline his new git-up-and-go. “I talked to a mate there. Not one of the officials like Albie Lloyd, just one of the clerks. They’re worried about what’s going on at Olympic Tower.”
“In what way? The murders have nothing to do with them. I hope,” he added. Union strife was always something to be avoided if you were a cop: you were always on the wrong side.
“The Chinese are trying to split the two unions by offering enterprise agreements. The Construction mob don’t want to have anything to do with it—they think it’ll lead to too many risks being taken.”
“Are risks being taken now?” Do the unions know about the e
xtra levels?
“My mate wasn’t sure about that. But he says the Allied Trades lot are willing to listen—anything that’ll shift the Construction mob off the site.”
“Which Chinese?”
“Why, the Hong Kong crowd. The Communists.” He spoke with the bile of the Far Right, but Malone had always made it a principle never to ask any of his detectives their political opinion. They could be anti-politics, but not pro-party.
“Does Union Hall think the Hong Kong crowd did the murders?”
“Of course. They think it’s cut-and-dried.”
“I wish I had that cut-and-dried attitude that everyone but cops seems to have. It’s too pat, Harold. Why would they kill one of their own? Mr. Shan. Ex-General Huang Piao?”
Boston shrugged. “Who understands the Chinese? Or Communists, for that matter?”
This feller is out of the 1950s. But Malone knew that some of those attitudes were still more widespread than was generally admitted. “Is that your thinking or Union Hall’s?”
“Mine, I guess,” Boston admitted. “They’re still pretty Leftish down there.”
“Righto, let’s stick with your thinking. If we don’t understand the Chinese, where does that put Les Chung?”
“He’s a capitalist, a developer—there’s no problem understanding them.”
“Are you for or against developers?”
Boston all at once seemed to become aware that he was straying into territory he hadn’t previously explored. He had no idea what Malone’s political inclinations were. Police were supposed to stay out of political waters, but that was like asking fish to sunbake.
He hedged: “Why would Les Chung try to complicate things for himself? Another thing—he was in that booth with the three guys who were shot. If he hadn’t come up to talk to you, like you told us, they’d have done him.”
“But he wasn’t in the booth when the shooting started. What if he’d known the killer was coming?” Malone had considered this, but rejected it. Lisa said there had been real fear on Chung’s face when he had seen what was happening in the rear booth. “There’s Jack Aldwych to think about, too. Jack used to hire killers.”