by Jon Cleary
“What?”
“How much money have you got on you?”
He laughed again, this time without forcing it. “Christ, that's a comedown, isn't it? A hundred thousand and now you'll take pocket money?”
“More than that,” she said. “All your cash and your travellers' cheques. How much?”
“You're a bushranger, you know that? Mrs. Bloody Ned Kelly.”
But all at once he wanted to be rid of her, wanted time to think how to deal with her. He got up, looked in his wallet and took out two hundred-dollar notes. Then he went into the bedroom, got two five-hundred-dollar cheques, came back and signed them. He handed them and the money to her.
“A bank might query where you got them from—”
“I'll cash 'em, don't worry.” She took the money and the cheques and put them in her handbag. Then she stood up, the rough edge of her voice gone again now: “I'm not being malicious, Mr. Baker. I'm just trying to even things out—”
“Who with?”
She smiled, shook her head. “Just the world in general. I'm not a communist or a socialist—I'd love to be rich. But the gap between rich and poor is getting bigger every day—” She patted her handbag and what she had just put in it. “This'll close the gap a little.”
“No, you're getting even—”
She held up a hand, almost as if she might put her fingers to his lips. Then she opened her handbag, took out a slip of paper and handed it to him. “I've written my address there. And my bank—I have an account, but I don't think there's anything in it but bank fees. I'll give you time to get home to Wisconsin and your—you're not a car salesman, are you?”
“No,” he said with his honest stare. “Actually, I'm in insurance.”
“Well, whatever. I'll give you two weeks and if I haven't got the hundred thousand by then, I'll be going back to Inspector Malone to tell him you're the man I saw coming out of Mrs. Pavane's room the night she was murdered.” She looked around the apartment. “Nice place. You should see where I live.”
Then she opened the front door, smiled at him again with the pretty mouth and was gone. He shut the door, refraining from slamming it; then from the doorway of the apartment opposite the cleaning woman stared at him with all the antagonism of—what had she called it?—the gap between the rich and the poor. The bloody no-hopers wanted to take over the world without working for it.
He went back into the living room and stood at the window again, staring out at the windowed cliffs and, buried somewhere in their depths, the site where he had first met Trish Norval and the whole fucking disaster had begun.
He stood there for almost ten minutes, mind working, stumbling over itself, trying to find a pattern. He had to be out of the country before they could get the court order for him to have the DNA test. Once back in Canada there might, just might, be some way of avoiding a court order issued in a foreign country; he would embarrass Walter by asking him. He could not raise a smile at the thought.
The immediate danger was Delia Jones. With her pointing the finger, an extradition order could be issued; Canada would not say no to that. Then he reached for the phone book, found a number, punched the buttons:
“May I speak to Mr. Farro?”
II
The day after the funeral Billy Pavane came back home to the big house on Ward Parkway. The day was overcast and a wind, coming ahead of the tornadoes in the south like a messenger, was bending the magnolia trees that Billy's mother had so carefully protected and nurtured. Occasionally a windowpane rattled, as if ghosts were trying to get in.
“I'm sorry, Dad. I was hoping to make it yesterday, but we were cleaning up after a fire—”
Stephen Pavane, ill at ease with his son but delighted to see him, said, “Fire? What sort of fire?”
“A forest fire. I'm a ranger, Dad. With the National Park Service. Up in Washington State, I've been with them a year—”
There was an awkwardness between them; three years' separation there like a long dinner table at which each was afraid to change his position. “Billy—” It was like an echo, a sad voice calling someone else. “I'm glad you're back.”
His son had grown, filled out, was a big boy—no, man. He had some of the Pavane handsomeness, but his mother was there in him, too: the soft dark eyes, the cleft in the chin, the look of caution. Stephen had tried to give him the best, as he had been given by his father. Norma had sent him east to Phillips Exeter, Yale, vacations in France and Italy. She had come from Virginia and it had been as if she were intent on rubbing off the rough Mid-West edges before they appeared. Stephen had objected to none of it; but the boy himself had seemed to resent all the wealth that had paid for it. Or not the wealth: just the means by which it had been obtained. Billy had become a conservationist at Exeter, which, as Stephen tried to explain to Norma, was like sending a boy to the Vatican to learn to be a communist. Jasper County Land had made its money with no concern for conservation and that had been the beginning of the deep rift between father and son. Billy had come and gone from the house after his mother's death, sometimes for a week, sometimes for months. Then three years ago he had walked out after a blistering row and there had been only intermittent phone calls, always short, since then. He had never asked for money, never said more than that he was doing okay. Stephen had lived with a hurt that he had never confessed to anyone, not even Billie, his new wife.
“You haven't had much luck, have you? Losing Mom—and now—”
“I'm still coming to terms with it.”
“Will you go back to Australia?”
“I've decided to.”
“What was she like? I saw a photo of her—someone sent me a copy of the Star, when you got the appointment. She was a looker.”
“Yes, she was that. She had personality, too. You'd have liked her, I think—” But he sounded dubious.
“You think I might've compared her to Mom?” He shook his head. “I wouldn't have done that. Mom wouldn't have minded you marrying again. What was she like—besides the looks?”
He looked even more dubious; he tried to hide it, but failed. He stared out the tall windows at the sky darkening in the south. “I'm not sure—”
The young man frowned in puzzlement. “Something went wrong? I read about—about the murder—”
Was Billy, his closest relative, the one to confide in? Or was that gap too wide? “Billy—”
“I'm called Will now. My girlfriend doesn't like Billy.”
“Oh.” As if his son had been totally alone out there in the wide world. “Is it serious?”
“Yeah. She works in the Service, she has a degree in botany. We've been together for some time. She's three months pregnant. You're gonna be a grandpa.”
It was the moment that, like a musical chord in a sentimental movie, brought them together. Stephen put out his hand and Will took it, shook it firmly. There was no embrace, not yet. Three years was too big a gap to cover in one leap.
“Congratulations—Will.”
“You, too. You'll like Robyn—she's English, went to Oxford, like you. Her old man teaches at Berkeley—” He grinned. “No, she's not a radical. She's a conservative, like you.”
“A conservative conservationist?” He grinned in return.
“I'm sorry I never met—Billie. The little bit on her in the Star said she came from Oregon.” His grin widened. “People from the north-west are different. They'll tell you that all the time.”
Was now the time to confide? He took the risk. “She wasn't from there. She was an Australian. I didn't know—”
Will Pavane waited. He had learned patience; or control. Once he had been headstrong, flaring up like a lightning strike; but that, it seemed, had all been buried. Robyn, if it was she, appeared to have had a settling influence on him.
“I've kept it quiet—partly for my own sake, partly because of the position I now hold. The FBI have been working on it—the police back in Sydney keep coming up with stuff—”
“I don't want t
o know, Dad, if you don't want to tell me—”
“It's not that.” He suddenly realized he did want to tell him; that there was no one closer to him than this stranger come home. “I'll tell you everything when I know what there is to tell—”
“Is that why you're going back to Australia? To see what more you can find out?”
“I'm not sure. I'm not sure I want to know any more—or anyone else to know—” Then he changed the subject, looked around him. “While I'm away, do you want to bring Robyn back here?”
Will, too, looked around him. The big living room had all the evidence of the Pavane wealth. The Monet, the Bonnard, the Eakins on the walls; the Sevres porcelain in the cabinet in the corner; the Louis XVI furniture on the Aubusson carpet: it was a drawing room rather than a living room. His mother had tried to revive what she believed the original Pavane clan had left behind in France; though, truth be known, they had been lower-class artisans and not Sevres or Louis XVI fanciers. They had brought nothing with them from France and taken nothing down the Missouri other than a French lower middle class talent for making money and keeping it. Will, and his father, had never been comfortable in the room. But he knew that his father was talking about more than this room, this house. Do you want to bring her back to what you'll inherit?
“I'll think about it, Dad. What I'd rather do, after the baby arrives, is come out and visit you in—is it Canberra?” He had not much knowledge of Australia, though he had heard there were some pretty gung-ho conservationists out there. None of whom, of course, his father would have met.
Stephen was pleased with the idea; but: “When I've got everything settled out there,” he said. “Leave it till then.”
“Sure,” said Will and looked as if he understood. “What are the cops like out there?”
“Understanding,” he said, but knew that events never paid heed to understanding men.
III
He was wan and tired after the long plane trip. Or was it fear of what he might be coming back to? “Have you had a tough time, Inspector?”
Malone read the second meaning in the question: Is it going to be tough for me? “Pretty tough, sir. If Agent Himes and I could see you alone?”
“Why is that necessary?” Roger Bodine's tone was sharp. He seemed to have lost weight since Malone saw him last, but maybe that was because today, except for a white shirt and a sober blue tie, he was dressed all in black. Offering not a cheerful note for his boss.
“Because what I want to discuss with the Ambassador is confidential police business. I have to keep it that way till we charge someone with Mrs. Pavane's murder.” He didn't know how much Bodine knew about police and legal matters, but he wasn't going to enlighten him. “I'm not meaning to be rude, Mr. Bodine—”
“Perhaps I can stay,” said Deputy Chief of Mission Kortright. For some reason he had shaved off his moustache and now looked totally anonymous. “I'm a lawyer—I was a lawyer—I can give the Ambassador advice if it's wanted—”
“No,” said Pavane; he looked weary, but not exhausted enough to be pushed around. “Excuse us, gentlemen.”
They were in the Consul-General's room, Pavane sitting behind the big desk and the others, the two law officers, the two embassy men and Bradley Avery sitting in chairs in front of him. Avery stood up, suddenly looking huge and authoritative. He went to the door and opened it.
“We'll be in Miz Caporetto's office, sir. Gentlemen?”
Kortright and Bodine said nothing, rose without grace and went out. Avery nodded to the Ambassador, then went out, closing the door behind him.
“A good man,” said Pavane.
Malone didn't ask which one, but knew. The Ambassador was not at ease with his two senior embassy men, they were too close to home. “I'm afraid what we have to tell you is not good news, sir. But first—we've discovered who your wife was originally. Where she came from—”
“How did you do that?”
“Her brother is here in Sydney. He's the manager of the hotel where—where it happened. The family name was Niven. They grew up together, there were only two siblings, on a farm in Western Australia. Their parents were killed in a car accident, as she told you, only not in Oregon.”
“What's the brother like? Is he likely to want to make something of all this?”
“You mean, is he anti-American? I don't think so. He had a lot of time for his sister, but they went their separate ways. He was an actor in England for some years—” He hesitated, careful of barbed wire that still existed with some: “He's gay.”
Pavane showed no reaction. “You can trust him not to want to make something out of this? Sell a story to the media?”
“I think so, sir. I think he has too much respect for Trish, as he calls her.”
“Trish?” As if she were someone he had never met; then, almost as if talking to himself: “We'll always be thinking about two different women. What else have you come up with?”
“I'll let Mr. Himes start off on that—”
“Thanks,” said Himes drily and looked as if he was not going to enjoy his role. “We've checked and doublechecked the Stateside record of Mrs. Pavane. We've come up with nothing new on what we told you before you left to go home. She was never what she told you she was, except for the job she had in San Francisco.”
Pavane looked at them both. “If I hadn't got this ambassadorship, I'd have never known who she was and probably lived happy ever after.”
Malone nodded, but guessed that Pavane was only talking against the wind. “Unfortunately, sir, the rest of what we've managed to dig up here is dirt.”
Pavane winced, held up a hand as if warding off a blow. But it was just to ask for time and the two law officers sat there and waited while he picked up his shield. Then he said, “Do I need to hear it all?”
It was Malone's turn to take time; then he said, “Unfortunately, I think so. We have a suspect—”
“In custody?”
“No, not at the moment. He's under surveillance. We know—well, we're sure he committed the murder, but a prime witness let us down. He's our man, though. He was—” But you didn't tell a man: he was once your wife's lover. “He had a relationship with your wife when she was Patricia Norval, when they worked together here in Sydney. He was the man who had dinner with her the night of the murder and went back to the hotel with her.”
“I'm glad you sent the others out of the room,” said Pavane, sitting very still behind the desk. “Go on. You mentioned dirt.”
Malone went on, reluctantly: “There was some sort of scam in the stockbrokers' offices where they worked—our man and three others. We don't know if Mrs. Pavane was involved in the scam, but she must've known of it. There was a scandal that was hushed up—it was at the time of the stock market crash out here in 1987. They were lucky to get away with it, but they did. The firm made up some of the missing money and then the office was wound up. The scam men and Mrs. Pavane went their own ways. Mrs. Pavane to San Francisco, evidently.”
“Jesus!” If he were not so tired, Pavane might have handled the situation better. He was a diplomat, but not a career one; not one of those who could fly halfway across the world, get off the plane, spend three days deciding the fate of a nation, then fly back to his home desk. But then those inexhaustible career people did not carry, as he did, deep personal problems in their baggage. He stared at the two men, then spread both hands helplessly: “Do we have to pursue all this?”
Malone left it to Himes to answer that, retreating behind national boundaries like a true patriot, running up another flag.
“Sir,” said Himes, “we won't know that till we get this guy into court on the murder charge. Nobody ever knows what defence lawyers are gonna haul out—”
“Who is this guy?”
Does he really want to know? Malone wondered. “He's Australian, but he's been overseas for the past fourteen years. He's a banker now in Canada, in Toronto. He's married, has kids, is what I think they call a pillar of the community. He'
s well related here—his brother-in-law is one of our senior barristers. When we get him into the dock, a lot of innocent people are going to collapse around him—”
Pavane looked at him hard: “A point I was going to make.”
Malone couldn't resist his exasperation; the tongue got away from him again: “What do you expect us to do, sir?”
Himes glanced sharply at him, but said nothing.
For a moment it looked as if Pavane was about to pull rank on Malone. But one really decent man recognizes another; it is the code that has held back the corruption of utter bastards. It is becoming a rare gesture in business and politics, and diplomacy wouldn't give it a passing glance. Pavane stared at Malone, then he surrendered and nodded.
“How much have you got on him?”
Why did you have to ask that? “We're putting it together.”
“You mean you're still collecting evidence?”
“Yes.”
“What else do you mean, Inspector?” If he continued his career as a diplomat Pavane would be a success; he was learning to read evasion. “What have you got or not got?”
Malone looked at Himes, but the FBI man seemed to have retreated to the other side of the room without moving. It's your deal, Scobie, Himes told him silently and shut up shop.
He looked back at the Ambassador. “I'm sorry I have to tell you this, sir . . . We're getting a court order to have this bloke take a DNA test.”
“Why?”
Malone made himself look directly into the eyes of Pavane, kept his voice as gentle as possible: “He left semen in Mrs. Pavane.”
Pavane shut his eyes and his face seemed to flatten as if he had been physically hit. He sat like that for a long moment, then he opened his eyes, the pain stark in them. “Jesus, you're really pouring it on, aren't you?”
“Not with any pleasure, sir. I just wish there was another way—”
“There isn't?”
“No, sir. If this witness we had hadn't let us down, there might not have been any need for the DNA test—”
“Who's the witness?”
“A woman. We had the suspect in a line-up and we were certain the woman would finger him. She didn't.” Pavane looked as if he was about to ask a question and Malone hurried on: “There was nothing we could do about it. We had to let him go. But we've got him under surveillance and we'll grab him as soon as we get the DNA order.”