by Jon Cleary
“Last Monday night I was coming home from a pub in town—I live out there along the Bowyang road—” He nodded back over his shoulder to the east. “I passed by here about nine o’clock, maybe a little later, I dunno. I seen a car parked just off the road out there, about a hundred yards along from the main gate. It was parked just inside the fence, up there where you can see those two she-oaks—there’s another gate there and a track we sometimes use in the spring when we’re planting. We’ve used it a coupla times this week to bring in the semi-trailers.”
“Was there anyone in the car?”
“I couldn’t see, but, tell you the truth, I wasn’t looking for anyone. It didn’t sorta register, you know what I mean? I went past it and I only remembered it a coupla days later. It could of been just a couple having it off in the back seat.”
“What sort of car was it?”
Pynchon shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. All I remember was it was light-coloured.”
“Beige? Could it have been a beige or fawn Mercedes? Like that one over there in front of the office?”
Pynchon squinted towards the office and the Nothling Mercedes parked beside the other vehicles. He was the laconic sort whose only expressive gesture was a shrug; he would answer kings, presidents and prime ministers with it; he used it again. “I dunno. Honest.”
“Did the police interview you?”
“Yeah, Wally Mungle did. But, tell you the truth, I didn’t think to tell him about the car. You know how it is.”
Malone knew, all right. The average person’s memory was a waste-basket; one had to know what one was looking for amongst the trash. Wally Mungle, an inexperienced investigator, would not, as early as Tuesday morning, have been looking for a car parked somewhere amongst the cotton rows.
“Did Wally ask you where you were Monday night?”
“Nah. Why would he? Him and me have known each other for years.” It obviously had not occurred to any of the police that Pynchon could be a suspect. It was another form of cronyism, though that interpretation would not occur to them, either.
“Righto, Mr. Pynchon, thanks. We’ll go over there to those—silky-oaks?”
“She-oaks. Silky-oaks are the ones that line the main road as you go into town—they’re not native to around here. They were planted by old Sir Chester Hardstaff. Hope I been some help.”
Malone and Clements walked away, cutting through the cotton rows towards the fence bordering the main highway. “Silky-oaks?” said Clements.
“I was showing off. I read about silky-oaks once. But is there anything the Hardstaffs haven’t had a hand in around here?”
They found the track and followed it down to the gate in the fence. It was a wire-netting, steel-framed gate, its chain hanging loose, and they swung it back and began to walk up and down, one on either side of the track, from the road to a distance of twenty or thirty yards into the cotton. Out on the highway traffic whirred and thundered past: cars, trucks and, once, three semi-trailers nose-to-tail, as threatening as a runaway train as they roared by, the tarpaulin of the rear trailer flapping wildly in the wind with a sound like gunfire.
“Here,” said Clements and opened up the grass to show a cartridge case. He ran his hands through the coarse dry grass beside the track but there were no other cases. “Looks like a Twenty-two.”
“The only one?”
“I can’t see any more. One shot—he must’ve been pretty good. Used a night „scope, probably, like the „roo shooters do.”
Malone carefully picked up the shell, tore a strip from his notebook and wrapped it loosely round the cartridge case and dropped it in his pocket. He wasn’t hopeful it would lead him anywhere, but you always had to hope.
“We’ve got Buckley’s chance of picking up any tire marks here. Those semis they brought in would’ve wiped them out.” He gestured at the wide, deep tread-marks, like some sort of tribal art in the dust. Then he squinted back towards the office and the parked vehicles outside it. “Say Sagawa was outside the office when he was shot. How far would you say that was?”
“A hundred and fifty yards, maybe a bit more. If the lights were on in the office, he’d have been silhouetted against them. It’s still a pretty good shot.”
“Why shoot him in the back?”
“Why not? Killers aren’t fussy. This wasn’t a duel.”
“I know that,” said Malone, testy for a moment. “I’m just wondering about what you said—could it have been an accident?”
“And last night’s shot at you was another accident?”
“That could’ve been someone else.”
Clements shook his head with slow impatience. “Scobie, you’re stewing your brain. If this keeps up you’ll have enough theories to get you a job as a criminologist. Come on, let’s go back to the station.”
They closed the gate and walked back through the cotton rows to the office. Pynchon was taking his harvester down the rows about fifty yards away; he waved to them from his cabin and they waved back. When they got to the office the Mercedes was gone and the Japanese were nowhere in sight. Then Koga came out of the office, blinking through his glasses.
“Dr. Nothling’s gone?”
“He said he had to go into town. To the hospital, I suppose. May I ask why you wanted to see Mr. Pynchon?”
“Did Mr. Tajiri ask you to ask that question?”
Koga shuffled his feet as if his shoes hurt, then lowered his voice. “Yes, Inspector.”
“Tell Mr. Tajiri we refused to answer, that it was police business. If he wants us to solve Mr. Sagawa’s murder, we’ll do it our own way. Will you tell him that?”
Koga shuffled his feet again, then a smile flickered for a moment on his lips. “No, Inspector. But I’ll think of something.”
Malone grinned. “Just tell him it was police business. Forget the rest. Are they going to be here at the gin for the rest of the day?”
“No, Mr. Dircks has invited them out to the golf club to play golf. They are all very keen golfers.”
Bully for them. Malone wondered if they got double time while they were belting a little white ball round a golf course on Sundays. He also wondered if they would be looking over their shoulders in the middle of their swings for the bullet coming from the rough or some bunker.
V
He and Clements got into the Commodore and drove back to town. As they passed between the avenue of trees on the edge of town Clements said, “Silky-oaks.”
“Up yours,” said Malone, but they grinned at each other, glad of the bond that bound them.
When they walked into the station the duty officer, a young policewoman, said, “Inspector Narvo asked if you’d mind seeing him in his office. Would you like some coffee, Russ?”
She looked at Clements and Malone wondered if he would be included in the invitation. As they walked down the short hall to Narvo’s office he said, “When did you get so matey with the help?”
“This morning while you were at church. She’s been off duty for the past three days, that’s why we haven’t met her. She thinks I’m Maigret, she wants to be a detective.”
“Well, don’t start practising your French on her.”
They knocked on Narvo’s door, went in to find him sitting behind his desk, not in uniform but in slacks, a button-down shirt with no tie and a pale blue pullover. The starch was fast draining out of him; Malone resisted the temptation to look under the desk to see if he was wearing thongs.
Narvo leaned back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head: Malone waited for him to prop his feet up on the desk, but that would be going too far. “Wally Mungle has been in. He’d like you to go out to the blacks’ settlement. His wife is there.”
“Ruby? I’d got the idea she’d turned her back on all that.”
“That’s what I thought. Anyhow, she and Wally are out there now and she wants to talk to you.”
“Wally is one of your men, Hugh. Ruby should be talking to you or Curly.”
“I ask
ed Wally if he’d mind if I came along with you and he said, no, he didn’t think Ruby would mind. She just won’t come in here. Do you mind if I come?”
“Hugh, this is your turf. Let’s go out there now. Russ, stay here, wait for that call from Ballistics. Practise your French.” He grinned as the duty officer came to the door with two cups of coffee. “Thanks, Constable, but I have to go out. Sergeant Maigret may ask you to join him.”
Her pretty face creased with puzzlement and as Malone and Narvo went out to the Commodore the latter said, “What’s that all about? Is Russ trying to put the hard word on one of my girls?”
“She wants to be a detective. She thinks Russ’s middle name is Maigret.”
Narvo sighed as he got into the car. “They all want to be in plain-clothes.”
“You never did?” Malone took the car out of the yard.
“No. It was always my ambition to be boss of this station and I knew I’d never be that if I went into plain-clothes.”
“You’re in them this morning.”
“I’m off duty. I just came in to check if anything out of the ordinary had come in overnight.”
“Something out of the ordinary did happen last night. I got shot at.”
“I was reading that at the bottom of my copy of the running sheets when you came in. What do you make of it?” Narvo showed neither surprise nor excitement.
“What do you?”
“Someone’s out of his twisted mind if he thinks that would stop the investigation. I’ll ask for everyone that Sydney can spare, if you want me to.”
“No, leave it for the time being . . . You’ve changed, Hugh.”
They turned into the main street and headed west out of town. Church bells were ringing somewhere, a sound one rarely heard in the city any more, especially in the newer suburbs. The bells rang in Randwick, but it always sounded to Malone as a forlorn sound, a farewell to departed congregations. He wondered what the church attendance was in country towns these days.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You’re ready to make waves.”
Narvo was silent for a while, staring straight ahead; then he said, “It was Chess Hardstaff at the races yesterday afternoon. Up till now I’ve—I’m ashamed to admit it, so it’s just between you and me—I’ve bent the rules if he’s leaned on me. Sometimes you have to do it in a country district. Nothing serious, just enough to, well, not make waves, if you like. I used to get angry with myself, sometimes I despised myself, but I put up with it. Then yesterday . . . Yesterday I finally had had enough. When he stood over me and demanded I arrest all the Abos, right there in front of them, I’d had more than enough. I didn’t tell him to get stuffed, but that was what I was thinking and he knew it.”
“Did it make you feel better?”
Narvo smiled. “It was like knocking over the school bully.”
They turned off the main highway and drove down along the river bank and into the settlement. There was a subdued air about the place; even the children were playing quietly with no shouting or laughing. Eight or nine older men sat in a circle under a tree, exchanging looks rather than words, as if everything had been said and now they were waiting for some resolution. They could have been a sculptured tableau of patience, but Malone wondered when the stone would crumble.
Wally Mungle came up from the riverbank, where Ruby sat on a fallen tree gazing out at the skin of the river being broken by the occasional leaping fish. He said hello to the two senior men and led them back to Ruby.
“It’s about Chess Hardstaff,” he said and stood back, more like a policeman than a husband.
Ruby Mungle didn’t rise from the tree-trunk but just looked up at the two white men. Her pretty face looked older this morning, as if a long sleepless night had aged her. Mungle, too, looked as if he hadn’t slept.
“You wanted to see us, Ruby?” Malone remarked at once that Narvo had relegated himself to the background by stepping back a pace.
She glanced at Narvo, her husband’s boss, then looked back at Malone. “Yeah. I thought about what you said last night . . .” She stopped; but he held himself back from asking her to go on. Like the old men across the clearing, who were watching them closely, she was not to be hurried. “I’ll tell you what happened the morning Mrs. Hardstaff was murdered.”
Out of the corner of his eye Malone saw Narvo stiffen. He said, “Do you mind if I take notes, Ruby? I’ll write a full statement later and Inspector Narvo can have someone back at the station type it up for you to sign.”
She turned her head towards her husband. “Is that what I have to do, sweetheart?”
Mungle nodded; then decided to be husband and not policeman. He sat down on the tree-trunk and took her hand. “It’s gotta be done, love. Go ahead. Don’t change your mind, not now.”
“What’s it gunna do to you? I mean your job?”
Mungle looked back at Narvo. “She’s worried I might be transferred or something. We don’t wanna leave Collamundra.”
“You won’t be,” said Narvo quietly. “I promise.”
Mungle pressed his wife’s hand. She paused a while, then she began: “That morning when Mrs. Hardstaff was murdered, I’d got up early to go to the toilet. Us blacks had to use the outdoor dunny, Mum and I weren’t even allowed to use the one next to the kitchen where she worked. Old Sir Chester insisted on that. When I come out of the toilet, Chess Hardstaff, Young Chess, as everyone called him, was coming out of the wing of the house where his and Mrs. Hardstaff’s bedroom was. He saw me and he ducked back inside. I didn’t take that much notice, I was only eleven years old then and kids don’t understand lotsa things adults do. But then I walked across to the kitchen, I dunno, I think I was gunna wash my hands or something, I looked back and he was running along the back veranda and around the corner of the house. Then I heard the Land-Rover start up and then I seen him driving away through the paddocks.”
Malone had been scribbling furiously in his own peculiar shorthand. “Ruby, all this was—what?—seventeen years ago. I’ve got to say this—you’re quoting a child’s memory. That’s not always the most reliable source.”
“Do you wanna hear this or not, Inspector?” She was not belligerent; more disappointed, it seemed.
“Yes, I do. But if this goes any further, there are going to be lawyers who’ll tear your evidence to pieces. I’ve had it happen to cases of my own, where I thought I had everything sewn up.”
“Mr. Malone, I remember. Mrs. Hardstaff was the only one I liked on the whole place. She was kind to me and Mum, she treated us almost like—like equals. When Mum went in an hour later with her usual tray and she found her dead . . .” She stopped and, for some reason, gritted her teeth as if against pain. “I remember, Mr. Malone. I was right behind Mum with the teapot . . . I’ve only ever seen one murdered person. That was Mrs. Hardstaff. I remember. There’s nothing wrong with my memory about that morning—nothing. It don’t matter whether I was eleven years old or a hundred and eleven. I remember.”
“Fair enough. I’m sorry.”
“Tell „em the rest, love,” said Wally Mungle.
Above them in the red-gum that shaded them, a magpie sharpened its beak on a branch, wishing it were spring and nesting-time, so that there would be a reason for dive-bombing the humans below and moving them out of its territory. A small boat, with an outboard motor fitted, came puttering down from under the bridge and went past, the man in it looking neither to right nor left: as if he doesn’t want to see the blacks’ camp? Malone wondered. If Chess Hardstaff was toppled on the evidence of a black girl, what would happen to the blacks here in the camp? Would they be run out of town as Fred Strayhorn and the communists had been all those years ago?
Ruby Mungle went on, “Old Sir Chester come to Mum and told her he wanted her to take me into town, to bring me here—” She nodded back over her shoulder at the settlement; which in those days, Malone guessed, might have been no more than a collection of shanties. “He said Noon
gulli was no place for me to be while the police were there and all, that it would be too upsetting for me.”
“When was this? Before or after someone had phoned for the police?”
“I dunno. It was after Mr. Hardstaff, Young Chess, come back to the house.”
Malone looked at Narvo. “You said the file’s missing. So we don’t know what time the call came in to the duty officer. Can you remember what time it was when you heard the call over your car radio?”
Narvo shook his head, “I’d only be making a guess, it could be twenty minutes or more out. I’d have made a note of it on my board, but that sheet would have gone into the daily file. Seventeen years ago, that wouldn’t still be around. When I took over the station, I decided we’d have a clean-up, the place was a mess. We burned a lot of old paper—Christ!” He shook his head at the stupidities committed in the name of neat housekeeping.
“Ruby, you said Chess Hardstaff came back to the house. How long was that after you’d seen him drive away in the Land-Rover?”
“I dunno, I’d only be guessing. It was after Mum and me had had our breakfast, before we went in to Mrs. Hardstaff and found her dead. Maybe half an hour, maybe more. I know he was standing outside on the veranda when Mum screamed and we both came running out of the bedroom.”
She gritted her teeth again and Malone gave her a little time. “Hugh, I talked with Fred Strayhorn, that old cove with the beard at the races yesterday, the one who’s going out to see Hardstaff this morning.” He gave a quick explanation of the relationship between Hardstaff and Strayhorn; he noticed that the Mungles both sat up with interest, “Sir Chester paid him to tell the police that Chess had been out at the site of the new dam with him—”
“I remember him now!” It was the first time Malone had seen Narvo show any excitement, though it would never get him arrested for riotous behaviour. “They brought him in from wherever he was working on the property—I didn’t do the interviewing, I was just the junior officer staking out the crime scene—”