Murder Song

by Jon Cleary

  “He must be that,” said O’Brien.

  “Not necessarily. All killers aren’t psychos, not in the sense of being off their rocker. He may be a perfectly reasonable man, except when it comes to wanting to kill you and me.”

  “That’s psycho enough for me.”

  “I’m afraid I agree with Mr. O’Brien,” said Shad.

  “What about you, Trevor?” Malone asked the security man in the front seat. He noticed that the driver, a young Asian, was now sitting very stiffly behind the wheel, as if up to this very moment he hadn’t known he was in any danger.

  Trevor Logan must have sensed the driver’s concern; he patted him on the shoulder. “You don’t have to worry, Lee.” Then he turned back to Malone and contradicted what he had just said. “I think he’s dead certain to be a psycho, Inspector. They’re the sort that’ll have a go, regardless of the odds.”

  Malone said nothing, not sure that Blizzard, or whoever the assassin was, was not psychotic. If he was, then the odds were that, sooner or later, he would give himself away, come out into the open and at last be within reach. But how much sooner, how much later, after how many more murders?

  The limousine turned up into the entrance to the Congress. The hotel was set back a few yards from the street and there was a slight ramp that curved up to the front doors and then back again to the street. A portico stretched out to the pavement, over the ramp and a small garden plot of hardy shrubs. Most of the guests leaving the hotel at this time were still inside the front doors, sheltering against the cold night air while they waited for their cars or taxis; but a few stood outside beside the commissionaire. The limousine pulled up and the commissionaire stepped forward and opened the front and rear nearside doors. Both security men slid out and looked about them, as if the talk about the hitman had all of a sudden made them more alert. Malone had an abrupt impression of how obvious they looked, like the Secret Service men who were always so conspicuous when an American president appeared in public.

  He got out of the car and waited for O’Brien. The latter appeared to hesitate, as if he had become shy of the people standing behind the commissionaire; they were staring at the two security men and wondering whom they were minding. Then he stepped out of the car and pushed past Malone.

  In that instant, over O’Brien’s shoulder, Malone saw the man with the hand-gun rise up above the parapet that separated the entrance ramp from a second ramp that led down to the hotel’s garage. He dropped down, pulling O’Brien down with him. He heard no shot, the gun must be fitted with a silencer; but Trevor Logan gasped and fell back against the open car door. A second bullet thudded into the car door, but again there was no sound of a shot. He heard a woman scream and saw Ralph Shad, flat on the ground, raise his gun to return the shots.

  “No!” Malone yelled. “Get „em all inside!”

  He pushed O’Brien off him, ducked round the back of the car and came up on the driver’s side. He couldn’t see the young Asian; he must be cowering under the steering wheel. He crept along the length of the long car, chanced a look and saw that the gunman had disappeared. He stood up, wrenching his gun from his holster, and ran towards the parapet.

  “He’s gone down into the garage!” he heard the commissionaire shout.

  He vaulted the parapet, landing heavily on the sloping concrete below but managing to keep his feet. He ran down the ramp, keeping close to the wall. A car came up the ramp, headlights blazing, and he knew at once he was a dead man. He flattened himself against the wall, the taste of his crushed body already in his mouth: Christ, what a way to die!

  Then the car’s horn blared, deafening him, the car slowed, then went past with the driver, a parking valet, yelling abuse at him. He picked himself off the wall and ran down into the garage. It was full of cars, some of them on the move towards the exit ramp; the gunman could be anywhere in the huge cave. Blizzard could dart and scurry between the ranks of cars like a rat in a maze of trenches. Except that he was still intent on killing Malone.

  He stood up beyond a white Ford Fairlane half a dozen cars away, his gun held in both hands in the approved combat grip. Another car, a dark BMW, pulled out of the line of cars behind him and came along the laneway towards the ramp. The driver switched its headlights on and Malone stood exposed and blinded. He jumped to one side, in behind a Rolls-Royce; it was like hiding behind a tank. He shut his eyes, then quickly opened them; the blindness from the glare was gone. He looked towards Blizzard, standing steady behind the Fairlane, gun still raised. His two shots outside the hotel had been hurried; he took his time with this one. Just a fraction too much time: Malone hit him in the chest with a lucky shot just before he squeezed the trigger. He fell back, hit the car behind him and slid down out of sight.

  Malone, gun cocked again, went forward cautiously. Two more cars came from the far end of the garage, being driven up to their owners waiting at the hotel entrance; he stepped back and waited for them to go past; the parking valets seemed oblivious of what had been going on. He came round the front of the Fairlane, ready for a second shot; but there was no need of it. The gunman lay face down, the silencer-fitted Beretta 7.65 still in one hand. Malone knelt down, felt for the pulse in the neck; there was none. Then he turned the gunman over on his back. He was young, perhaps no more than twenty, dark-haired, vicious-looking even in death and, despite his youth, far too young to be Frank Blizzard.

  Malone got slowly to his feet as he heard footsteps running down the ramp and from the back of the garage. His joints felt like those of an old man, locked together; he felt the taste of death again. This wasn’t the gunman they wanted. Blizzard was still somewhere out there, still intent on making sure . . .

  There would be no green bottles standing on the wall.

  II

  Lisa had been frantic over the phone, calling him on the private number he had given her to O’Brien’s suite. The line was a direct one, not routed through the hotel’s switchboard—“I want no one eavesdropping on my business calls,” O’Brien had told him. Malone was glad that no operator could hear the frantic note in his wife’s voice.

  “Give up! Come up to Noosa with me and the children—”

  “Darl—” He tried to keep his voice as cool and calming as possible; he had had time to recover, something she hadn’t yet had time to do. She had called him as soon as she had heard the news-flash on a TV channel’s news update. “This bloke wasn’t after me. He was after O’Brien—”

  “You were with O’Brien! He tried to shoot you—”

  “Only because I was after him. I’ve been shot at before—” He winced at the slip of his tongue; he almost felt her wincing at the other end of the line. “This had nothing to do with the other killer—” His tongue was getting away from him; he was supposed to be reassuring her, not frightening her still further. “Darl, I’m all right. If it’s any consolation to you, they’re going to station two of our own fellers here in the hotel with O’Brien’s security men.”

  “It’s no consolation.” Her voice was abruptly tart and he knew, with relief, that she was about to accept the situation. “I’ll ring you at seven in the morning, you’d better be awake. I love you.”

  She had hung up in his ear. He had stood for a moment fighting the sudden urge to walk out of the hotel, out of the whole business, and go out to Rose Bay and her and the kids. Then he had put down the phone and gone out of the second bedroom, where he had taken the call, into the big living-room where Danforth and Russ Clements sat with O’Brien and George Bousakis.

  The hotel manager was also there, a suave Serb who looked at the moment as if his hotel had just been invaded by a bunch of Croat guerrillas. “We can’t have something like this happening, Mr. O’Brien! This is an international hotel—Australia is supposed to be a safe country—”

  Malone waited for Danforth to say something, but the Chief Superintendent was ignoring the manager. So Malone said, “It is a safe country, a bloody sight safer than most!”

  The manager had
been taught how to manage all types, including jingoistic natives. “Oh, I agree, Inspector, I agree. But I’m afraid I must ask Mr. O’Brien to vacate the suite—till all this has blown over—”

  O’Brien said quietly, “I’ll go when I’m ready. My lease has another—what, George?”

  “Another five months to run,” said Bousakis. “Don’t worry, sir, just leave it to us and the police.”

  He heaved himself out of his chair and ushered the manager out of the suite; the manager himself could not have evicted a troublesome guest more smoothly. Bousakis closed the door and came back and lowered himself into his chair.

  “The corridor is full of reporters and cameramen. You want to make any statement, Brian?”

  O’Brien looked at Malone; it was almost as if he didn’t know or couldn’t accept that Danforth was in charge. “What d’you reckon, Scobie?”

  “Say nothing,” said Malone and looked at Danforth. “You agree, Chief?”

  Danforth had been studying O’Brien, his big red face expressionless, his slightly bleary eyes unwavering. He had been drinking and his breath smelled of whisky; all of those in the room had a drink beside them but Danforth had been several drinks ahead of them when he had first appeared. Malone didn’t know how he had heard the report on the shooting, but he had arrived within ten minutes of it, ahead even of Russ Clements. His manner towards both O’Brien and Bousakis had been abrupt and he had said very little to either Malone or Clements.

  “Give „em nothing,” he said at last with a growl. “The press has been giving you a bad enough trot already, Mr. O’Brien.”

  O’Brien looked at the older man with cautious interest; here was another cop who wasn’t on his side. “They’re a necessary evil, Superintendent. Presidents and prime ministers couldn’t do without them.”

  “You’re not running for office, Mr. O’Brien. I say stuff „em.” He looked at Bousakis, gave an order as if the latter worked for the Department: “Tell „em to get lost. There’ll be a police statement in the morning.”

  Bousakis glanced at O’Brien, who hesitated, then nodded. The fat man got up again, breathing heavily with the effort, paused to finish off the whisky in his glass and went out of the suite.

  Danforth said, “Is this one connected with the other hits, Inspector?”

  “No,” said Malone adamantly.

  “He had a Victorian driving licence,” said Clements, who had taken charge when he had arrived. He had still been at Police Centre when the call came in and he had been down here in the hotel within twenty minutes. “Joseph Gotti, from Melbourne. Born 1967. Andy Graham went back to the Centre and is getting on to the Melbourne boys to see if Gotti had a record. If he’s a hitman, I don’t think Blizzard would have been employing him. He wasn’t too bright, trying to do that job where he did.”

  “Who else would have been trying to kill you, Mr. O’Brien?” said Danforth.

  “Oh, several people could have it in mind.” O’Brien’s candour seemed to surprise Danforth; the bleary eyes blinked, as if behind them the sluggish mind was trying to sharpen itself. “I have enemies, Superintendent. I’ve already told Inspector Malone that.”

  “Would you care to give us their names?”

  “The list is too long.” O’Brien had evidently decided his candour had gone far enough.

  “We can’t do much without your help, Mr. O’Brien.”

  Malone and Clements were watching the match between the two men. There was a mutual antagonism, more so on Danforth’s part, that seemed to vibrate the few feet that separated them.

  “I know that, Superintendent,” said O’Brien flatly, take it or leave it.

  Danforth frowned; then he rose slowly from his chair. “If that’s the way you want it . . . You gunna stay here, Inspector?”

  “For tonight anyway.” Malone got to his feet and followed his superior out of the suite, the latter leaving without saying good-night to either O’Brien or Clements. Out in the corridor Malone said, “Leave him to me, Harry. I’ll get what I can out of him.”

  “Bugger him. He don’t deserve us looking after him.”

  Some reporters and a press photographer were at the end of the corridor outside the lifts; they were held back by a uniformed policeman and a new security man who had been brought in to replace Logan, who had gone to hospital to have a bullet removed from his shoulder. Bousakis came back towards the suite’s front door.

  “I told „em to be at Police Centre tomorrow morning at nine, okay?”

  “Who told you to tell „em nine o’clock? I wasn’t gunna be in that early. „Night, Scobie.”

  Danforth, sullen and heavy as a constipated buffalo, lumbered off along the corridor and Malone, grinning at Bousakis, pushed the fat man back into the suite. “You’ll get used to him.”

  “He’s antediluvian. I thought fossils like that were all dead.”

  “We keep a few as museum pieces.”

  With Danforth gone the four remaining men looked at each other, as if realizing the evening had now run down; there was time for shock to take over, if there was going to be any. But Malone noticed that O’Brien seemed in control of himself and he himself had now recovered. It would be Lisa, several miles away, her bags packed for Queensland, who would still be in shock.

  Clements was on his feet ready to depart. He suddenly looked tired and Malone realized that, in a way, the last few days had been as hard on the big man as on himself. It was as if Clements felt that the bullet meant for Malone, whenever it came, would hit him just as hard. Malone felt a sudden rush of affection for him.

  “When does Sam Culp—or do we call him Sebastian Waldorf?—when does he get back from Melbourne with the opera company?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. I thought we’d better meet him at the airport.”

  “I’m going down to Minnamook tomorrow morning,” said Clements. “I went through the files again from Goulburn. Frank Blizzard grew up in Minnamook—”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s down the South Coast, about thirty kilometres the other side of Wollongong. It’s just a village on the Minnamook River, mostly weekenders and retired people. Blizzard was an orphan, his foster parents were his uncle and aunt, the same name. I thought I’d look „em up.”

  Malone glanced at O’Brien. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got a session with the NCSC. It’ll probably last all day.”

  “I’ll pick you up at 9.30,” said Bousakis and added for Malone’s benefit, “We’ll take a couple of security men with us.”

  “Good,” said Malone. “Incidentally, George, how did you get here so promptly after the shooting?”

  Bousakis paused a moment, as if he felt the question was out of place. Then: “I saw the commotion from the lobby. I was down there, having a snack, waiting for Brian to come back. I had those papers for him—” He nodded at a file on the coffee table in front of O’Brien. “Do we all have to account for where we were?”

  “Just routine,” said Malone routinely; it was an answer that had stood the test of time. He turned back to Clements. “I’ll come down to Minnamook with you. Andy Graham can follow up things here. I’ll be up at the Centre at eight to see if there’s anything needs looking at before we leave. Get on to the local police—it’ll probably be Kiama or Wollongong—and tell „em we’d like a back-up with at least two blokes when we call on Blizzard’s uncle and auntie.”

  Clements and Bousakis left together. Malone checked that there would be a security man on duty throughout the night in the corridor, then came back into the suite and locked the door. O’Brien was on the phone in the living-room.

  “No, please don’t—it’s too risky for you . . . I’m all right, honestly . . . No, go back to Canberra, I’ll call you tomorrow evening at six . . . I’ll give my name as—Maloney—” He smiled tiredly across the phone at Malone as the latter came back into the room. “I love you, too.”

  He hung up, sat in his chair with his elbows on his thighs and
his big hands hanging limply between his knees. He looked up at Malone from under his thick brows and swore softly. “Jesus Christ, what a mess!”

  Malone sat down opposite him, took off his shoes. “How did it ever happen? I mean you and Anita Norval?”

  The big hands turned upwards. “I don’t know. It just did. About four months ago, before all the stink about my companies started, I was sitting next to her at a dinner. Before we got to the dessert I knew I was in love, truly in love for the first time in my life. The unbelievable part is, she called me the next day, not the other way around.”

  He was not the sort of man from whom Malone would have expected confidences. He had asked the question about Anita Norval without really expecting any answer. He had never been interested in other men’s relationship with women and he would certainly have never told anyone of his own feelings for Lisa. But Anita Norval was more than just the woman in O’Brien’s life, she was the wife of the Prime Minister. If the affair ever became public, he could not imagine a worse scandal. The voters, especially the women, were emphatic that their women in public life must be beyond reproach. Public men could have affairs so long as they didn’t flaunt them; Philip Norval was suspected of being a womanizer, but he was still popular, even with the women not lucky enough to go to bed with him. But a public woman was expected to be a combination of Mother Teresa and the Virgin Mary, a paragon of virtue. Queen Marie of Rumania and Catherine the Great would have had a hard time with the locals.

  “Does the PM know about it?”

  “She says no. Maybe he suspects, I dunno—not me but someone else. He can’t stand me. He used to be very matey with Big Business—I was never one of his pals, but a lot of other guys were. But since The Crash a coupla years ago he’s a born-again Christian or something, at least as far as business goes. The word is that when the market crashed he was mixed up in a couple of shonky ventures and his minders got him out just in time,”