Autumn Maze

by Jon Cleary

  The building housing Pinatubo Medical Engineering was halfway up the hill, on the right-hand side. At eleven o’clock on the Monday morning the hookers were still at home, getting over the labours of Sunday night services. The two empty showrooms on either side of the stairs that led up to Pinatubo had once sold expensive imported cars; flash young men, flashing money and machismo, had come here and bought Maseratis and Lamborghinis with all the flair of youth who were certain tomorrow would never come. Now tomorrow had come and a length of tinsel ribbon on the dusty showroom floor was all that glittered where chrome had once blazed, and the young men had disappeared into debt and oblivion.

  “Even the girls are having closing-down sales,” said Clements. “You can get a knee-trembler on your credit card these days.”

  He and Malone, armed with a court order, were waiting on the estate agent who leased out the building. A taxi drew up and a woman got out, paid the driver, waited for her change, then came towards the two detectives, juggling her handbag and a small briefcase.

  “I’m Sophie Rutter. You’re from the police?”

  She was in her late thirties, her out-of-fashion ultra suede suit stretched tightly across her plumpness, her dark hair cut urchin-style around her good-natured face. There was a briskness about her that made Malone suspect she viewed everyone she met as a prospective client.

  “What’s the problem?” She had opened the street-level door, was leading them up a steep flight of stairs to the first floor. “I didn’t know our tenants had done a flit till you phoned us. How about that?”

  There were two suites of offices on the first floor: Pinatubo Medical Engineering and Lava Investments, both entry doors showing the same style of lettering. “Who leased that one?” Malone asked.

  “Lava? It’s leased by the same tenant, Mr. Belgarda.” She opened the door into Pinatubo. “You still haven’t told me what the trouble is.”

  “We think Mr. Belgarda and his companies may be involved in some shonky business.”

  “Then why is Homicide investigating it?” Both detectives looked hard at her and she said, “Come on, when your message was passed on to me, it said to ring you back at Homicide if I couldn’t meet you.”

  Clements said, “Have you ever thought of becoming a cop?”

  “I might, if business gets any worse than it is. Has Mr. Belgarda been killing someone?”

  “We don’t know. What do you know about him?”

  She waved a hand around the Pinatubo office. The outer room was as expensively furnished as the inner office; both were a contrast to the shabbiness of the building. The furniture was frigidly modern: glass tables on stainless steel legs, black leather chairs with the same stainless steel legs, a lounge with a low back designed to accommodate sitters with no heads, lamps that looked like missiles. There was only one picture on the wall in the inner office, a colour photograph of Mount Pinatubo in eruption. Malone could not see the selling point of such a picture, but then he had never been a salesman, not even of himself.

  “Mr. Belgarda had money to spend. He never quibbled about the rent, didn’t ask for any concessions. Today, you get a tenant like that, you grab him, right? They all want at least three months free rent, they want a re-paint job, you name it, they want it before they’ll sign a lease. Not Mr. Belgarda. He took a twelve months’ lease, it’s still got five months to run.”

  “Did you ever meet a Mr. Tajiri?”

  “Tajiri? What’s that, Italian?”

  “No, Japanese.”

  She shook her head. “We have Japanese clients, but no Tajiri.”

  “What about next door?”

  “No, I never heard the name mentioned there. Let’s have a look.”

  Lava Investments was as well furnished as Pinatubo, in the same style. The picture on the wall this time was of Mount Fujiyama. “They liked their mountains,” said Clements.

  “Maybe Mr. Tajiri did use this office,” said Mrs. Rutter, “but I never saw him. Mr. Belgarda took a twelve months’ lease on this one, too. All he asked for was more power outlets. For these, I guess.” There were four video display terminals on a bench along one wall of the inner office. “I came here one day, I was out there in the other room and this door was open. There were four or five guys sitting in here looking at those screens. It looked to me that they were screening stock exchange prices, something like that. I’ve seen „em in movies, you know?”

  “They’ve gotta be connected to some central information point,” Clements told Malone. “If they do carry stock exchange prices. Or futures . . .”

  “What was Mr. Belgarda himself like?” said Malone.

  “Very pleasant. And polite! Geez, they don’t make „em like that any more.”

  “Thanks,” said Malone, politely.

  She grinned, an urchin on her way to middle age. “You know what I mean. He was almost— smarmy? Not quite, but almost. Every time he’d ring up about something, he’d say, Sorry about this, no matter how trivial it was.”

  “Give us a description of him.”

  “Well, about medium height—don’t ask me to give it in centimetres. I know what a metre is, but not a centimetre. I left school before we really got into metrics.” That put her in her forties, then. “He was a Filipino, but I suppose you’ve guessed that. Not bad-looking, you know, in their sort of way. There’s different sorts of good looks, right?” she added, as if she had suddenly thought they might report her for racial discrimination. “A sharp dresser, God knows what his suits must’ve cost. Not flashy, though—well, not too flashy. Oh, he had a moustache, one of those old-fashioned thin ones, like you see on old film stars like Clark Gable and William Powell.”

  “Before my time,” said Malone.

  She gave him the urchin’s grin again. “Put a moustache on Sergeant Clements and you’d know who I’m talking about. Clark Gable.”

  In a minute she’s going to offer to let me take up the rest of Belgarda’s leases. “Let’s have a look at what’s in the filing cabinets. You want to open them, Clark?”

  There were two cabinets, steel disguised as teak, against the wall opposite the display terminals. None of the drawers was locked; none of them contained anything. The drawers of the desk were also empty. Clements drew the same blank when they crossed the small landing into the Pinatubo office.

  “Seems the only thing they didn’t take was the furniture.” Clements slammed shut the last drawer in the desk in the Pinatubo inner office; the sound was like that of a pistol aimed at the back of the departed Belgarda. “When did you see him last, Mrs. Rutter?”

  “Friday—well, I didn’t exactly see him, I spoke to him. This month’s rent was overdue, just a few days, and I rang him to remind him. He was normally so prompt. He was polite, as usual, said it would be in the mail immediately. It turned up this morning. Why would he send the rent if he intended doing a moonlight flit? It is murder, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what you want him for? Or is he the one who’s been murdered?”

  “He’s still alive, we think,” said Malone, but told her no more. “Who worked for him? He must’ve had staff.”

  “Just two girls, that was all I ever saw, one in here, the other across in Lava. Whether he had anyone else, I dunno. I never knew exactly what either firm did.”

  “Did he come with references, guarantees?”

  She dug in her briefcase, produced a thin folder. “His bank guaranteed him, Shahriver Credit International. I checked with them, I’d never heard of „em, they said he was okay.”

  “We’ve heard of them, they’re rolling in money.”

  She looked at him shrewdly. “Is that sarcasm? Never mind . . . Funny thing is, all the rent cheques were drawn on another bank, Treasury Bank.” She looked at him again. “There isn’t a solider bank in town than Treasury. Why didn’t his guarantee come from them?”

  “You do want to be a cop, don’t you?” said Clements.

  “Did you have a home address for Belgarda?” She shook her head and Malone went on,
“The girls who worked for him? You knew their names?”

  “One was Maryanne, she worked here in Pinatubo, I never knew her full name. She’d answer the phone, you know, the Yank way we have now? Pinatubo Medical Engineering, Maryanne speaking,” she said in an affected voice. “As if anyone wants to know Maryanne or Sherylanne or whoever. But when Mr. Belgarda signed the lease, he asked if I knew where he could get staff. I put him on to an agency, Delta Staff. You could try them.”

  “What about across the hall?”

  “I think Lava brought their own girl, a Filipino like Mr. Belgarda.”

  Then Malone’s beeper gave its warning. Clements picked up one of the phones on the receptionist’s desk, put it to his ear, then handed it to Malone. “It’s still connected.”

  Malone dialled Homicide, got John Kagal. “Scobie? Another homicide, this time in a squat in Redfern. Two gunshot wounds. The tip-off, Redfern says, came from a girl who hung up as soon as she told them where to look. It’s a young guy, it’s a long shot, but he fits the rough description we have of the guy who tried to burn Mr. Casement. He’s been sent to the morgue and soon’s he’s been tested for HIV, Dr Keller will take the bullets out of him and send them to Ballistics. We’ll check if they came out of the same gun that did in the morgue attendant. You coming back here?”

  Do you need me? Malone wanted to ask. “Russ and I are on our way now. In the meantime get in touch with an employment agency, Delta Staff, ask them if they sent anyone to work for Pinatubo Medical Engineering and Lava Investments—got that? I want their names and home addresses, pronto.”

  He hung up, turned to Clements. “Another one.”

  “Another murder?” Sophie Rutter all at once looked worried. “Mr. Belgarda, has he killed someone else?”

  “We didn’t say he’d killed anyone.”

  “Inspector, I’m not dumb. The fact that you haven’t answered my question has answered my question. Is he dangerous? I mean, am I likely to . . . I mean, for talking to you?”

  “You’re in no danger, Mrs. Rutter,” said Malone and hoped he was right.

  II

  When they got back to their unmarked car, which Clements had parked in a nearby lane, there was a parking ticket stuck under the wipers. He tore it up and dropped it in the gutter. “That’s the fifth this month. I’m beginning to think they’re harassing me. Where to—back to the office?”

  “Let’s drop out to Redfern first.” Coming down the stairs from the Pinatubo office he had explained Kagal’s call. “There may be nothing for us, John’s probably covered it all, but we’ll have a look.”

  “Does he get in your hair? He does in mine. He’s so bloody thorough.”

  “Mate, we’re getting old.”

  Redfern, each time he had to visit it, made him feel even older. It had always been a tough beat for a cop; the local elements, a democratic lot, had run their own version of law and order. But over the last few years the nature of the district had changed, there were boundaries within its boundaries. Blacks had no time for whites, whites had no time for blacks and neither had any time for the police. There were citizens, black and white, who were trying to hold the small region together, but Malone, on his occasional visits, saw Redfern coming apart at the seams. Cities, he had decided, died at their heart, as if the lifeblood flowed away from it and did not re-circulate.

  There were two police cars in Bulinga Street and Crime Scene tapes still decorated the second house from the end of the dilapidated terrace, a crude parody of the bunting that one saw outside houses about to be auctioned. The Physical Evidence team had done their job and gone, but a small group of watchers, mostly youths and girls, glad of anything to fill their empty days, leaned against the battered iron railings on the other side of the road. A detective was questioning two youths in tattered, shapeless sweaters and torn jeans, while two young uniformed men stood in the background.

  “G’day, Inspector.” The detective was Sergeant Sid Guyatt, turned fifty in years and girth inches, a plodder who believed that if you stood in one place the world, and its suspects, would always come round again. He had known Malone and Clements for years, but he believed in rank in front of outsiders, which meant all voters outside the police service. “I been talking to these two young gentlemen, but they’re not talking back. The locals tell me these two don’t belong around here. So I been asking them why they’re hanging around.”

  The two young gentlemen were an odd pair. Neither of them was out of his teens, but they looked as if they had been scarred by every year since they were born. One was tall and thin to the point of emaciation, his head shaved, a safety-pin in the lobe of his ear; his black, stained sweater hung on him as if it were empty. His companion was short and fat, his black hair combed down past his shoulders, a wispy beard hanging from the upper of his two chins like strands of black cotton. Both of them wore reflective aviator glasses, expensive shades that only accentuated the derelict look of the rest of their attire.

  Malone said, “Did you know the deceased?”

  “The deceased?” The tall thin one’s lips curled under the mirrors. “What’s that?”

  Malone had left his hat in the car. He took out his comb, leaned forward till his face was only six inches from that of the tall youth; then he combed his hair in the mirrors of the glasses, patted it in place and leaned back. It was TV cop stuff, but it worked: the two young uniformed policemen smiled and the tall youth flushed with anger. Across the street someone laughed and the youth turned and jerked a finger at the group.

  “I think you’d better answer our questions, son, or maybe we’re going to break your mirrors and give you seven years’ bad luck.” Again it was cheap stuff, but these kids understood it better than any polite questioning.

  “That’d be just your fucking form, wouldn’t it?” He looked over his shoulder at the watchers by the iron railings, as if expecting applause, but their gaze gave him no encouragement. He was another outsider.

  Malone looked at the shorter, fatter youth. “You got anything to say, son? We’ve had a murder here. You wouldn’t want to be charged with being an accessory, would you? Take off those glasses.”

  For a moment it seemed that the youth was going to defy Malone; then he took off the glasses, squinting a little in the bright sunlight. He had surprisingly big eyes in such a chubby face, sad brown eyes that were beginning to show fright. “Look, we only come here to warn Kel—”

  “Kel?” Malone looked at Guyatt.

  “Kelsey Bugler. His wallet was still in his jeans, he had an out-of-date driving licence.”

  Malone looked back at the fat youth. “Go on—what’s your name?”

  “Billy.”

  “Billy what?”

  “That’ll do. Billy What.”

  “And what’s your name, Curly?” Malone looked at the skinhead.

  “That’s right. Curly What.” The sneer looked like a permanent distortion of his lips.

  Clements, the Late Night Movie fan, said, “They think they’re Abbott and Costello, that was one of their baseball routines. Who’s on first, What’s on second and on third Idunno.”

  The two youths and the two young policemen all looked blank. Malone said, “Clark Gable, Abbott and Costello, all in the one morning? . . . Righto, Billy. Why’d you come here to warn Kel?”

  The fat youth looked up at his companion, who had turned the mirrors down on him. “Ah shit, mate, what’s the point? Fuck it, I’m gunna tell „em the truth . . . This morning a guy comes up to us in the Cross, where we hang out, he was asking about Kel, though he didn’t know his name. Just said he was looking for a guy and a girl who’d done over a friend of his. We knew who he meant, Kel had told Damien here and his girlfriend. The guy sorta stood over us, but he offered us money. So we took it. Then we got sorta worried about Kel and we come over here to warn him. But we was too late . . .”

  “How much did he give you? Thirty pieces of silver?” It was Clements’ turn to sneer.

  “Get fucked,
” said Damien, but he flinched as he saw Guyatt bunch a fist that could fell a bullock.

  “Describe the man,” said Malone.

  “Jesus, what if he comes after us?” The fear was plain now in Billy’s big eyes. Malone wondered how long the kid had been on the streets, if he was beyond redemption. But that was a social worker’s problem. “He could find us easy enough—”

  “Keep your mouth shut,” said Damien.

  “You keep yours shut,” Malone told him. “Righto, Billy, describe the man.”

  Billy hesitated, looking up at his mate, then he said in a rush, “He was a dude, real flash. Asian of some sort, they all look alike to me. Maybe a Vietnamese, a Thai, I dunno. A bit taller’n me, with a moustache. And a very soft voice, but cold, you know what I mean? Put the shits up you.”

  “You’ve just cut our throats,” said Damien.

  “No,” said Guyatt. “If you get it, it’ll be bullets.”

  Billy looked ready to run and Malone put a hand on his shoulder. “Hold it, Billy. Who was Kel’s girlfriend?”

  “Did I mention any girlfriend?” He was abruptly cautious, under Damien’s thumb again.

  “Yes, you did. Come on, Billy, don’t fartarse about. Maybe the bloke is after her, too. Let’s find her.”

  Billy looked at Damien again, but the latter had turned his head, was facing up the street, blank dark mirrors where his eyes should have been. The short fat youth pulled at his own sweater, as if trying to get out of it, then he said, “Okay, her name is Kim. I dunno her second name, we never use „em, they don’t matter anyway. She’s half-Vietnamese, that’s all I know, a good-looking bird. She was Kel’s old lady. Tell you the truth, I dunno why.” Damien turned his head, looked down at him; Billy glared back. “Well, shit, you said the same yourself.”