Autumn Maze

by Jon Cleary

  “Where from?”

  “I’d rather be silent on that.”

  Malone felt his own irritation itching him. “I’m sure you would, Mr. Casement. But you seem to forget that Sergeant Clements and I are working on the murder of the young man who’s supposed to have stolen this money. There may be no connection in your banker’s mind—”

  “Oh stop it, for Christ’s sake!” A hand slapped the arm of the chair; Casement winced, put the hand gently on his thigh. He was suddenly weary, worse than being merely tired. “Do you think I’m trying to obstruct you?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “All my life I’ve had my own way,” said Casement, as if to himself. “But then I’ve never had anything to do with the police. From all accounts, some of you act as if you’re a law unto yourselves.”

  “Just as you must have,” said Malone tartly. “We cops aren’t perfect. But if you don’t like us and the way we work, what’s the alternative? The army? Try some of the Latin Americans who’ve come to Australia, ask them what law and order is like under the army. Let’s cut out the bullshit and get down to the works. Where’s the money?”

  Casement, it seemed, had never been spoken to so bluntly; he had, indeed, always had his own way. He flushed; but he had control of himself. He hesitated only slightly, then he said in a flat voice, “It’s in a company account in Hong Kong.”

  “The name of the company?” said Clements, notebook ready.

  “Hannibal Development.”

  “One of Kornsey’s companies,” Clements told Malone. “Would the money have gone through Shahriver Credit International?”

  Casement looked surprised; and more alert. “You seem to have a fix on this?”

  “Not entirely,” said Clements. “But we’re not as far behind as you seem to think. Kornsey was the man killed the same night as young Sweden, killed the same way. The one whose body was stolen from the morgue. So now we’ve made that connection. Are you dealing through Shahriver or direct with Hong Kong?”

  “The Hong Kong bank is another Shahriver branch. They’re not very reputable, but you probably know that.”

  “Are they cooperating?”

  “The office here is—or anyway, up to a point.”

  “We know Mr. Palady, the managing director. That’s his form—he cooperates up to a point. But Hong Kong, what about them?”

  “They’re stonewalling. I fear the money may have gone on further, to another bank in some other part of the world.”

  “Manila, for instance?”

  There was no reaction. “We wouldn’t know.”

  “Who outside your bank knows about the theft?”

  Once again Casement hesitated. He obviously was not accustomed to telling any more than he wanted to disclose; Malone could see him as chairman at annual general meetings snubbing questioning shareholders. “If you must know—”

  “We must,” said Malone, patience wearing thin.

  “Derek Sweden knows. That’s all, as far as I know.”

  “Not your wife?”

  Casement’s neck stiffened. “Why should she know?”

  “I can understand you not telling her about the day-to-day troubles in the bank. But a missing twenty-five million? That’s not day-to-day stuff.”

  Casement remained stiff-necked for a long moment; then abruptly he nodded. “All right, she knows. Just the fact, none of the details. The sort of thing I presume you tell your wife about homicides.”

  Malone made a pretence of pulling the dagger out of his chest. “Not quite, Mr. Casement. Interest in homicide is morbid, interest in money is not. Now would you come down to Police Centre with us? We want you to identify this girl.”

  For a moment it looked as if Casement would refuse to move; then he raised himself awkwardly from his chair. He had suddenly become older, as if he had stepped through a doorway into a climate that had weathered and broken him. “Jesus,” he said, more to himself than to the two detectives, “I think I’m getting old.”

  “It happens,” said Malone, smug in his early forties, and Clements, on equally firm ground, nodded.

  Inside the front door Casement reached for a topcoat and tweed hat, put them on, Clements helping him don the coat.

  As they turned towards the door it opened in their faces and Ophelia stood there, key held like a small knife. “You’re going out?”

  Her husband explained. “It will only take a little while, darling. Half an hour at the most. Order dinner to be sent up from Verady’s.”

  “I’m coming with you. I want to see this bitch who tried to kill you.”

  “I don’t think it would be advisable,” said Malone, though he knew he couldn’t stop her.

  She took no notice of him, taking instead her husband’s arm. “I let the driver go—” she told her husband; then looked at Malone. “We’ve been using a hire car since ours was burnt out. I don’t drive.”

  “We’ll go in the police car,” said Malone. “It’s unmarked, so the neighbours won’t notice.”

  Casement smiled, blew on a spark of humour. “You think she cares about the neighbours? She’s Roumanian.”

  “I love him,” said Ophelia and gave her husband a kiss. “Now let’s go and see this little pyromaniac. Or is there another name for people who set fire to people?”

  They drove up through the city, through the drizzle of rain that gave a shine to the lamp-lit darkness. By the time they got to Police Centre, the rain had stopped and been replaced by a cold wind. “Are police stations cold places?” Ophelia asked as they went up the broad outside steps.

  “Only for the guilty,” said Malone. “We’re always very comfortable ourselves.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a slight smile from Casement; the old man had taken on some new energy from his wife’s presence. They were arm-in-arm and Malone suspected he would be dealing with them as a pair while they were in the station.

  The Surrey Hills station was an annexe on the ground floor of Police Centre; like the big building it was only a few years old and not yet soiled by the human waste that went through it each and every night and day. This evening business was in the doldrums, the hour was early, and the sergeant behind the desk gave Malone and Clements all his attention when they walked in with the Casements. A battered housewife, face dark with bruises, sat on a chair in a corner of the charge-room, a small girl, face pale with fear and bewilderment, standing beside her; there were no other customers at the moment. Ophelia looked at the woman and child, then shook her head at Clements but said nothing. The big man was surprised at the troubled look of compassion on the face that, up till now, he had seen only as a beautifully made-up mask.

  “G’day, Barry,” said Malone. “You still got that Viet girl they brought in this afternoon for rolling the drunk, what’s her name?”

  The sergeant ran a bony finger down a page of the book open in front of him. He was not tall for a policeman and one could see the bones of his shoulders under the dark blue sweater he wore. His face was equally bony, chipped and repaired like an old vase; his nose had been broken three times in brawls with citizens who had later claimed to be law-abiding. “Kim—you’re not gunna believe this— Weetbix. She’s downstairs in the cells. You want me to bring her up?”

  “I want Mr. Casement to identify her in a case we’re working on. She’s entitled to a line-up, but how long would it take to round up six or seven girls who look something like her? Has she asked for a lawyer yet?”

  “She hasn’t opened her mouth, except to abuse the policewoman who took her her tea. We’re holding her overnight. She’s due in magistrate’s court tomorrow at ten.”

  Some other police had come in from the back offices, two young men and a young woman constable. They looked curiously at the Casements, recognizing them as the sort of visitors not usually seen here in the station; then the policewoman went to the woman seated in the corner. The child cringed away from the woman in uniform and her mother held her close to her.

 
“We’ve locked up your husband, Mrs. Pockley. Have you got somewhere you can spend the night? I don’t think you should go back home, not yet.”

  The woman shook her head. “Nowhere,” she mumbled through swollen lips that didn’t hide the teeth that had been broken off. “How is he?”

  “He’s passed out,” said the young policewoman. “He’s not worried, he’ll sleep till morning, the bastard.”

  “Chris—” said the sergeant warningly.

  “Sorry, sarge.” But she obviously wasn’t. “You want the other prisoner brought up here?”

  “Take her into the interviewing room.” He looked at Malone. “You know where it is, Inspector. You can start the tape?”

  Malone nodded and led the way out of the charge-room. As they passed the woman and her child, Ophelia stopped. “Would you be offended if I gave you some money to go to a hotel? A nice place where you can have a comfortable night?”

  The battered woman in her bloodstained dress looked up at the beautifully dressed older woman; the contrast, Malone thought, was cruel. Yet Ophelia looked genuinely concerned, she was not putting on a Mother Teresa act to impress anyone. The woman touched her own face. “I couldn’t, not like this. Thanks, but.”

  “What will you do?”

  The woman shrugged helplessly, shook her head. “Go home, I suppose.”

  Ophelia opened her handbag, took out some money; Malone couldn’t see how much it was, but he caught a glimpse of a hundred-dollar note and a fifty. “Buy yourself a new dress. And something for your little girl.”

  Then she followed the three men down the short hallway to the interviewing room. She caught the expression on Malone’s face and she read his mind. “All right, so money may be insulting to her. But what else could one give her? Sympathy? That doesn’t salve bruises, Inspector. A new dress may hide some of them. God, you men are brutes! No, not you three. Just men in general. Oh, is this her?”

  She turned round as Kim Weetbix was brought into the small room. The young policewoman pushed the girl into a chair, then stood back by the closed door. The room was crowded, but Malone made no complaint; he wanted the Casements out of here as quickly as possible. Clements started up the video tape and Malone said, “Kim, I take it you’ve been warned anything you say et cetera . . .”

  She looked up at him, her face too impassive to be even sullen; he wondered how a girl as good-looking as this one could have finished up a street-kid. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “Do you recognize this gentleman?”

  She flicked a glance at Casement, but said nothing.

  Malone said, “Mr. Casement, do you recognize this girl?”

  “No,” said Casement calmly, not looking at the two detectives but directly at the girl. “The girl who attacked me had her face covered.”

  “Darling!” Ophelia reared her head back in disbelief. “It has to be her!”

  Casement was unmoved. “I don’t recognize her.” Then he looked up at Malone, his gaze steady; he had, it seemed, abruptly regained his strength, had pushed back being old. “Sorry, Inspector.”

  It is not easy for a Celt, when angry, to be impassive; but Malone was as Orientally blank-faced as Kim. “Thank you, Mr. Casement. That’ll be all, then. Thank you for coming,”

  Clements made a move to show the Casements out of the room, but Malone shook his head. The young policewoman opened the door and stood aside. It was impossible to catch any expression in Casement’s eyes; a trick of light turned the panes of his glasses opaque. But there was fire in Ophelia’s eyes, her whole body looked ready to erupt.

  “That’s all you have to say—thanks for coming? You drag us up here like—like—”

  “Like ordinary citizens?” The tongue had slipped its leash again.

  “The Minister will hear about this—I’ll ring my brother-in-law as soon as we get home—”

  “Darling.” Casement took his wife’s arm, pushed her out the door. As they disappeared down the hallway, she still loudly complaining, those in the room could hear him saying, “Darling, let it lie—it’ll be better—”

  Malone looked at the young policewoman. “Christine, is it? Chris, don’t take that as an example how to handle the public . . .”

  “I thought you handled it perfectly, sir. I felt like kicking them both up the bum.”

  “They’re teaching you that at the Academy? Things never change.” Then he looked at Kim Weetbix. “Do you want us to kick you up the bum, Kim, or are you going to be sensible and tell us something?”

  “Get fucked,” said Kim. “How’s that?”

  “It’s a start.” Malone sat down, gestured for Clements to start up the video recorder again. “We’re going to make a tape of this interview, Kim. We don’t want to ask you anything about the theft charge, that’s none of our concern. We just want some information on the briefcase you stole from Mr. Casement when you and your boyfriend attacked him.”

  “You’re wasting your time.” She was utterly relaxed; or looked it.

  “Time costs nothing, Kim. We’re public servants, it’s only taxpayers like you who foot the bill. You pay tax?”

  “You’re kidding.” But she smiled, almost.

  “Who’ll bury you when the men who killed your boyfriend catch up with you? The taxpayers? Those fellers are looking for you, Kim. They’re looking for the briefcase, too.”

  “They’ve got—” She had become too relaxed; she bit her lip at her slip.

  “They’ve got what? The briefcase?” She remained silent and Malone went on, “They took it after they’d killed Kelsey, is that it? But you must’ve opened it, looked to see what was inside? That’s all we want to know, Kim. What was in the briefcase?”

  Clements came in: “Kim, according to Mr. Casement, it was Kelsey who tried to burn him, not you.”

  She was sharp enough to shake her head at that one: “He said he didn’t recognize us.”

  “No,” said Clements. “He said he didn’t recognize you.”

  Malone said, “He told us that Kelsey was the one who tried to burn him, not the girl. So we’re not looking for you on that count.”

  “How are your papers, Kim?” said Clements. “Are you an illegal? Would you like to go back to Vietnam or wherever you came from? We can arrange it, if that’s what you want. Have you been in trouble here before? Tell us the truth, Kim. We can always look it up.”

  “No, I’ve never been in trouble.” Only because she had been careful not to be caught; at least up till now. She gave him her honest look: “And I’m not an illegal.”

  “Is Weetbix a Vietnamese name?”

  “Only since the war in Vietnam.”

  Malone grinned. “So you’re a good citizen?”

  Again the half-smile. “Almost.”

  “So tell us what was in the briefcase. Let’s say it’s a hypothetical case and you had a hypothetical peek inside it. You understand the word hypothetical?” She nodded. “What did you see, Kim?”

  She pondered a while, her long fingers drumming noiselessly on the table in front of her. Then she looked up at him. “I can’t get out of rolling the drunk, can I?”

  “You’ll be charged, Kim. But you may get off on a bond, as a first offender.” He nodded to Clements, who switched off the video recorder. “Tell us what was in the briefcase and we’ll see what we can do to help you.”

  “How?”

  “The drunk got his money back, so maybe he can be talked into not laying any charges. The briefcase is more important, Kim.”

  She stared at the two detectives, then at last she nodded. “Okay. We busted the locks on it and had a look inside. There was nothing worth taking, except a gold pen. Kel hung on to that. And there were some papers, business letters and—memorandises?”

  “Memorandums. You remember anything from the letters or the memos?”

  “There was a letter addressed to some company in Tokyo, Japan. I can’t remember the name of the company, Something-or-Other Securities.”

  “You
’re sure? In Tokyo?”

  “Sure. The letter was marked Private and Confidential, I remember that. It was on a bank’s notepaper.”

  “Casement Trust Bank?”

  She frowned. “Yeah, that was it. How’d you guess?”

  “We’re good at guessing. Can you remember what the letter and memos were about? Can you remember any names in them?”

  She shook her head. “No, they didn’t mean anything to me or Kel. All I remember was a figure, money, in one of the letters. Twenty-five million. Kel really went off his head about that. All we got outa the old guy was twenty dollars, two ten-dollar notes, not even a credit card, and here was a letter talking about twenty-five million.”

  “What did it say?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t take much notice. Money like that—can you get your mind around it?”

  The two men smiled, shook their heads; Malone looked at the young policewoman. “You, Chris?”

  “There’s not that much money in the country, is there?”

  “If there is, it’s all debt . . . Righto, Kim. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “No.” But there was. There were odd phrases in the bank’s letter that floated loose in her mind, that, when she was calmer, she would put together in a pattern. She had no idea what the pattern would be worth, if anything, but you never knew. Never throw anything away, her mother had taught her, especially something you know about other people. Lily, her mother, had been not only a bar-girl but a blackmailer and a police informer. “No, that’s all I know. Will you do what you can for me?”