Dragons at the Party
The mask was flawless this time. ‘It would be presumptuous of me even to guess, Inspector. I am not a detective.’
Clements watched the small exchange, but his own wide open face was now expressionless. ‘I’ll wait for you over the road, Inspector.’
Malone went back into the drawing-room, said directly to Madame Timori, ‘There’s been another murder. An old lady over in the flats opposite.’
She just nodded. She did not appear disturbed; the handkerchief was not even produced this time. She stood up, giving herself regal airs if not a regal air, which is different; she was the most common of commoners but she had always had aspirations. She had always wanted to dance the royal roles when she had been with the dance company; nobody would ever have believed her as Cinderella. ‘I’m retiring for the night.’
I’d like to retire, too, thought Malone; or anyway, go to bed. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning, Madame. I hope the President will be well enough to answer some questions.’
‘What sort of questions have you in mind? I’m sure I could answer them all.’ She paused, as if she might sit down again.
‘You must be tired,’ said Malone, not offering her any further opportunity to take over the investigation. ‘Good night, Madame. I’ll see you in the morning.’
He went out into the warm night air. There he exchanged information with the two other Homicide men who had come with him and Clements. One of them was Andy Graham, a young overweight detective constable who had just transferred from the uniformed division. He was all enthusiasm and ideas, most of which were as blunt as Thumper Murphy’s sledgehammer.
‘I’ve got the notebook, Inspector.’ He brandished it like a small black flag. ‘I’ll have ’em all waiting for you first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Not all at once, Andy. Use your judgement, get the big ones first.’
‘Right, Inspector, right.’
‘Take Kerry here with you. Divide up the addresses and numbers between you. Be polite.’
‘Right.’
As he and Clements crossed the road towards the block of flats, Malone said,’ How come you never say right to everything I say?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘No.’
Right.’
The old lady had been taken away in the same ambulance that had taken the dead Masutir; the holiday weekend casualties were starting early and these two not for the usual reason, road accidents. Up towards the corner of the street a large crowd had now congregated behind the barricades that had been thrown up. The protestors had stopped demonstrating, jarred into silence by the sight of the two bodies being pushed into the ambulance, and the crowd was now just a large restless wash of curiosity. Double murders just didn’t happen in Kirribilli: the local estate agents would have to work hard next week to continue promoting it as a ‘desirable area’.
The fireworks were still scribbling on the black sky, but the crowd seemed to have turned its back on them. A band was playing in the open court at the northern end of the Opera House and the music drifted across the water, banged out at intervals by the explosions of the fireworks. The waters of the harbour were ablaze with drifting lights: ferries, yachts, rowboats, the reflected Catherine wheels, shooting stars and lurid waterfalls of the fireworks. Malone wondered if the local Aborigines here on the Kirribilli shore had waved any firesticks in celebration on the night of that day in January 1788 when Captain Arthur Phillip had raised the British flag and laid the seed, perhaps unwittingly, for a new nation. As he walked across the road Malone looked for an Aborigine or two amongst the demonstrators, with or without firesticks to light their way, but there was none.
The Fingerprints men were just finishing as Malone entered the top-floor flat past Thumper’s handiwork, the splintered front door. ‘Can’t find a print, Inspector. We’ve dusted everything, but he either wiped everything clean or wore gloves. He must have been a cold-blooded bastard.’
‘Have you tried the bathroom?’
‘There’s two of them. Nothing there.’
‘Try the handle or the button of the cistern. I don’t care how cold-blooded he was, he’d have gone in there for a nervous pee some time.’ The senior Fingerprints man looked unimpressed and Malone went on, ‘It’s the simple, habitual things that let people down, even the most careful ones. I’ll give you a hundred to one that a man doesn’t take a leak with a glove on.’
‘I couldn’t find mine if I had a glove on,’ said Clements with a grin.
The Fingerprints men looked peeved that a Homicide man, even if he was an inspector, should tell them their job. They went away into the bathrooms and two minutes later the senior man came back to say there was a distinct print on the cistern button in the second bathroom. He looked even more peeved that Malone had been right.
‘The second bathroom looks as if it’s rarely used, maybe just for visitors. The print’s a new one.’
‘Righto, check your records,’ said Malone. ‘I’ll want a report on it first thing in the morning. Sergeant Clements will call you.’
Malone was left alone with Clements, Thumper Murphy and the sergeant in charge of the North Sydney detectives, a slim handsome man named Stacton. ‘Okay, so what have we got?’
Clements pointed to the dismantled rifle which lay on the table in the dining-room in which they stood. ‘He must have brought it in dismantled and put it together once he was in the flat – it’s a special job. Then after he’d fired the shot, he dismantled it again and put it in a kit-bag, the sort squash players carry. Nobody would’ve noticed him if he’d come in here behind those demonstrators.’
‘Where’d you find the bag and the gun?’
‘Under the stairs, down on the ground floor. Someone must’ve come in as he was going out and he had to hide.’
Malone looked at Stacton. ‘Would it have been one of your, uniformed men?’
‘I doubt it. Inspector, but I’ll check. They were busy holding back the demo. And I gather there was a hell of a lot of noise – no one heard the shot.’
‘There’s no security door down at the front?’
‘None. People ask for trouble these days.’
‘How did he get into the flat? I noticed there’s a grille security door on the front door.’
‘I dunno. There’s no sign of forced entry. The old lady must have let him in.’
‘A stranger?’ Malone looked around him. The furniture was antique and expensive; it had possibly taken a lifetime to accumulate. It was the sort of furniture that Lisa would love to surround herself with; he found himself admiring it. The paintings on the walls were expensive, too: nothing modern and disturbing, but reassuring landscapes by Streeton and Roberts. Miss Kiddle had surrounded herself with her treasures, but they hadn’t protected her. ‘This is a pretty big flat for one old woman.’
‘She has a married nephew who owns a property outside Orange. I’ve rung Orange and asked someone out to tell him. It’s gunna bugger up his celebrations.’
‘It’s buggered up mine,’ said Malone and looked out the window at another burst of fireworks. The past was going up in a storm of smoke and powder, you could smell it through the open windows. The kids would love it, though the grownups might wonder at the significance. It took Australians some time to be worked up about national occasions, unless they were sporting ones. The Italians and the Greeks, who could get worked up about anything, would enjoy the fireworks the most.
‘Well, I guess we’d better make a start with our guesses. Any suggestions?’
Clements chewed his lip, a habit he had had as long as Malone had known him. ‘Scobie, I dunno whether this is worth mentioning. I was going through some stuff that came in from Interpol. You heard of that bloke Seville, Miguel Seville the terrorist? Well, Interpol said he’d been sighted in Singapore last week. He got out before they could latch on to him. He’d picked up a flight out of Dubai. They managed to check on all the flights going back to Europe after he’d been spotted. He wasn’t on any of them, not unless he’d got off somewhere along the way. Bombay, Abu Dhabi, somewhere like that.’
‘He might have gone to Sri Lanka,’ said Stacton. ‘He’s always around where there’s trouble.’
When Malone had first started on the force no one had been interested in crims, terrorists then being unknown, outside the State, even outside one’s own turf. Now the field was international, the world was the one big turf.
‘The betting’s just as good that he came this way,’ said Clements.
Malone said, ‘Who’d hire him? The generals who’ve taken over in Palucca have no connection with any of the terrorist mobs, at least not on the record.’
‘Seville is different. That’s according to the Italians, who’ve had the most trouble with him. He’s not interested in ideology any more. He’s just a bloody mercenary, a capitalist like the rest of us.’
‘Speak for yourself. We’re not all big-time punters like you.’
Clements grinned; his luck with the horses was notorious, even embarrassing. ‘You pay Seville, he’ll organize trouble for you. A bomb raid at an airport, a machine-gun massacre, an assassination, anything. Someone could have hired him to do this job.’
‘Righto, get Fingerprints to photo-fax that print through to Interpol, see if it matches anything they might have on Seville. Have we called in Special Branch yet?’
‘They arrived just as I was putting me sledge-hammer away,’ said Thumper Murphy.
‘A pity,’ said Malone and everyone grinned. ‘Well, it looks as if we’re all going to be one big happy family. The Feds, the Specials, you fellers and us.’
‘I always liked you, Scobie,’ said Thumper Murphy. ‘They could have sent us one of them other bastards you have in Homicide.’
It sounds just like Palucca must have sounded, Malone thought. Each faction wanting all the others out of the way. He sighed, just as Kenthurst had said the President had sighed when the emeralds had been taken from Masutir’s pocket. Only then did he remember he hadn’t asked anyone about the emeralds.
‘Where are the emeralds?’
‘Kenthurst said he gave ’em back to Madame Timori,’ said Clements. ‘She asked for them.’
‘She would.’ He wondered how many tears had been shed for the Mother of the Poor, as she had called herself, when she had left Palucca.
2
Palucca was the largest of the old Spice Islands. Columbus was heading there when he accidentally ran into America; he had coined the phrase, ‘Isn’t it a small world?’ and thought he had proved it when he finished up some 11,000 miles short of his intended destination. The Spice Islands survived his non-arrival, but European civilized types, led by Ferdinand Magellan, arrived in 1511 and from then on the aroma of the Spices began to change. Nothing has ever been improved by the advent of outsiders, nothing, that is, but the lot of the invaders.
The Portuguese were succeeded by the Spanish, the Dutch and the British; the Islanders just shrugged, learned a few words of the newest language and dreamed of the old days when they were barbaric and happy. Their paradise had been spoiled by the Europeans who, seeking profits, had come looking for the spices that would, in addition to the sweet taste of profits, make their putrid and indigestible food edible. The pepper, nutmegs, cloves, mace, ginger and cinnamon, added to what the Europeans ate back in what they thought of as civilization, saved the appetites and often the lives of the civilized millions. Spices were also used by physicians to treat diseases of the blood, the stomach, head and chest; sometimes a cookery recipe was mistaken for a medical prescription, but it made no difference anyway. The patient usually died and the family got the bill, the physician’s bill being larger than the grocer’s.
The Dutch stayed longest and eventually the Spice Islands were absorbed into what became known as the Dutch East Indies. The Japanese came in 1942, were welcomed but soon wore out their welcome and were gone in 1945. The Dutch came back; but they, too, were unwelcome. In 1949 the Indies obtained their independence and became Indonesia. The Paluccans, however, declared their own independence and the rest of Indonesia, tired of fighting the Dutch and just wanting to get on with the post-war peace that the rest of the world was enjoying, let them go.
The Timori family, which had been the leading family in Palucca for centuries, were pains in the neck anyway. They were conspirators, connivers, meddlers, and corrupt: ideal rulers to deal with the Europeans, Americans, Chinese and Russians who would soon be coming to court them.
Mohammed Timori, Abdul’s father, had himself elected President for life, a title he chose in preference to Sultan, to which he was entitled by inheritance; he was prepared to make a bow towards democracy, though it hurt every joint in his body. He moved back into Timoro Palace, the family home that had been commandeered by the Dutch a hundred years before. He said public prayers of praise to Allah, but privately he told Allah He had better come good with some United Nations aid or Palucca would be in the hands of the Chinese money-lenders before the next crop of nutmegs.
Allah came good with better than United Nations hand-outs: oil was found on the north coast of the big island. It did not make Palucca a rich country, because the oil reserves were judged to be only moderate; nonetheless, Palucca was suddenly more than just a source of ginger and nutmegs and the oil companies of the West came bearing their own aromatic spices, bribes with which to start Swiss bank accounts. The Timori family were suddenly rich, even if their country wasn’t. They shared their wealth like true democrats, 10 per cent to the voters and 90 per cent to the Timoris, and thought of themselves as benevolent, honest and born to rule. They were no different from all the Europeans who had preceded them in Palucca.
Mohammed Timori died in 1953 on the same day as Josef Stalin, which meant he got no space at all in Western newspapers. The Americans, prompted by John Foster Dulles, decided to compensate for that lack of regard; they established a naval base and named it in his honour. Abdul Timori, who was then twenty-five, was called home from Europe to succeed his father. His election as President for life was no more than a formality, like high tea, monogamy and other European importations, and was looked upon as just as much a giggle.
Abdul Timori had been labelled by the Fleet Street tabloids as the Playboy of the Western World, though Synge would have disowned him. His mistresses were laid endlessly across Europe and America; love-making was his only successful sport. He owned a string of racehorses that invariably finished without a place; bookmakers quoted them at prices that embarrassed both the horses and the jockeys who rode them. He took up motor-racing and drove in the Mille Miglia, the Targa Florio and the Le Mans 24-hour event; he finished in none of them, managing, miraculously, to emerge unscathed from crashes that earned him the nickname Abdul the Wrecker. His father, however, had insisted on his death-bed that Abdul should succeed him, and the ruling party, its faction leaders all afraid of each other, had agreed. They had assumed that Abdul would be no more than a playboy President and they, splitting the spoils between them like true democrats, could run the country as they wished.
They were mistaken. Abdul turned out to, be a better politician than any of them; and a despot to boot, a boot he used to great effect. The two jails of Bunda, the national capital, were soon full of party men who thought they could be independent of him; common criminals were hanged, to make way in the cells for the jailed politicians. The latter, however, did not remain there long. Nothing changes the mind of a pragmatic politician so quickly as his having to share a prison cell with his rivals; it is more upsetting than sharing a voting booth with a citizen voting against you. All at once they were born-again Timori supporters, shouting hallelujahs, or the Muslim equivalent, to the skies. The army generals, already wooed by Abdul with promises of long courses in Britain and the United States, smiled cynically at the venality of politicians and swore to Abdul that he had nothing to fear from them.
Abdul, in turn, was wooed by the Americans. Recognizing that anyone who raised the anti-communist banner was going to be saluted by Washington, he invited the Americans, for a consideration, to enlarge their naval base. For the next thirty-four years Palucca enjoyed a stable existence, a state of affairs accepted by all but those who believed in freedom of expression, honest government and democracy. Since Abdul Timori believed in none of those aberrations and the Americans forgot to remind him of them, nothing, it seemed, was going to disturb the Timori delusion of his own grandeur.
He married the daughter of another old family, but it was a marriage of inconvenience: he found she got in the way of his mistresses. He divorced her by clapping his hands and telling her she wasn’t wanted; a procedure that several foreign ambassadors, whose wives were a hindrance, marvelled at and envied. Timori married again, this time one of his mistresses, but she at once turned into a wife and after a year he got rid of her, too. Finally, ten years ago, he had married Delvina O’Reilly, who had come to Bunda as a speciality dancer, a Mata Hari whose intelligence work was only in her own interests. Her mother had been a Malay, her father an RAAF sergeant-pilot; she had been educated in a convent but had never learned to be a good Catholic or even a good girl. At dancing school it was said that the only time her legs were together was during the execution of an entrechat; one smitten choreographer tried to write a ballet for a horizontal ballerina. When she married Abdul Timori, in a wedding extravaganza that Paris-Match ran over five pages, she let him know it was for good: for her good if not his. Abdul, to everyone’s surprise, not least his own, accepted her dictum.
Then the plug fell out of the oil market and Palucca’s economy slid downhill on the slick. The Americans were suddenly more interested in Central America than in South-east Asia; Washington also, at long last, began to have pangs about the corruption in the Timori regime. Abdul and Delvina Timori began to assume the image of a major embarrassment. The Americans, belatedly, looked around for an acceptable alternative, meanwhile pressing Timori to resign on the grounds of ill-health. Madame Timori, who was in the best of health, even if her husband wasn’t, told the Americans to get lost, a frequent location for them in foreign policy. The British, the French, the Dutch and all the lesser ex-colonial powers sat back and smiled smugly. As a mandarin in Whitehall remarked, nothing succeeds in making one feel good so much as seeing someone else fail.
Then the Paluccan generals, all too old now for courses at Sandhurst and West Point, tired of army manoeuvres in which never a shot was fired, decided it was time they earned the medals with which they had decorated themselves. They staged a coup, asked the Americans to fly the Timoris out of Bunda and promised a brand new future for Palucca and the Paluccans.
That was when the trouble started outside Palucca.
3
‘Nobody wants them,’ said Russ Clements. ‘The Americans wouldn’t fly them out and they leaned on Canberra.’
‘Kenthurst was telling me last night,’ said Malone, ‘that everyone down in Canberra wishes they’d move on. Including Phil Norval.’
‘Canberra is going to be even more shitty when we tell & what came in from Interpol this morning.’
When Malone had arrived at Homicide this morning Clements had been waiting for him with a phone message from Fingerprints. The print on the cistern button in the Kiddle flat had been positively identified: it belonged to Miguel Seville.
‘Are there any mug shots of Seville?’ Malone asked.
‘Just the one.’
Clements took a 5 × 4 photo out of the murder box, an old shoe carton that over the years had, successively, held all the bits and pieces of the cases he had worked on. It was falling apart, only held together by a patchwork skin of Scotch tape, but he held on to it as if it were some treasure chest in which lay the solution to all murders.
‘It was taken about twelve years ago, when the Argentinian cops picked him up. That was before he became a mercenary, when he was with that Tupperware crowd. Tupperware?’
‘Tupamaros.’
Clements grinned. ‘I was close.’
‘I know a Tupperware lady who wouldn’t thank you for it.’
Malone looked at the photo of the curly-haired handsome young man. He would have been in his late twenties or early thirties when the photo was taken, but already the future was etched in his face: a defiance of all authority, a contempt for all political and social morality. Malone wondered if he had ever had any genuine belief in the Tupamaros’ fight against the Argentinian junta and its repressive rule.
‘He’s taken the place of that Venezuelan guy,’ said Clements. ‘That Carlos. Whatever happened to him?’
‘Special Branch said the rumour is that the Libyans got rid of him. Maybe we should ring up Gaddafi and ask him to get rid of this bloke, too.’
‘You reckon he’ll try another shot at Timori?’
‘Depends how much he’s been paid. And who’s paying him.’
Malone looked out the window, over Hyde Park and down to the northern end where Macquarie Street ran into it. That street was where the State politicians conducted their small wars; but there was no terrorism. There might be vitriolic and vulgar abuse that made other parliaments look like church meetings, but there were no assassin’s bullets. Now Timori, the unwanted guest, had, even if involuntarily, brought that danger to Sydney.
‘Did The Dutchman have anything to say this morning?’ So far Malone hadn’t looked at this morning’s newspapers. He was not a radio listener and he usually got home too late to look at the evening TV news. When he got the news it was usually cold and in print, but he had found that the world still didn’t get too far ahead of him. There was something comforting in being a little way behind it, as if the news had somehow been softened by the time it got to him.
‘His usual garble. I dunno whether he’s for or against Timori.’
‘If Phil Norval’s for him, The Dutchman will be against him.’
The Dutchman was Hans Vanderberg, the State Premier, an immigrant who had come to Australia right after World War Two, had become a trade union official, joined the Labour Party, got on well with the Irish Catholics who ran it, taken on some of their characteristics and ten years ago had become Leader of the Party and Premier. He was famous for his garbled speeches and his double-Dutch (or was it Irish?) logic; but he was the best politician in the country and he and everyone else knew it. He was also a magnificent hater and he hated no one more than Prime Minister Philip Norval.
Malone looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get over to Kirribilli. What time do Presidents have breakfast?’
‘I know what time I had mine. Six o’bloody clock.’
Malone grinned; he always liked working with Russ Clements. ‘You’d better get used to it, sport. This looks like it’s going to be a round-the-clock job.’
‘How does Lisa feel about you working on the holiday weekend?’
‘She wouldn’t speak to me this morning. Neither would the kids. I’d promised to bring them all in to The Rocks to see the celebrations.’
‘I was going to the races. I’ve got two hot tips for today.’
‘Put them on SP. Where do you get your tips?’
‘From a coupla SP bookies I used to raid when I was on the Gambling Squad.’
‘How much are you ahead this year so far?’
‘A thousand bucks and it’s only January twenty-third. They’ll be holding a Royal Commission into me if it keeps up.’