by Morris West
Another lesson I had learned: no one is invulnerable – no nun in her cell, no tyrant surrounded by his legions, no stylite on his pillar in the middle of the desert. The nun can be seduced from her loneliness, the tyrant can be cut down by his bodyguard. The stylite can be toppled by an earthquake or a clown with a crowbar.
But what of myself, Martin Gregory? By what stratagem, by whom plotted, could I be most quickly undone? A woman might coax me into folly. She could not easily blackmail me. A man could threaten me through my family. I had more fear of that than of violence against my own person. But the traitor inside? That besetting fault which could tumble me head over heels into disaster – what was it?
I had to know, because my life might depend on the knowing. I was like the captain of the watch in some old fortress town, making the rounds of the battlements, prodding the dozing guards, alert for those too wakeful for trust, too drunk for caution, wondering at the end whether he himself might be, witting or unwitting, the man who sold the gates.
So, for my own safety, I was forced to admit it. I had been ambitious always. I needed to be top man on my mountain, were it low or high. Charlie Cassidy was willing to make me his heir, but he wanted me humbled and needy and complaisant before he made the endowment. That price was too high for me; I would not pay it. But I was not then tall enough, strong enough, rich enough to face him down. I could not walk into the Cardinal’s parlour and thump the table as Charlie did and make deals for votes and patronage and land grants in undeveloped areas. I could not – not yet anyway – stroll around the old harbourside tenements and pass the time of day and end up buying pints for the constituents in the corner pub…
But fight I could and fight I did, a quiet assassin, sleek and silent and oiled in every limb, so that no one could hold me. I took Charlie’s daughter, whom I loved but he loved too. I sheltered his wife in her exile. I put a price on their heads and on the heads of his grandchildren… and the price was this: ‘Now you bow to me, Charles Cassidy. Now you plead, presenting your petition on bended knee.’
God knows it wasn’t declared so boldly as that – but it was true nonetheless. I had to win, if not by force, then by stealth and cunning and the secret calculations of the gambler. What else was my present career but a daily battle to outsmart the currency dealers in Hong Kong, guess the equity market in New York, pick up the slack between Sydney and Tokyo, balance out with commissions on insurance funds, and still be sitting on top of the heap at close of business on Friday?
The only place where I didn’t want to win was in my own home, with Pat and the children, with Clare Cassidy the matriarch, widow of my dead enemy. There, however, the irony caught up with me. A family in exile, they demanded a leader. Colonists from a new world, they needed a bulwark against the strangeness and hostility of the old. I provided it. I was proud that I could. It made me an honourable man who paid his debts and cherished his loved ones. They cherished me too, open and warm in their affection.
But sometimes I chafed under the burden. I wanted to toss it off and ease my cramped muscles. I craved the luxury of irresponsibility – as I was craving it now, alone in Sydney town, with a political dinner looming up, and a funeral that would be splashed across the front pages of the press, and a very tangled estate to settle, and the glint of a sword-blade hanging over my head.
It was a depressing thought, dangerous to entertain too long. I shoved it to the back of my mind. I shaved and dressed with extra care, then took myself off to dine with the Premier and his Attorney-General.
The Premier was the new breed, tailored to specifications by a big advertising agency and a very skilled public relations outfit. He was young, still on the right side of forty. He was lean, flat-bellied, tanned, bright of eye, with a ready smile and a firm handshake, every young matron’s dream of the man of confidence. He ‘talked pretty’, as Cassidy used to say, but he had a ready command of vernacular vulgarity which would go down well with the crowd. I called him ‘Mr. Premier’, which he liked. He called me Martin, which I loathed.
Loomis, the Attorney-General, was another animal altogether, pudgy, crumpled, slow of speech, shrewd of eye, with a handshake that felt like limp whitefish, and a furtive smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth and then lost itself in the furrows of his jowls. Cassidy had appointed him, so he had to know the law and the thousand and one ways to use it as an instrument of power. He called me Mr. Gregory but invited me to call him Rafe. The Premier offered me a drink, which he himself poured with a generous hand. Then, more brusquely than I had expected, he came to the point.
‘We’ve got big problems, Martin.’
‘What sort of problems?’
‘A man dies.’ It was the Attorney-General who answered. ‘He can’t sue for libel any more. We’ve been told the press are only waiting until Cassidy’s buried, then they’re going to plaster his personal and political history all over the front pages.’
‘And you’re scared of that?’
‘Personally, no.’ The Premier sounded unsure.
‘Politically, yes.’ The Attorney-General was emphatic. ‘Charlie Cassidy had a very simple philosophy. If you’re in the business of government, you live with what you’ve got – hookers and junkies and hit-men and honest Jack and Jill Citizen all included. You want a tourist trade, you take the call girls and the pimps with it. You want a gambling industry and the taxes it brings in, you get standover men on the same bill as the bookies. Charlie never flinched from that. He didn’t do a bad job of keeping the peace – and he made the villains pay through the nose for their privileges.’
‘But,’ said the Premier, ‘these last few years, things have been getting out of hand.’
‘What sort of things, Mr. Premier?’
‘Drugs,’ said the Attorney-General. ‘And all the shit that goes with them.’
‘Forgive my mentioning it, but you’re the man who administers the law. What’s holding you back?’
‘Dirty linen,’ said the Premier.
‘Cartloads of it,’ said the Attorney-General.
‘And we’re wondering what you’ve got or may get to add to the pile.’ The Premier was in command now. ‘You’re family. You’re the executor. All Cassidy’s papers have to come into your hands – if they haven’t done so already.’
‘And we want to make sure we see them and the press doesn’t.’
‘Let me be quite clear with you, gentlemen.’ I tried hard to be polite. ‘My family and I were estranged from Charles Cassidy for years. He came to me in extremis and told me he had named me executor of his estate. The only documents I’ve read so far are the will and three trust deeds, which are, on the face of it, simple and quite innocuous documents. So, until I begin my searches as executor, I have no idea what I’ll discover. But, everything that does come into my hands is privileged until I am subpoenaed to display it in court. With the best will in the world, I don’t see that I can help you very much.’
‘Don’t be too sure about the privilege,’ Loomis’ smile came and went swiftly. ‘If you were concealing documents relevant to criminal matters, I could argue a good case against you for misprision of a felony…’
‘Not a felony committed by a dead man!’
‘But one compounded by the living, yes!’
‘Only if you could prove I had incriminating documents, recognised their import and knowingly withheld them. Don’t play games with me, please Mr. Loomis… I’m jetlagged and running out of jokes.’
‘Sorry!’ He apologised instantly. ‘I’ve had a bitch of a day, too. Couldn’t even take a piss without tripping over TV cables or microphone leads. Perhaps I can help you by expediting probate procedures. A word from the Minister, that sort of thing.’
‘For that I’d be grateful. I don’t want to hang around here too long. I’d like to get home to my wife and family.’
‘Let me know as soon as you’ve filed. Who will be acting for you in Sydney?’
‘The old firm: Cassidy, Carmody, Desmond & Go
rman.’
‘I wouldn’t touch them with a barge-pole,’ said the Attorney-General.
‘I wouldn’t either,’ said the Premier.
‘Why not?’ I was all innocence.
‘Because,’ said Loomis unhappily, ‘Carmody’s damned near senile, Desmond’s representing two of our choicest villains and Micky Gorman is counsel on retainer for our most colourful press baron. They’re not the safest repository for your material.’
‘Why not Standish and Waring?’ It was the Premier’s suggestion. ‘They’re more your style.’
‘I have no choice, I’m afraid. They acted for Cassidy. All the documents are deposited with them.’
‘Let’s eat,’ said Loomis. ‘I missed lunch today.’
It was clear that they were both under stress and that we were still a long way from the core of the discussion. As we settled ourselves at table the Premier said, ‘I know it’s early days, but can you guess at what Cassidy’s estate may be worth?’
‘It’s better than a guess and it will soon be public knowledge anyway. There’s a bequest to his daughter and our children. There’s a trust fund for his wife which devolves to the City Mission, a donation of his art collection to the State gallery and separate provision for the Children’s Medical Foundation. All in all, it’s about ten million.’
‘Handsome!’ said the Premier drily. ‘Very handsome.’
‘But wearable.’ Loomis was obviously relieved. ‘He was elected rich. He died rich. The City Mission and the Children’s Medical Foundation are worthy causes. And the art collection is very valuable. On the score of benefactions, I’d say Charlie goes out smelling of roses.’ He turned to me again. ‘Are you sure there are no contentious bequests – to mistresses, kids born on the wrong side of the blanket, that sort of thing?’
‘None.’
‘I wonder what he did with the rest of it.’
‘The schedules of assets are up to date as at last December. The documents show no other funds.’
‘Loomis is guessing.’ The Premier sounded irritable.
‘The hell I’m guessing! It stands to reason –’
‘You’re tired, Rafe!’ There was real anger in the Premier’s voice. ‘You’re making reckless talk. Nothing stands to reason unless it can be proven in court.’
I decided it was time to play the peacemaker. I gave them a shrug and an amiable grin.
‘You both knew Cassidy better than I. He’s been out of my life and my wife’s for many years now. But wasn’t that his style, to make mysteries, create illusions like a magician at a children’s party?’
For the first time, Loomis laughed and the tension relaxed.
‘You’re right, of course. That was Charlie to a T.’
‘So what are you really concerned about? It will save us all a lot of time if you can be open with me.’
‘Save it for the coffee.’ The Premier gave a furtive glance at the waiters hovering in the background. ‘This place leaks information like a sieve. If I had my way I’d staff it with mute slaves!’
‘Don’t let the press get hold of that quote,’ murmured Loomis gloomily. ‘They’ll never let you forget it.’
Over the coffee cups they came to the point. They had the grace to be embarrassed; but, true-blue politicians, they were dedicated to the principle of survival at any cost. The Premier laid down the first premises.
‘Loomis and I – in fact, all the new Cabinet – are Cassidy men. He was a great leader. He had the gall of a con-man and the guts of a street fighter. He gave you a clear brief and, provided you stuck to it, he’d protect you right down the line. However, if you started writing your own variations, or quizzing Charlie about whys and wherefores, you’d suddenly find yourself in the middle of an empty paddock with the press baying after you like bloodhounds… It was dictatorship, of course, but benevolent dictatorship – most of the time!’
‘But now the dictator’s dead,’ said Loomis, ‘and we’re accountable to the Party and the electorate. The only way we can survive is to let Cassidy take the rap for what were, after all, his own policies! How do you feel about that?’
‘I’m wondering why the ground doesn’t open up and swallow you!’
‘It still may.’ The Premier shrugged ruefully.
‘But I still don’t understand what you want from me.’
‘I’ll spell it for you,’ said Loomis curtly. ‘I want access to all Cassidy’s papers – right down to his laundry lists. I want to take possession – and I’ll give you a legal receipt! – of everything that could possibly interest us. Hand it over without argument, and you’ll get probate for the will in double quick time. Stall me, and you’ll still be screaming for your wife’s inheritance ten years from now. Clear?’
‘Very clear, Mr. Loomis.’
‘Well, what do you say?’
‘Thank you for the dinner and some instructive talk. I’ll see you both at the funeral.’
I pushed back my chair and stood up. The Premier tugged at my coat-tails.
‘Please, Martin! Please sit down!’ He snapped at Loomis savagely. ‘For Christ’s sake, man! What are you playing at?’
Loomis shrugged and gave that flabby half-smile.
‘Just tactics. Forensic fun. You understand that, don’t you, Mr. Gregory? We have to know what kind of witness we have.’
‘Tactics be damned! Threats and menaces, more like. You have one minute to withdraw the threat and come clean. What am I supposed to have that scares you?’
There was a long, hostile silence until the Premier prompted Loomis.
‘Apologise! Tell him! We didn’t come here for a dogfight.’
‘I withdraw the threat,’ said Loomis reluctantly. ‘I’ll guarantee a speedy handling of your probate application. For the rest, here’s our problem. Cassidy carried the keys to this State. In a sense, he had the keys to the whole nation – because we’ve got the biggest port and the busiest international airport. He ran everything, legal and illegal. He dispensed the favours and collected the payoffs from drugs, gambling, prostitution, land deals, patronage, Government contracts. We were happy to let him do it, because – give the bastard his due – he kept the peace and was an honest paymaster. Everyone got what was promised, payment or punishment. The monies were dispensed by safe routes and there was always some good advice as to where to put them beyond the reach of the tax man. Cassidy had a lot of the legal profession in his pocket, too; lawyers who could lay out your loose change and get you twenty per cent return… The problem is that only Cassidy knew how the whole system worked. We all knew there were overseas connections. There had to be, because hot money was exported and cool money came back. But the nature of the network and the identity of the people concerned… only Cassidy knew those things.’
‘And you want to know whether the knowledge died with him.’
‘Or whether he passed it on to you,’ said Loomis. ‘And if he did, can we make a deal for it.’
‘So you can start reforming the system, rooting out corruption in high places, that sort of thing.’
‘Precisely,’ said the Premier. The word came out on a long exhalation of relief. Loomis gave me an ironic salute and a backhanded compliment.
‘You’re a good man, Charlie Brown! Cassidy, wherever he is, must be proud of you. So, to put the question simply: How much do you know and how much does it cost?’
‘It costs nothing – because at this moment, I know nothing.’
‘But the probate searches might – just might – turn up something.’
‘In which case, I’ll take appropriate action.’
‘Which is to bring the material to me.’ Loomis was wasting no time on politeness.
‘That’s one option. There may be others.’
‘You’re playing games!’
‘No. I’m simply reserving my position. Do you blame me? Not half an hour ago you told me that Cassidy ran everything in this State – legal and illegal – and that you, his Cabinet colleagues, were happy to l
et him do it. What does that make you? What does it make me if I commit evidence into your custody?’
‘A prudent servant of the court,’ said the Premier calmly.
My private opinion was that it would make me the village idiot; but we had traded enough insults and it was time to call off the argument. I made a pretence of reflecting for a moment, then I told Loomis: ‘You seem to have forgotten one fact. I’ve been out of Australia for more than a decade. I’ve lost all interest in local politics. I wouldn’t know a criminal from a Cabinet minister. So if you want information from Cassidy’s files, the least you can do is supply me with a reference list of items and subjects. Without that I’m in the dark.’
‘I could appoint a man to work with you.’
‘No way! No how!’
Loomis and the Premier looked at each other. The Premier nodded. Loomis gave a grudging assent.
‘For the first time this evening, you’ve begun to make sense. I’ll hand you a check list after the funeral.’
‘Thank you for your co-operation, Martin,’ said the Premier blandly.
‘Thank you for a pleasant dinner, Mr. Premier.’
‘You’re just like Cassidy,’ said Loomis. ‘You stall all night, then hand out a few scraps and expect us to call you Lady Bountiful… I hope the bloody funeral is rained out tomorrow.’
As it happened, the last rites of Charles Parnell Cassidy made a first-class production. The Governor-General was there, taking precedence over the State Governor as representative of the Crown. The Prime Minister was there, playing second fiddle to the Premier. There were union men and diplomats and sporting eminences and clergy and press, Cassidy’s old partners and the staff from his office and his household. A contingent of mounted police acted as an honour guard, because the States of Australia have no armed forces except their police and their criminals.
