by Morris West
She told me: ‘That’s the first salvo from Gerry Downs. It publishes on Saturday in their weekend supplement. Don’t wave it about here. Take it back to your hotel and study it in private… It’s all bad news, because it will force the Government to bring on a Royal Commission. The police will be tramping round in big circles to cover their own earlier footprints… Which brings me to the next piece of bad news. Mr. Melville says he has an offer on the table for something you’ve got. He says it’s a fair offer, but it won’t last for ever. If what you’ve got is compromised – I’m using his own words – it becomes valueless and the offer’s withdrawn. He says you’ll know exactly what he means.’
‘Do you know what he means, Laura?’
Her answer was cryptic, to say the least.
‘He didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask. I’m paid to pass messages, not to make explanations.’
‘Do you write shorthand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good! Jot this down. It’s a message from me to Marius Melville. Transmit it by telex. Send a confirming copy to my hotel. Quote: First, I didn’t solicit the offer. I was simply made aware that it exists. Second, I am taking the materials in question under immediate study to determine their nature and their future disposition. Third, I do not like dealing through intermediaries on matters of importance. I need a face-to-face meeting with you. I tender my thanks for your kindness in offering your chalet to my wife and family. Had the offer been made to me, I should have felt obliged to decline it; but since my wife accepted, I am grateful for your consideration. I cannot, however, permit my position as executor to be compromised. Signed, Martin Gregory. Unquote.’
She finished writing and stared at me for a long moment. She shook her head in disapproval.
‘My God, Martin, you’re a hard-nosed bastard!’
‘I hope Marius Melville knows that too.’
‘He does. I’ll see he gets your message.’ She gave me a small regretful smile. ‘Well, that rather takes the edge off our dinner party, doesn’t it?’
‘Not for me. I’d like to do it again – without Marius Melville at the other corner of the triangle. Now, would you do me a favour, please?’
‘If I can, sure.’
‘Do you have a reliable limousine service at the Melmar Marquis?’
She gave a mocking grin.
‘Naturally, we have the best.’
‘Would you call them and ask for someone to pick me up here? I’ll want him on call until one or two in the morning.’
‘Why spend the money? I’ll be happy to drive you – unless you’re going girl-chasing, of course.’
‘I’m very happy with the girl I’ve got, thank you.’
‘So why not let me drive you? Or are you doing your happily-married-man act and backing off before bedtime?’
What could I say? I was light-headed and a little drunk. I rose to the challenge like a trout to a fly.
‘Two conditions: you ask no questions; you do exactly as you’re told.’
‘Agreed.’
‘You’re hired.’
‘Now tell me what I do.’
‘You drive me to a cab rank. You lose yourself until exactly twelve-thirty, when you drive up to the jetty at Rose Bay. I’ll arrive at the same time by motor boat, unload some gear and stow it in the car. Then you’ll drive me to an address I’ll give you. The important thing is that you time it exactly. Don’t hang around, otherwise you’ll attract a prowler or a police patrol. If I’m delayed – God forbid! – drive away and come back. If you are questioned by the police, tell ‘em the truth. You’re waiting for a friend who’s returning from a cruise. He’s bringing gear ashore.’
‘Do I get paid for all this?’
‘You’re doing it for love!’
‘Good! You can write me a sonnet.’
‘Let’s get out of here.’
We walked out of the candlelight into the dingy street. As I held the car door open for her, Laura Larsen kissed me lightly on the lips.
‘Thank you for a pleasant dinner, Mr. Petrarch.’
It was a small, agreeable gesture, nothing to presume on, nothing to build a scandal on; yet it made me feel intolerably lonely, isolated and vulnerable, in this rough and randy town on the last continent before the ice-packs.
9
I knew that, sooner or later, I could be questioned about my actions that night; so I decided to memorise and record the time sequence. We left the restaurant at ten-thirty– eight. At ten-fifty I picked up a taxi on the rank at Circular Quay. At eleven-ten I was dropped at the gate of Cassidy’s house. There were no pedestrians in sight. The only vehicles were a red station wagon parked about fifty yards down the street and a cream combi van directly opposite the gate. I could see no light or movement within the van; but it was the most obvious spot for a surveillance team.
Marco Cubeddu opened the gate and bolted it behind me. Once inside the house, I explained my mission: to clear out Cassidy’s safe and deposit the contents in a bank safe-deposit. I would need pillowcases to pack the stuff and transport it to Rose Bay on Cassidy’s speedboat. Marco had a better idea. There were several old sail-bags in Cassidy’s boathouse, relics of the days when he had sailed with the Squadron. They were larger, stouter and more natural-looking than pillowcases. After all, I didn’t want to look like an amateur house-breaker carrying his loot.
Marco would not witness my access to the safe. He would not see the contents. He would simply accept a note of instruction in my handwriting. He would drive me to Rose Bay in the speedboat, help me to unload, then drive back and winch the craft into Cassidy’s boathouse. Thereafter, anyone who wanted access to Cassidy’s papers would have to come to me. Marco Cubeddu and his wife would remain as custodians of the property and its remaining contents. It was a simple operation, almost risk-free.
Marco brought me the sail-bags-big, heavy sacks of green oilcloth, closed by drawstrings. He lined each one with a sheet and showed me how to draw the corners together at the top so that at first glance the fabric would look like crumpled sailcloth; then he went off to winch down the speedboat and make her ready for a swift departure.
Once again I locked myself in Cassidy’s bedroom, opened the safe and began emptying the contents, shelf by shelf. I worked fast but carefully, glancing briefly at each pile of documents as I stacked it into the sail-bag. My finical lawyer’s conscience kept reminding me that if ever I were examined on the transactions of this night, the first questions asked would be what had I abstracted and what had I finally delivered to the officers of the court? The proper practice was to have a witness, who listed every item at the moment of transfer. There was no time for such nicety, I had to be packed and gone by midnight.
One item did give me pause: Cassidy’s pistol. I was just about to pick it up when I remembered one of my elementary lessons in forensic law: weapons, like people, have criminal histories; make sure you don’t muddle the history by indiscreet handling. I picked up the gun with a pencil, wrapped it carefully in one of Cassidy’s handkerchiefs and stowed it on top of an album of pornographic pictures.
On the lowest tier of the safe there were two locked drawers, one large and one small. I fumbled through Cassidy’s keys until I found the two that fitted. The small drawer was full of jewellers’ packages of precious stones: diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies. I did not need the handwritten weights and descriptions to assure myself that these were fine-quality gems, worth a great deal of money. I folded the packages into another of Cassidy’s handkerchiefs and wedged them between two bundles of letters.
The larger drawer contained the real surprise packet: two flat envelopes of transparent plastic, heat-sealed and full of white crystalline powder. Each envelope was stamped with an elephant, which I seemed to remember signified heroin, and the symbol K.50, which had to be half a kilogram. I had no means of proving what the powder was unless I opened the envelopes, but if it were pure heroin its street value was astronomical. But for Cassidy to have held it here
in his own house seemed, at first blush, a madness beyond belief. However, it was a madness that put me, too, in instant jeopardy. I could justify my possession of documents for at least as long as it took me to list and study them. There was no way in the world I could justify the unreported possession of a kilo of scheduled narcotics. Loomis would have me handcuffed and charged before I could say Charles Parnell Cassidy.
So, it seemed I had Hobson’s choice: leave the stuff for someone else to find, or hand it over first thing in the morning, with loud protestations of ignorance and virtue. Loomis would be very happy about that. He would pat me on the head, give me a big rosy apple and sit me at the top of the class. Then, on clear evidence of a drug connection, he would swear out a warrant for the seizure and delivery of every scrap of paper in my possession – right down to the toilet rolls – and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.
Then a new thought hit me. Perhaps he wouldn’t do that at all. He was a very downy bird, our ‘Call-me-Rafe’ Loomis. He might be quite happy to bury the plastic bags six feet deep with Cassidy himself, and even happier to embroil me in a little game of now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t.
Conclusion? Not to rush to any conclusion. Every damned item in those sail-bags was tainted anyway. So I borrowed some more of Cassidy’s handkerchiefs, wiped my fingerprints off the envelopes, packed them into the sail-bags and locked the empty safe. Then, on Cassidy’s notepaper, I wrote a note for Marco Cubeddu:
To Whom It May Concern
On the evening of the 18th February, in my capacity as executor of the estate of the late Charles Parnell Cassidy, I visited his residence, opened his safe with the keys which had been given to me in London and took possession of documents and other items. All these items have been transferred to the custody of a bank, pending probate of Mr. Cassidy’s will. Marco Cubeddu and his wife remain, until my further instructions, legal custodians of the premises and their contents.
Martin Gregory
I explained to Marco that he should not present the note unless he were asked for it and that he should not volunteer any information beyond what was requested by a police officer. Marco reminded me stiffly that he was a man from the Barbagia, the high secret country of Sardinia, where a stranger is hard put to prise even the time of day out of the locals.
I apologised for my lack of politeness and commended him for his discretion. We drank a Scotch together and then lugged four bulging sail-bags down to the boathouse. As we unshackled the slipway cable and let the big Riva slide the last metre into the water, my watch showed five minutes before midnight.
The Riva is a beautiful craft, a highly polished wooden speedboat, with a lethally large engine under the hatch. It is built in Italy and is rarely seen in Australia because of the high import duties levied on it. It starts with a roar, takes off and guzzles fuel like a jet aircraft. Marco told me this one was a gift from Marius Melville to Charles Cassidy – taxes and duties all prepaid of course.
Rose Bay was just around the corner. We had at least thirty minutes to kill before our rendezvous with Laura Larsen. Marco asked whether I would like a quick run around the southern fringes of the harbour. I told him I would like nothing better. He headed out into the channel and opened the throttle.
I watched him as he drove the sleek, beautiful craft through the choppy water. He was another man; tall, defiant, a black Ulyssean silhouette against the moon. He took us at a fast run past the Opera House and under the span of the Harbour Bridge. As we came about I asked him to slow down so that I could watch the lights on the shoreline. We could talk then, too.
I asked him: ‘You’re a mountain-man from the Barbagia. Where did you learn to handle a boat so well?’
‘On the waterfront in Cagliari.’ He was flattered by my interest. ‘I had an uncle there who ran a couple of tuna boats. Then I got a job on a smuggling run to Tunis – twice a week; cigarettes, watches, whatever was going. She was big and fast – thirty knots – and she was owned by a grosso pezzo in Palermo. You had to have good nerves for that game. Then somehow Mr. Melville heard of me and asked me to skipper his boat, the Serpente d’Oro, which was berthed in Porto Cervo. She was a fast machine, too; four crew, eight passengers, twenty-five knots. We cruised her in the summer and chartered her in the off months between Tunis, Morocco, the Balearics, Corsica and Sicily…’
‘What sort of charter?’ I tried to make the question sound ingenuous. He shrugged and gestured widely.
‘Anybody and everything! Runaway lovers, Friends of the Friends, political agents, cigarettes, guns. It wasn’t my business to ask. I made the rendezvous. I picked up passengers and consignments. I delivered them – sometimes at sea, sometimes at out-of-the-way ports. I paid cash. I collected cash. It was a good life; because Mr. Melville’s arrangements always worked. I never once ran into the Guardia di Finanza. I never once heard a shot fired – not in three whole years. That’s how I was able to emigrate to Australia. No convictions, no black marks from the police. I love the sea. You are not hemmed in. You can always disappear over the horizon.’
‘Did you enjoy working for Mr. Cassidy?’
‘At first, yes. He was very like Mr. Melville. They thought the same way, talked the same way. But later, when he became ill… Boh! He changed. He began to lose vigour. He tried to balance things. He would not plunge forward any more. I should not say this perhaps; but he needed a son. He needed you, Dottore. It is sad that you were separated so long.’
‘Yes. It was sad. But he was very attached to Miss Pat. Apparently she was a great help to him.’
He cut the throttle and let the nose of the craft settle in the slack water. Clearly he was ready to talk. It was as if our conspiratorial act had given me a new status in his eyes.
‘…I mean no disrespect to the dead; but I never understood what Mr. Cassidy saw in that one. She is beautiful, of course, like a doll. She is graceful and clinging.’ He made a faintly sexual gesture as he searched for the word. ‘She is sinuosa, like a vine twisting and turning round a tree. She must have satisfied him in bed, because Mr. Cassidy was a potent man who needed much sex. But – she didn’t belong. She brought strange people to the house. Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, types like that…’
‘Did you know she had a child by Mr. Cassidy?’
He hesitated over the answer. At our first meeting he had denied all knowledge of the relationship. Finally he said, ‘I thought it possible. It was not my business to discuss it, outside the family. Now, of course, you are family. So we can talk openly.’
‘Yes, I am family. So, it would seem, are Miss Pat and her daughter.’
‘Boh!’ The exclamation was full of contempt. Marco was old Europe. Whatever was done outside the matrimonial bed was a trifle. Whatever was born outside of it had no legal existence. ‘They are connected, yes, but they are not family. Oil and water don’t mix.’
‘But Mr. Cassidy obviously trusted her.’
‘Too much, I think.’
‘Why do you say that, Marco?’
‘Before he went away, he decided to leave the keys of his safe with her. When he told me of it I was offended and angry. I told him that if he could not trust me, his man of confidence, he should not trust a foreign woman. Besides, I could not control what she brought in or what she took out. I was not prepared to remain in his service if anyone else had access to the safe during his absence. Mr. Cassidy understood my anger and agreed. So the safe remained locked until you arrived.’
‘But Miss Pat came and went at will during that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘She slept where?’
‘In Mr. Cassidy’s room.’
‘In spite of his promise to you, he could have left her a key.’
‘Nevertheless, I can swear she did not open the safe.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I had glued four hairs around the door of the safe. They were almost invisible. One might have been noticed, but not all. They remained unbroken until you yourself ope
ned the safe. So Mr. Cassidy did keep faith with me… But why are you worried? Is something missing that should be there?’
‘I have no way of knowing, Marco. I’m just a cautious man.’
‘Better so,’ said Marco drily. ‘One lives longer.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Twenty-five minutes past twelve. Time to go in.’
He gunned the engine, swung us round in a wide, foaming arc and headed in towards the Rose Bay jetty. As we neared the shoreline he trained the spotlight on the parking lot behind the jetty. I could see the grey Mercedes, parked with its nose towards the sea. Its lights flicked on and off three times. Marco tossed the fenders overside and eased the Riva against the landing stage with scarcely a creak of the pilings. We moored her briskly, fore and aft, then hefted the heavy sail-bags and set off down the jetty. It was as well there were no witnesses, because paper weighs a lot more than nylon; and, with one bag over each shoulder, we were staggering rather than walking.
By the time we reached the car Laura had the boot open and was sitting at the wheel with the engine running. She did not get out. She was simply a vague profile behind the heavily tinted glass. Marco and I stowed the bags in the boot. I slammed the lid. We exchanged a brief handshake. He set off at a brisk trot down the jetty. I got into the car. Laura Larsen had it moving instantly.
Just before we pulled out into New South Head Road, she asked, ‘Where to?’
I gave her Paul Langlois’ address. She nodded curtly and moved into the traffic lane.
I asked her: ‘Any problems?’
‘None.’ She was terse and withdrawn. ‘After I left you, I called Mr. Melville in Zurich. I gave him your message.’
‘I asked you to telex. I have reasons for wanting a record of the communication.’
‘My shorthand was confused. It was easier to report verbally. However, I told him what you wanted. He did send a telex in reply.’
