Cassidy

by Morris West

  ‘Willing, yes. Whether I’m able is another matter. I need much more information than I’ve got at this moment. I’m not half way through Cassidy’s records. I know nothing at all about your affairs. I can’t jump in blindfold.’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘I don’t know. You have to be open with me before I counsel you.’

  She gave me a long, searching look and then began a brusque, concise narration.

  ‘I am a one-third shareholder in the Chao Phraya Trading Company, which has its headquarters in Bangkok and either agents or affiliates in Malaya, Laos, Kampuchea and Vietnam. The other shareholders are The Melmar Hotel Company, Bangkok, and Rotdrache Bangkok who are, among other things, merchant bankers with European affiliations. They are also nominees for Charles Cassidy’s holdings. The company therefore conforms to Government regulations about ownership by Thai nationals or Thai corporations.’

  ‘And what does the company do?’

  ‘It imports foreign goods, exports local products. It represents foreign firms; Japanese, Chinese, Korean, American. It manufactures under licence from a Swiss pharmaceutical company. In short, it’s a cover-all enterprise.’

  “Who runs it?’

  ‘My father is President. I am Vice-President, because it looks better that way. Our General Manager is Chinese but a Thai citizen. Our staff are recruited locally.’

  ‘And the other board members?’

  ‘A director of the Melmar Hotel, a Swiss gentleman from Rotdrache and a member of the Royal Household.’

  ‘They all seem very respectable people.’

  ‘Respectable!’ The word seemed to irritate her. ‘I don’t know what that means. They are traders. They make money where and how they can. So far, they have done well for themselves and for Chao Phraya. They knew that I had Cassidy behind me and that I voted his shares. But… now that Cassidy is gone, I am a minority and I am a woman in this traders’ world. So things are beginning to change. Our General Manager is making demands – a seat on the board, a substantial block of shares. If we don’t satisfy him, he will leave and take a lot of business with him. The Melmar people – that is the man you asked about, Marius Melville – would like to buy me out altogether; but behind this offer is another person, high at the Royal Court. My father is afraid of him. He advises me to sell.’

  ‘But surely all this must have been brewing while Cassidy was alive?’

  ‘No!’ The denial was emphatic. ‘You don’t know the power that man had – the respect in which he was held. They had a name for him in Thai, it means a warrior who laughs at armies. He never raised his voice. He never argued over trifles. But when he had made up his mind, he was like a pillar of iron. Nothing would shake him. Now that he is gone, there is no one…’

  ‘There is still Marius Melville.’

  ‘He is a different man altogether – powerful, yes, but one who makes a trade of mystery and who serves not only his personal interests, but those of much larger foreign groups. He will not hurt me. He will give me a fair price for my shares, but if I refuse the offer he will never forgive me. He needs to control the votes, you see. Cassidy and he were friends, they worked well together, so Melville was content. But he would not be happy with a stranger in the group. However, if you were to come in and pick up Cassidy’s shares, I do not think he would disagree.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can do that. I don’t know enough. I don’t even know yet who has legal control of Cassidy’s interests outside this country.’

  ‘Surely that’s in the files he left you.’

  ‘I haven’t found it yet.’

  ‘I need help now!’ Suddenly she was angry and imperious, forgetting all caution as she counted off her bill of complaints. ‘Every day my father and I are being squeezed a little more: protection money so no one burns our go-downs; extra guards on the trucks so they don’t get hijacked; bigger bribes for the police and the Customs men and the shipping clerks who book space for our merchandise. It’s an old game in Asia; but this time the stakes are very high… Cassidy knew how to play it from the beginning and everybody knew that he knew: the Palace folk, the police, the generals, the old Chinese families – even the caravan masters who brought opium down from the high valleys. Now we are isolated. There is only Marius Melville, whom I have never met, and you, the man who hated Cassidy.’

  ‘I hold no malice against you or his child. I’ll help where I can. But I’m not the man you need. Besides, I have another life to live.’

  ‘Are you happy in it – now that you have no one to hate?’

  ‘I think it’s time I left.’

  I heaved myself out of the lounging place and made for the door. She made no apology, no move to stay me. She walked ahead of me to the entrance door and opened it. She shook her head in a kind of ironic puzzlement.

  ‘If I’d said anything like that to Charles he would have slapped me across the room.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘You disappointed me, Martin.’

  ‘My apologies, Madam. Cassidy was always a hard act to follow. Thank you for dinner. Good night.’

  As I headed for the elevator, I heard the door slam violently and the chainbolt rattle into place. I found myself palming my eyelids, brushing my face with my hands, as if I had walked through a tangle of cobwebs.

  12

  Professor Julian Steiner had aged twenty years since our last meeting. His lion’s mane had thinned to white cotton wool. His high-domed forehead was ruled like a musical stave. His great nose had become pinched and sharp like an eagle’s beak. His finger-joints were swollen and arthritic. But there was still that wonderful light in his smile, that impish twinkle in his dark eyes. He measured me head to toe, then sat me down with a brusque: ‘Well then! Let’s take it from the top!’

  The awe of my student days overwhelmed me again. It was as if I were back in his lecture-hall, struggling desperately to ‘state the facts, state them concisely, in chronological order, with only the relevant circumstantial details’. He listened, as he always did, in silence, lying back in his armchair with his feet on the desk, his fingertips making a small spire just under his nose.

  I told him everything, from my first breach with Cassidy, up to and including last night’s dinner with Pornsri Rhana. It was a long story and one not easy to tell. When I had finished the narration, he sat in silence for nearly a minute. I remembered his silences better than his utterances. It was more than a student’s life was worth to break them. Finally, he faced me with an unexpected proposition.

  ‘Abdicate! Give Arthur Rebus power of attorney, dump everything in his lap and go home.’ He sprawled again in his chair, grinning at me quizzically behind his joined palms. ‘You don’t like the idea?’

  ‘I’m not sure it can work.’

  ‘Why not! There are twenty-three partners in Arthur Rebus’ outfit. They have excellent offshore connections and they’ve been briefed in several Royal Commissions on organised crime and the drug traffic. Rebus is highly efficient, totally honest – and he doesn’t scare easily.’

  ‘Certainly I’d like to appoint Rebus to handle the probate.’

  ‘He’s already agreed to that. He’s awaiting your call. But Martin, you have to be absolutely open with him. The fiscal authorities will try, as they always do, to inglobate all assets. They will want to examine all available documents. Rebus can handle them very well. But you cannot exclude him arbitrarily from any sources of information.’

  ‘What about Cassidy’s other activities and associations – with Marius Melville, for instance? With political graft and organised crime?’

  ‘Do you have any proof that he was so engaged?’

  ‘Lots of indications, much hearsay. Enough to provoke an investigation. Not yet legal proof.’

  ‘Two points then: in default of proof, you are not obliged to take any action. In any case, you are not required to judge the morals of a dead man. So why bother? So long as the heirs get their legal entitlement from the es
tate, your duty is discharged… Or is there something else you haven’t told me?’

  ‘There is; but I’m not sure I can put it into words.’

  ‘Let me try then. You fought him, but you could never beat him. Even at the end he escaped you. He made you custodian of his affairs, then killed himself in your presence. You can’t forgive him and you can’t forget him. So you want to unravel his life and see what he was made of. It won’t work, Martin. You’ll end up with a big pile of coloured wool with no human shape to it at all.’

  ‘But if I do it your way?’

  ‘It’s exorcism – bell, book and candle! The demon departs. The angels appear on a cloud of incense. Unless…’ He lapsed again into silence, weighing the words. ‘Unless, like Faustus, you have sold him your soul and he will not give up his claim. Am I insulting you, Martin?’

  ‘No, sir.’ I tried to make a joke of it. ‘But the fact is I haven’t made the deal yet. I’m still studying the terms and conditions.’

  Steiner was not amused. He said gravely, ‘Be careful. Mephisto is a very persuasive salesman. I think I should tell you that I knew Charles Cassidy very well. I liked him. I respected him. He was, to use a biblical phrase, ‘learned in the law’. When he began to engage himself in politics he came to me for a private refresher course in Constitutional Law – especially in the areas of State and Federal sovereignties. For nearly six months we spent three hours a week together and I have to tell you he worked me as hard as I worked him. One day, during a particularly complicated discussion on anomalies in jurisdiction, I asked him what he was really digging for. His answer came fast as a gunshot: “The roots of power, Julie – the taproot and every goddamn fibre. There’s no point in winning power at an election unless you understand the biological functions of it…” The subject became an obsession with him. It was the axis around which all his thinking revolved: the power to withdraw labour, the power to manipulate money, to impose order by force, to suppress information, to monitor communications – all of it within the existing constitutional framework. I found it a fascinating exercise in the grey areas of the law… But, towards the end of it, I found I had lost Cassidy – or he had lost me. We were no longer talking the same language. I was concerned with principles, he with situations. I was dealing with the ethics of the social contract, he with its manipulation. He was dedicated to pure pragmatism, based on the ugly proposition that the human animal was infinitely corruptible… This was about the time you married his daughter and the fabric of his domestic life began to tear apart; so I was inclined to be tolerant of his aberration. There are ugly periods in all our lives. I should have known better. I should have recognised the old ecclesiastical paternalism under which he was nurtured. As a Jew, I should have recognised the Führer-prinzip even when it was enunciated in an Irish-Australian brogue… But that’s what it turned out to be. He was the arch-corruptor, the supreme manipulator, Mephisto to the life…’ He thrust a long, bony finger at me across the table. ‘That’s what worries me, Martin. At every step you’re acting and thinking exactly as Cassidy planned. You’ve come to me for advice, as Cassidy did. I’ve offered you a counsellor and a colleague to keep you honest. You still haven’t accepted him. You’re tempted, aren’t you, Martin? There’s at least half a billion dollars in trust; there’s all the mystery of an underground empire through whose frontiers you have a passport, to which it seems you could be the heir apparent… So tell me, Martin, do you want Arthur Rebus or not? If you do, pick up the phone and call him. There’s the number…’

  Now it was my turn to be silent. Julian Steiner waited, calm and watchful as an old eagle. Finally, I found the words I needed.

  ‘I won’t abdicate. I can’t. I have to finish what I’ve begun. I will, however, brief Arthur Rebus – and I’ll give him full access to everything I’ve got.’

  ‘Good!’ said Julian Steiner with a grin. ‘Then at least you’ll have a conscience to tell you when you’re about to become a crook!’

  So, at midday that same day, on the premises of the Banque de Paris, with a cheque of five thousand dollars, I bought myself a conscience. I also executed a power of attorney and an act of delegation of my powers and duties as executor of the Cassidy estate. Paul Langlois witnessed the documents and took copies for his files. I went through the whole transaction with as much enthusiasm as if I were buying a wooden leg.

  My new acquisition, Arthur Arnold Rebus, was as nondescript a man as you would meet and ignore in a month of Sundays. He looked thirty-five but was probably ten years older. He had sandy hair, sandy eyes, a freckled horse face, hands and feet too big for a thin, flailing body and a voice deep enough to sing bass in Boris Godonov. He wasted no time on courtesies and was as sharp as a butcher’s carver.

  ‘…I’ll deal with the routine stuff first: the will, the trust deeds, valuations of property and chattels. You’d better run me over to the house and introduce me to the custodian – what’s his name? – Cubeddu. We’ll need to arrange inventories, valuations, and so on. That’s routine. You can leave it to us, we’re good at it… For the rest, I’ll work with you every day for as long as is necessary to get the hang of the microfiche stuff and the materials from the safe. I’ve got some specialised knowledge which will help you to round out the picture. Oh… the Thai lady needs some attention. You’d better arrange for her to meet me. I don’t want any skeletons rattling in unopened cupboards. One other thing… you and I…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re the client. I need full confidence and complete information. I take instructions and give advice. If I don’t agree with the instructions, I’ll say so. If you don’t agree with the advice, we argue it. If we can’t work harmoniously, we call it a day. Clear?’

  ‘Clear. How much do you charge?’

  ‘Here’s the rate card. It’s steep, but you get the best value in town. Also you get a free education in backstairs politics.’

  ‘In which I’m lamentably deficient.’

  ‘You’ll learn fast. Next week, we should go to Canberra together.’

  ‘Why Canberra?’

  ‘The Federal capital. Home of the Federal Police, whose Commissioner is an old friend of mine. You need him. He needs you; you can give him access to Cassidy’s records. So it’s a constructive situation. I’ll make the arrangements. Also I want to dedicate a couple of nights to showing you the underside of the city – and how Cassidy’s fiefdom works. I promise you won’t find it boring… Now, let’s talk about Mr. Marius Melville. You say you’ve never met him.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve spoken to him once.’

  ‘Yet your wife and family are guests in his house at Klosters.’

  ‘Right. The arrangement was made without my knowledge. I didn’t want to make an enemy by cancelling it.’

  ‘But that puts you in Melville’s debt?’

  ‘To a limited degree, yes.’

  ‘Debts have to be paid – old custom in the Honourable Society. And his daughter, this Miss… ?’

  ‘Laura Larsen.’

  ‘Miss Larsen is your official minder.’

  ‘According to Melville, yes.’

  ‘And according to Martin Gregory?’

  ‘Do you want it straight?’

  ‘How else?’

  ‘We make sparks together. I could happily fall into bed with her.’

  ‘Have you done it yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Keep it that way – otherwise you’ll be up to your neck in trouble. How do you and your wife get along?’

  ‘I love her. I love my family. There was a certain amount of stress before I left; but that’s hardly surprising in the circumstances.’

  ‘So you’re vulnerable – sexually, I mean?’

  ‘Damn it, man, do you have to spell all the bloody words?’

  ‘Today, yes. Tomorrow we take ’em as read. If you need a little sexual exercise I can steer you in safe directions. But you don’t want to end up baretailed and rampant in someone’s photo album.’<
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  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like to buy you lunch out of this retainer.’

  ‘I’ll accept.’

  ‘Let’s go to my club. It’ll be good for your image to be seen in reputable company.’

  ‘To hell with you, Mr. Rebus!’

  ‘And to hell with you, Mr. Gregory!’

  For the first time I heard him laugh: a deep, rumbling sound like an underground train. It seemed to take an age for the sound to reach the surface; then he gurgled and spluttered and mopped at his face with a handkerchief.

  When the spasm was over he announced, ‘I like you. I think we’ll do well in harness – provided I can keep you alive!’

  Once inside the portals of his club – one of the more hallowed shrines of the Australian Establishment – my shambling, freckle-faced conscience became another being. His clothes seemed to fit better. He stood taller. His hair was sleeker, his manners more polished, his whole persona more dignified and daunting. Everyone greeted him – judges, knights of commerce, bankers, a stray general, a Privy Councillor or two, the Leader of the Opposition in the Federal Parliament. He returned every salute according to a rigid protocol of whose rules I was ignorant: a nod here, there a smile and an off-hand gesture, for this one a hand’s clasp, for that other a murmured aside, for some a studied surprise as though they had just been dredged up from a sludge of old memories.

  Those to whom he introduced me were obviously the privileged. Even then the presentation was brief, the name always mumbled thus: ‘Mr.… arrumph…’ The description emphasised ‘…client of mine from London.’

  Further conversation was discouraged. He declined several offers of drinks at the bar and led me straight to a table for two in a shadowy corner. When we were seated, I paid him a compliment on his very fancy footwork. He shrugged and grinned.