The Bear Pit

by Jon Cleary

  “Where’s his wife?”

  “She’s gone to the hospital. We sent two uniformed guys to keep an eye on things there.”

  Malone, Russ Clements and Truach were standing on the steps outside the hotel’s main entrance. Crime Scene tapes had replaced the thick red ropes that had held back the hoi polloi as the dinner guests had arrived. The hoi polloi were still there, cracking jokes and making rude remarks about the two women officers running out the tapes. Most of the crowd were young, had come from the cinema complexes further up the street or the games parlours; they had come from paying to see violence on the screens and here it was for free. But soon they would be bored, the body gone. Even the blood didn’t show up on the maroon marble.

  “Who got shot?”

  “That old guy, the Premier, Whatshisname.”

  “A politician! Holy shit! Clap, everyone!”

  Everyone did and Malone said, “Let’s go inside. Are the Aldwyches still here?”

  “In the manager’s office.”

  “What about the dinner guests? I read there were going to be a thousand of them.”

  “We got rid of them through the two side entrances. You never saw such a skedaddle, you’d of thought World War Three had started.”

  Inside the hotel lobby Malone looked around; it was the first time he had been in the building since halfway through its construction. On one of its upper floors a Chinese girl student had tried to shoot him and had been shot dead by Russ Clements. “This place is jinxed.”

  “Keep it to yourself.” Clements was the supervisor, second-in-command to Malone of Homicide and Serial Violent Crime Agency. He was a big man, bigger than Malone, who lumbered through life at his own pace. He had once been impatient, but experience had taught him that patience, if not a virtue, was not a vice. “Otherwise the IOC will cancel all its bookings.”

  “Phil,” said Malone to Truach, “let me know what the Forensic fellers come up with. Where did the shot come from?”

  “They’re still working on that.” Truach was a bony man, tanned tobacco-brown. He looked Indian, but his flat drawl had no subcontinent lilt. “The guess is that it didn’t come from a car. There’s no parking allowed out there and the traffic was moving too fast for someone to take a pot-shot at the Premier. How would they know to be right opposite the hotel just as he came out? Ladbroke, his minder, told me there was no set time for the Premier to leave. His car was on stand-by.”

  “It could’ve been a drive-by shooting, some hoons aiming to wipe out a few silvertails. There was a horde of them here tonight, the silvertails.”

  “Maybe,” said Truach doubtfully. “But if that’s the case, I think I’ll take early retirement. It’s not my world.”

  “Where’s Ladbroke now?” asked Clements.

  “Here,” said Ladbroke, coming in the front doors behind them. In the past hour he appeared to have lost weight; he was haggard, his shirt rumpled, his jacket hanging slackly. “I’ve just come from the hospital, I’ve left my assistant to hold off the vultures. I want to know what’s happening here.”

  “How is he?”

  “They’re preparing him for surgery. It doesn’t look good.”

  The big lobby was deserted but for police and several hotel staff standing around like the marble statues in the niches in the lobby walls. Malone didn’t ask where the guests were; the less people around, the better. Keep them in their rooms, especially any Olympic committee visitors. “Roger, did the Old Man have many enemies?”

  Ladbroke was visibly upset at what had happened to his master, but he was case-hardened in politics: “Come on, Scobie. He’s got more enemies than Saddam Hussein.”

  “I had to ask the question, Roger. Cops aren’t supposed to believe what they read in the newspapers. Let’s go and talk to the Aldwyches.”

  The manager’s office was large enough to hold a small board meeting. Its walls held a selection of paintings by Australian artists; nothing abstract or avant-garde to frighten the guests who might come in here to complain about the service or the size of their bill. There were more scrolls and certificates than there were paintings, and Malone wondered how a hotel that had opened its doors only last week had managed recognition so quickly.

  The manager must have seen Malone’s quizzical look because he said, “Those are diplomas for our staff, our chefs, et cetera. And myself. And you are—?”

  Malone introduced himself and Clements. “And you are?”

  “Joseph Bardia.” He was tall and distinguished-looking, a head waiter who had climbed higher up the tree.

  “From Rome,” said Jack Aldwych.

  “Paris, London and New York,” added Bardia.

  “May we borrow your office, Mr. Bardia? We won’t be long.”

  Bardia looked as if he had been asked could the police borrow his dinner jacket; he looked at Aldwych, who just smiled and raised a gentle thumb. “Don’t argue with him, Joe. Outside. I’ll see he doesn’t pinch the diplomas.”

  Bardia somehow managed a return smile; he hadn’t forgotten his years as a waiter. “Be my guests.”

  He went out, closing the door behind him and Jack Junior said, “Dad, you don’t treat hotel managers like that. Two-hundred-thousand-a-year guys aren’t bellhops.”

  “I’ll try and remember that,” said Jack Senior; then looked at Malone and Clements. “Looks like the jinx is still working.”

  “Just what I said, Jack,” said Malone and sat down on a chair designed for the bums of 500dollars-a-night guests. “You and Jack Junior were lucky.”

  “Do you think the bullet was meant for either of you?” asked Clements. The big man had sat down on a couch beside Jack Junior; the elder Aldwych sat opposite Malone. “The bullet might of been off-target.”

  Aldwych shook his head. “We’re spotless, Russ. Since we finally got Olympic Tower up and running, nobody’s troubled us.”

  “And we’ve troubled nobody,” said Jack Junior.

  “What about the past?” said Malone. “Jack, you’ve got enemies going back to Federation. Now you’re top of the tree, respectable, retired from the old game, what if someone decided he had to pay off old scores?”

  Aldwych shook his head. “I don’t think so, Scobie. The old blokes who had it in for me, they’re all gone. I’m history, Scobie, and so are they. The new lot—” he shook his head again—“the Lebanese, the Viets, they wouldn’t bother with me. They’re too busy doing each other.”

  Malone looked at Ladbroke, who had gone round the big desk and sat in the manager’s chair. He was still shaken by what had happened to The Dutchman, but half a lifetime of working in politics had built its own armour. “Okay, like I said, the Old Man has enemies. They want to get rid of him before he calls the election, but they wouldn’t want to shoot him. That would only queer their own pitch.”

  “Why?”

  “They’d become the first suspects. Who’d vote for them if you proved anything against them?”

  “If we prove anything against them, they won’t be running for office. We want a list of all those who’ve been working to toss the Premier.”

  Ladbroke frowned. “I can give you a list, but you won’t let ‘em know where you got it? I’ve already been approached to work for them if they get rid of Hans.”

  Malone looked at the other three men, raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you glad we aren’t in politics? Would you work for them, Roger?”

  “No,” said Ladbroke, managing to look hurt that he should be thought venal. “But I wouldn’t tell them that till I’d found another job. And though the Old Man’s been a pain in the arse at times, I don’t think I could work for anyone else, not after him.”

  “You’d be lost out of politics,” said Malone, and Ladbroke nodded. “What happens if he doesn’t recover? He probably won’t, not with a bullet in his neck at his age. Not enough to go back to work.”

  “Then the Deputy Premier will call the election—it’s got to be called, two months at the latest, in March. Our time’s up
.”

  “That’s what Hans said tonight,” said Aldwych. “That his—enemies, we call ‘em that?—they reckon his time was up, he’d reached his use-by date.”

  “Is the Deputy Premier one of the enemies?” Malone had had no experience of Billy Eustace. He had slid in and out of ministerial portfolios with hardly anyone noticing. He had never held any of the law-and-order portfolios.

  Ladbroke pursed his lips. Those in political circles, whether politicians or minders, are wary of discussion with outsiders. Discussion and argument are food and drink to them, but they don’t like to share it. “Billy Eustace? He could be, but I don’t know that he has the troops. And he’d never hire a hitman, not unless he got a discount and fly-buy coupons. Billy has the tightest fist I’ve ever come across.”

  “Oh, I dunno,” said Clements, but didn’t look at Malone. “Jack, can we eliminate you and Jack Junior for the time being?”

  “For as long as you like,” said Aldwych.

  Ladbroke stood up. “I’d better get back to the hospital. If the Old Man dies—” He bit his lip; it was a moment before he went on: “I’ll let you know right away. Then get the bastard—whether the Old Man lives or dies!”

  It was the first time Malone had seen Ladbroke raised out of his laid-back, almost arrogant calm. “We’ll do that. If he regains consciousness, then tomorrow we’ll have to talk to him.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Mrs. Vanderberg. She’s running things now.”

  “How’s she taking it?”

  “Badly, I think. But she’s hiding it. She’s as tough as the Old Man. The bastards who wanted to get rid of him should remember that.”

  He went out and Malone and Clements stood up to follow him. “Take care, Jack.”

  “You can be sure of it,” said Aldwych.

  Out in the lobby one of the Physical Evidence team was waiting. “We think we’ve found where the shot came from.”

  “Where?”

  Sam Penfold was the same age as Malone but looked older. His hair was grey and his thin eyes already faded, as if the search for clues had worn them out. He collected spoor like a hunter, which was what he was. “Across the road. There’s a row of shops, half a dozen or so, rising three storeys. There’s a common entrance that leads up to the first and second floors, with a corridor running along the back, connecting them. The rooms above the shops are mostly single tenants. A quick-job printer, a watch and jewelry repair shop, things like that. And—”

  Why, wondered Malone, were so many cops these days using theatrical pauses? Were they all training for TV auditions?

  “And an alterations and repairs business, the Sewing Bee. It had been broken into. From its street windows you look right across George Street to the steps outside there.” He nodded towards the hotel’s front. “A good marksman with a good ‘scope couldn’t miss.”

  “He did miss,” said Clements. “Or close enough. The Premier isn’t dead.”

  “You got anyone over there?” asked Malone.

  “Norma Nickles is there and I’m going back. We’ll have the place dusted and printed in time to give you prints in the morning. I’m not hopeful, though. We had time to try the door that had been busted. The door-knob was clean, so the guy was probably wearing gloves. All we’ll find, I’m afraid, are prints from the staff and customers.”

  “Why are you buggers always so cheerful?”

  “We’re bloodhounds. You ever see a cheerful bloodhound?”

  He left and Malone turned as he saw Bardia, the manager, approaching. He had the look of a man who wished he were back in Rome or Paris or London.

  “Finished, Inspector?”

  “No, Mr. Bardia. Just beginning.”

  Guests who had been out on the town or visiting friends were coming back, entering the lobby with some apprehension and puzzlement at the sight of the uniformed police and the blue-and-white tapes still surrounding the outside steps. Bardia saw them and smiled reassuringly, as if it was all just part of the hotel’s service.

  Then he turned back to the two detectives. “The police will be here for—days?” He made it sound like months.

  “No. Tomorrow, yes. But after that things should be back to normal for you.” Then he looked beyond the manager into a side room off the lobby. “Excuse me.”

  He crossed the lobby into the side room and Clements, left stranded, took a moment to recover before he followed him. Les Chung, Madame Tzu and General Wang-Te looked up as the two Homicide men approached. They all had the bland look that Malone, a prejudiced cynic, thought only Orientals could achieve.

  “We meet again.” Two years before he had met Madame Tzu and General Wang-Te on a case that had threatened to ruin any chance of Olympic Tower’s being a successful venture. The same case on which the Chinese girl, screaming at him, un-bland as a cornered animal, had tried to kill him. “Murder seems to bring us together.”

  “Is he dead?” The bland look dropped from Les Chung’s face.

  “No, but he may soon be—they’re not hopeful. It was attempted murder.”

  “It wasn’t—what do you call it?—a drive-by shooting? A random attack?”

  Madame Tzu might have been asking if the Premier had been attacked by a wasp. It was impossible to tell her age within ten years either side of the true figure; but whatever it was, she wore it well. She had a serenity that was a sort of beauty in itself; men would always look at her, though not always with confidence. Men, particularly the natives, tend to be cautious with serene women: it is another clue in the feminine puzzle. She wore a simply cut gold dinner dress, a single strand of black pearls and an air that didn’t invite intimacy.

  “No, Madame Tzu, it wasn’t a random shooting. They knew whom they were after. You and General Wang are staying here at the hotel?”

  General Wang-Te had sat silent, not moving in his chair. He was a bony man on whom the skin was stretched tight. Last time Malone had met him he had worn cheap, round-rimmed spectacles that appeared to be standard government issue in China then; tonight he wore designer glasses, rimless with gold sidebars, Gucci on the Great Wall. As he looked up at Malone the light caught the lens, so that he appeared sightless.

  “The general is,” said Madame Tzu. “We’re directors, remember.”

  “Owners,” said Wang-Te, speaking for the first time.

  “Where are you staying?” Malone asked Madame Tzu.

  “I still have my apartment in the Vanderbilt. I’m not a hotel person.” She made it sound as if five-star hotels were hostels for the homeless.

  Clements spoke to Chung. “Have you had any threats against the hotel, Les?”

  Chung was one of the richest men in the city, but the two detectives knew his past history. Years ago, before Clements had joined Homicide, he had arrested Leslie Chung on fraud charges. Chung had got off, but ever since he had been Les and not Mr. Chung. Arrest doesn’t breed friendship but it makes for a kind of informality. It is a weapon police officers always carry.

  Chung shrugged as if he had been facing threats all his life; they were dust on the wind. “One or two. The usual nutters—anti-development, anti-foreign investment, that sort of stuff. But they don’t go around shooting people.”

  “Then you’d say this had nothing to do with the hotel? Or the whole Olympic Tower project?”

  “Nothing,” said Chung, and Madame Tzu and Wang-Te together added a silent nod.

  “Do you have any enemies in China?” Malone asked them.

  They didn’t look at each other; it was Madame Tzu who said, “Of course. Who can claim that in one point two billion people all of them are friends?”

  She’s smothering her answer with figures. “So, eliminating all the nutters and the one point two billion of your countrymen, would you say the shooting was political?”

  The three Chinese gave him a blank stare: the Great Wall of China, he thought. He wanted to scrawl the graffiti of a rough remark on the Wall, but that would be racist. Not, he was sure, that any of them would care.<
br />
  At last Les Chung said, “I think it would be politic to say nothing.”

  Madame Tzu and General Wang-Te, like intelligent puppets, nodded.

  Malone grinned at Clements. “Wouldn’t our job be easy if cops could be politic?”

  “Let’s go home,” said the big man. “I’m tired.”

  When the two detectives had gone, Madame Tzu said, “If Mr. Vanderberg dies, what happens?”

  “Nothing that will affect us,” said Les Chung. “Our bookings are solid till after the Olympics. By then the whole complex will have established itself.”

  General Wang-Te was wishing he knew more of history beyond the Middle Kingdom. The history of this country where he sat now had begun only yesterday. “Do Australians do much political assassination?”

  “All the time,” said Les Chung, who knew nothing of the Middle Kingdom, but knew even the footnotes in the history of his adopted country. He was not a man to put his foot into unknown territory. “But only with words, not with bullets or knives. To that extent they are civilized.”

  “What a wonderful country,” said Wang-Te and sounded almost wistful.

  IV

  Out in the lobby Malone said, “Let’s go across the road and look at that place—the Sewing Bee?”

  They crossed the road with the traffic lights. Traffic was six deep across the roadway stretching back several hundred metres; a drive-by, random shooting in this congestion was not even a theory. They walked up to the row of shops opposite the huge block of Olympic Tower. The footpath still had its late-night crowd, mostly young; groups moving slowly with arrogance and loud voices, challenging with their shoulders, high on group courage. One of them shouldered Clements, an oldie, and the big man grabbed him and swung him round.

  He shoved his badge in the youth’s face. “You wanna try that again, son? Just you and me, not your army?”

  The youth was as tall as Clements, but half his weight. He wore a baseball cap, peak backwards: it seemed to accentuate the blankness of his face. He had stubbled cheeks and chin and a mouth hanging open with shock. His big eyes flicked right and left, but he was getting no support from his six companions. They had no respect for the police badge, but Clements, despite his age (Jesus, he must be middle-aged!), looked big and dangerous.