The Bear Pit

by Jon Cleary

  “Did he mention you on the show?”

  “Not by name. He just called me the bitch who’d been raking up muck about him—”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t go on camera and deck him. You’d have been on Sixty Minutes next week.”

  “I felt like it, but the floor manager held me back. Things started to get dirty then. Larry Cotter—”

  “The host?”

  “Yeah. He suddenly got sharp and nasty. He asked Kelzo a couple of personal questions and Kelzo flew at him. They had a donnybrook right in front of the cameras—the whole lot is on tape—Kelzo knocked Larry out of his chair, then tried to bash the two guys on the cameras—”

  “Was Joe St. Louis there?”

  “No, thank God—that would’ve been a real stoush. There was just George Gandolfo. He was trying to quieten Kelzo down, but for a minute or two it was like that Muhammad Ali video, Rumble in the Jungle. Kelzo even made a swipe at me—” She put her hand on Malone’s arm as he stiffened. “I ducked, he didn’t connect. He did his block completely, Dad—he was trying to hit everyone in sight. Then two security guards came in and got him under control. George Gandolfo took him off and the producer came down—”

  “Where was he while all this was going on?”

  “Up in the control booth, getting it all down on tape, telling the cameramen to get up off the floor and keep rolling. Producers are never where the action is. He came down when it was all over, clapping his hands like a kid at a party—they’re going to run it in full on Sunday morning—nobody will look at Meet the Press or anything else—”

  “It was tape, not live?”

  “No, tape. It’s stored in a room, the Programme Room, till they run it Sunday morning. It’ll be headlines on the Sunday night news and Monday morning’s papers. And, hopefully, Peter Kelzo will be dead politically.”

  “I doubt it.” He held out his car keys. “Put my car in the garage. But get changed first—I don’t want your wet bum on the driving seat.” Nor did he want her out in the street stirring up the blood of the male neighbours. He was turning into an almost Muslim father.

  He followed her into the house, stopped in the kitchen and kissed Lisa. It might not be more than a brush of his lips against the back of her neck, but even after all these years it was not perfunctory.

  “She told you about the scrap at Channel 15 today?” said Lisa.

  “Yeah. I wish she could get a job at the ABC. They’re never in trouble with anyone except the government. How was your day?”

  “Lord Mayor Amberton has suddenly had a rush of blood to the head. He wants to know why he can’t open the Games, instead of the Prime Minister. He says they are the Sydney Games and he’s the Lord Mayor of Sydney.”

  “Did you put out a press release on that?”

  “No, we bound him hand and foot and gagged him. Figuratively.”

  “The best way. Saves calling in the police. What’s for dinner?”

  “Greek meatballs.”

  “I’ll give Peter Kelzo a call and invite him over.”

  II

  At 2.50 the next morning a security guard at Channel 15 was hit on the back of the head and rendered unconscious. Five minutes later the Programme Room went up in flames and everything in it, including the tapes for Sunday’s State Hour, was destroyed.

  Maureen went to work and Malone called her as soon as he reached his office: “What’s happening? You okay?”

  “I’m all right, Dad. But everyone here is in shock. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to TV people—it only happens on TV. The local police are here.”

  “There been any threats? Phone calls?”

  “No. Da-ad—” Usually when Dad was split into two syllables by his offspring he was about to be asked for something. But not this time: “Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to shove my neck out, not any more. I’m not stupid.”

  “What’s going to happen to that story you were investigating?”

  “I don’t know. At the moment it’s on hold.”

  “Leave it there. Take care, Mo.”

  “I will, Dad. I promise. I love you,” she said and hung up in his ear.

  He stared at nothing, flooded with good fortune.

  There were no headlines, just a secondary item on Channel 15’s news that evening and a news brief on the inner pages of the Herald and the Telegraph-Mirror.

  Members of Strike Force Nemesis, alerted to what was on the State Hour tapes, interviewed Peter Kelzo, George Gandolfo and Joe St. Louis. All three of them said they were at home in bed, separately. Truth is stranger than fiction, especially when told by consummate liars.

  III

  “Where’s Gail?” asked Malone at the morning briefing.

  “Offsick,” said Clements. “A summer cold. She sounded pretty sniffly when she called in.”

  “What’s the roster?”

  Clements told him. Then Malone looked at John Kagal. “You’re the only one free, John. Let’s go out and talk to Mr. August about why he was driving up and down Janis Eden’s street.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  But Kagal grinned as he said it and Malone had to take him at face value. There was no doubt that Kagal, easily the most capable of the detectives still without rank, had so far been no more than a dogsbody on the Vanderberg case. Malone had not deliberately overlooked him; it had just happened that Gail Lee and Phil Truach had been the best in particular circumstances. Nothing would be lost by taking Kagal along with him now.

  Malone went back into his office and checked with the two officers tailing August: “He’s out here at the Happy Hours Day-Care Centre, sir. He’s fixing some windows—some hoons threw bricks through them last night.”

  “In Longueville?”

  “The locals are in shock. It’s the end of the world, sir. Will we let our man know you’re coming?”

  “I don’t think so. We’ll be there in half an hour.”

  It took Malone and Kagal thirty-five minutes; traffic crawled and clogged like cooling lava. Kagal, who was driving, showed no impatience, but Malone fidgeted in his seat. He tried to relax, not wanting to appear less composed than the younger man. He had come to recognize that, spoken or unspoken, there was competition between Detective Inspector Malone and Detective Constable Kagal. Though Malone had no ambition to be Police Commissioner, he knew in his heart that some day he would be reading comments by Police Commissioner Kagal and he would spit and make some sour remark to Lisa as he sat in his rocking chair and his bifocals smoked up. He was not mean-spirited, just raging against the ageing. He was certain that Lisa would grow old gracefully, but he doubted that he would.

  When they drew up outside the day-care centre there was no sign of the two police officers or of August’s van. But there was commotion in the Happy Hours yard and Malone and Kagal got out to investigate.

  “Oh, Inspector—” Mrs. Masson turned as they approached. She and her two assistants were surrounded by a couple of dozen excited children. “Not now, please! We’ve got a problem—”

  “It’s Fred!” volunteered Wombat Rose, all excited relish. “He’s under there!”

  She pointed at a small open door in the brick foundations of the hall. The foundations were no more than two feet high and one of the assistants was crouched down calling to Fred to come out. “Fred, darling, come out—we’ll all talk to you—”

  There was no answer from Fred; he wasn’t talking to anyone.

  “How long has he been under there?” asked Malone.

  “Three weeks,” said Wombat Rose.

  “Shut up, Rose,” said Mrs. Masson. “I don’t know—five minutes, ten at the most. My partner was here a while ago—he would’ve gone under to get Fred out of there—”

  “I’ll go under,” said Wombat Rose.

  “Will you please be quiet!”

  “Where is Mr.—June?” asked Malone.

  “He left, I dunno, ten minutes ago for another job—he’s been repairing our windows—someone
threw bricks through them last night—” She squatted down beside the tiny door. “Fred! Come out, darling—”

  There was no answer; Fred had found his haven.

  Mrs. Masson stood up. “We’ve got to get him out of there—there could be spiders—”

  “Yurk!” screamed Wombat Rose, Dakota and Alabama.

  “Shut up!” Mrs. Masson was on edge; Malone guessed that his and Kagal’s sudden appearance had thrown her. Then abruptly she looked at him. “Would you go under and get him? Please?”

  Malone hesitated, then looked at Kagal. “You’re younger than I am, John.”

  Kagal took off his jacket and tie, folded the jacket and handed it to Wombat Rose, who took it as if she had been accepting men’s jackets all her young life. He looked down at his trousers as if debating whether to remove them, too; then decided against it. He was not wearing Armani, but Malone knew that whatever it was it was better than his own Fletcher Jones polyester-and-wool.

  Kagal must have read his thoughts because he smiled up at Malone as he lay down on the ground. “What the well-dressed speleologist is wearing.”

  He edged his way through the narrow door, which was barely wide enough for his shoulders. There was a babble of encouragement from the children; Wombat Rose bent down and shouted to Fred that everything was going to be all right. There was still no answer from Fred, hidden somewhere in the darkness under the hall.

  Malone watched Mrs. Masson, who looked as if she might collapse at any moment. “Relax,” he said quietly. “Fred will be out of there in a minute or two. Detective Kagal can be very persuasive.”

  She didn’t glance at him, just said, “I hope so.”

  Fred is the least of her problems, he thought; he’s just the feather that’s going to bring everything down. Had the bank foreclosed on the Happy Hours?

  It took Kagal five minutes to deliver Fred. He pushed the small boy, streaked with dirt and cobwebs, out of the door, then crawled out after him. “Fred’s okay. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s okay.”

  One of the assistants clutched Fred to her and the other children clustered around them. Then Kagal looked at Malone. “I’m going back in—it’ll only take a minute. There’s something interesting under there.”

  Mrs. Masson was paying attention to Fred, but she straightened up as Kagal dropped down and crawled back through the tiny door. “Where’s he going?”

  “He’s found something under there. It may be something left by those louts who broke your windows. We’ll know in a minute—”

  He didn’t believe what he was saying. He had seen the expression on Kagal’s face, the look of excitement from a man who tried never to show it. What was under the Happy Hours hall had not been left by some hoons throwing bricks at windows. It was, it had to be . . .

  Kagal crawled out of the doorway, reached back and pulled out, first, a rifle and then, with some difficulty, an old-fashioned leather suitcase. He stood up and looked at Malone. “Bingo?”

  “Bingo,” said Malone, then turned to the two assistants. “You’d better take the kids inside. No, not you, Mrs. Masson,” as she moved to get the children together. “Let your girls handle them.”

  “What’s that?” said Dakota.

  “It’s a gun, stupid,” said Wombat Rose. “You shoot people with it.”

  “Shut up!” For a moment it looked as if Mrs. Masson would hit the little girl. “Go inside, Rose, dammit! Go inside!”

  Wombat Rose stared up at her, frowning. “I was only telling Dakota what it was—”

  “Inside!”

  The children were rounded up and, protesting, were herded into the hall. Malone, Kagal and Mrs. Masson stood above the rifle and the suitcase.

  “Do you know what’s in it?” Malone kicked the suitcase.

  “How would I know? I’ve never seen it before. And I’ve never seen that,” she added, nodding at the rifle.

  Kagal picked it up. “A Winchester. Ballistic’s report said it was a Winchester or a Tikka .308 that killed the Premier.”

  He spoke almost casually, but it was brutal and Malone saw that it was meant to be. Mrs. Masson reeled back without moving; the blow was inside her. They were standing under the crepe myrtle; a petal fell off the tree and landed on her brown hair like a small splash of pale blood. Kagal held out the rifle.

  “Is it Mr. June’s?”

  Out of the corner of his eye Malone saw one of the young assistants, the Asian girl he had seen on his first visit here, standing in the doorway of the hall. Wombat Rose and Dakota and Alahama clung to either side of her, faces suspended from her hips like balloons. Mrs. Masson looked back, saw her and waved to her to go back inside the hall.

  Then she turned back to the two detectives. She had aged; years had suddenly fallen in on her. Her voice was husky, as if coming out of a throat that had almost closed. “I told you—I’ve never seen it before.”

  “What about the suitcase? Is it Mr. June’s?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, it’s mine. Or rather, my mother’s. Her initials are there under the handle. It’s been in the storeroom at our flats—I haven’t seen it in ages—”

  “Do you have a key to it?” asked Malone.

  She shook her head; the splash of pale blood fell off. “It’d be at home somewhere. I haven’t used the case in God knows how long—” She stared at the suitcase, then looked at Malone with eyes that already looked bruised. “John can explain this, I’m sure—”

  “John, go and see if they have a hammer,” said Malone. “A claw one. We’ll force the locks.”

  He squatted beside the suitcase as Kagal, leaving the rifle standing against the foundations of the hall, went looking for a hammer. The suitcase was old and scuffed; it had done a lot of travelling. It was plastered with travel stickers: P & O, Orient, Cunard, Hotel de Crillon, Hotel Pera Palas: labels from another age. Mrs. Masson’s mother must have had money: more than her daughter now had.

  “That was all before I was born,” she said, as if reading his mind. “The money was all gone before I came along—” She looked back at the now empty hall doorway. “Would you believe my mother had a governess? She never needed day care—”

  She was talking to shut out the present. Malone stood up. “Lynne—I’m afraid John is in trouble—”

  “Which John?”

  He touched her arm. “Snap out of it, Lynne. Your John. If you can help us—?”

  “Help you? How? I told you I know nothing about that—” She flung a hand at the suitcase and the rifle as if she wanted them swept back under the hall. “I can’t help you. Or John—” She put a hand over her mouth; he heard her mumble, “Or myself.”

  Then Kagal came back with a claw-hammer, knelt down beside the suitcase. “I’m sorry about this,” he said and put the claw under each of the locks and wrenched them open. Then he lifted the lid.

  “Bingo,” he said for the second time, but this time it was not a question.

  “More than that,” said Malone. “A lottery win.”

  The suitcase was crammed with hundreds of hundred-dollar notes. Lynne Masson uttered something between a gasp and a sob, put a hand over her mouth again. Malone put a gentle hand on her arm.

  “It looks bad, Lynne.” Then he said to Kagal, “I’ll have our fellers pick him up.”

  He went back to their car, rang the surveillance team. “Where is he?”

  “He’s working at a block of flats in Wollstonecraft. His van is parked across the road from us. He knows we’re here—he waved to us as he went into the flats.”

  “Pick him up—we’re going to charge him. Call me back when you’ve got him. Take him to Police Centre, we’ll charge him there. Don’t tell him what we’ve found. We’ll lay it in front of him at Police Centre.”

  “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Not me. It was Wombat Rose and Fred.”

  “Who?”

  He hung up and went back into the play yard. Like Kagal he never gave in to excitement, but it was no
t a conscious urge to suppress it; it was just that experience had taught him to hold on to the excitement and the satisfaction till the trial was over and justice was done. By then there might be no excitement, but there was always satisfaction.

  Wombat Rose, Dakota and Alabama stood in the hall doorway; Wombat Rose fluttered her fingers at him and gave him a smile as old as a middle-aged hooker’s. Behind them he caught a glimpse of Fred, staring absently at nothing, still in his isolation. He waved at them, then crossed to Kagal and Lynne Masson.

  Kagal, wearing disposable gloves, was putting bundles of notes back into the suitcase. “I’m guessing, but I’d say there’s seventy to eighty thousand in there. Enough—”

  He didn’t finish, but Malone knew what he meant: enough to hire a hitman to kill a Premier.

  “You’ll have to come into Police Centre at Surry Hills, Lynne. John will be there—they’re taking him in now.”

  She looked terribly fragile, a wreck held together only by her skin.

  Even in the brief encounters he had had with them Malone had recognized that John August and Lynne Masson loved each other. He knew the mystery of love, but didn’t understand it. No one could be more in love than he and Lisa; but the elements of it had always confounded him, he had never been able to fathom them. Lisa, better educated than he, had once told him a medieval physician had listed love amongst mental diseases: hence, madly in love. Sanity or madness, understood or not, he recognized that Lynne Masson was bound to August by more than just sex or the need for companionship. She had just been struck dead, though still living.

  Kagal picked up the suitcase; with its broken clasps he had to hold it in both arms like a laundry basket. Malone took the rifle by the trigger guard, careful not to smudge any fingerprints on the stock or the barrel. Then he touched Mrs. Masson’s arm. “Let’s go, Lynne.”

  The Asian girl had come to the doorway again, pushing the three little girls behind her. “Lynne?”

  Mrs. Masson looked at Malone. “Let me ring the parents to come and pick up their children—”

  “Lynne, there’s no need for that. Your assistants can look after the kids—”