Now and Then, Amen

by Jon Cleary

  “No,” said Leeds. “I’ll talk to him first. What’s Fingal Hourigan’s complaint, Hans?”

  Vanderberg had watched the split-second encounter between the two senior policemen; he got secret enjoyment out of watching the same sort of rivalry in his Cabinet. He believed in a divided world, otherwise politicians wouldn’t be necessary. He rolled the end of his creased, twisted tie round one finger; it was a tie that had been presented to him by a country cricket team. He hated cricket, but even cricketers voted and you never knew who counted in marginal seats. Fingal Hourigan certainly counted. Any man who gave $100,000 every year to the Party, even if he didn’t vote Labour, had to be counted and listened to. The Dutchman had no scruples, only common sense, a more valuable political gift. He liked to think, however, because politicians like to think there is some good in themselves, that he had one or two more scruples than Fingal.

  “Malone has been making a nuisance of himself with the Archbishop. He’s been out to the Hourigan place twice.”

  “Bill can talk to him, ask him why.” Leeds looked at Zanuch. “But don’t take him off the case. Not yet, anyway. It’s no good for morale if we keep interfering.”

  Zanuch smoothed down his already smoothly lying tie. It was a Police Force tie, but in silk, not polyester. He was in civilian dress this morning, while Commissioner Leeds was in uniform; somehow, and Zanuch was smugly aware of the impression, the Commissioner looked the odd man out amongst the three of them. Zanuch knew how much politicians disliked uniforms. Nothing catches the eye like medals, braid and bright buttons and politicians hated losing the voters’ eye. So he always did his best not to upstage the Premier. Upstaging his own Commissioner was another matter.

  “We can’t have Malone stirring up another of his hornets’ nests. He never knows when to be discreet.”

  “I’d have thought that was a good thing in a police officer,” said Leeds, though he didn’t believe it. Lately he had found himself wanting to disagree with his senior Assistant Commissioner on anything the latter proposed.

  “Discretion never hurt anyone, John,” said Vanderberg, who had hurt more people in more ways than could be counted. “The Archbishop will be going back to Rome at the end of the week. Just hold off till he’s out of town. We don’t want to upset the Catholics.”

  “I thought you were one,” said Leeds.

  “Only on Sundays.” A non-voting day. “Every other day in the week I’m as ecumenical a bugger as you can find. I was out at a Muslim mosque the other day. Malone should be a Catholic, with a name like that. You’d think he’d back-pedal.”

  Leeds stood up. “I’ll talk to him,” he said flatly, neither promising nor denying.

  He waited for Zanuch to rise; he wasn’t going to let his junior remain with the Premier. Zanuch hesitated, then decided on his own discretion: he stood up. The two police officers nodded to their political boss and went out, Leeds leading the way.

  Vanderberg grinned after them. He had come to Australia from Holland immediately after the Second World War; he had mastered local politics but he had never really become Australian. He still saw the locals with a stranger’s eye, but a knowing stranger: he was the con man who could make himself sound and look like the natives. He had a European sense of superiority, but he was too wise ever to let it show. He got his way by letting the local elements, the white Aborigines, try out their superiority on each other.

  He reached for his intercom. “Miss Parsell, get me Fingal Hourigan on the phone. He’s waiting to hear from me.”

  II

  “You’re at it again, Scobie,” said John Leeds.

  Malone sighed inwardly; he knew the signs. “Another complaint, sir?”

  “I’ve just come from seeing the Premier. It seems that this time you’re harassing the Catholic Church. What’s your version?”

  Malone told him, briefly. He and the Commissioner had been involved in other cases, though at opposite ends of the totem pole, as Father Marquez would have said, and he knew he could speak frankly, although always with respect. Leeds did not encourage “mateyness,” the national weakness in labour relations. He was a sympathetic boss who protected his men against outside interference; but he was the boss. One who could be talked to: “Archbishop Hourigan’s name just keeps cropping up. I’m beginning to think Sister Mary Magdalene was murdered because she was harassing him.”

  “I hope you haven’t been making a statement like that to anyone? That’s an explosive charge.” He hadn’t meant a play on words: on serious matters he was a very serious man.

  “I haven’t mentioned it to anyone, sir.” Except to Lisa, in bed last night, and she was beyond the Commissioner’s authority.

  Leeds put his hands flat on the almost-empty top of his desk. Police desks were notorious for their wild fungi of paper; but the Commissioner’s could have been that of the abbot of a monastic order, one not given to illumination. “Do you have enough evidence to bring him in for questioning?”

  “No, sir. I have some other leads I want to follow up.”

  “Such as?”

  “I was threatened over the phone last night. So was Father Marquez.”

  Leeds’s fingers tensed on the desk top. “I don’t like that sort of thing happening to my officers. Nor to priests,” he added as an ecumenical afterthought. “That alters my view of the case.”

  “This isn’t going to be an easy one,” said Malone. “I’m aware of the clout I’m up against.”

  Leeds allowed himself a smile. “Clout has never worried you before. Just be careful. And don’t make any arrest until you’ve checked with me through the usual channels.”

  “If I have to, do I go and see Archbishop Hourigan again?”

  Leeds pondered a moment, lifted his hands to form a steeple in front of his chin, emphasizing the image of an abbot. “Use your discretion. In which, I’m afraid, I have very little faith.”

  Malone grinned: there was an empathy between the two men despite the difference in rank. “I’ve mellowed, sir.”

  “Famous words that didn’t last. Good luck.”

  Malone went out through the outer office, aware of the stares of the secretaries. Junior officers like himself were rarely called before the Commissioner unless accompanied by a Superintendent or above. There had, however, been two or three cases over the past few years in which the Homicide detective and the Commissioner, had, through political circumstances, worked in closer contact than was normal. The two men shared certain secrets, an intimacy which is always the subject of envy in any organization. The secretaries looked at him, then rang the typing pool, who would make carbon copies of the envy and spread it amongst the Assistant Commissioners and Chief Superintendents, who all had their own secrets but none shared with the Commissioner.

  Russ Clements, who destroyed secrets by sharing them with everyone, even some criminals, was waiting when Malone got back from Administrative Headquarters. He sat with his “murder box” in his lap, looking as if waiting for the manna of clues to fall into it. “There’s not much to go on.”

  “There’s a little more,” said Malone and told him about Father Marquez’s visit last night and the phone threats.

  “We can check those guys from Nicaragua. I’ve got a good contact in Immigration.” He lifted the phone, rang a number, spoke to someone and sat waiting, smiling at Malone with anticipation. “When computers work, they’re a great invention . . . This is against all the rules, Immigration has a strict code of confidentiality. But the world would stop dead, wouldn’t it, if we all stuck to the rules?”

  “I didn’t hear a word you said,” said Malone, pious as one of the less tempted saints.

  Clements’s grin widened, then he listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone. He scribbled down two names and an address. “Thanks, Stan. You want anyone run in or a ticket fixed, give me a ring.”

  “You’re a crooked cop,” said Malone as Clements hung up.

  “Ain’t it a help, though?” said Clements and loo
ked at his piece of paper. “Their full names are Francisco Paredes Canto and Max Domecq Cruz. In Spanish, as I remember it, you use the middle name as a surname. Nicaraguan-born, but they were travelling on US passports. They gave as their address the White Sails Motel at Rose Bay. That would be less than a mile from old man Hourigan’s house.”

  “What reason for their visit?”

  “Tourists, but that doesn’t mean a thing. Remember those two Mafia guys who came in to have a look at the poker machine racket? They were tourists. But Immigration has nothing on file against Paredes and Domecq.”

  Malone took his time with his thoughts. “Can you get anything on them from the FBI?”

  “We could try. But since the CIA are supposed to be backing the Contras, you think the FBI are going to help us?”

  “From what I’ve heard from Joe Nagler in Special Branch, the FBI and the CIA aren’t exactly buddy-buddy. They go their own way, just the same as we do out here with the Federals. Try your luck.”

  Clements ferreted around in his desk, an unlicensed refuse dump; Malone, a reasonably tidy man, was sure that, buried in its drawers, were the remains of old homicides, old lunches, perhaps even a fossilized limb or two. But Clements knew his way around his own garbage. He came up with what he sought, a tattered schedule of world time. “It’s seven o’clock Sunday night in Washington. Do the Yanks work round the clock and at weekends?”

  “Let’s try them.”

  Clements went away to fax a message to the FBI and Malone settled down to getting his notes in order for his preliminary report. He could feel the undercurrent of anger in himself at the political interference in the case; he had half-expected it but not so soon. Nobody, it seemed, cared about the dead nun; she was already garbage. But no, that was unfair: Brigid Hourigan cared. He looked at the paper in his typewriter: without guiding thought, his fingers had tapped out, Who cares? and underlined it. Don’t get angry, he told himself; angry policemen never see things clearly. This was a case where he could already see the fog creeping in, the political fog that obscured so much political work in this State. Take it easy, he said silently, keep your eyes and your feelings wide open. Keep the courage of your suspicions, let’s see whose side The Lord is on, the Archbishop’s or the nun’s.

  Clements came back. “It’s gone off. While we’re waiting, I’m going back to Tilly Mosman. I’m still puzzled why the girl was dumped on her doorstep.”

  “Who owns the Quality Couch?”

  “I’ve got that—” Clements looked at his notebook. For all his lumbering, seemingly careless style, he was a methodical policeman, one whose mind was always two jumps ahead of his appearance and other people’s impression of him. “Tilly has the lease on the house, but she doesn’t own it. It’s owned by Ballyduff Properties, they own both sides of the whole street. Guess who owns Ballyduff Properties?”

  The coincidences in this case were too tight. “Fingal Hourigan?” Clements nodded and Malone said, “I’m glad it’s not the Catholic Church. We don’t want to take them on.”

  “Taking on Fingal Hourigan can’t be much better. But I don’t think he’d be in the brothel business, not even the upmarket stuff. He’s way beyond that now.”

  “Start digging into his background, see what you can come up with. In the meantime, who’s claimed the nun’s body?”

  “Her mother. They’re doing the autopsy today and releasing the body tomorrow for burial.”

  “That’s quick. No inquest?”

  “There’s a special one today—guess who pulled strings? I’m due out there in half an hour. It’ll be the usual—murder by person or persons unknown.”

  “Has Tilly been called?”

  “I’m picking her up. Then I’ll go back with her and talk to her girls.”

  He went away to pick up Tilly Mosman and take her to the inquest; Fingal Hourigan, it seemed, could have court schedules altered.

  Malone settled back to clear up his paper-work. He sometimes wondered how much paper-work the modern criminal had to do. White-collar crims probably did much more than the average cop, but they rarely, if ever, committed homicide and so were outside his bailiwick. The law had been invented to protect property and Malone, protecting people, sometimes thought he was working in the slums of the law. But he knew for whom he had the greatest contempt.

  The fax to Washington was answered in two hours; someone in the FBI headquarters must be working round the clock, including weekends. But then crime in the US, according to the Sunday newspapers, was a round-the-clock event, a murder a minute . . . All that paperwork!

  When Clements came back from the Quality Couch, Malone handed him the message and the two photos. Clements read the message, then said, “How do the Yanks let guys like that into their country?”

  Francisco Paredes Canto and Max Domecq Cruz had been personal aides to the ex-chief of the National Guard. Each of them had been charged with three murders in Nicaragua, but the cases had never come to court. They had been present at the massacre of forty Indians who had been demonstrating against a particular landlord, a crony of then President Anastasio Somoza Debayle, but no charges had been laid against them. They had fled Nicaragua when the Sandinistas had come to power and had been granted US passports two years ago. Their names were linked with a major anti-Sandinista guerrilla movement based in Honduras and their principal source of income was thought to be from a connection with a drug ring in Colombia. The FBI had no proof of any of the charges.

  “I think the FBI suffers from politics the same way we do, only more so,” said Malone.

  He studied the two photos. Paredes was a handsome grey-haired man; the hair was thick and wavy and glistened like oiled iron. He had a thin moustache of the sort that had long gone out of fashion, and eyes and a mouth that would promise nothing if there was no dividend in return. He was sixty, according to the FBI report, but was lean and looked in fine condition. Domecq was younger, forty-two, dark and saturnine, but running a little to fat. He looked like a successful gambler, the sort who would be at home in any casino anywhere in the world.

  “You pick up anything out at Tilly’s?”

  “The girls heard and say nothing.”

  “Did they have any Spanish-speaking clients Saturday night?”

  “A couple, but the girls said they were regulars, young guys with plenty of money to flash around. How do these Wogs manage it?”

  “Russ, you’re getting to be a racist in your old age.”

  Clements nodded morosely; then abruptly grinned. “I’m starting to understand bigotry. You can actually enjoy it if you put your mind to it.”

  “Well, don’t get too bigoted about these Wogs from Nicaragua. Be objective about them. Do we go and pick them up for questioning?”

  “I think I’d like nothing better,” said Clements, trying not to look bigoted and not succeeding.

  Malone gratefully put away his unfinished paper-work and he and Clements drove out to the White Sails Motel in Rose Bay. It was on New South Head Road, the main artery from the city out to the south head of the harbour. It had no view of the harbour or the white sails that decorated the waters on most days; but it looked clean and respectable and reasonably expensive. As it should in Rose Bay: the suburb itself was clean, respectable and more than reasonably expensive. It would never have seen itself as a haven for suspected political murderers with links to an international drug ring. It harboured one or two white-collar criminals, but they could not be condemned till they were caught. Rose Bay might have its bigotry, but not against its own kind, the white-collared black sheep.

  The manageress of the White Sails came from over the hill, from Bondi and its beach. She was a strawberry blonde, a colour that went incongruously with her deep tan. She had hung on to her figure, her only good feature. She had lain in the sun for years; she had the skin one would love to sandpaper. Malone had met her sort before: the girls always hanging around where men hung out, at surf clubs and rugby clubs and pubs, all their femininity lost in try
ing to be “one of the boys.”

  “You’d love a beer, wouldn’t you?” she said as soon as Malone and Clements had identified themselves.

  “No, thanks,” said Malone, to Clements’s disappointment, and showed Miss Allsop, as she said she was, the photos of Paredes and Domecq.

  “Oh, those South American guys. No, they’re not here. They checked out on Sunday.”

  “In a hurry? I mean, how long had they booked in for?”

  “They’d paid up till tomorrow. They just said they’d decided to go on to Melbourne and I gave „em a refund. Anything wrong with them? They seemed real nice. I went out to dinner with one of them last Thursday. Mr. Domecq.”

  Malone was not surprised and was a little sad for her; on her dying day she would be looking for some man to take her out to dinner. “No, we have nothing serious on them, just routine stuff. Did Mr. Domecq tell you anything about himself?”

  “Just about life in Miami. He said he was in the import business there.”

  “Did he say what?” Drugs, for instance?

  “No, he was a bit vague. This and that, he said.”

  “What was he like?”

  “You mean how did he treat me? Oh, he was a gentleman, up to a point—” That was all she expected of men; she gave the impression she would be disappointed if men were gentlemen all the way. “I like Latin men, they have something about them.”

  “We’re both Scandinavians,” said Malone. “No hope for us. What about Mr. Paredes?”

  “He seemed to be the senior partner, if you know what I mean. He kept very much to himself. He had a sorta, now I come to think about it, a cruel look to him. But he was always polite. And they were always beautifully dressed, both of them, real sharp.”

  “If they come back here, give us a ring, will you? But don’t let them know.”

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” All at once she looked knowing, though she knew nothing.