by Jon Cleary
Leeds looked at Malone and the latter said, “They are one of Fingal Hourigan’s companies.”
The Premier’s head shrank into his shoulders, he sank down in his big leather chair. He looked like an ancient turtle that had just found major cracks in its shell. “Jesus, what other bad news have you got?”
Leeds couldn’t resist a small smile. “I think the sooner we get the Archbishop back here, the better, don’t you?”
On the way back to headquarters Leeds smiled. “You can have a week in Rome, no more. I’ll have Mr. Zanuch arrange your ticket and expenses—it’ll come out of the Special Fund. If anyone wants to know where you are, you’ve gone on compassionate leave. Do you have a sick grandmother who lives somewhere out of Sydney? Tibooburra, maybe?”
“I’ll have to tell my sidekick, Sergeant Clements. He can keep his mouth shut. What about Superintendent Danforth?”
“I’ll attend to him.” One knew that he would: the Commissioner had no time for the veteran detective.
Malone wondered if he should tell the Commissioner about Danforth’s connection with either Hourigan or Tewsday; but what proof did he have? He decided to remain quiet. Fingal Hourigan or Tewsday would learn no more from Danforth than they would know from the Archbishop in Rome as soon as Malone landed there.
“Is your passport in order? Good. Leave tomorrow, on Qantas. The sooner we get this over and done with . . .” Leeds looked at his junior officer. “How do you and I get ourselves into these situations, Scobie?”
“I don’t think it’s our fault. If human nature were different, it wouldn’t happen.”
Which, of course, is the explanation for History.
V
Next morning Lisa drove Malone to the airport. He had said goodbye to the children, all of whom wanted to know why they couldn’t go with him—“It’s business.”
“Who with?” said Maureen. “Mussolini or the Pope?”
“Mussolini’s dead and the Pope is travelling somewhere—he’s never home these days.”
“Neither are you,” said Claire.
“I’ll bet he takes his wife and kids with him,” said Tom.
“The Pope doesn’t have a wife and kids. He doesn’t know how lucky he is.” But he pressed Lisa’s hand as he said it.
“That’s enough,” said Lisa. “Kiss Dad goodbye. Maybe he’ll bring you back an Italian T-shirt or something.”
“Yuk,” said Claire, already rolling herself into a ball of style. “Italian is last year.”
“What’s this year?”
“Japanese.”
“I’ll come home via Tokyo. Hooroo. Take care of Mum.”
“I don’t think I’ll be a policeman,” said Tom. “Always leaving your wife and kids.”
“Who’s been coaching you? Get off to school before I arrest the lot of you.”
When the children had gone to school, Malone and Lisa went to bed. “I hate goodbyes at airports,” she said.
“They wouldn’t let you do this at Mascot. Not even in the VIP lounge.”
“Ah, that’s nice. I love you. Be careful.”
“You haven’t stopped the Pill, have you?”
“I don’t mean that. In Rome, stupid. Oh yes!”
Then they both forgot Rome and danger and politics. Here in each other’s arms was the safest place in the world. Love isn’t blind, but it can provide a merciful fog.
At the airport Clements was waiting for them. “Thought I’d come out and see you off. Wish I were going with you.”
“Why don’t you go instead of him?” said Lisa.
Clements looked at the two of them, then bit his lip. “Like that, eh? Have I turned up in the middle of a domestic situation? When I was in uniform, I always hated those sort of calls, a domestic situation.”
Lisa kissed him, which did something towards making his day. “I wish you were going with him. I’d feel happier.”
“Keep an eye on her and the kids, will you, Russ?” said Malone. “The boys at Randwick are going to be dropping by, but Lisa doesn’t want a car parked outside the house all day and night.”
“Changing the subject,” said Clements, “look who’s just checked in.”
Zara Kersey, looking like an advertisement for travel outfitters, the Vuitton luggage brand-new and discreetly obvious, was standing at the first-class counter. She turned, saw Malone and smiled at him.
“Isn’t that Zara Kersey?” said Lisa, who, disdainfully, never missed the social pages of the Sunday newspapers. “How do you know her?”
“She’s Fingal Hourigan’s lawyer.”
“Is she going to Rome?”
“Probably,” he said gloomily. The word had already been got to Fingal Hourigan and the battalions were being drawn up. “The Swiss Guards will probably be out to meet her.”
“She’ll probably to able to accommodate them. I think I’d better come with you.”
“What about the kids?”
“Let Russ look after them. I wonder what perfume she wears—Arpège?”
“I think I’ll leave you two,” said Clements, grinning. “Look after yourself, Scobie. My old Congregational mum says you can never trust the Pope.”
“It’s not him I’m afraid of. Look after Lisa and the kids, Russ.”
They shook hands, then Clements lumbered away. Lisa said, “I wish I had a sister to marry him. He’d make a wonderful uncle for the kids.”
“Two cops in the family? You’d worry yourself stiff.”
They went up to the Qantas private lounge, poured themselves some coffee and sat down. Then Zara Kersey came in, looked around and saw that the only vacant seat was next to them. She looked at Malone enquiringly and after a moment’s hesitation he shrugged and nodded. She came across, sat down and arranged her body and legs like a model and smiled at Lisa.
“I’m sorry to intrude. Husbands and wives should have a special section set apart for them. You are Mrs. Malone? I’m Zara Kersey.”
Malone got up and went to get her some coffee and Lisa said, “How did you know I was Mrs. Malone?”
“Oh, he has that look. A happily married man.”
Lisa looked across at Malone at the coffee bench, then back at Zara Kersey. “How do you know? I don’t think I’ve ever noticed.”
Mrs. Kersey smiled. “Come on, Mrs. Malone. Wives notice everything about their husbands. Especially anything they themselves are responsible for.”
Malone came back with the coffee. He had noticed that most of the men in the lounge had turned to look at Zara Kersey, but she had the knack of seeming unaware of their stares. Now Malone realized that the men were also looking at Lisa and suddenly he felt that simple-minded pride that all men feel when in the company of beautiful women amidst a group of envious men. He sat down, all at once relaxed. He knew who was the more beautiful of the two women, and she was his. He should have been disgusted with his smug possessiveness, but love is a form of possession.
“Seems we’re going to Rome for the same reason, Inspector.”
“I guess so, except that we’re on opposite sides. You’re lucky to get away, aren’t you? I thought you were the busiest lawyer in Sydney.”
“There are degrees of busy-ness, Inspector—you know that. When the Commissioner calls, do you tell him some Superintendent has first call on you? What are his priorities at home, Mrs. Malone?”
“Oh, the children and I are a long last,” said Lisa, but she held his hand to show she was still in the race. “What’s it like working for a man as powerful as Mr. Hourigan?”
“Exhilarating. Demanding. He thinks all women should be slaves.”
“You’ll feel at home, then, in the Vatican.”
“I doubt it. I think your husband and I are going to be the odd ones out in Rome, even though we’re on opposite sides.” Then their flight was announced and she said, “Are you travelling first, Inspector? Perhaps we can sit together, if Mrs. Malone doesn’t mind?”
“He’s in business class,” said Lisa. “That’s wh
at he’s on—business. Have a nice trip, Mrs. Kersey.”
They smiled at each other like ice queens: Mary of Scotland and Elizabeth of England might have shown the same warmth towards each other. Zara Kersey got up and left and Malone sniffed the air.
“She’s not wearing Arpège. You think I’m safe?”
Lisa held his hand all the way down to the passport control gates. There she kissed him and clung to him. “If it gets dangerous, come home at once. Nothing is worth losing you.”
“Are we talking about Mrs. Kersey?”
“You know we’re not!” she said angrily; then softened and kissed him again. “Ring me every day. Reverse the charges if you can’t put it on expenses.”
“Make it short and sweet. It’s a dollar-eighty a minute—I looked it up.”
“Tightwad.”
He left her with an aching regret, as if he were leaving her for ever. He was sometimes amazed at the depth of his love for her; but he knew from experience that the human heart had never been fully plumbed. In its depth could be found all the slime of human nature; but that was not all. Love went as deep as anything else, or everybody was a lost soul. He had only vaguely thought it out, but he believed it.
At Singapore Zara Kersey sought him out as he walked up and down the splendid transit lounge. When he had come through some years ago, the new Changi terminal had not been built; now it was one of the palaces of travel, the wayside station, the coach-stop raised to the luxury level. But outside it, he had read, in the city itself the hotels were empty, the stores uncrowded, the economy shaky.
“I thought you’d be in the duty-free shops,” she said.
“I’m not a shopper, never have been, even back home.”
“I love shopping, but not for bargains.” She said it without snobbery. “Scobie—do you mind if we drop the Inspector and Mrs. Kersey bit?—what do you want with the Archbishop?”
“Some answers, that’s all.”
“That’s all? You’re not planning an arrest?”
“Is his old man expecting one? Zara—” he wondered what Lisa would think of this sudden intimacy, “—I don’t think you realize what a mess you’ve landed in. I’m not sure of the proportions, but this is a bloody sight more than the murder of a nun and a priest.”
“But they’re your interest, aren’t they? You’re just Homicide.”
“Sure, but this looks to me like a case of murder just being the stone in a pool.”
She looked at him with friendly amusement. “You can be quite literary, can’t you?”
“It’s my wife’s influence. What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”
“Poison, by Dior. Two drops and men have been known to fall dead at my feet.”
He grinned. “My wife inoculated me just before she kissed me goodbye.”
“You’re a nice man, Scobie. It’s a pity we’re on opposite sides.”
10
I
WHEN THE plane landed at Fiumicino airport there were no Swiss Guards to meet Zara Kersey. There was, however, Captain Aldo Goffi to meet Malone.
“Your Commissioner, Mr. Leeds, met my chief, General della Porta, at an international conference of police. They are friends, by letter. Commissioner Leeds called the General and explained the situation. We understand your visit is sub rosa. Do you speak Italian?”
“Ciao and arrivederci.”
Goffi was an amiable man in his middle forties, thin and hollow-cheeked, his uniform sagging on him. He looked sad and experienced; on the drive into Rome Malone recognized the scars of police work. “Are there politics in this, Inspector?”
“Sort of.”
“Ah, wouldn’t it be splendid if all police work were just a shoot-out between the goods and the bads? Like in the old John Wayne films. I think I should have been a cowboy sheriff, a spaghetti Wyatt Earp. Where are you staying?”
“There wasn’t time to book me in anywhere. What can you recommend that’s cheap?”
“Is your police force as tidy with money as ours? Yes? Then I know a good pensione, run by a cousin of mine.” He smiled, showing big crooked teeth. “Everyone has cousins in Italy.”
Malone had never been in Rome before. He had been abroad twice, once on a direct police trip to and from London, the other on a cheap excursion world trip with Lisa on their honeymoon; he had won $12,000 in a lottery and blown half of it on the trip. Rome had not been on their itinerary and now he looked out at the Eternal City with that scepticism that those of Celtic descent, bruised into cynicism by invaders, have about places other than their homeland. He would have been surprised to find that most Italians felt the same way, though for different reasons. After all, the Renaissance had been only yesterday.
The pensione was in a side street near the Forum. The cousin and his wife, Signor and Signora Pirelli, were of a size and disposition: they were built for laughter and Malone, a man of dry mirth, could see floods of it ahead. “You like Italian food?” The signora rolled about with laughter, as if she had cracked a joke.
He always thought Italian food was for gummy gourmets; he liked food one could chew, a good steak or lamb chops. But: “Love it, signora. That’s why I’ve come to Rome.”
The Pirellis went off laughing and Goffi, a lugubrious man compared to them, said, “You’ll need a little sleep, eh? You must have jet lag. But General della Porta would like to see you this afternoon at four o’clock. He thinks you should see him before you approach anyone at the Vatican. He has his contacts there.”
“Cousins?”
Goffi smiled, shook hands with him; Malone, a modest man, was relieved when the captain didn’t kiss him on both cheeks as he had his cousin. “You and I are compatible, Inspector. I shall pick you up just before four.”
Malone slept till three, got up, showered, ate the fruit, cheese and bread that Signora Pirelli brought him and was waiting downstairs in the narrow entrance lobby when Goffi arrived at ten to four. “The General is most un-Italian—he likes everyone to be punctual.”
“A man after my own heart.”
Goffi had a driver this afternoon, a ghost from the long-dead Mille Miglia; he drove through the Rome traffic as if the cars were no more than phantoms. Malone, a poor passenger even at dead slow, held his breath and kept his feet buried in the floor of the car. Goffi sat beside him relaxed and eager for compliments for his native city.
“You like Rome?”
“What I’ve seen of it,” said Malone, eyes glued on the impenetrable traffic ahead at which the driver was hurtling the car. “Do you fellers ever have any accidents?”
“Not many,” said Goffi. “And it’s always the other driver’s fault. Is that not right, Indello?”
“Yes, Captain,” said the driver, turning round and taking both hands off the wheel. “All the time.”
Somehow they reached the Via del Quirinale and carabinieri headquarters. As they got out of the car Malone, legs shaking, looked back at the huge building that dominated this hill. “What’s that?”
“The Quirinale Palace. The President of the Republic lives there.”
“So close to police headquarters?”
Goffi caught the inference. “Politics and the police go together, Inspector. Hasn’t it always been the way.”
Malone grinned. “I think you are going to be a great help to me, Captain.”
“It will be a pleasure.” Goffi’s big ugly smile softened his gaunt face.
He led Malone into the big bleached ochre building that was carabinieri headquarters and up some wide stairs to the first floor. General della Porta’s office made Commissioner Leeds’s back home look like a closet; it was fit for the President of the Republic, if he wished to move from next door. The tall walls, separated from each other by what seemed to Malone a small ballroom, held aloft an elaborately carved ceiling. Tall narrow doors, two pairs of them, opened out on to a small balcony that overlooked the square below and the city beyond. Seated with his back to the doors, behind a huge desk, was a man who fitted the room
. General Enrico della Porta had the look of a man who thought he should be commanding armies instead of a police force. He had a strong handsome face, if a little plump around the jowls, a grey military moustache which he kept brushing up with the knuckle of his right forefinger, and shrewd belligerent eyes. He would take not only the long view and the short view but the medium, too: he would be ready for any emergency.
But he was friendly: he got up and came round his desk, a small journey, to shake hands with Malone. “Ah, Commissioner Leeds telephoned me and explained the situation. We have a problem, haven’t we?” His English, like that of Goffi, was good. Since crime, and terrorism, had become international, police chiefs had had to improve their linguistic ability. Malone doubted that Leeds could speak anything but English, but that was his British heritage. It was the foreigners who had to broaden their languages. “I have had dealings with the Vatican on many occasions. God’s bureaucracy is far worse than any we have in the rest of Italy.”
“Did the Commissioner give you all the facts as we know them, General?”
“No, sit down and give them to me, Inspector.” He made the return trip to his chair behind the desk, sat down and stroked his moustache. He was wearing uniform, a sartorial splendour that added to his handsomeness; and he knew it. A braided cap lay on the desk, one that suggested, even at rest, that it would be worn at a jaunty angle. The General’s vanity was often difficult for those who worked for him; what they didn’t know was that it was difficult for him. He was that odd dichotomy, a vain man who wished he could be modest. “Take notes, Captain Goffi.”
Malone gave them the history of the case, leaving out nothing; no Sydney newspapers or even Fingal Hourigan had a line into carabinieri headquarters. General della Porta listened without interrupting, something that Malone, with his small prejudices, had not expected from an Italian.
At last della Porta said, “It is not going to be easy, Inspector. If the Vatican agreed to your taking the Archbishop back to Australia—indeed, if he agreed to go with you—it would be creating a precedent. And the Vatican hates to create a precedent, unless it holds a Vatican Council on it. It’s the way with all religions. Are you a Catholic?”
