Five-Ring Circus

by Jon Cleary

  “They’ve all gone home,” said Chung. “They were gone before I got in here. That’s why I came back, to try and hold them for you. I knew you’d want to talk to them.”

  Malone had no trouble hiding his cynical grin; he was in no mood for humour. “Thanks for trying, Les. How many illegals do you employ?”

  “None that I know of.” Chung didn’t appear to be in the least upset; murder could have been on the menu. “We have all their addresses, Inspector. I’ll see you can get in touch with them.”

  “If I’m lucky. Come back inside. You too, Mr.—?”

  “Smith,” said the Chinese chef. “Wally Smith.”

  Another illegal? “Righto, I’ll talk to you both as soon’s the police arrive.”

  “What about the media? I don’t want—”

  “I’m afraid they’re your problem, Les. But you don’t talk to them till you’ve talked to me, okay?”

  The first uniformed police arrived two minutes later; then two ambulances. Fifteen minutes later the Crime Scene team were at work and Clements and the three Homicide detectives had arrived. So had the media, appearing, as Malone thought of them, with the scent of vultures. The uniformed cops were keeping them out in the street, which was now crowded from pavement to pavement. Red and blue roof lights spun, clashing with the street’s neon. Two policewomen were running out blue and white Crime Scene tapes, doing the housekeeping.

  Malone turned control over to Clements and the senior uniformed officer. Then he got a uniformed man to usher his family out and escort them to the parking station. As they moved towards the front door the stout man stood up and demanded to know why they were being allowed to go.

  Lisa stopped opposite him. “Because I’m married to Inspector Malone. It’s one of the few privileges of being a policeman’s wife—we’re allowed to go home early. Satisfied?”

  And now Malone was seated opposite Les Chung in a banquette on the opposite side of the room from the murder booth. “Les, I asked you if you knew who had sent the killer.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Righto, then. Have you any idea why he would come in here and kill your three friends? You were having dinner with them, weren’t you? There were four places at that table.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve told me who the dead men are—they’re all respectable businessmen. No Triads, nothing like that?”

  It was difficult to tell whether Chung smiled or not. “No, nothing like that.”

  “I’ve heard of two of them, seen their names in the paper occasionally. But the third feller—” He looked at his notes. “Mr. Shan? Is he a local?”

  Chung looked around the room, moving only his eyes, not his head. His hands were folded on the table in front of him and he looked as calm as if this were no more than a social visit on Malone’s part. Then he looked back at Malone, who had waited patiently. “No.”

  “From somewhere else? Cabramatta?” Where there was a major Asian community, mainly Vietnamese. “Or Melbourne or Brisbane?”

  Then Clements slid his big bulk into the seat beside Malone, dropped a passport on the table. “That’s from the guy with his back to the wall, the one in the middle. A Chinese passport in the name of Shan Yang.”

  Malone picked up the passport, flipped through its pages, then held it out for Chung to look at. “Shanghai, maybe? Or Beijing?”

  Chung’s shrug was almost imperceptible. “Okay, from Shanghai.”

  Malone looked across the room. The forensic pathologist, a young man who, coincidentally, was Chinese, had looked at the bodies and they were now being wheeled out to the ambulances. Most of the diners had been questioned and allowed to go. Out in the street they would be ambushed by the media reporters: any witness to a triple murder was quotable, even if he made it up. Even as Malone looked, the last diners went out the front door and now there were only police and Les Chung. Wally Smith, the head chef, had been questioned and allowed to go. John Kagal, Phil Truach and Gail Lee were comparing notes, but Malone could tell from their expressions that the notes would not add up to much.

  “What was Mr. Shan doing here, Les? You were with him, so you must’ve had him as your guest.”

  “He was a visitor. They come here every time they are in Sydney.”

  “They?”

  “Visitors from China. We Chinese have always been gourmets. Before the French even invented the word or knew anything about cooking.” His lips twitched, but one could not really call it a smile.

  “Les, let’s not play the Inscrutable Orient game. I know you Chinese claim a monopoly on patience, but you’d be surprised how patient we Irish can be. We have to be, to put up with Irish jokes.”

  Chung’s expression was almost a parody of inscrutability. Then all at once he sat back against the velvet of the booth, as if he had decided the game had gone far enough. “All right. Mr. Shan represented one of our business partners.”

  “What in? The restaurant?”

  Chung smiled widely this time, shook his head. “Olympic Tower.”

  Malone and Clements looked at each other; then Clements said, “You’re in that?”

  Olympic Tower had been a huge hole in the ground for seven or eight years, a casualty of union trouble and the recession of a few years back. It had been a monument that was an embarrassment, a great sunken square in which concrete foundations and the odd steel pier had been a derisive reminder of what had been intended. Then six months ago work had recommenced under a new consortium. Malone had read about it, but he had not taken any notice of the names in the consortium. Over the last thirty years developers had come and gone like carpetbaggers. Some of them had built beautiful additions to the city; others had put up eyesores, taken the money and run. It all came under the heading of progress.

  “It’s a consortium.”

  “How many?” Clements was the business expert. He had begun as a punter on the horses and moved on to the stock market.

  “Three corporations.” Chung was taking his time squeezing out the answers.

  “Mr. Feng and Mr. Sun—” Malone had looked at his notes. “They were in it with you?”

  “In my partnership, yes.”

  “Which is?”

  “Lotus Development.”

  “Who else? You said three.”

  “The Bund Corporation.”

  “The Bond Corporation? You’re kidding.” The Bond Corporation had been the Titanic of the eighties. Its captain had spent several years trying to dodge the iceberg, but was now doing time.

  Chung smiled. He now appeared completely unperturbed by what had happened in his restaurant. Yet Malone had a sudden flash of memory, saw the look of fear that had stricken Chung as he had pushed into the banquette against Tom. If he was still afraid, it was now well hidden. “No, no. The Bund Corporation. Named after the famous Bund on Shanghai’s waterfront.”

  The Bund’s fame hadn’t spread as far as Homicide; but the two detectives nodded. “Who’s the third partner?” said Malone. “Someone else from China?”

  Chung looked around the restaurant again. The Crime Scene team had come through from the kitchen and the back alley; the sergeant in charge glanced across at Malone and shook his head: nothing.

  The big room was still brightly lit, the huge chandelier hung like a frozen explosion, a glare that was obtrusive. Chung abruptly stood up, crossed the room and flicked a switch. Everyone looked up as the glare disappeared; it was a moment before the yellow lamps on the walls asserted themselves. Chung came back, sat down, said nothing.

  “Les,” said Malone patiently, “who’s the third partner?”

  “It’s in the application at the Town Hall,” Chung said at last. “Kelly Investments.”

  “And who,” said Malone, patience threadbare now, “are Kelly Investments?”

  “One of Jack Aldwych’s companies.”

  “One of Jack’s? Named after Ned Kelly?” A national hero, a bushranger. Perhaps it was the convict beginnings of the nation, but part of t
he heritage seemed to be a reverence for crims. Jack Aldwych had been a leading crim for years; but, so he claimed, was now retired. He also claimed he was trying to slide into respectability, but even he found the idea risible. Respectability was not a difficult achievement, not in Sydney; but it must not be treated as a joke, which was what Aldwych was doing. He was also co-owner with Les Chung of the Golden Gate and he was one of Malone’s best acquaintances, if not best friends. “Les, if you and Jack are partners in Olympic Tower, would you blame me if I thought some of your old mates were trying to muscle in?”

  “I have no old mates who do that sort of thing.”

  Malone refrained from naming some of them; Les Chung, too, was now into respectability. “Well, with your Shanghai friends involved, do you think the Triads might have arranged these killings?”

  “The Triads?” Chung’s expression suggested that Malone might have named the Jesuits or the Masons.

  Exasperation was seeping out of Malone like perspiration. “Les, Russ and I are trying to get to the bottom of this. That feller would’ve done you if you’d been in that booth—he didn’t look as if he were being selective. You were on his list—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I think so. And so does Russ, right?” Clements nodded. “Now we can take you back to Homicide and talk to you till you come to your senses. Or you can go home, talk to your wife and kids and your lawyer and your mother, if need be—”

  “I’m not Jewish.”

  Malone had to smile. “Righto, Les, you’ve still got your sense of humour. Now use it, see the sense in what I’m saying and come and see me and Russ in the morning and give us the full picture. But we’re not going to let it lie, Les, understand?” He stood up, pushing Clements ahead of him out of the booth. “In the meantime we’ll talk to Jack Aldwych. What I know of Jack, he never liked his business partners being bumped off.”

  Chung didn’t move from the booth. Hands folded on the table in front of him, he looked up at the two big detectives. “I’ll talk to you in the morning. Without talking to my mother, just to my lawyer.”

  “Do that, Les. In the meantime I’m going to get a court order to close down the Golden Gate till we know what’s going on. Next time some innocent customers might get in the way.”

  III

  The street outside was still crowded; those that had lingered had been augmented by the crowd spilling out from the Entertainment Centre round the corner. The police cars, the media vans, the Crime Scene tapes: more entertainment, hey guys, let’s hang around. The windows on both sides of the narrow street were stuffed with people; close to Malone and the other police expectant faces leaned forward, as if hoping that the score had gone up. Half a dozen reporters, recorders held up like guns, rushed Malone, but he waved them away, drew his detectives around him.

  “What’d you get?”

  Phil Truach, the sergeant, shook his head. An habitual smoker, he had had three cigarettes while in the restaurant; he knew the Chinese, civilized people, were the last ones to condemn smokers. But he never smoked in front of Malone, a lifelong non-smoker. “Nothing, Scobie. We’ve got six descriptions of the guy who did the shooting—all different.”

  “Was he Asian? Chinese?”

  “Three said Asian, three said Caucasian.” Gail Lee had a Chinese father and an Australian mother. It was usually the Chinese heritage that prevailed in her, but Malone put that down to her having decided that was the best way of handling the Australians who surrounded her. She was close to being beautiful, but a certain coldness, perhaps suspicion, turned one off her before one could look at her in impartial appreciation. She was a good detective.

  “What about Wally Smith, the head chef? The killer would’ve gone right past him in the kitchen, coming and going.”

  “Said he saw nothing, he had his head buried in a pot of chop suey.” John Kagal was in black tie and dinner jacket; he had been on call but had obviously hoped not to be called. He saw Malone look at his outfit and he smiled. “My mother and father’s fortieth wedding anniversary. They like to dress up.”

  So do you, thought Malone unkindly; Kagal was the fashion plate of Homicide. “Not chop suey, John, not at the Golden Gate. Okay, that’s it for the night. Who’s in charge here from Day Street?”

  On cue a lean, medium-height man in an open-necked shirt and a lightweight golf jacket stepped forward. He was Ralph Higgins, the senior sergeant in charge of the local detectives. Malone had worked with him before, knew his worth. He had a constantly harried look, but it was never apparent in his work.

  “G’day, Scobie. We’ll handle it, do the donkey-work—” Even his grin looked harried, as if he were unsure of his jokes. “But I gather you were the principal witness?”

  “Don’t remind me. This’ll need a task force, Ralph. You set it up and we’ll co-operate. I’ll check it out with Greg Random and you do the same with your patrol commander. Russ here will be our liaison man. Phil will exchange notes with you. We’ve got bugger-all so far.”

  “What else is new?” said Higgins. “This is Chinatown, mate. The day I walk into an open-and-shut case around here will be time for me to retire.”

  Malone glanced at Gail Lee out of the corner of his eye, but her face was a closed-and-shut case. “Righto, Ralph, it’s all yours. Russ and I are going out to have a chat with Jack Aldwych.”

  “Are we?” Clements looked at his watch. “He’ll be in bed.”

  “If he is, he’ll be wide awake. He’ll have just had a phone call from Les Chung.” Malone explained to the other detectives the set-up at Olympic Tower. “John, you and Gail find out what you can about—” he looked at his notes—“the Bund Corporation, a Shanghai outfit. See if it’s registered here. Phil, you look into Lotus Development. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning I want to know all there is to know.” He grinned at Kagal. “Dress will be informal.”

  The younger man smiled in return; there was rivalry between them, but also respect. Some day Kagal would hold Malone’s job or even a higher one; he could wait. “I’ll wear thongs.”

  Driving over the Harbour Bridge in his family Volvo, Clements said, “I’ve got the feeling we’re putting our toe into a very big pool.”

  “What do you know about Olympic Tower?”

  “No more than I’ve read in the papers.” He always read the financial pages before he read the rest of the news; the last thing he read were the crime reports. Homicide and Fraud were the only two Police Service units that subscribed to the Financial Review, and the FR was purely for Clements’ benefit. Big and slow-moving, almost ox-like, he had a brain that could juggle figures like the marbles in a lottery barrel; except that his results were never left to chance. Malone had no idea how successful Clements was in his stock market bets, but the odds were that he made more from them than he made as a senior sergeant, the Supervisor of Homicide. “Get Lisa to look into it. She’s at the Town Hall.”

  “She’s on the council’s Olympic committee, not in council planning.”

  “Okay, but she’d know who to ask. Watch it, you stupid bastard!” as a car cut in front of them to take the Pacific Highway turn-off.

  “I don’t like asking my wife to do police business.”

  “You ask my wife to do it.” Romy Clements was deputy-director of Forensic Medicine stationed at the city morgue.

  Malone gave up. “Righto, I’ll ask her. But from what she tells me of council politics, I don’t want her getting bumped around.”

  Twenty minutes later they were approaching Harbord. Jack Aldwych lived high on a hill in the small seaside suburb. The house was two-storeyed, with wide verandahs on both levels and all four sides. Standing on an eastern verandah, its owner had a 180-degree view of the sea, a domain that had never provided any return, since he had never dealt in drugs, either by sea or any other entry. He had only just been getting into crime when Sydney had been a halfway house for illegal gold shipments between Middle East ports and Hong Kong; he had missed out on that lucrative in
dustry, but had graduated into robbing banks of gold, a much more dangerous pursuit. Standing on a western verandah he looked back on slopes and valleys lined with modest mortgage-mortared houses and blocks of flats as alike as slices of plain cake. This, too, was not the sort of territory where he had made his money; he had never been a petty criminal, at least not since his teen years. He had once boasted that he had never robbed the battlers; but only because the battlers weren’t worth robbing. He had his principles, but only for amusement.

  Every morning, summer and winter, although he was now in his late seventies, he went down to Harbord beach to swim. Once upon a time sharks had cruised off the beach and there had been one or two fatalities. But, whether it was coincidental or not, from the day Jack Aldwych entered the surf no more sharks had been seen. Perhaps the grey nurses and the hammerheads and the great whites knew a bigger shark when they saw one.

  When Malone and Clements rang the bell at the big iron gates that led to the short gravel driveway, two Dobermans came round the corner of the house, salivating at the prospect of a night-time snack. Two minutes later Blackie Ovens, in striped pyjamas and polka-dotted dressing gown, came out of the house and, after snapping at the dogs to back off, opened the gates. “The boss is expecting you.”

  “I thought he might be. Nice gown, Blackie.”

  “The boss give it to me. He thought me last one looked too much like a jail uniform.” The dogs barked and he barked back at them and they slunk away. “I’ll get you some coffee while you’re talking to the boss.”

  It was characteristic of him that he didn’t ask what had brought the two detectives here at this time of night. He had worked for Jack Aldwych for thirty years, an iron-bar man as rigid in his allegiance to the boss as his favourite tool of trade. He no longer wielded the iron bar as a profession, but Malone had no doubt that it was kept handy for emergency use.

  Aldwych was waiting for them in the big living room, in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Each time Malone saw him he marvelled at the dignity and handsome looks of the old crim; he could have passed for a man who owned banks rather than robbed them. He now lolled against the upholstery of wealth, taking on some of its sheen. Even the roughness of his voice had been smoothed out, though it could harden with threat when needed. He was, as he had often told Malone, retired but not reformed.