Pride's Harvest

by Jon Cleary

  “You’d have buggered the sheep. I don’t mean literally. Russ, you couldn’t raise a pup even if it gave you a hand. Lassie would have turned up her nose at you and gone home. Come on, let’s go inside and see what we can get out of Mr. Hardstaff.”

  He had seen Hardstaff on television, but he was not prepared for the presence of the man in person. He fitted the dignity of his home; it was a proper setting for him. Dignity is not an Australian characteristic, the larrikin element is too strong in the national psyche. Hardstaff stood in the middle of his living-room, a heavily elegant chamber, and looked at the two larrikin intruders.

  Malone introduced himself and Clements and was greeted by, “You might have telephoned me first to let me know you were coming.”

  “We slip up sometimes on politeness,” said Malone; and looked at the Police Minister. “It’s Mr. Dircks, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Dircks. “I think Mr. Hardstaff has a point. You shouldn’t come charging in here, you don’t have a warrant, do you?”

  “No, sir. I wasn’t aware we were charging in. You’re the Minister, you’d know we’d get nowhere if we stuck to protocol all the time.” Oh crumbs, he thought, there goes the Malone tongue again. He glanced to his right and saw Clements looking around as if seeking a way out of the room before the roof fell in.

  Dircks’s face reddened, but Hardstaff was not going to have a Police Department row in his home. “Let’s start again, Inspector. Why did you want to see me? Sit down.”

  Malone and Clements lowered themselves into armchairs. This was a man’s living-room, leather and tweed and polished wood; there was no chintz or silk. Brass glinted at various points around the room and the paintings on the walls were bold and challenging, though not in any modern style: de Kooning or Bacon or Blackman would have finished up in the marble-topped fireplace. The challenge was within the subject of the paintings: a hold-up by bushrangers, a horse-breaker trying to tame a buckjumper. There were, however, vases of flowers on side tables around the room, the only soft touch, like that of a ghostly woman’s hand.

  Clements had taken out his notebook and Hardstaff gave him a hard stare. “You are going to take notes?”

  “Only if necessary.”

  “Will it be necessary?” Hardstaff looked back at Malone.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Hardstaff, not till I start asking the questions.” He plunged straight in, freezing though the water might be: “Can you tell us where you were Monday night, the night Mr. Sagawa was murdered out at the cotton gin?”

  “Jesus!” said the Police Minister. “What sort of question is that?”

  “A routine one,” said Malone. “It’s normal police procedure in cases like this. Where were you, Mr. Hardstaff?”

  Hardstaff had shown no expression at the question. His long handsome face could turn into a stone replica of itself; he turned his head slightly and, in a trick of light, his pale blue eyes seemed suddenly colourless. A classicist might have described him at that moment as a Cæsar in his own museum. But Malone was no classicist, just a cop who had learned to read stone faces, no matter how faint the script.

  “I was at a meeting of the Turf Club. I’m the chairman.”

  You would be, thought Malone: you’re probably chairman of everything with more than two members in this district. “Where was that held?”

  “At the Legion club. From seven o’clock till nine.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that I went to my daughter’s home, the other side of town. I was there about an hour, I suppose. Then I drove home.”

  “Alone?”

  “Of course.” He didn’t attempt to explain why of course he would drive home alone.

  “What sort of car do you have?”

  “A Mercedes, last year’s model. A 500SEL.” He did not say it boastfully, but as if mocking Malone’s questioning of him. He looked at Clements taking notes. “Got that, Sergeant?”

  “Colour?” said Clements.

  “Beige, I think they call it. I don’t have a good eye for colour, I’m colour-blind.”

  “Does that apply to people, too?”

  “Jesus Christ!” Dircks sat up in his chair. Hardstaff had left his drink in the study, but the Police Minister had brought his with him and now the ice rattled in his glass like dice. “That’s enough of that sort of insult, Malone! The interview’s over!”

  My bloody tongue again, thought Malone. But Hardstaff’s air of arrogance, his apparent resentment that the police should interrogate him without making an appointment, acted on Malone like a burr in his pants.

  Hardstaff did not appear disturbed by the question. He looked at Malone with new interest, as if the detective were an adversary who might prove hard to put down. Weak opponents bored him. Without looking at Dircks he said, “It’s all right, Gus. Perhaps the inspector has some point to his question?”

  Malone saw that Hardstaff suddenly had some respect for him. “Yes, there was a point to it. I’ve heard that there is some strong anti-Japanese feeling in the district.”

  “Not from me, Inspector. I brought the Japanese investment in here. Mr. Dircks will confirm that. He’s one of the partners in South Cloud.”

  Malone saw Clements’s ball-point suddenly slip, scratching across the page of his notebook. Then the big hand was steady again, waiting to make a note of Dircks’s reply.

  “I didn’t know that, Mr. Dircks,” Malone said.

  “It’s in the records. You’d have seen it if you’d looked at the books of the company.” But Dircks sounded as if he wished the connection hadn’t been mentioned.

  “We’ve only just started. There’s a lot we still have to look into. Have you visited the cotton farm lately, Mr. Hardstaff?”

  “No, I have no financial interest in it.”

  “Did you know Mr. Sagawa?”

  “Yes. He came to dinner once. And he came out once or twice to tennis parties we had. He was an enthusiastic tennis player. He was enthusiastic at everything, come to think of it. Everyone liked him.”

  “Except the person who murdered him.”

  “Christ, you’re blunt!” said Dircks, a politician never known for his subtlety in parliament.

  Malone stood up, ignoring the Minister’s remark. “Did you know anything about Mr. Sagawa other than that he was enthusiastic and popular?”

  The other three men were now on their feet. Hardstaff said, “No, I don’t believe I did. Perhaps the other Japanese out at the farm, the assistant manager, Mr. Koga, might help you there.”

  “You know Mr. Koga? I thought you said you had no interest in the cotton farm?”

  Hardstaff smiled, a crack in the stone. “I’m interested in everything that goes on in this district, Inspector. This is my turf, I think is the expression.”

  “Oh,” said Malone, letting his tongue have its way this time, “I thought it was the Minister’s.”

  “Enjoy your stay, Inspector,” said Hardstaff, the crack widening. The bugger’s enjoying this, thought Malone. “Come and see me again if you have any more questions. Just telephone me first, that’s all. I’m not always available to every Tom, Dick and Harry.”

  “Scobie and Russ,” said Malone. “Thanks for your time.”

  As he and Clements went down the steps from the wide front veranda, Dircks came hurrying out the front door. “Inspector!”

  Malone turned. “Yes, sir?”

  “I heard you’re staying at the Mail Coach.” Narelle Potter would have told him that. “Have lunch with me there. One o’clock. Just you and me.” He didn’t look at Clements.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They got into the Commodore and halfway down the driveway to the front gates Clements said, “You’ve stirred up something back there. I think we could be on our way outa town by this evening. I was looking forward to going to the races tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What are you going to put your money on? Narelle or her horse?”

  “Okay, wipe the shit off your liver. It�
�s just a bit of innocent nooky with her.”

  “She hasn’t been innocent since she got out of kindergarten.”

  “Geez, we have got S.O.L., haven’t we? You’ve let those two bastards get to you.”

  Malone nodded morosely. “You’re right . . . Look, as soon as we get back to the station, get on to Sydney. Get Andy Graham, if you can. Have him contact the Tokyo police, I want a full background on Mr. Sagawa—so far we know practically bugger-all about him. Tell him to phone you when he’s got something, not put it on the computer.”

  “We keep it to ourselves? Okay.”

  “Tell him to tell the Japs it’s urgent. I’d like it by Monday morning at the latest.”

  “It’s Friday now, for Chrissakes.”

  “Let’s see if the Japs are as industrious as I’m always reading. We work weekends, don’t we?”

  “Not tomorrow, I hope. Not while I’m out at the course, putting my money on Narelle’s horse.”

  “She’s really conned you, hasn’t she? Lisa’s going to be disappointed when I tell her. She’s still hoping she can marry you off to some convent virgin. What happened to that girl Sheila from Forensic Science?”

  “She was too clinical. She wanted to take a blood sample every time we did it.”

  “Excuses, excuses. You’re just afraid of marriage.”

  They drove back to town, being overtaken several times by cars hurtling towards the Big Weekend; there was no respect for the speed limit out here in the backblocks. They went by the entrance to Sundown and Malone wondered what Lisa and the kids were doing right now; maybe Tom was falling off another horse, Claire was still mooning over Tas Waring, Maureen was chatting away, careless of whether anyone was listening to her or not. All at once he wished he could retire now, while the kids were still young; perhaps they wouldn’t need him by the time he got to retirement age. The thought suddenly saddened and frightened him.

  They passed the racecourse, where workers were preparing the track for tomorrow’s meeting. Bunting was being hung from the small grandstand and several marquees had been erected. In a small showground beside the course a travelling circus and carnival was setting up its tents and stalls; two elephants were being used as fork-lift substitutes, raising up a long thick pole. Clements slowed the car.

  “You gunna bring the kids to the circus tomorrow?”

  “I’ll try. Depends whether we’re working or not.” A day with Lisa and the kids would be a nice break. “I might even watch the Cup and put a dollar or two on something.”

  “Don’t get rash. That’s money you’re throwing around.”

  They drove on into town, which now seemed full of cars and utility trucks and four-wheel-drive wagons. The sleepy air of the town had disappeared; Collamundra looked as if it might be getting ready to get drunk. Some drunks were already evident, but Malone noticed from the police car, slowed by the traffic, that they were mostly Aborigines. He wondered if Cup weekend was a cause for celebration for them or whether this was how they marked every weekend.

  One of the drunks stepped off the footpath, walked unsteadily to the middle of the road, then stopped, facing the traffic. Clements slammed on the brakes. The Aborigine was middle-aged, thin but for a bloated belly; he wore a tweed cap, with his hair sticking out on either side and curling up like the horns on a Viking’s helmet. He grinned foolishly at the two strangers in the Commodore, raising his hand and giving them a slow wave.

  The traffic had banked up behind the police car and horns were being sounded in temper. The Aborigine leaned sideways, slowly, without moving his feet, and peered past the Commodore to the cars behind. He gave their drivers the same slow wave, still grinning foolishly.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Clements, “is it any wonder people have no time for the stupid bastards?”

  Malone was smiling back at the Aborigine. “This might be his only happy moment in the whole week.”

  Clements turned his head. “Don’t be a bloody bleeding heart. Down in Redfern you’d have been out of the car in a flash and grabbed him if he’d done that to us.”

  Malone opened the door of the car, got out, the chorus of car horns still hooting behind him, and walked up to the Aborigine. He took the man by the arm.

  “Come on, Jack. You’re going to get sun-struck standing out here in the open.”

  The man giggled. “Sun-struck?”

  “Sun cancers, too. Your complexion’s all wrong. Come on, back in the shade.”

  The man didn’t struggle. With Malone still holding him by the elbow, he walked unsteadily back to the footpath and stood under a shop awning. A small crowd had gathered, all whites, men and women; they were silent, their faces full of a hostile curiosity. He’s a cop, why doesn’t he arrest the drunken Abo?

  Malone looked over their heads, searching for another Aborigine, saw two young men standing in a doorway. He raised his hand and beckoned them over. They hesitated, looked at each other, then came towards him, the crowd opening up to let them through.

  “Take him home,” Malone told the two young Aborigines. Then to the drunk: “Go with them, Jack. Otherwise I’ll have to lock you up.”

  “You’re a copper?” The man’s look of surprise was comical. He looked around at the crowd, shaking his head in wonder. “Wuddia know! He’s a copper!”

  He grabbed Malone’s hand, giggled, shook his head again, then let the two young men lead him away. As Malone stepped off the kerb to get back into the Commodore, which Clements had pulled out of the way of the traffic, a thickset farmer, a redneck if Malone had ever seen one, said, “You’re wasting your sympathy, mate. They’re just a bloody nuisance when they’re like that, to „emselves and everyone else.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Malone. “But you don’t have to play at being a cop, do you?”

  As he got into the car beside Clements a man’s voice said from the back of the crowd, “Why don’t you go back where you belong?”

  “Drive on,” Malone said quietly and Clements pulled the car out into the traffic again.

  They said nothing more; then Clements was pulling the Commodore into the police station yard. As soon as they got out of the car they were aware of the tension amongst the half a dozen uniformed men in the yard. At first Malone thought they were waiting to say something to him and Clements; he stiffened, seeking some sort of answer to a question he hadn’t yet heard. Then, as they reached the steps leading up to the back door of the rear annexe, Baldock, hatless, his face tight and red as if he were holding his breath, came out through the doorway. He stopped abruptly on the top step and looked down at the two Sydney men.

  “Billy Koowarra’s just hung himself.”

  3

  I

  “LOOKS LIKE he did it, don’t you reckon?” said Dircks.

  He and Malone were at lunch at the reserved table by the corner window. The dining-room was crowded, mostly with men but also with a few women. Narelle Potter had refurbished the big room, but its restored old-time charm fought a losing battle against the rough, loud bonhomie of the male diners. The women guests tried hard, but they were just whispers in the chorus of shouts, laughter and loud talk. Malone, as sometimes before, wondered how people could manage to eat and yet still make such a hubbub.

  He caught what Dircks had just said in the moment before it was lost in the noise. “What?”

  “He’s the obvious suspect. I’m not saying shut the book on Sagawa’s murder, but it might be better if we just let it die quietly.”

  You’re the one who’s obvious. “Why do you think Koowarra’s the one who did it?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just suggesting you take advantage of what’s happened.” Dircks dipped his handkerchief in his glass of water and sponged a spot of gravy off the lapel of his expensive suit. Everything he wore was expensive, but he didn’t look comfortable in it, as if his wife or perhaps a daughter had bought his wardrobe and each morning he just put on what was laid out for him. He didn’t look comfortable at the moment and
Malone wondered if Chess Hardstaff had laid out instructions for him. “His suicide is tantamount to a confession. Use it. We know he’d been sacked, there was bad feeling between him and Sagawa.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know.” Dircks finished his wet-cleaning, picked up his knife and fork again. Whatever he felt about the two deaths, the murder and the suicide, his appetite had not been affected. He began to chew on a mouthful of steak that would have satisfied a crocodile.

  “No court would accept a case built on that. There was no note of confession, he didn’t say a word to any other prisoner or any officer.” Malone cut into his rack of lamb. The menu was written in English, no fancy French handles to the dishes, and the chef, Malone guessed, probably cooked with the Australian flag hanging over his stove. The dessert list, he had noted, contained such local exotica as bread-and-butter pudding, sherry trifle and lamington roll; somehow the national dish, passion-fruit pavlova, had missed out. “Frankly, Mr. Dircks, I don’t think Koowarra killed Sagawa and I’m not going to waste my time following that line.”

  Dircks picked up his napkin to wipe his mouth, noticed it was wet and gestured to a passing waitress for a fresh one. Malone had remarked that only he and the Minister had crisp linen napkins; all the other diners, including the women, had paper ones. Narelle Potter herself brought the fresh linen, flipped it open and spread it on Dircks’s broad lap.

  “You’re still as careless as ever, Gus. I thought Shirley would’ve smartened you up, down there in the city, now you’re a Minister. Look at Inspector Malone. Spotless, and he’s just a policeman.”

  Malone, just a policeman, said, “Thanks.”

  She gave him her hotel-keeper’s smile, as dishonest as the collar on a badly-poured beer, and went away. Dircks looked after her admiringly. “Nice woman. One of my best campaign workers when an election’s on . . . Malone, I don’t think you understand me.”

  The remark caught Malone a little off-balance; Dircks had still been looking after Mrs. Potter when he said it. But now he turned to face Malone and there was no mistaking the antagonism in the small blue eyes. He could be authoritative, though in only two months as Minister he had already acquired a reputation for making wrong decisions. But the incompetent don’t necessarily give up trying: it is why a few of them occasionally succeed and rise to the top.