by Jon Cleary
“So you’ll go to Inspector Malone and tell him every detail of it, of that morning? It was a Tuesday morning, incidentally.”
“You remember the details, too, eh? Yeah, it was a Tuesday. Like this murder of the Nip, they found him dead on a Tuesday morning, didn’t they? You didn’t have anything to do with this latest one, did you?” The query was too casual, he was gazing out towards the paddocks, where the motorbike stockman had run the last of the sheep into the calico fold.
“No, I didn’t.” Well, not directly, not till afterwards.
“I’m glad to hear that. You had anything to do with that and I think I’d be out on the road right now thumbing a lift back to town and the police. Two murders, that’d be too much, Chess.”
“So what’s going to happen? You’ll sit on your information till you feel ready to go to the police, is that it? You’ll keep me turning in the wind?”
“I like the way you put it, Chess. But no, that wasn’t the idea, though now you’ve thought of it, I might do it. I thought you were smarter than that, giving the other bloke ideas—you never done that as a political boss. No, the truth is, now I been back a few days, I think I’d like to settle down here till I kick the bucket. I’ve got a bit of money saved—I was never a big spender. I’m seventy-three years old, give or take a month, and in all the time I been coming and going, no matter how far I went, I always thought of Collamundra as home. I’m home now, Chess, and I think I’ll stay. I might even come out here and ask you for a job as—well, I dunno, what d’you reckon? Companion? We could sit here the end of every day, like a coupla old mates, and talk about the good old days.”
“Jesus!” said Hardstaff, normally not given to oaths.
Strayhorn laughed. “Relax, Chess. I was just seeing how you’d look turning in the wind.” He finished the whisky, put down his glass and stood up. He looked around him, down the length of the long shed. “Y’know, the first time I come back here, I worked here in Down-in-the-Mouth Quinlan’s team. You remember Down-in-the-Mouth, most miserable bastard ever drew breath?”
“Yes, but the best shearing boss ever worked for us.”
“Neither you nor your old man recognized me. I worked on the third stand from that end. There were sixty of us, as I remember it, biggest team I ever worked on. Ah, Chess, it’s all gone, ain’t it? We’ll never see the likes of it again.”
The two old men stood looking down the shed, hearing the echoes: the motors humming, sheep bleating, dogs barking, the bell for starting and stopping. Light gleamed on polished patches of floor and walls, turned into dim images: the bent backs of the shearers, the fleece flung into the air as it was tossed on the classer’s table, the whirling arm of the handle of the wool-press as it was left to unwind. It still happened each shearing season, but the great days were gone: it was history.
And I myself might soon be, thought Hardstaff. “You still haven’t told me what you’re going to do, whether you’ll go to the police or not.”
“You still haven’t told me why you killed her.”
“That would be a confession that I did it, Fred. And I’ll never tell anyone that.” For that would mean a demolition of his pride.
“Well, then, you better get used to the idea of turning in the wind.”
Hardstaff sighed inwardly. A third murder might have to be committed.
7
I
AFTER LUNCH in the Waring house Malone walked out and down to the yards. He stood leaning on the rail of a sand-yard, watching Tom, stiff with pride and some trepidation, trotting a horse in a circle. Then Claire came and stood beside him. He put his arm round her shoulders and felt her move a little closer to him, as if seeking his protection.
“How’s your case going, Daddy?”
“We’re getting there slowly. How’s yours?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any case.”
“I got it from a reliable stool pigeon that you had a case for Tas.”
She squinted up at him, making a face. “God, there’s no privacy in this family! If you must know, I don’t have a case, as you call it, for Tas. It was just a—a phase. Have you seen his girl-friend? God, she’s gross! She’s got bigger boobs than Dolly Parton.”
“Do you mind? I’m your father, not a bra salesman.”
“Daddy, don’t be so stuffy. Mum and I have discussed her figure—Mum agrees with me. They stick out in front of her—”
Crumbs, he thought, where did the little girl go who used to laugh her head off at Bugs Bunny and couldn’t believe that I’d once done the same thing?
“Well, don’t say any more about Tas, please? Here comes TV Guide.” He pressed her shoulder, wanting to protect her against the heartaches of love, puppy or otherwise. Maureen sneaked in under his other arm as he dropped it from the rail.
“Daddy, come home with us tomorrow?”
“I can’t, love. If I did, the Commissioner would either sack me or send me out to Tibooburra. How’d you like to live way out there in the Outback?”
Both girls made a face and Maureen said, “I hate the country! All the flies and the snakes and things—urk! And there’s nothing to do! They only get one TV channel out here. It’s like living at the South Pole.”
“Tom looks happy enough.”
“He’s a boy. He’s a wally, anyway—he’d enjoy anything, I’m never going to move out of the city again as long as I live.”
Tom pulled the horse up in front of them, beamed down on them, the Man from Snowy River with green zinc ointment on his nose and a stockman’s hat two sizes too large for him. There were streams ahead of him to be splashed through, fallen trees to be jumped, steep slopes down which he had to plunge: Clancy of the Overflow waited for him on the other side of a boy’s river of dreams. He could be happy here, Malone thought. He reached across the rail and put a hand on his son’s knee, suddenly sad that, not many years ahead, Tom would be leaving home, bound for a life in which he, the father, might not be needed. For a father, too, has a river of dreams which, too often, run dry behind him.
“Dad, can I have a horse for Christmas?”
“Don’t be spack,” said Claire. “Where would we keep a horse? In the pool?”
“Well, I think I’ll stay here and be a tomeroo.”
“A jackeroo, you wally,” said Maureen.
“My name’s Tom, not Jack.”
Malone welcomed the arrival of the Waring children who had now come out of the house. He saw Sean Carmody moving towards two chairs under a tree and he crossed over and sat down beside him. Carmody handed him a can of Aerogard and Malone sprayed himself against the flies that had followed him. Then he nodded enquiringly at a few clouds that were building up in the west.
Carmody shook his head. “There’s no rain out there. We’re in for a long dry spell, I think . . . Trevor told me about last night’s shooting.”
Malone tensed. “Did he tell the women?”
“No, I gather you told him not to. You got any clue to who it was?”
“Not so far . . . Sean, did you know a local man named Frank Kilburn?”
“Of course. A nice feller, very quiet, except when he had a few in. Why?”
“Did he ever say anything to you about Chess Hardstaff and his war record?”
Carmody looked at him shrewdly. He took out his pipe, lit it unhurriedly and puffed on it before replying; the flies that hadn’t been driven away by the spray now fled from the smoke. “Who wised you up to that little bit of gossip?”
“Is that all it is—gossip?”
Carmody considered. “No, I don’t think so. Frank Kilburn wasn’t a gossip-monger. But once or twice, when he was in his cups, he’d talk a bit more than was good for him. Or for Chess Hardstaff.” He puffed on his pipe again, then took it out of his mouth and let it start to die out. Malone waited, one eye on Tom, now trotting the horse once more round the sand-yard. At last Carmody said, “Frank and Chess were in the same Air Force unit, flying Kittyhawks in North Africa. Chess sh
ot down a German Messerschmitt one day and the Jerry pilot took to his parachute. Chess followed him down, playing him like a cat with a mouse, and shot him when he was about a thousand feet from the ground. Frank was the only one who saw it and he never spoke to him again—he wouldn’t even back up Chess in his claim for the kill. He asked for a transfer to another unit and got it. When he came back to the district he wouldn’t join the Legion in town because Chess was up to be president. If he came into town, he’d cross the road to avoid him. He lived on a property down south about twenty miles, it had been in the family for years, and after he came back from the war I gather he never really became part of the town’s life. He was very bitter about Chess, said he was the most cold-blooded killer, that was what he called him, he’d ever seen.”
“Was he ever married?”
“No, not as far as I know.”
“I understand he died last year. What did he die of?”
Carmody smiled. “Chess didn’t kill him, if that’s what you are asking. He died of pneumonia, something us old fellers are susceptible to. You’re still chasing Chess over the murder of his wife, aren’t you?”
“Not really. His name just keeps cropping up.” He stood up. “Well, I’d better be getting back. I’ll see you at the Nothlings’ party.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for quids.” Carmody knocked out his pipe on the heel of his boot, then stood up. “Do you think Sagawa’s murderer is likely to take another pot-shot at you?”
“It’s possible. But keep it to yourself.”
“Does the thought scare you?”
“Sean, I’m not middle-aged yet. I’ve got a wife and three kids I love. I don’t think I’m scared, but I hate the thought of some bastard wiping me out while I’m still enjoying what I’ve got.”
He went across to say goodbye to the children, telling them he would see them tomorrow at the airport, then he went into the house, collected Lisa and walked with her out to the Commodore.
“What’s the matter with Trevor?” she said. “He’s been jumpy all morning and you saw what he was like at lunch. Didn’t eat a thing.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s lying down. Ida’s in with him. Have you been putting some sort of pressure on him?”
“In a way.”
“God, he’s Ida’s husband! The kids and I are guests in his home!”
“That’s what he told me yesterday morning.” Better to take the blame for Waring’s nervousness himself than to tell her about last night’s shooting, “I’m sorry, darl, but there were questions I had to ask him and he didn’t like the answers he had to give. Now that’s it, don’t let’s discuss it any more.”
“Now you’re getting jumpy.”
“It comes of being married to a policeman’s wife.” He kissed her. “I’ll see you at the Nothlings’. Look your best.”
“Why, what competition will I have?”
He drove back to town, turning off into the showground before he got to the river bridge. The carnival and circus were in full swing; the town’s children, if not their parents, were out in force. Malone found Fred Strayhorn at his stall, exhorting, without much enthusiasm, the locals to try their luck with his bamboo rings. When he saw Malone he handed over the stall to a youth, one of the carnival’s roustabouts, and came across to join the detective.
“Let’s get outa the crowd, Inspector. This is my last day with the show and I think I’m gunna be glad to turn me back on it. It’s all too bloody noisy.”
“What are you going to do? Go back on the track?”
“No, I’m gunna stay here. Settle down. I’ll check into a pub for a night or two till I find something, someone who wants to take in a boarder. Then I’ll look around for a place to buy, something with a coupla acres.”
“Noongulli, for instance?”
Strayhorn grinned through his beard. “I’d only be short four or five million, that’s all. It’s him you’ve come about, right? Chess Hardstaff.”
He pulled a couple of folding chairs out of the back of a five-ton truck and he and Malone sat down. Nearby two elephants, having done their act, were being hosed down by a small blonde girl in a spangled body-stocking that had a big hole inside each knee, as if she had worn it away nudging the elephants into whatever elephants were supposed to do in a circus ring. She looked across at Strayhorn and waved the hose; the sun caught the spray, turning it into a rainbow of greeting. Or perhaps of farewell: Malone wondered if the old man would miss any of these people when they moved on. Circus folk, he had heard, were supposed to be a family.
“I’d like a statement, Fred. I’ve got another witness who’s already made a statement. The two of you are going to make life pretty difficult for Hardstaff. That’s what you want.”
“I dunno that it is, Mr. Malone. Now I’m gunna settle down here . . .”
Malone felt his temper rise. “For Chrissake, don’t pull that one on me! You can’t suddenly become a local again, not after all these years, not after what Hardstaff and his old man did to you and your family!”
Strayhorn looked at him mildly. “Keep your shirt on. I just have to do some more thinking, that’s all.”
“Did you go out and see him this morning?”
“Yeah, he come in and picked me up. In his Mercedes, first time I ever rode in anything like that sorta luxury.”
“Did he offer to pay you off again?” As soon as he said it he knew it was a mistake; he threw cold water on his temper. “Sorry.”
“So you bloody should be,” said Strayhorn, abruptly showing some temper of his own. “Are you Crown Prosecutor as well as cop?”
“What do you know about Crown Prosecutors?”
“I told you, I been in trouble with the law. But that’s all over now.”
“Righto, Fred, let’s call a truce. I shouldn’t have said what I did and I’m sorry. Now I want you to give me a statement about that morning when Mrs. Hardstaff was murdered, just tell us what you told me yesterday morning. I appreciate it may be tougher for you if you decide to settle down again in Collamundra, but I think you may find more people will favour you than blackball you. Chess Hardstaff may be king around here, but he wouldn’t win on a popular vote.”
“Kings don’t need votes, son.” Fred Strayhorn, bachelor, had become fatherly. “You should read more history . . . I’ll think about it.”
“I wanted you to come in with me now to the station.”
Strayhorn shook his head. “That’s not on. Things are gunna be busy here till we close down tonight. I’ll come in tomorrow, soon’s I’ve helped them pack and they’re on the road. I’ll come in whether I’m gunna make a statement or not. It’s been bloody years, another day won’t matter.”
“You won’t change your mind and shoot through on me?”
“Mr. Malone, I’ve left Collamundra for the last time, that’s a promise. Next time I go, I’ll be in a pine box.”
As Malone drove out of the showground one of the elephants trumpeted shrilly and inside the circus tent a lion roared in reply. He wondered if they were missing the jungles of Africa or if, like Fred Strayhorn, they had had enough of being on the road.
Russ Clements and Curly Baldock were waiting for him in the detectives’ room. The look on Clements’s face told him they had dug up a nugget; he just hoped it wouldn’t be fool’s gold. He dropped into a chair and said, “Tell me.”
“We got Ted Hart, he’s the local gun dealer, we got him out of bed. He wasn’t too happy, he and his missus were in bed for their Sunday bit while the kids were out at the carnival. Anyhow, he came in and opened up his shop. We went through his registered sales for the last five years, that’s as long as he keeps „em. He’s sold sixty-two Twenty-twos in that period, most of them Remingtons.”
“Anyone who interests us on his list?”
“Practically everybody,” said Clements. “Ray and Phil Chakiros, Trevor Waring, Chess Hardstaff, Bruce Potter, Narelle’s husband—he bought one the day before he was killed. All Remin
gtons, except the Chakiros’s guns, they’re Brnos.”
“You’ve missed out one on our list. Max Nothling.”
“No, he doesn’t own one. At least he didn’t buy a Twenty-two from Ted Hart.” Clements looked at Baldock; they beamed like juveniles as they held out their nugget: “But his wife Amanda bought two, a Remington and a Tikka. Plus a full set of „scopes. For five years running, till she gave up the game two years ago, she was the Country Women’s small-bore champion. Ted Hart, who saw her in action, said she could shoot the balls off a bull at two hundred yards.”
“The bull’d like that.” Malone looked at Baldock. “You must’ve known that, Curly.”
Baldock was embarrassed. “Of course I did! But I never give it a thought. Jesus, why would a woman like her wanna shoot Sagawa?”
Malone glanced at Clements, feeling their thoughts click into the same gear. Then he said slowly, “Maybe Sagawa wasn’t the target at all.”
II
“Why did you ask the Potter woman?”
“I wanted to see Max squirm. He knows it was because of her that I meant to shoot him.”
The Hardstaffs, father and daughter, were alone for a few moments, beyond earshot of the party crowd on the lawns. The Nothling homestead, east of the town and back in the slight rise of hills to the north, was another colonial relic, so beautifully restored that it looked better than it had in its original state. It had been featured in House and Garden and Vogue Living; the National Trust had placed its seal on it. No one ever mentioned the pioneer family, bankrupt and now forgotten, who had built it; sometimes even Max Nothling was not mentioned, because it was more often than not referred to as the “second Hardstaff property.” Amanda was a Hardstaff, make no mistake about it. Her and Max’s only child was registered as Chester Nothling-Hardstaff and he would inherit both this and his grandfather’s property, the Hardstaff name carried on.
“Unlucky Mr. Sagawa.” Chess Hardstaff didn’t say, Poor Mr. Sagawa. Sympathy, like forgiveness, did not come easily with him. “I don’t understand how you made such a mistake.”
