Helga's Web

by Jon Cleary

  “Of course I read about it. Anything the newspapers have to say about the Opera House lands on my desk.” He gently freed his arm from his wife’s grip, took off his glasses and polished them. Again Malone recognized the control: any

  small action or gesture to distract the attention while the mind got into the right gear. But the smooth-cheeked face gave nothing away; the eyes were as steady as those of a police marksman. He put the glasses back on and said, “But why come to me?”

  “We found a torn-up check of yours in her wastebasket, Mr. Helidon. Made out to Helga Brand Proprietary Limited.”

  “That was part of a business deal.” Helidon moved across to a small table beside a big leather chair and took a pipe from a rackful of pipes; he methodically and unhurriedly began to fill it from a tobacco bowl beside the rack. “She had come to me for some financial backing on a boutique she wanted to start.”

  “Who recommended her to you, sir?”

  “I did,” said Mrs. Helidon. “She had acted as a model for me at a charity function and had spoken to me casually about it. The boutique, I mean.” She, too, was in control of herself now. She had retreated to a red velvet chair, sat stiffly there like a woman on a throne. Even society queens go in for the regal touch, Malone thought. Then he chided himself: Come off it, Malone. Don’t start acting like your Old Man, dragging the old class bit into this. Cops are supposed to be apolitical and asocial. But he could feel a resentment building up in him against the Helidons that so far lacked any real definition or cause.

  “Did you know her well, Mrs. Helidon?”

  “No-o.” The denial was just a little too drawn out. “I assumed my husband would look into her background if he wanted to put some money into her boutique. I just thought the idea had possibilities at the time. Women in Sydney now have more money to spend than they have ever had in their lives before.”

  “I’m sure they have,” said Malone, trying to sound as if he were grateful for the information; he wondered how his old

  mum would respond to it. “Did you look into her background, Mr. Helidon?”

  Helidon had his pipe filled now but made no attempt to light it. He stood in front of the large marble-faced fireplace; behind him the mantelpiece carried a chorus of very expensive Christmas greetings: Division Y never got cards such as these, not even from reformed crooks. “I don’t see the point of all this, Sergeant.”

  “There’s a point to it, sir,” said Malone with quiet emphasis. “We’re trying to find out who killed Miss Brand. Even the slightest bit of information you can give us may help.”

  Helidon pressed the tobacco more firmly into the bowl of his pipe. He glanced at his wife, then said, “Well … I couldn’t discover much. There didn’t seem to be anything against her, if that’s what you mean. She seemed to me to have a good business sense, a very good sense, indeed.” He glanced at his wife again, then looked back at Malone. “My wife assured me she knew clothes and their quality.”

  “But I’m afraid we don’t know any more about her than that,” said Norma Helidon, and Malone waited for her to stand up, to tell him that the interview was over.

  He got in first: “We’ve looked into her background. She had a police record in Germany. She was a prostitute in Hamburg for five or six years.” He had addressed himself to Norma Helidon. It had been a shot in the dark, but he got the reaction he had hoped for: the sudden look of distaste, the flash of contempt in her eyes as she looked at her husband. Then he looked back at Helidon. “Could you think of some reason why she would have torn up your check? Did you have a disagreement with her?”

  Helidon seemed to be taking a moment to recover, not from the revelation of Helga Brand’s background but from the look his wife had given him. “No-o. None at all. To me it looked as if it was going to be a very amicable partnership, indeed. I’m—I must confess I’m shocked at what you say she

  99 *”

  PUBLIC U

  was. There was no hint of it in her manner, none at all. She was most lady-like. Very lady-like, indeed/’

  “All prostitutes aren’t female larrikins,” said Malone. “Some of them could pass for housewives. Ask Constable Clements. He was on the Vice Squad for three years.”

  “That’s right,” said Clements, glad to be able to say something. He usually let Malone do all the questioning while he took notes, but he liked to be recognized occasionally. He would be a sergeant himself one day and he wanted the practice of being able to handle people as well as Malone did. “But as soon as we stripped this girl Brand we knew she was in the game. She had—” Then he looked at Norma Helidon, his face collapsing into a bag of embarrassment. “Sorry, Mrs. Helidon. I won’t go into the details.”

  “Thank you,” said Norma Helidon. She had recovered her poise, was once more the Queen of Pymble. “But if Miss Brand was what you say, doesn’t a girl like that—?”

  “Deserve what she got?” said Malone.

  Norma Helidon realized she had been about to say the wrong thing. “No-o, I didn’t mean that. I meant—”

  “I think my wife meant that a girl like that stands the chance of being murdered,” said Helidon quickly. “I mean, she might meet anyone in her—her profession.”

  Malone nodded. “That’s true. But the law doesn’t recognize whether people deserve to be murdered or not.”

  Both Helidon and his wife recognized the rebuff. They both stiffened, then Helidon said sharply, “I think we’ve told you all we can, Sergeant. You’ll have to excuse us. My wife and I have a dinner engagement—a charity dinner—”

  “Just one more question, sir,” said Malone, doggedly remaining seated. Clements had been about to rise, but he sank back into his chair as he saw Malone make no move. “Did you ever visit Miss Brand in her flat at Double Bay?”

  “Once,” said Helidon without hesitation. “We looked at some possible sites for the boutique in Double Bay. Then I went back to her flat to discuss them with her.

  100 “^

  “Was that when you wrote out the check?”

  “Yes. For a thousand dollars. It was what you might call starting money—a deposit on a lease on a shop she had picked out.”

  “The date of the check was the second of this month, Monday of last week. Was that the day you visited her?”

  “I’m not sure.” Helidon pursed his lips. “Yes. I think so. Yes, it was Monday.”

  You know bloody well it was Monday, Malone thought. “What time were you there?”

  “I’m not sure. Between five and six, I’d think.” Then his voice became sharp again: he was the Cabinet Minister putting a public servant in his place: “Sergeant, you’re not implying I might have had something to do with her death?”

  “No, sir,” said Malone, putting on his own political face. “But we had to check—”

  “I’m afraid I don’t appreciate the honour,” said Helidon, but his wit had no more spark than his unlit pipe.

  “It was better, wasn’t it, that we found the check rather than someone else?” Malone’s voice had its own sharpness now.

  “Oh yes. Yes, indeed.” Helidon abruptly changed his face and his tone of voice; he could have been canvassing a wavering voter. “I’ll do all I can to help, Sergeant. But I’m afraid it won’t be much.”

  Malone stood up and Clements, snapping his notebook shut, rose, too. “If we have to come back, Mr. Helidon, it will only be to clear up some minor points. Goodnight. Enjoy your dinner. What charity is it for?”

  “The Police Widows Fund,” said Norma Helidon, and Malone felt the sharp prick of her smile. “Are you and Constable Clements married?”

  “Not yet,” said Malone. “We’re still looking into our girls’ backgrounds.”

  Norma Helidon looked at her husband as if waiting for

  him to tick off the impertinent policeman. Malone waited too, realizing he had gone too far; but there was too much Irish in his tongue for him ever to be able to control it completely. But Helidon said nothing, just stood there w
aiting for the two detectives to go: he had learned the political value of saying nothing.

  When they were at last outside in the car, Clements said, “That was a bit rough, wasn’t it? That bit about our girls’ background?”

  Malone nodded, still looking back at the big low house half-hidden in its garden. “I shouldn’t have said it. But somehow they got under my skin. Neither of them said a word of sympathy about our girl Helga. I could have been telling them some stray dog had been run over. She was a whore and she might have been a blackmailer, but ordinary decent people don’t take someone’s death as casually as all that. They even looked relieved.”

  “I noticed that. Especially the wife. Do you think he did have something to do with the murder?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not. But he had more to do with her than just thinking of going into business with her. The look on his wife’s face told me that.”

  “You didn’t mention the folder of newspaper cuttings.”

  “I wanted a reason for coming back to see him again. Do you lay all your bets at once or do you wait to see how the track is running?”

  “Doesn’t matter what system I use,” said Clements dolefully. “I always bloody well win.”

  4

  “But wasn’t it a coincidence!” said Lisa. “In the police game you soon realize coincidences are more common than most people suppose.” Malone took off his shoes, lay back on the divan, sipped the beer Lisa had given him. “You come to half-rely on them. Without ‘em, a quarter of our cases would never be solved.”

  “Are you going to discuss the case with me? Are detectives allowed to do that—discuss things with their wives and girl friends?”

  “Officially, no. But if you and I were in bed together and I had a sudden idea about a case, would I get out of bed and call the inspector or would I discuss it with you?”

  “Depends what we were doing in bed.” She sat down on the divan beside him, stroked his forehead. “You look worn out, darling. Do you want to talk about it or not?”

  Lisa’s flat was what was called a bachelor flat; even when occupied by a girl, bachelors were usually trying to gain entry. It had one largish bed-sitting room, a bathroom designed for a skinny midget, and a minute kitchen that pre-supposed the tenant would never want to use it: the walls of the tiny alcove seemed to bulge outwards when even steam blew out of the kettle on the fairies’ gas stove. Malone had once stepped in there to get a glass of water and had almost dislocated his hip trying to extricate himself from between the stove and the sink. But the flat had a large picture window that looked out on to the city skyline and Lisa was willing to pay the high rent for the view. It was better than Malone’s own bachelor flat a mile or two away, which looked on to a narrow street and the entrance to a strip joint.

  He put his hand on her thigh and grinned. “Till IVe finished my beer, anyway. Then we’ll see …” He took another mouthful of beer. Lisa did not like beer, but she went to the trouble to get some in for him because she knew he preferred it to any other drink. This was a Dutch beer and he wondered if she was trying to prove to him that not all the best things in the world were Australian. “When you were with Mrs. Helidon this afternoon, did she seem to you to be a bit, well,

  distracted? As if she had something on her mind besides the Blue and Red Ball?”

  “Take your hand away from there. Is that how you usually interrogate your witnesses ?” He grinned and took his hand away. “No, she was not what I should call a hundred per cent with me. It was almost as if she did not care whether the ball went on or not. I was a bit surprised, because this is her first year as president of the committee. Her sort of coronation, if you like. But then I thought perhaps she was having one of those days. Women of her age do. She’s in the middle of her change of life, I’d think.”

  “You see? That’s the advantage of discussing a case with your girl friend. What man would have an antenna as sensitive as that? I have great difficulty in telling when a girl is a virgin.”

  “From now on that’s a question that’s not going to concern you. I’d rather you stayed away from the menopause matrons, too.”

  “I think I have to go back and visit Mrs. Helidon again. She and her husband know more about Helga than they let on. Do you have to see her again?”

  “At least once a week for the next few months. The ball isn’t till Easter. Are you going to ask me to do some detective work?”

  He put down his empty glass, shook his head. “No. You’re not going to get paid for my headaches. But if you found out I’d been seeing another girl and that she was trying to blackmail me, what would you do? Strangle her?”

  “No, I’d strangle you.”

  “You’re a great bloody help,” he said, and pulled her down on the divan beside him. “Hullo. No underwear. How’d you know I’d be in the mood for it tonight?”

  “I know you Australians.”

  “What are Dutchmen like?”

  “Ah, you don’t catch me like that. Ask some other girl. Put

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  your hand back where it was and interrogate me some more. But not about Mrs. Helidon.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “That’s the sort of question I like. Darling—”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Friday, November 29

  1

  “A hundred thousand dollars!” Savanna said. “You’re out of your head, Helga. Eat up your lobster.”

  He had brought Helga here for an early dinner at the Summit restaurant at the top of the Australia Tower. He occa- sionally took her out to lunch or dinner, reasoning that the risk was minimal: if he were seen by Josie or one of their friends he would just introduce Helga as a model he was planning to use in a commercial. So far he had never had to use such an invention and he had reached a stage of depres- sion where he no longer cared what was discovered about him.

  “I am not joking, darling.” Helga ate her lobster with relish; she was not a girl who picked at food as if it were the odd- ments table in a bargain sale. “He could easily afford it. There was a profile on him in The Bulletin a few months ago. It said he was worth at least six million dollars, probably more.”

  “You’ve worked pretty fast, haven’t you? What have you been doing since I saw you last-digging up research on him?” He was careful not to mention Gibson’s name. They were at a window table and the two tables on either side of them were still vacant; but waiters had ears like radar and he knew that his own voice, even as a whisper, could carry like another man’s shout. This was no time for voice projection.

  She wiped lobster sauce from the corner of her mouth. “Darling, I’ve had a folder on him—” she, too, was discreet “—ever since I found out you were related to him.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Instantly a waiter was beside him. “Something wrong, sir?”

  Savanna waved him away, turned his head and looked out the window. Sydney stretched away to the west beneath them: the coffin-like dock sheds, swatches of water corduroyed by the wind, then finally the tiled roofs of the suburbs caught like red mackerel in a vast net of their own shadows. Though it was summer the day had been cool and windy and the sun-streaked sky had all the cold resignation of a winter sunset. It fitted his own autumnal mood.

  “I’d like to think you’re pulling my leg. But the worst of it is, I don’t think you are. You’re in earnest.” He looked back at her, at the smooth, clean-lined face gently lit by the fading sun. There was no hint of evil or malice in that face, but neither was there any hint of love; yet she had made a profession of love and had been successful at it. Not, perhaps, to the extent of gouging a hundred thousand dollars out of one of her clients. “Have you been planning something like this for—months?”

  “No.” She pulled a claw off the lobster, squeezed out the flesh from it. “I just thought he might come in useful sometime. And now he has.” She looked up and smiled behind the red claw. “For both of us, darling.”

  He shook his head emphaticall
y. “Not me. Christ, I—” He shook his head again. Her estimate of what she thought Grafter would pay had suddenly put his own half-formed idea of blackmail into some sort of perspective; he had been ridiculous to even think that he could get away with such a

  scheme. “You don’t know him. He’d, I don’t know, laugh at me.

  “I don’t think so. Haven’t you had even the tiniest thought that you might ask him for some money, after you found out what they are doing with his boats?” She looked carefully at him, then nodded. “I can see you have. You see, liebling, I know you too well. You don’t have quite as many scruples as you like to think.”

  “I used to,” he said defensively, bitterly.

  “You mean till you met me?” It was her turn to shake her head. “No, darling, you had started to lose them a long time before you met me.”

  Perhaps she was right. You did not make your own character: it grew out of the influence of environment, circumstances, other people: all you could do was polish up the distinctions you became aware of. And perhaps when erosion set in other people became aware of it from the outside before you saw it from within.

  “You can make a new start after he gives us the money.” She reached across, put a hand on his; from the other side of the room the waiter watched them, envying the grey-haired joker whose young bird so obviously loved him. Christ, what money could do for you these days! Because that must be all the grey-haired joker had. “Fifty thousand for you, fifty thousand for me.”

  “What’ll you do if I tell you to go to hell?”

  “Then I’ll go and see him myself. And take the whole of the hundred thousand. Eat up your steak, darling. It’s getting cold.”

  Automatically he bit into a piece of steak, found it tasted like india rubber, spat it out on to his fork and pushed the plate away from him. The waiter was beside him at once. “Something wrong with the steak, sir?”