by Jon Cleary
“We tried his home because we thought he’d prefer the privacy there.”
“It seems you weren’t too diplomatic—”
Malone didn’t answer that. Instead he said, “Are you on our side or not, Tom?”
“I’m not on Helidon’s side, if that’s what you mean. But from what he told the Commissioner, you could have been a little politer. I’m supposed to be ticking you off for your attitude towards Mrs. Helidon.”
“I wasn’t upset so much by her—” Then Malone shrugged. “All right, tick me off.”
Clements sniffled in the background, wiped his nose again. “We didn’t get much co-operation up there, Tom.”
Fulmer said nothing, then at last nodded. “All right, consider yourselves ticked off. Now, do you think Helidon had anything to do with the girl’s murder?”
Malone, though his tongue sometimes got away from him, had learned the value of caution. A police sergeant, on four and a half thousand dollars a year, wasn’t expected to be a judge. Fulmer had been known to jump on a junior constable who had once advanced an opinion that prostitution would never be wiped out so long as men had penises. Fulmer might think that life was either white or black, but Malone, for the
time being, was prepared to stay in any grey corner he could find.
“We still have a way to go before I start naming suspects. We’ve got enough clues, God knows—” He gestured at the objects, now labelled, that lay on his desk. “They’ve checked the blood on the sheets we found in the laundry basket—it doesn’t match Helga’s. They’ve found a sliver of skin under one of her nails and a thread of blue material under another of them. We can’t check on Helidon’s blood group till we lay a charge against him. But he was wearing a blue suit last night and in all the photos of him he has on dark suits that could be blue. And when he took his glasses off last night there was just a faint mark, it could have been a scratch or even an old scar, on his eyebrow. I couldn’t see properly, the room wasn’t that well lit. We’ve still got several others to question. Any one of those could wear blue suits or jackets and could have a scratch on his face. I’d rather wait, Tom, before I start giving an opinion.”
“You’re right,” said Fulmer. He picked up one of the chocolate boxes, still tied with a pink silk ribbon, from Malone’s desk. “Fancy, isn’t it? What prompted you to bring these in? Lots of women eat chocolates.”
“I don’t think women buy themselves fancy boxes, not girls who live alone.” He glanced at Clements, who was wiping his nose again. “They usually buy them by the pound or half-pound, loose.”
“Well, you’d know more about that than I would. My wife’s fancy runs to licorice allsorts.” It would, thought Ma-lone, and she’d follow them with a lemonade chaser. Fulmer picked up a label to which two tiny objects were affixed by scotch tape. “What’s this? Two chewed matches?”
“They were in an ashtray. The dead girl didn’t look the sort who would chew matches.” Malone kept his voice dry, but behind him he heard Clements smother a sound that could have been either a sniffle” or a snicker.
Fulmer glanced across at Clements, then looked back at Malone. “All right. But don’t get yourself confused by following up too many leads. Not if they’re going to lead you away from where most of the evidence points.”
It’s almost as if he wants Helidon to be the murderer, Malone thought. As if, by arresting a Cabinet Minister, he’d be proving his own integrity. Wowsers, with their interfering puritanical hatred of other people’s pleasures, were bad enough. But a wowser cop could be dangerous.
He and Clements drove out to Double Bay, taking one of the chocolate boxes with them. Clements’ eyes had now begun to run with his cold, so Malone drove. It was hot again today and the car radio told them that bushfires were raging on the city’s outskirts; a firefighter or two might die before tonight and a dozen families lose their own homes. But that was someone else’s misfortune: two cars went speeding past, surfboards strapped to the racks on their tops, heading for Bondi and escape from the heat. Malone’s foot automatically trod down on the accelerator as the cars whizzed by him, but then almost at once he lifted it.
“Let ‘em go,” he said to himself as much as to Clements. Then he looked at the unhappy Clements as the latter wiped his streaming eyes. “Do you think anyone really cares whether we find out who killed Helga?”
“Well, I don’t, right now,” said Clements.
“You want to knock off and go home?”
“Not yet. I’ll see how I feel tonight.”
“You do care, you bastard. You’d hate it if I solved this thing on my own while you were home taking Aspros and hot lemon drinks.”
Clements blew his nose, then nodded. “I guess so. Funny thing is, Helga was a whore and a possible blackmailer, but after last night at the Helidons’, I’m a bit on her side.”
“You’ve just made me feel better,” said Malone.
“Why, were you getting a cold, too?”
“No. Just a dose of conscience.”
Clements sniffled. “Don’t pass it on to me. I got enough to worry me as it is.”
They found the candy store, a chi-chi shop that looked as if it, too, should have been decorated with a pink silk bow. They both went in, filling the tiny shop like a couple of bulls. The woman behind the glass display counter peered at them from a barricade of soft centers, nougat squares and a rainbow of ribbons. It was obvious that she expected either a hold-up or the shop to be wrecked: these were not the sort of men who bought expensive fancy chocolates for their girl friends.
Clements said, “Do you have any menthol jubes?”
The woman blinked: he might have asked her for boiled lollies. “In here?”
Malone laid down the box he had brought with him. “Is this your only shop? You don’t have another branch?”
The woman shook her head, still entrenched in her candy fort. “The only one. Something is wrong?”
Malone showed her his badge, then produced the photos of Walter Helidon, Leslie Gibson and Mr. and Mrs. John Savanna. He had had the photos copied and had snipped off the captions identifying the subjects; in an investigation you didn’t have to take everyone into your confidence. “Do you recognize any of those men? Did any of them ever buy chocolates here regularly?”
The woman almost collapsed with relief when she realized she was not going to be either held up or arrested; she grabbed the photos and peered at them as if Malone had just returned a long-lost family album to her. Then she put a long-nailed finger on the face of John Savanna. “Yes. He comes in here regularly. At least once a week, sometimes twice. A very nice man, always buying for his wife. That is his wife? We should have more men like him.”
Malone noted the scold in her voice and determined to
take some chocolates to Lisa. “How long has he been coming here?”
“Oh, a long time. Maybe one year, maybe two/’ She shrugged, more relaxed now. She looked at Malone with an appraising eye, half-coquette, half-saleswoman; she ignored Clements, a man who asked for menthol jubes. “You should try our chocolates/’ She picked one out of an open box on the shelf behind her, pushed it daintily in the direction of Ma-lone’s mouth, standing on her toes to do so. Malone, without thinking, opened his mouth and the woman popped the chocolate into it. “Nice, eh? Your wife would like, yes?”
Out of the corner of his eye Malone saw Clements carefully studying the traffic in the street outside. He chewed on the chocolate, swallowed it and said, “Sorry, my girl friend likes licorice allsorts.”
That was even worse than menthol jubes. The woman sniffed silently, wondering why she had ever left Vienna for this barbaric outpost.
Malone said, “When was this man last in here?”
“Not this week. Last week, maybe? Yes, I think so. Last week, at the beginning. But not since.”
Malone thanked her, debated whether he would buy a box of chocolates for Lisa, saw the prices on several boxes, changed his mind and left the shop, followed
by Clements.
“It looked like feeding time at the zoo,” said Clements. “Just as well The Bishop wasn’t there to see that. Did you see her face when you told her your girl friend liked licorice allsorts? You stabbed her right in her plump tit then, mate. Well, where do we go from here? To Savanna’s home or his office?”
Malone had checked on Savanna, learned that he ran a small studio called Olympus Film Productions. “We’ll take his office. He won’t be at home at this hour, not unless he’s apologizing to his missus for being such a two-timing bastard for the past year or two.”
Waterloo, where Olympus struggled like something from the early days of Hollywood, was only a few miles from Double Bay but a geological age away in social strata. Factories and warehouses occupied most of its area, turning it into a brick and corrugated-iron desert at the weekends; squat oases of terrace cottages stood with doors wide open inviting any breeze that might blow in from Botany Bay, hidden to the south behind the wadis of alleys and treeless streets. The Falcon drew up opposite a terrace of cottages and the womenfolk came to their doors, scrutinizing Malone and Clements with the frank, unhypocritical stares of natives who resented and suspected strangers. The women nodded to each other, recognizing coppers as plainly as if Malone and Clements had been in uniform, and anchored their hips and shoulders against door jambs, waiting for the action. Malone, feeling at home as much as if he were in Erskineville, got out of the car. Then he sniffed.
“Beer and meat pies. The national perfume.”
“I dunno that I’d like to be squashed in between them,” said Clements. “You could go home every night smelling like the wharfies’ annual picnic.”
But Savanna didn’t smell like a waterside workers’ picnic, even if his office smelled like the site for it. He wore some tangy perfume, either a hair dressing or an after-shave lotion that had remained on him perhaps longer than usual; whatever it was, it was plainly noticeable. Malone sat down opposite Savanna in the small office and looked at the producer carefully, thinking: this bloke wouldn’t be out of place in his own commercials. Old Spice for the dark chin, Pantene Blue for the grey hair, the weekend farm somewhere up in Marlboro country; put a patch over one eye and he’d probably get a lifetime’s free supply of shirts. But no hero of a TV commercial had ever looked as ill at ease as Savanna did, unless it was the feller with halitosis before he got the magic cure.
“Helga? I find it hard to believe—I mean, that she’s dead. Like this. I thought she had gone back to Europe.” His hands were on the desk in front of him and he rubbed them together as if he were cold.
“Did you know her well?”
“Well, I knew her. She—she worked for me several times. She was a model, you know. I’m—” One hand left the other and strayed to the carved African head that doubled as a paperweight. Malone noticed that he had big strong hands, with long supple fingers that picked up the heavy piece of stone as if it were no more than a piece of pumice. “I’m sorry to hear of her death. Especially like—like this.”
“Was she a girl who would have made enemies?”
Savanna didn’t answer at once, but stared at the carved head. Then he looked up. “I don’t know, to be honest. I suppose we all make enemies at some time in our lives. Most of us just never recognize them, that’s all. She could have had enemies. I don’t know what sort of life she led before she came out here from Germany.”
Malone told him what sort of life she had led in Hamburg. One eyebrow went up, but he showed no real surprise. “She certainly disguised it pretty well. She always seemed to me a perfect lady—I just wish some of our other actresses and models knew how to behave as well.”
“How did she behave when you were alone with her, Mr. Savanna?”
The long fingers tightened on the stone head and Malone prepared to duck. Even Clements sat up straight at the blunt-ness of the question. “What’s that supposed to mean, Sergeant?”
“Chocolates. You’ve been taking her chocolates once or twice a week for at least twelve months.”
Savanna put down the head, reached for a packet of cigarettes lying on the desk. He took out a cigarette and Malone waited to see how he would fight it; but he reached into his
pocket and took out a lighter instead of a box of matches. Malone watched him carefully, recognized the playing for time; but Savanna wasn’t as good at the game as Hehdon had been. The strong fingers, playing with the lighter, now looked suddenly as fragile as twigs.
“You chaps don’t miss much, do you?”
“We try not to.” He had begun to notice other things about Savanna: the worn cuffs of the silk shirt, the cuff-links that did not match. Things looked as if they might not be going too well for the producer: the Pantene Blue being used a little more sparingly, the Marlboro being smoked a little closer to the cork tip: had Helga, too, started to prove a bit too expensive?
“I read about that girl being found down at the Opera House. I mean I glanced at it—I don’t usually follow murder cases—” He glanced at them. “Does that make me sound callous of other people’s tragedies?”
“No,” said Malone, having already decided that Savanna, whatever his faults, was not callous. “Most people are not interested in murder, unless it’s a particularly juicy one.”
“If you’d described this one as a juicy one—I mean, you saw the tattoos on her behind? Well, if that had been mentioned, I’d have known at once it was Helga.”
“We’re still a bit straitlaced,” said Malone. “If we’d announced that to the papers and they had printed it, we’d have had questions in Parliament about bounds of decency and all that. The public mustn’t be offended. Would you have come to us and identified Miss Brand if we had printed that description?”
Savanna puffed on his cigarette. “That’s a leading question, isn’t it? Am I entitled to any warning—you know, anything I may say et cetera?”
“If you wish,” said Malone. “I must warn you anything you may say et cetera.”
“Thank you,” said Savanna, and managed a smile. “No,
Sergeant, I probably wouldn’t have come near you. I’m a married man and my wife doesn’t know anything about Helga. It’s not that I would be afraid of her if she found out— I’d just rather not—not hurt her.”
“You do admit you’ve been seeing Helga regularly?”
“Yes, I’ve been seeing her on a—non-professional basis, if you like to call it that.” To Malone’s surprise, Savanna suddenly looked relieved at the confession; he actually sat up straighter, seemed to square his shoulders. “That’s why I’m, well, upset by what you’ve told me. About her being—murdered, I mean.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Last Friday week.”
“You’re very sure of the day, aren’t you?”
“I—” Savanna did not look the sort of man who would ever be embarrassed, but that was what his smile suggested. “Those were my days—my visiting days, if you like. Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“You visited her last Monday week,” said Malone.
Savanna’s hand strayed to the carved head again, but Clements leant across and moved it out of his reach. Savanna looked up in surprise, then gave a half-cough, half-laugh. “Why did—? Were you expecting me to throw it at you?”
Clements glanced at Malone first, then said, “You never know. We went to question an old lady a coupla weeks ago and she threw a knife at us. And she was only wanted for busting a neighbour’s window, not for murder.”
Savanna asked very evenly, “Am I wanted for murder?”
Clements glanced at Malone again. That’s right, Russ, the latter thought, leave the hard ones to me. “Nobody’s wanted yet, Mr. Savanna. Except the man who killed her.”
“Do you think I killed her?” The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up. “Yes? No, Betty, I can’t take any calls right now. Tell them I’ll call them back.” He listened to the girl on the phone for a moment, then looked at Malone. “This
is an import
ant one, a contract I’ve been trying to get for weeks.”
“How long will it take?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes perhaps.”
Malone looked around the shabby office, sighed, then looked back at Savanna. “Sorry, Mr. Savanna. Tell ‘em you’ll call back. Tell them you have another important client here, if you like.”
Savanna bit his lip, then nodded, spoke to the girl and hung up the phone. “I saw you looking around the office. You’re not very impressed, are you?” Malone hesitated, then shook his head. “Six months ago I wouldn’t have told anyone this. But now I don’t care any more. I’m going bankrupt. That contract—” he nodded at the phone “—might have staved off the evil day.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to make sure you’d go bankrupt. But you’ll have to make up your mind what’s more important. Getting a contract or telling the truth about you and Helga Brand.”
Savanna stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. “Put like that—All right, what do you want to know?”
“Did you visit her last Monday week?”
Savanna’s eyes flickered for a moment, as if he were trying to get something into focus: Malone, the question, perhaps even a memory or an alibi. “No. I told you, Tuesdays and Fridays were my days. God, that sounds bloody, doesn’t it? Makes her sound like a stud mare. She wasn’t that,” he said, and his voice softened a little. “At least, I didn’t think so.”
Malone let a few moments of silence pass; Clements smothered a sniffle. Malone had his own idea of what sort of girl Helga had been, but he knew that some men could love a whore with the blind adoration of someone loving a saint. Savanna might not have loved Helga, but it was obvious that he had felt a long way from hating her. If he had loved her, that would have given him a reason for killing her: to keep
her from the other men who saw her on the other days of the week. “What did you do that day? Where were you?”
