by Jon Cleary
“None of the prints we collected are in our records,” said Hawkins, the man who brought the file to Malone. He was
one of the civilian members of the section, an elderly grey man in a grey dust-coat whose face was as lined as the prints he put down in front of Malone. “But that isn’t to say we can’t help you. Take this one, for instance. We found them on the telephone, the key and on pieces of that broken glass. Standard type of print. Nine over one, U over U, MMO over MM, eight over sixteen. But no scars, no wearing down of the whorls or loops. They belong to a man who probably hasn’t done a tap of manual work in all his life, certainly not for the last twenty years or so. He’d be a professional man. Or maybe a con man.”
“Could be either,” said Malone, and found himself thinking again of Helidon. “Those were the only male prints you found?”
“We went back again yesterday when you asked us, went over the place with a cloud of powder. Nothing, Scobie, other than the three we had already picked up. Miss Brand must have been a good housekeeper, one of those sort that goes over everything every day with a duster. The wife is the same. I’m always telling her they’ll never find a fingerprint in our house.”
“What about the cup and saucer on the draining board in the kitchen?”
“They’d been washed and wiped. Nothing on them. There were some biscuit crumbs on the draining board, but no prints on the biscuit tin. That had been wiped clean, too.”
Malone raised an eyebrow. “She wouldn’t have been that house-proud, dusting off her biscuit tin. If she’d done that, she’d have got rid of the crumbs, for sure.”
Hawkins puckered his face into a net of wrinkles. “I’m only telling you what we found and what we didn’t find. There were no prints at all in the kitchen, not even hers.” He tapped the file on the counter between them. “That’s the lot, Scobie. The man’s, Helga’s and the ones we found on the side table,
those of another woman. If anybody else was in the flat that night, he left no prints.”
“Somebody else was there,” said Malone, remembering the chewed matchsticks. “And if he went around wiping off his prints, he wasn’t an amateur.”
He thanked Hawkins, went downstairs and found he had collected another parking ticket. He looked around, but the Brown Bomber had disappeared; they were the world’s best guerrilla force bar none. He drove down to Bridge Street, parked his car where he knew he would not get a ticket, right outside the Police Commissioner’s office, then walked down to Y Division and gave the parking tickets to Smiler Sparks.
“Look after those for me, Smiler.”
Sergeant Sparks came as close as he would ever get to a grin. “They put one on the Superintendant’s wife’s car yesterday. He reckons the next Brown Bomber he sees, he’s gunna run him in for loitering.”
Russ Clements was in the detectives’ room arranging some more Christmas cards that had arrived in the morning mail. He blew his nose as Malone walked in, sniffed and wiped his eyes. “I was looking at one of these cards a while ago, tears running out of my eyes and The Bishop came in and said he was glad to see I was sentimental. Here’s one from Charlie Duggan. They finally got him in New Zealand, he says, and he’s doing seven years.”
Charlie Duggan had been a whimsically cynical con man who had been the bane of the Fraud Squad when Malone had worked on it. All of them had admired Charlie’s ingenious schemes and had had almost an affection for him each time they had picked him up; Malone could remember the get-togethers in the Squad room when detectives and con man had sat around and, with shaking of heads, discussed the gullibility of John Q. Public. The Squad had never been able to nail Charlie for more than a six months’ sentence and then only once. They were convinced that what Charlie had said
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was true: “Even the judges and juries admire me, fellers. We’re all con men, even you fellers, but only some of us make a career of it. We’ve all got a streak of larceny in us. And so long as a con man doesn’t rob an old lady of her savings, most of you say good luck to us. Everybody would love to live on his wits—if he had any.”
If only all crims were like Charlie, Malone thought. But they weren’t: Charlie had been an exception. “Blow your nose again. We’re going out to see Mrs. Helidon.”
“You gunna ask the Minister’s permission first?”
“You heard what The Bishop said the other day. Treat it as a routine case. We don’t usually ask a husband’s permission to question his missus.”
Clements struggled into his jacket. “If this thing gets out of hand, I just hope The Bishop is there to back us up.”
“He’ll be there. Someone as self-righteous as he is wouldn’t miss the opportunity.”
2
Pymble dozed under its green blanket of trees and shrubs beneath the brass sky. Over to the east smoke boiled up like a dark storm; the bushfires were eating at the city’s perimeter; but here, so far, no one was worried. Cicadas whirred and somewhere at the far end of the road a lawnmower buzzed like a gentle snoring. The solid brick homes behind the approaches of their large gardens looked as impregnable as castles; swimming pools sparkled like modern moats. But Malone knew from experience that no home was impregnable. The people who lived in them were their own white ants.
Norma Helidon herself opened the door to them. “I think you might have phoned, Sergeant—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Helidon. The police can’t afford to make appointments.”
“No. No, I suppose not.” She led them through the living room and out into a loggia that faced on to a large swimming pool. Beyond it was a garden where flowering shrubs blazed like frozen fires in the morning glare. A white poodle gambolled among the shrubs like a lamb that had been shorn by a drunken shearer: ruffles of white hair stuck out at odd parts of its skinny frame. It looked at the two strangers, uttered a bark that wouldn’t have been out of place in a lamb, and went on with its game.
Here beneath the vine-covered loggia it was cool and green. They sat down on some white iron outdoor furniture and Norma Helidon said, “Coffee?”
“I think it might help.”
“To make the atmosphere easier?” She was dressed in a blue silk housecoat and her make-up was as complete as if she were on her way to one of her many committee meetings; she looked as cool and elegant as a fashion model. But no amount of make-up could ever hide the pain in the eyes; only dark glasses could do that. She took a pair of them from the pocket of her housecoat, put them on, then poured three cups of coffee from the percolator that stood on the glass-topped, iron-legged table beside which she sat. “Do you always try to do that for your victims, Sergeant?”
Her hand was shaking as she handed Malone his cup, but he pretended not to notice it. “We don’t call them victims any longer. Our public relations office advised against it. How are your public relations, Mrs. Helidon? I’m told Miss Pretorious is very good.”
The cup ratded in its saucer as she handed Clements his coffee. “Are we going to sit here all morning and swap insults?”
“I apologize,” Malone said, and suddenly felt sorry for the woman. He suspected that beneath the veneer there was another woman altogether, one who might have had a warmth and affection for other people instead of just a use for them. M l didn’t come here to do that—”
“But I rub you up the wrong way? All right, Sergeant, I apologize, too. Now why did you come?”
He took a small envelope out of his pocket, rolled two pearls into his palm. “Are those yours, Mrs. Helidon?”
Her hand went instinctively to her bare throat, then dropped back in her lap. “I—I don’t think so. What makes you think they might belong to me?”
“We found them in Helga Brand’s flat. And four or five crushed ones. No, wait a minute—” he said as he saw her face stiffen beneath the dark glasses. “I told you, I didn’t come here to insult you. It doesn’t matter what you think of Helga, to me and Constable Clements she was a girl who was murdered. Once someone is murdered they become resp
ectable, at least as far as being entitled to having their murderer convicted.”
“I didn’t murder her, Sergeant.”
“I’m not saying you did. But one way of finding out who did kill her is by eliminating everybody else who might have. Now I’ve been making some inquiries about you—”
“Where?” Her voice was sharp. “From Miss Pretorious?”
Malone wondered if he kept his face blank; out of the corner of his eye he saw Clements pause with his cup halfway to his mouth. “I don’t go to public relations people for my information.”
“I don’t think the police public relations would like that recommendation,” said Norma Helidon tartly.
He smiled, conceding her the point, trying to break down the chill that still lay between them. “I got my information from other sources. A newspaperwoman, if you must know. She told me about your trademark, Mrs. Helidon. The pearls you’re never seen without.”
She was silent a moment, then nodded, making her own concession. “That’s right. I suppose they are what you call my trademark, though it isn’t an expression I’d have used
myself. But I don’t wear them when I’Malone around the house.”
“You weren’t wearing them the other night,” said Clements; he sniffed and took out his handkerchief. “When Miss Pretorious was here. Wouldn’t you wear them then?”
“I probably was wearing them,” she said evenly. “You just didn’t notice them. But then men rarely do notice such things. Women wear jewelry for other women, didn’t you know that?”
Malone looked at Clements, who blew his nose, then shook his head emphatically. “You weren’t wearing them, Mrs. Helidon.”
“If Constable Clements says you weren’t wearing them,” said Malone, “then I’m afraid you weren’t. I’ll admit I didn’t notice, but then I never notice what anyone is wearing. Including what I’m wearing myself, according to my—girl friend. But Constable Clements could have been a fashion spy.”
“You had on a blue silk dress, a little bit darker than that housecoat you’re wearing. You had a gold bracelet on one wrist and that watch you’re wearing on the other—”
“All right,” Norma Helidon broke in; lipstick discoloured her teeth as she bit her lip. “Perhaps I wasn’t wearing the pearls. But I have them. They are inside in our safe. I have three sets and all of them are intact.”
“May we see them?”
The swish of the housecoat as she rose was like the sound of a scythe. “My husband isn’t going to like this when he hears of it.”
“I’m sure he won’t,” said Malone as he and Clements followed her into the house. The poodle barked after them and Clements, holding back, turned and blew his nose at it. “I understand he’s already complained to the Commissioner.”
“And what did the Commissioner say?”
“I don’t know. He never confides in us. But he didn’t say to forget the case.”
She was four or five steps ahead of him as she led him through the living room. He sidestepped a wide lounge and as he did so he almost fell over a small side table. He looked down and saw the rack of pipes. His mind offered no thought or suggestion; his hand went down of its own accord, his little finger went into the bowl of a pipe, he lifted the pipe from the rack and dropped it into his pocket. We’ve all got a streak of larceny in us …
“I’m glad to see you keep your valuables in a safe. You’d be surprised the number of women who leave their jewelry lying around like bits of clothing.”
Norma Helidon had led them into a bedroom big enough to have contained the whole of Malone’s flat and had space to spare. The room was dominated by a huge four-postered bed canopied in blue silk; blue silk seemed to be another of her trademarks. Clements, the lover of luxury, raised his eyebrows. Norma Helidon saw his expression reflected in the big mirror that made up one wall.
“You notice decor, too, Constable?”
“Only in an unofficial way,” said Clements, and Malone thought, the boy is learning. He’s not going to let her squash him. “We don’t have much in the way of decor back at the office.”
Norma Helidon moved to the mirror, pressed one end of it and a section of it opened out. Behind it was a small wall safe. “I believe the usual thing is to hide safes behind pictures. I hope you won’t give away our secret.” She took out a large leather box, offered it to Malone. “All in a lump like that, it looks terribly vulgar. I try not to wear it all at once.”
Malone smiled. The woman had guts, whatever faults she had. He looked in the box. He had no idea of the worth of the jewelry it contained, but he guessed it would run into thousands of dollars. To a man who had given his girl a fifty-dollar
engagement ring and still felt the pain of the extravagance, this was an Arabian Nights’ treasure chest. The box was divided into compartments and in one of them were three pearl necklaces, all of them complete as far as he could judge. He nodded, but picked up one of the necklaces.
“I apologize again.” Then he held one of the loose pearls in his hand against the necklace. “This one would match, though, wouldn’t it?”
Norma Helidon took off her dark glasses, peered at the pearl. “Yes, I think it would. But it isn’t as difficult to match pearls today as it used to be. These are cultured pearls—mine and those loose ones you have. I think you’ll probably find that those two pearls belonged to Miss Brand. A girl like her would be sure to get gifts like that.” The sneer in her voice was as rough-edged as a file.
“I guess so,” said Malone, and held back from asking if her husband might have given gifts like that to Helga. Then he said casually, “You never met her, did you? I mean, at her flat?”
“No.” Norma Helidon turned round, put the box back in the safe. She closed the wall mirror, looked at herself in it, put on her dark glasses and turned back to face Malone and Clements. Like her husband she had learned how to mark time while her mind slipped into gear: the effort was not lost on Malone. “No, I never met Miss Brand other than at charity functions. And then only once or twice.”
Malone and Clements left five minutes later. At the front door Malone said, “Is it your maid’s day off, Mrs. Helidon?”
“No, I’m afraid she’s left us.” Now that they were leaving, Norma Helidon seemed more relaxed; the edge had gone from her voice. She took off her dark glasses, blinked in the glare from the red gravelled drive, but did not replace the glasses. “It’s terribly difficult to keep girls. She was the fourth we’ve had in two years. You bring them out here, she was Italian, and they’re no sooner here than they start thinking
like Australian girls, that there is something wrong with being a servant.” She smiled, but there was no dagger in it this time: “Or do you think like that, too?”
“I am a servant,” said Malone, grinning in reply. “A public servant. What was your maid’s name?”
Her smile froze on her face. “Why?”
“Just as a matter of interest,” he said, trying not to make too much of it.
She hesitated, then said, “Rosa Calvorsi.”
“Does she have any relatives out here, do you know?”
“None that I know of. She came to us through one of those service bureaus.”
“Well, we hope you’re not without a girl too long. This is a pretty big place to run on your own. Goodbye, Mrs. Heli-don.”
“Will you be back?” Her voice tightened a little.
Malone shrugged, smiled again. “Who knows? But don’t expect us to phone if we do come back. It’s against the rules.”
“Don’t you ever go against the rules?”
“Only when they get in the way.”
As they walked out to their car parked in the street Clements said, “Why’d you pinch the pipe? You thinking of taking it up?”
“How else are we going to get Helidon’s fingerprints?”
“Clev-er. You should be a detective. Did you notice her make-up was a bit thick on her throat? When she put her hand up to her throat that time, she wip
ed a bit of it off. There was a small nick there. It could have been made by someone’s fingernail when they snatched her pearls off.”
“Clev-er. You could be a detective, too.”
As they drove away Malone looked back. Norma Helidon still stood in the doorway of her house. The sun struck slantwise across the verandah and the pale silk glittered like a gas flame in its brightness. As they went further down the road
it seemed to him that that was all he could see, the blue flame: Norma Helidon herself had been consumed by it.
I wonder if I’ve had the wrong idea, he thought. I wonder if she killed Helga and Helidon is only trying to protect her?
CHAPTER TEN
Monday, December 2
1
Bixby took his hands from round Helga’s throat and let her drop to the floor. Her dressing gown fell open and she lay there like an invitation that mocked him. He knew by the look of her that she was dead; nonetheless he felt for her pulse and put his ear to her breast. There was nothing: he had killed her, all right.
He sat back on his haunches, staring at the nude body with none of the lust that had gripped him when he had first come into the flat. Outside in the street a car horn hooted twice and a girl’s voice shouted that she was coming. Some- where below some kid walked out of the flats with a transis- tor turned full up: Tom Jones was pining for the green green grass of home. The refrigerator started up in the kitchen, bottles in it rattling together, and he jerked nervously. Then he got slowly to his feet, his legs feeling as stiff as tree stumps, and automatically he took a match from his pocket and began to chew on it. He backed into a chair and collapsed into it. Jesus, what a mess!
He had had no thought of physically harming her when he had come to the flat. When he had first pushed his way in the front door and seen the lush body outlined beneath the green silk, he had had ideas for a moment or two; but then he had put them out of his head, figuring that would only lead to a fight. And he hadn’t come here to fight, at least not for a bit of that.
