Autumn Maze

by Jon Cleary

  Kagal looked at her a moment, then he picked up the last photo. “Then there’s this one of him with two guys who I wouldn’t trust, on face value, with anything worth more than a dollar.”

  “What about the notepaper?”

  “One for a company called Sue City Investments—there’s an address in Hong Kong, plus a box number. The other’s for Hannibal Development, same address in Hong Kong, a different box number. No phone numbers, no fax numbers. Looks like a few sheets and envelopes have been used from each box, but that’s all.”

  Clements was looking at the gun. “This isn’t brand new, it’s been used. He must of thought he might have to use it in a hurry, the magazine is full.”

  “Turn it over to Ballistics.” Malone was examining the bank book and statement. “Why ain’t I surprised? Our old mates again, Shahriver International. Three hundred and eighty thousand bucks has gone through his account in the past three months, most of it to, cunning bastards, Overseas Transfer. That tells us nothing.” He picked up the airline ticket. “One way to Hong Kong. I don’t think we need to tell Mrs. Kornsey, not right now anyway, but it looks like her hubby was planning to split on his own.”

  “Well,” said Random, taking his pipe from his mouth, “what would you say to Mr. Kornsey being Mafia? I think you need to get on to the FBI.”

  Random respected the chain of command: he left it to Malone to give the order to Andy Graham: “Andy, get on to Washington now. Tell „em what we have and ask „em if they can add to it.”

  Graham was on his feet and out the door like a heavyweight greyhound out of a trap. Random looked after him, shook his head, and the other detectives all grinned. “I think he’d run all the way to Washington, if you’d let him,” said Kagal.

  “Sure,” said Malone, “but he’d come back with everything you sent him for.”

  It was a reprimand and Kagal recognized it, but said nothing. Clements picked up the awkward moment: “I think it’s time someone went over and saw Cormac Casement.”

  “I’ll do that now,” said Malone. “You go down to Shahriver, bring in Mr. Palady, the boss, and the English bloke who’s the general manager. Tell „em we’d like a chat.”

  “What about me?” said Kagal, sounding as if he felt he was being left out.

  “Start getting everything together in our computer, straighten everything out. This is starting to look like a Chinese betting shop. You bring the flow chart up to date, Peta.”

  When Malone and Random were left alone, the senior man said, “Do you have any trouble with John Kagal?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He’s smarter than the rest of us, including you and me. Let me know if he gets too smart, I’ll move him somewhere else.”

  Malone shook his head. “No, Greg. Russ and I like the competition. We need someone to give all the nasty jobs to.”

  “You’re a mean bastard underneath, aren’t you?”

  “Why else would I be a cop?”

  They smiled at each other, like actors who knew it was best to write one’s own reviews.

  III

  Between them the three old men, some years ago, had ruled the State. Casement had been king of the financial circles, Vanderberg of the political, Aldwych of the criminal. But they had never been together before, though they had met in pairs in two instances. Jack Aldwych was the odd man out; he had never met The Dutchman before. He had come to the hospital this morning, not because of any concern for Cormac Casement, but because of concern for Jack Junior. A murder and an attempted murder so close to his son was too much for the old crim’s peace of mind.

  Casement’s hands and arms were wrapped in dressing; there was also a burn dressing on his right cheek. He was no longer in shock, but yesterday’s experience had marked him for the rest of his life. He had long ago lost his fear of dying, but he had not been prepared for his murder.

  “Are you here for my vote, Hans? It’s not worth it. I backed the wrong horse three weeks ago.”

  “Didn’t you all?” said Vanderberg gleefully; anything that set the conservatives back on their arses almost convinced him that God did take an interest in politics. “But I’m working on you—a vote in hand is better than chasing one in the bush. I’ve just come back from telling the wheat-and-cow cockies this State government couldn’t run a chook raffle. But it was like talking to a mob of sheep. You ever do any jobs in the bush, Mr. Aldwych?” He was a politician, not a diplomat: criminals voted, too.

  “There was never any real money in the bush, not in my line of work.” Aldwych smiled, amused by this old pol, as crooked, in his own way, as himself.

  Vanderberg looked at Casement with an expression that might have been sympathetic. “Oldies like us shouldn’t die violently. Past a certain age, we should be allowed to die quietly.”

  “Are you going to go quietly?” said Casement.

  “No bloody fear.” The grin, meant to be amused, was just ugly. “What about you, Mr. Aldwych?”

  “I’m retired. If I was gunna die violently, it would of happened years ago.” Remembering the attempts on his life and the anguish of Shirl as she had sat by his bed.

  Casement had been lying listlessly in his bed when the two men had arrived; he had felt on the edge of his grave. He had also, surprisingly, felt lonely. He had no siblings and there had been no children from his first marriage; he had dozens of acquaintances but no really close friends; there was only Ophelia. He had been surprised at how he had welcomed the two surprising visitors.

  Now, watching them, both unscrupulous in their respective fields, he had perked up. His own past was scattered with scruples that, for one reason or another, he had found superfluous. But, compared to these two, he was all honesty and principle. Though conservative, he had never been a snob and these two rascals fascinated him. They were better than any of the medication the nurses had poured into him.

  “These two young punks who tried to kill you—” Aldwych put the question bluntly. “You think they were connected to whoever did in young Sweden?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Jack. I’m not an expert on killers.”

  Aldwych smiled, unoffended; every man to his trade, had been his motto. “I could start some enquiries—”

  “Jack, you know the underworld—” It was an old-fashioned term that dated him. “Why would anyone from your milieu want to kill me?”

  Aldwych had to guess what his mill-yer was. “Cormac, it’s the underworld where people go for a hitman. Did they steal anything?”

  “My briefcase. And a watch Ophelia gave me.”

  “How much?”

  “How much was it worth? I don’t know.” He had the very rich’s ignorance of price tags, those who don’t value trivial possessions; it was he who had paid for the Bentley, but only at Ophelia’s insistence; she had said that a Bentley was more chic, less gauche, than a Rolls-Royce. His wife’s snobbery amused him rather than annoyed him. Love, if not blind, was often vision-impaired, as the euphemists called it. “It’s the sentimental value, if you like. But it’s those kids themselves—”

  “I can have some enquiries made,” said Vanderberg. “I’m not just Opposition Leader, I’m spokesman on police matters.” He was spokesman on everything; besides being known as The Dutchman, he was sometimes called Baron Thatcher. “I’ve got my contacts—”

  Then there was a knock on the door and Malone stood in the doorway. “I have some questions to ask, Mr. Casement—” Then he recognized the other visitors. “G’day, Jack. How are you, sir?”

  Vanderberg remembered everyone; or at least those old enough to vote. “Malone, isn’t it? How are you, Inspector? You in charge of this case?”

  Malone was certain the old bugger knew who was in charge. “Yes. This and a couple of others.”

  “We’ve just been talking about „em. Maybe we can sit in on the questioning, give you the benefit of our wisdom. Like a Cabinet meeting,” he said and grinned at them all. It was well known that, when he had been Premier, his Cabinet m
eetings had been called the Chapel of the Twelve Dumb Apostles. He spoke and everyone listened and if any wisdom came out of the conference of minds it had to be telepathic. “Give you an objective point of view.”

  He hadn’t had an objective point of view since he had opened his eyes at birth; but Malone’s tongue, this time, was held in check. “Thanks for the offer, sir. But I’m afraid I have to see Mr. Casement alone. Later, maybe, I’ll get the objective point of view . . .”

  Aldwych rose, smiling to himself. Now that gang warfare was behind him, he enjoyed watching any little, or big, conflict between others. Malone had won this small one; he smiled again at the irony of being pleased for a cop. “Look after yourself, Cormac. I’ll have a few questions asked in my mill-yer and let you know if I come up with something.”

  “Me, too, Jack?” said Malone.

  “Of course, Scobie. You know I’m on your side.”

  The Dutchman, defeated but showing no sign of it, reached under his chair and produced a cardboard box. “The wife sent this, Cormac. One of her pumpkin pavlovas.”

  Casement did his best to show delight. “Just what I was looking forward to.”

  When Aldwych and Vanderberg had gone, Malone sat down beside the bed. Casement held out the cardboard box. “You have a family? Would you like to take this home for dessert?”

  Malone took the box. “Thanks, the kids’ll love it.”

  “What about you?”

  “Pumpkin I like. Pavlovas—” Malone shrugged. “Mr. Casement, two of my men have been to see you, got the basics of what happened to you yesterday. I’m here to see if you can add to that?”

  Casement looked down at his hands, lumps of white dressing. “I haven’t a clue who they were or why they attacked me. One of them was a girl, of that I’m sure. They had scarves around their faces. What I can’t understand is why they hated me so much.” He looked at Malone for understanding. “I don’t think it was just because of what I am—”

  “A rich man? It could’ve been. You’re an intelligent man too, you must have some idea of what kids on the dole feel about the distribution of wealth.”

  “Are you a communist?”

  Malone grinned. “They’re out of fashion now, aren’t they?”

  “Not everywhere.” On the other side of the world Yeltsin was battling the unreformed hard-liners; in China the old guard still clung to the old credo; in Eastern Europe the true believers had just changed their name by deed poll. But Malone was right: the old labels had lost their glue. “Still, that was a stupid question. I think the shock I suffered has made me a little stupid. You’re right, I’m an intelligent man.”

  “Do you always drive yourself? Your age, a car like that?”

  “I like to drive. I have a driver, but I don’t use him all the time. I wish he’d been with me yesterday, he’s a husky young chap. So you think it could have been a couple of street-kids going berserk because I wasn’t carrying any money on me?”

  “That may have been it. A coincidence following on the other two killings.”

  “You believe in coincidence?”

  “I believe in anything that gives me a clue. In this case—” He shrugged again. “These kids may have been told to attack you just to confuse us.”

  “They’d have chosen smarter kids than these two. Or I would have.”

  Malone let that pass. “Could they have been friends of Rob Sweden?”

  “No, they were—punks, is that the word? Rob was a self-centred young bastard. I could use a stronger word, but I don’t think it would make any difference—you get my picture of him. But he was not a punk, he’d have sneered at them. He was a yuppie snob.”

  “You really had no time for him, did you?”

  “I’ve already told you that, I think.” Casement had been without his glasses, but now he put them on. He still looked wan and tired, but now he had become businesslike, as if Malone’s questions were going to need more attention.

  “This is delicate, but I have to ask it. What about your wife’s ex-husbands? And your sisters-in-law’s exes? I think there are five altogether, aren’t there?”

  “Five, yes. Are you asking if any of them are jealous or something? That they’d want some sort of revenge on the women?” He shook his head. Then he looked beyond Malone and his face lit up; he seemed suddenly younger, yesterday gone from his face. “Darling!”

  Ophelia Casement came into the room in a swirl of skirt and a faint aura of expensive perfume; it was a musky scent, oriental in essence, rich gypsies would have it brewed for her. She leaned across the bed and kissed her husband on the lips, a lover’s as well as a wife’s kiss. Malone, unaccountably, felt it was for his benefit.

  She put a two-pound box of Belgian chocolates on the bedside table, smiled at Malone. “My husband is a chocoholic.” Then she looked at her husband’s hands. “Oh darling, how are you going to sort out what flavours you want?”

  He gave her a bandaged caress. “I have a very attractive nurse who’ll help me out . . . Inspector Malone has been asking questions about your ex-husbands. Yours and your sisters’.”

  Ophelia Casement did not seem put out at what some other women might have thought an invasion of privacy. “Darren and Ron? What could possibly interest you about them, Inspector?”

  “I’m trying to find someone, anyone, who might’ve organized the attack on your husband. Perhaps one of your ex-husbands might have grown jealous—”

  “I don’t think you need to pursue this line, Inspector—”

  “No, it’s all right, darling.” Ophelia put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Inspector, if you knew my ex-husbands, you would never entertain the thought. Darren is gay, one of the nicest men you could wish to meet—he and I are still the best of friends.” She didn’t explain why she, an obviously lusty woman, had married a homosexual, so Malone could only surmise she had married Darren for money. He would have to look into Darren’s background. Ophelia went on, “As for Ron—no, he’s too vain to be jealous.”

  “Vanity can lead to jealousy.”

  She smiled indulgently. “Not many men would ever notice that.”

  “In Homicide we learn to notice a few things. A lot we’d rather not know.”

  “It wouldn’t lead to any jealousy on Ron’s part. He’s the sort of man who’s bald on top but rubs conditioner on his pubic hair.” It was her sport to shock; but Malone showed no expression. Casement winced, but it was only in his eyes; his wife pressed his arm. “Ron hasn’t given me a thought, I’m sure, since we were divorced. In any case, he lives in Melbourne and Melburnians would think it beneath them to be jealous of anything north of the border.”

  Malone still showed no expression and Casement said, “I have the feeling, darling, that the Inspector thinks you aren’t taking this seriously enough.”

  “Mr. Casement, you are the one who should be taking it most seriously. You and the rest of the clan. I’m the outsider, I don’t think anyone is going to try to kill me.” He said it to shock them and it did, even Ophelia.

  Her face stiffened and the gay impertinence in her grey eyes died. Like other people Malone had witnessed, she seemed to age when the possibility of her own death was pushed in front of her: dying was for others. He wondered how she had looked last night when she had seen her husband in intensive care.

  “You mean you think it hasn’t finished? The killing? Oh God.” This time she squeezed the bandaged hand and Casement winced visibly. “But why?”

  “When we find the reason, Mrs. Casement, we’ll be pretty close to finding the killer. Or killers.” He stood up. He decided to shock them a little further. “I can put a police guard outside your door, Mr. Casement, if you feel unsafe.”

  “No,” said Casement, his voice steady, “we feel safe enough.”

  Malone nodded, said goodbye and left, taking the pumpkin pavlova with him. Despite Casement’s assurance, he had the distinct impression that the couple were truly afraid, that their confidence had all the crumbly fragility of
a pavlova.

  IV

  When he got back to Homicide the big main room was crowded with visitors, some of them unwilling guests. Suspects had been brought in for questioning on three of the other unsolved murders; with them had come their legal counsellors. Malone recognized one of the solicitors, a man who had made a self-publicized career of criticizing the police for anything and everything they did; Malone was glad that he was too downmarket to be involved in the cases he was handling. He went into his office to find it, too, crowded with Clements and the two executives from the Shahriver Credit International Bank. Harold Junor, the general manager, was as big as Clements, an ex-rugby forward with a straight-on approach to everything and a flushed face that looked as if it had spent more time at the club bar than packed down in a scrum. The managing director, Ishmael Palady, was smaller, as dapper as a stand-off half before the rough-and-tumble of a game had started. But the game had started and both men knew they had been caught off-side.

  “Mr. Palady, Mr. Junor. We can’t go on meeting like this. Not if you want to stay out of jail.”

  “Inspector—” Palady was dressed in banker’s grey, white shirt and a dark blue tie marked with tiny crests so discreet that it would have been impolite, at least in banking circles, to have asked what club, regiment or school he belonged to. He had been born east of Suez and west of Hong Kong and his bloodstream had as many strains as an old caravan road. He had small, sharp features, thousand-year-old eyes still undimmed and he knew the banking laws of every state from Alaska to Zaire.

  “Inspector, Mr. Junor and I are here to cooperate with you in every way. I don’t think you should be mentioning jail.”

  “It was a joke, Mr. Palady.” It wasn’t, and they both knew it. “What have we got, Sergeant?”

  Clements looked as if his patience, never very thick, had run thin. “Mr. Palady and Mr. Junor are trying to stick a little too close to the book—”

  “Now hold on, old chap—” Junor shifted his bulk on his chair, a heavyweight parody of a sidestep. “There are certain rules banks have to hold to. Confidentiality, that sort of thing. We’ll produce whatever you ask for, but you’ll have to show us a warrant, something that takes the onus off us. You remember that fuss last year about the leaking of confidential info.”