by Jon Cleary
The drive continued in silence. Aldwych studied the driver, another Asiatic: maybe a Filipino? At one time they had all been Chinks to him and even now, with the country full of the yellow bastards, he couldn’t tell one from another. He was a true conservative, wondered at how White Australia had been sent down the gurgler by lily-livered liberals.
Finally the Mercedes turned off the coast road that led to the northern beaches, came to a halt in a lane that looked out on a golf course. Aldwych recognized it as Long Reef, a course that ran out to a headland north of a curve of beach. The wind from the south-west had increased and gremlins of dust danced around two golfers in the rough; farther back a man hit off from a tee and the ball seemed to waver and dip in the air like a guided missile. Aldwych, no golfer, wondered why anyone bothered to play the game.
“Why here?” he said to the Japanese. “Because you Japs are so crazy about golf?”
“Not me, Mr. Aldwych. But my friend is very crazy about it.” His English was excellent.
The Filipino, if he was a Filipino, had switched off the engine and turned round. He was older than the Japanese, with cynically amused eyes and a thin moustache of a style that Aldwych thought had gone out years ago; he had known one or two conmen who had worn a lip decoration like it. He was what Shirl would have called a natty dresser, a dude who would look at himself in every window he passed. He smelled faintly of perfume, a habit Aldwych despised in men.
“Why kidnap me?” said Aldwych.
“Sorry about that,” said the man up front. “But my friend will explain.”
“Mr. Aldwych,” said the Japanese, “why are you interfering?”
“Interfering in what?”
The Japanese smiled. “Please. You know what I mean. What were you after besides Mr. Casement’s gold watch?”
Aldwych, an old hand at being questioned, took his time. The golfers had moved on, leaning into the wind at the same angle as some of the trees that grew along the edge of the course; it did not occur to him to try to attract their attention, he had never called for assistance, even from his own kind. He had his own brand of proud courage. “You been to see Manny Schmidt? You didn’t hurt him?”
“Of course not. My friend just made a suggestion to him and he told us what we wanted to know.”
“Good old Manny. Waddia wanna know from me?”
“You’re not thinking of coming out of retirement?”
“It wouldn’t be any business of yours if I did.”
“Ah—” It was almost a hawking sound. Aldwych was surprised to hear it: it was like a bad imitation of how Japanese were supposed to speak. “It would be very much our business, Mr. Aldwych, if you came into our field.”
“What’s your field?”
The Japanese ignored that one; he said, “Were you looking for the briefcase?”
Aldwych took his time again. The man up front had lowered the smoked windows a few inches; Aldwych could see out over them. The golfers had disappeared, maybe to look for lost balls, which, he had been told, was one of the pleasures of golf. Below the lane, down to the right, was a small lagoon and marshy wetlands; a sign at the end of the lane said they were on the edge of a wildlife preserve. Down in the marsh a man in waders stood as still as a tree-stump, binoculars to his eyes as a flight of ducks, like a shower of miniature warplanes, came in on the wind. Aldwych wondered how long a body, dumped in the swamp, would remain undetected. He wondered if carrion birds were a protected species. For the crazy bloody conservationists every other form of wildlife seemed to be, except humans.
“Mr. Casement’s briefcase?” he said, making a guess. “No, I wasn’t. Did Manny offer to sell it to you?”
The man up front said, “The pawnbroker never had the briefcase. If you weren’t—”
“Let me ask the questions,” said the Japanese.
The Filipino worked his lips, as if trying to hold in a rejoinder; his eyes were suddenly still, blankly dark. “Sorry about that,” he said, but his voice, too, was blank.
The Japanese went on, “Mr. Aldwych, if you weren’t looking for the briefcase, what were you after?”
“Do you know I have a son?” The Japanese nodded. “Okay, all I was doing was making sure he had nothing to do with whatever you guys are up to. You ran young Rob Sweden, right? Come on,” as the faces of the two men remained expressionless, “don’t bullshit me. I’m old. You think I’m scared of dying? Forget it. You wanna talk to me, we talk straight, no bullshit. Rob Sweden worked for you, right?”
“Yes, he worked for us. A stupid young man.”
Aldwych made another guess: “He tried to screw you somehow? That’d be his form, from what I’ve heard. Was that why you did him in?”
The Japanese smiled. “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”
“No, I wouldn’t of answered it, either.”
“Then why ask?”
Aldwych smiled, his old crim’s grimace. “It must be because I’m retired, I’m thinking straight. What about the other guy, the one you took outa the morgue?”
“What other guy?”
But Aldwych had his answer. “Okay, you know nothing about him, either. But that was where they fished him outa the water, you know that?” He nodded out towards the far point of the golf course. “Half a leg and a foot. But the police connected him to young Sweden, did you know that?”
“We read about it.”
“No, you didn’t. There’s been nothing in the papers about the connection.”
The Japanese looked upset at how he had been caught. The Filipino in the front seat looked smug: the questioning should have been left to him.
“The papers dunno they both died the same way, with the ice-pick or whatever you used in the back of the neck.”
“Where did you get all this?” said the Filipino.
It was Aldwych’s turn to put up the shutters. “Don’t ask. Not unless you wanna swap one answer for another. Who did the job on both of „em?”
“As you say, don’t ask,” said the Filipino.
“Fair enough,” said Aldwych, satisfied he had got his answer once more. “Now can you take me back to my driver? I’m going to lunch with a cop.”
The two men looked at each other, their bland faces abruptly creased with frowns. “A police officer? Who?”
“Inspector Malone. He’s heading the investigation on this one.”
“He is a friend of yours?”
“Not exactly.” He was enjoying their discomfiture; it was the first time in his life he had used a cop as a threat. He knew now they had no intention of killing him, not today. “You want me to tell him about our meeting?”
“You’re tempting fate, Mr. Aldwych.”
“Maybe I’m turning Oriental like you guys. You tempt it all the time, don’t you?”
“Not me,” said the Filipino. “I’m Catholic.”
“I shouldn’t do it, Mr. Aldwych, tell the police officer about us. Not unless you want to finish up out there—” The Japanese nodded towards the distant sea. “Half a leg and a foot.”
Aldwych laughed, a deep rumble with genuine mirth in it. “Let’s get back and pick up my driver. I’m getting hungry.”
The Filipino started up the car, backed it up the narrow lane on to the main road and they headed back towards the city. The smoked windows wound up again, shutting them off against the outside world, Aldwych and the Japanese talked amiably about the state of the world and how its economy was in the wrong hands.
“What about your politicians?”
The Japanese shook his head in disgust. “Corrupt. They can be bought as easily as women.”
Aldwych wondered why he wished the three Bruna women were here in the car with them.
IV
Malone looked at his watch. “I’ll give your old man ten more minutes, Jack.”
Jack Junior was worried. “I don’t know what’s keeping him, he’s usually so punctual. My mother taught him that after she heard him called the Crime King. She said pu
nctuality was the courtesy of kings. That appealed to him.”
The private room at the Golden Gate was one of two at the front on the middle floor of the three-storeyed building in Dixon Street, the main artery of Chinatown. Behind them, separated by a landing, were the restaurant’s offices; above, on the third floor, was the gambling club, called, for tax purposes, the manager’s residence. Malone and Clements were aware of the set-up, but, being Homicide men, they had blind eyes to what might offend the Gaming squad. Like any sensible public servants, they did not give themselves any more work than they had to.
Over the first course of shark-fin soup Clements said, “Jack, what was it like growing up as your dad’s son? Where did you go to school?”
“Cranbrook.” One of the most expensive and exclusive of schools. “I was registered there under my mother’s maiden name. But everyone knew who I was, they just never mentioned it. They were probably afraid he’d come and blow up the school.”
“Did he ever turn up for speech day?”
Jack Junior smiled. “Mum would never let him. She ruled the roost as far as I was concerned.” The door opened and his father came in. “Dad, where have you been? I’ve been worried stiff!”
He suddenly looked it and Aldwych was touched. He patted his son’s arm and sat down between Malone and Clements. “Sorry. I got held up. The usual, Lee,” he said to the waiter who had followed him in. “I’m hungry. How did the funeral go?”
“Quietly,” said Malone. “How did you expect it to go? Are you going to tell us what kept you? I’m not used to being kept waiting, Jack.”
“Will I tell you?” Aldwych sipped some water. “They told me not to.”
“Who did?” said Jack Junior.
“A Jap and a guy I’d say was a Filipino.”
Malone put down his spoon and even Clements stopped pouring soup into his mouth. “Where their names Tajiri and Belgarda?”
“They didn’t give me any names.” Then Aldwych told them how and why he had been delayed. “They dropped me back near Manly golf course. Their sidekicks were waiting there for us with my driver. The poor little coot was shit-scared. I hadda write him a cheque to get him to forget what had happened to him, so he wouldn’t tell his firm.”
“How much?” asked Jack Junior.
Aldwych smiled at the two detectives. “Always keep an eye on the outgoings. Five hundred.”
“Too generous,” said his son.
“I got Casement’s watch back for him,” Aldwych said.
“I won’t ask how,” said Malone.
“The punks also stole a briefcase. Did you know anything about that?”
The soup plates had been taken away and a lazy susan of mixed dishes had been placed in the centre of the table. As he helped himself with the selective eye of a Chinese gourmet, he who had started in his youth on dim sums, Aldwych went on, “The briefcase seemed their main concern, like they were afraid that was what I’d been looking for.”
Malone glanced at Clements, who shook his head and said, “There was nothing in the initial report about a missing briefcase. Just the gold watch and his wallet.”
“Jack, you wanted to tell us something else—”
Aldwych picked at his food. “Scobie, I’ve got nothing definite, but the word is that something’s going on. Not drugs, something else. The locals aren’t in on it, that’s why the information is so skimpy. I got into this because I wanted to make sure nothing was connected to Jack here—”
“Thanks, Dad.” His son’s voice was bone-dry with sarcasm.
“I didn’t say you were connected with it.” There was a rasp to his father’s voice. “I just wanted to make sure no one tried to connect you with it, even if only by hearsay. Gossip sticks to our name like shit to a blanket. Excuse me,” he said to the two detectives, “I forgot we’re at lunch. Where was I?”
“Something big is going on.”
“Yeah. But what? I dunno. I dunno whether it’s being run by the Filipinos or the Japs, but my money would be on the Japs. You oughta have no trouble picking „em up.”
“Because they look different to us?” said Malone. “It’s not that easy. What do we do, ask every Neighbourhood Watch committee in Sydney to let us know if some Asian strangers move in? We know where the Filipino lived, but he’s already gone through from there. We haven’t had a fix at all on the Jap. Both of them could’ve moved out to Cabramatta, amongst the Vietnamese and the Cambodians and the Thais. We couldn’t pick „em out from amongst that lot, they all look alike to us. If we’re going to pick „em up, it’ll be at some airport and there’s no guarantee that’s the way they’ll try to leave the country. Look at that Malayan prince a coupla years ago, the one who took his children away from his wife. He drove all the way up to the Gulf country in north Queensland, took a boat to New Guinea or West Irian, somewhere there, then got a plane to Malaysia. These blokes could do the same when they’re ready to skip. The question is, what brought them here? They didn’t come down here hoping to win the lottery.”
Clements said, “Has the scam, or whatever it is, gone through?”
Aldwych shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I’d say no. Otherwise why would they have grabbed me this morning?” He stopped eating and shook his head in wonder: “Grabbed—me! In the old days . . .”
“In the old days,” said Jack Junior, “you’d have probably started a war. Thank Christ they’re gone.”
“Amen,” said Malone, grinning. “Listening to you two is like listening to Atilla the Hun’s family. Consider yourself lucky, Jack. You’re not thinking of revenge, are you?”
“Only through you guys. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever given information to coppers. So you owe me, Scobie. You too, Russ. It’s bad enough the way business here has been selling the country to the multinationals, anything for a quick buck.” He spoke piously, like a man who had never made a quick buck in his life, except for bank hold-ups. “It’d be the bloody end if we let foreigners take over crime in Australia. I couldn’t salute the flag any more.”
The other three patriots agreed and tucked into the sun-dried oysters, the Chinese hopeful omens of wealth.
11
I
“IT’S A long shot,” said Malone, “but we’ll get the fellers out at Cabramatta to ask around.”
“You think we’ll learn anything?” Clements shook his head. “Those people out there, they still think we’re the Viet Cong. They never spill anything on each other, the gangs have got „em scared stiff. What about Casement, are we going back to him to ask him about the briefcase?”
They had come back to Homicide after lunch. The homicide calendar was looking less cluttered; arrests had been made in two of the cases on it. The running sheet on the Sweden and Kornsey cases, however, was beginning to look like the preliminary notes for a royal commission, those legal enquiries where the wordage grew in proportion to the fees charged by the lawyers engaged. A royal commission, to the police, was another name for what the legal eagles took home.
Malone picked up the phone, got the Wicked Witch. “Mr. Casement is not available, Inspector. He is at a board meeting.”
“Mrs. Pallister, tell him we’ll be in to see him tomorrow morning at ten—”
“Inspector, I have his diary open in front of me—”
“I have mine open in front of me and there’s his name. Ten o’clock. Thank you, Mrs. Pallister.” He hung up in her ear, grinned at Clements. “I wish she were my secretary. She’d even keep the Commissioner out.”
Or an Assistant Commissioner: the phone rang and AC Zanuch said, “Can you see me first thing in the morning, eight-thirty. I’ve okayed it with AC Falkender.”
Malone put down the phone. “What now? Zanuch’s stirring the pot again.”
Clements stood up, smiling with the satisfaction of a Christian who had just been told the lion could handle only one meal at a time. “I’m going home to Romy.”
Malone raised both eyebrows. “Your place or hers
?”
“Hers. I’ve moved in with her. A trial marriage, I think they used to call it once upon a time. Better not tell your kids. Nice Catholics, I wouldn’t want them to think their Uncle Russ was a sinner.”
“Can I tell Lisa? She’s a nice Catholic, but she likes sinners. They all do.”
That evening Lisa took a reluctant Malone to see the Sydney Dance Company at the Opera House. He was no ballet fan, believing that humans prancing upright on two legs were nowhere near as graceful as animals, especially members of the cat family, on four legs. Still, he admired the athleticism of Graeme Murphy’s company and he managed not to fall asleep. His mind wandered at times to those occasions when he had had to come here to the Opera House for things more dramatic than a ballet, to the murder of a call-girl in the huge building’s basement, to that of a singer who had been, with Malone himself, on the hit list of a deranged man. He wondered what other ghosts wandered the building, not prancing on their toes but floating aimlessly looking for an exit. Though he had enjoyed himself spasmodically, he was glad when the lights went up.
They were going down the wide steps outside when a voice called, “Inspector!” He loved being called by his rank in a public place; a space always opened up as the natives moved away from the leper. He turned round: it was Ophelia Casement, her arm in her husband’s. He introduced Lisa to them, the four of them standing awkwardly on the steps while the audience flowed down around them. Ophelia said, “Do have supper with us. We have a table at Verady’s.”
Malone hadn’t a clue where Verady’s was; all he wanted, anyway, was to get home and fall into bed. But Lisa said, “That would be nice,” and then the four of them were walking along the waterfront towards the restaurant on the ground floor of The Wharf. Ophelia took Malone’s arm as if he were an old friend and he and she walked in front of Lisa and Casement, who kept a respectful but friendly distance from each other.
Malone, working hard to be pleasant, said, “I’m surprised your husband was well enough to come to the ballet.”
