Autumn Maze (22 page)

“G'day, Inspector.” The detective was Sergeant Sid Guyatt, turned fifty in years and girth inches, a plodder who believed that if you stood in one place the world, and its suspects, would always come round again. He had known Malone and Clements for years, but he believed in rank in front of outsiders, which meant all voters outside the police service. “I been talking to these two young gentlemen, but they're not talking back. The locals tell me these two don't belong around here. So I been asking them why they're hanging around.”

The two young gentlemen were an odd pair. Neither of them was out of his teens, but they looked as if they had been scarred by every year since they were born. One was tall and thin to the point of emaciation, his head shaved, a safety-pin in the lobe of his ear; his black, stained sweater hung on him as if it were empty. His companion was short and fat, his black hair combed down past his shoulders, a wispy beard hanging from the upper of his two chins like strands of black cotton. Both of them wore reflective aviator glasses, expensive shades that only accentuated the derelict look of the rest of their attire.

Malone said, “Did you know the deceased?”

“The deceased?” The tall thin one's lips curled under the mirrors. “What's that?”

Malone had left his hat in the car. He took out his comb, leaned forward till his face was only six inches from that of the tall youth; then he combed his hair in the mirrors of the glasses, patted it in place and leaned back. It was TV cop stuff, but it worked: the two young uniformed policemen smiled and the tall youth flushed with anger. Across the street someone laughed and the youth turned and jerked a finger at the group.

“I think you'd better answer our questions, son, or maybe we're going to break your mirrors
and
give you seven years' bad luck.” Again it was cheap stuff, but these kids understood it better than any polite questioning.

“That'd be just your fucking form, wouldn't it?” He looked over his shoulder at the watchers by the iron railings, as if expecting applause, but their gaze gave him no encouragement. He was another outsider.

Malone looked at the shorter, fatter youth. “You got anything to say, son? We've had a murder here. You wouldn't want to be charged with being an accessory, would you? Take off those glasses.”

For a moment it seemed that the youth was going to defy Malone; then he took off the glasses, squinting a little in the bright sunlight. He had surprisingly big eyes in such a chubby face, sad brown eyes that were beginning to show fright. “Look, we only come here to warn Kel—”

“Kel?” Malone looked at Guyatt.

“Kelsey Bugler. His wallet was still in his jeans, he had an out-of-date driving licence.”

Malone looked back at the fat youth. “Go on—what's your name?”

“Billy.”

“Billy what?”

“That'll do. Billy What.”

“And what's your name, Curly?” Malone looked at the skinhead.

“That's right. Curly What.” The sneer looked like a permanent distortion of his lips.

Clements, the Late Night Movie fan, said, “They think they're Abbott and Costello, that was one of their baseball routines. Who's on first, What's on second and on third Idunno.”

The two youths and the two young policemen all looked blank. Malone said, “Clark Gable, Abbott and Costello, all in the one morning? . . . Righto, Billy. Why'd you come here to warn Kel?”

The fat youth looked up at his companion, who had turned the mirrors down on him. “Ah shit, mate, what's the point? Fuck it, I'm gunna tell „em the truth . . . This morning a guy comes up to us in the Cross, where we hang out, he was asking about Kel, though he didn't know his name. Just said he was looking for a guy and a girl who'd done over a friend of his. We knew who he meant, Kel had told
Damien
here and his girlfriend. The guy sorta stood over us, but he offered us money. So we took it. Then we got sorta worried about Kel and we come over here to warn him. But we was too late . . .”

“How much did he give you? Thirty pieces of silver?” It was Clements' turn to sneer.

“Get fucked,” said Damien, but he flinched as he saw Guyatt bunch a fist that could fell a bullock.

“Describe the man,” said Malone.

“Jesus, what if he comes after
us
?” The fear was plain now in Billy's big eyes. Malone wondered how long the kid had been on the streets, if he was beyond redemption. But that was a social worker's problem. “He could find us easy enough—”

“Keep your mouth shut,” said Damien.

“You keep yours shut,” Malone told him. “Righto, Billy, describe the man.”

Billy hesitated, looking up at his mate, then he said in a rush, “He was a dude, real flash. Asian of some sort, they all look alike to me. Maybe a Vietnamese, a Thai, I dunno. A bit taller'n me, with a moustache. And a very soft voice, but cold, you know what I mean? Put the shits up you.”

“You've just cut our throats,” said Damien.

“No,” said Guyatt. “If you get it, it'll be bullets.”

Billy looked ready to run and Malone put a hand on his shoulder. “Hold it, Billy. Who was Kel's girlfriend?”

“Did I mention any girlfriend?” He was abruptly cautious, under Damien's thumb again.

“Yes, you did. Come on, Billy, don't fartarse about. Maybe the bloke is after her, too. Let's find her.”

Billy looked at Damien again, but the latter had turned his head, was facing up the street, blank dark mirrors where his eyes should have been. The short fat youth pulled at his own sweater, as if trying to get out of it, then he said, “Okay, her name is Kim. I dunno her second name, we never use „em, they don't matter anyway. She's half-Vietnamese, that's all I know, a good-looking bird. She was Kel's old lady. Tell you the truth, I dunno why.” Damien turned his head, looked down at him; Billy glared back. “Well,
shit,
you said the same yourself.”

“Did she use drugs?” The kids could often be traced through the dealers.

“I never saw her on anything. No, I don't think so. Can we go now?”

Malone looked at Guyatt. “You want them, Sid?”

The burly detective looked at the two with distaste. “I don't think so. We got enough of our own around here without bringing in outside trash.”

“Up yours,” said Damien and led Billy away down the street, the short fat youth putting on his glasses again, both of them, Malone mused, going back to a life that didn't merit being mirrored.

After a look at the derelict houses, a cursory search that depressed both men, Malone and Clements left, promising to let Guyatt know if they came up with anything on the murder. After all, it had occurred on his turf and would go down on his running sheet. No detective liked a running sheet where no bottom line was drawn. That was the accountancy of crime.

III

Aldwych brought a basket of fruit to Cormac Casement; Shirl had nurtured a few social graces in him. He also brought the gold watch, neatly encased in a small box. “Don't ask me where I got it, Cormac.”

Casement took the small box with his bandaged hands and passed it to Ophelia to open it. She was impressed: “Jack, I don't know how you managed it, but thank you so much. When you called, I had no idea this was what you were bringing . . .”

Aldwych had never been invited to the Casement penthouse; but he had not been embarrassed at inviting himself this afternoon. Most of his life had been a series of self-invited visits: to petrol stations early in his career, then to banks, to anywhere where money could be picked up at the point of a gun. Today, however, he had no gun and had not come looking for money.

“If the cops notice you have it back, Cormac, you can tell „em where you got it. No, on second thoughts, only tell Scobie Malone. Don't tell any reporters. Especially don't mention my name. I wouldn't
wanna
embarrass you.”

All three smiled, unembarrassed. Casement, over the last ten years, had met white-collar criminals, ones he had recognized long before their crimes had become public; they may not have been as deadly in dealing with their victims as this old man opposite him, but they had been just as ruthless and evil. Ophelia had known no criminals, but she had lived her life without ethical restraint; she also had a fond respect for anyone successful. And there was no doubt that Jack Aldwych had been successful.

“The briefcase?” asked Casement.

“No luck there, I'm afraid.”

Casement put the question a little hesitantly: “Did you find the kids who stole it? Who did this to me?” He held up his hands.

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about.” Aldwych looked at Ophelia. “Do you wanna listen to us talking business?”

“Yes,” she said easily, taking one of the bandaged hands in hers.

Casement smiled at Aldwych. “Jack, I don't share my business problems with her, but this is
our
problem. You're not really going to talk business, are you?”

Aldwych sat back in his chair. Though he could well afford it, he did not live in surroundings as luxurious as these. Ophelia, it seemed, spent her husband's money even more lavishly than her younger sister spent Jack Junior's. This big living room was filled with a mixture of European and Oriental antiques; somehow the mix did not look like a badly tossed salad. Even the pictures on the walls seemed to complement each other: a 15th century Japanese print by Motonobu did not clash with a winter landscape by Monet. Aldwych knew none of the artists nor recognized any of the furnishings, but he had somehow acquired a sense of taste. He had, for instance, never had a man killed in front of his wife and children. Certain things went well in the eye, others did not.

“Yes and no, Cormac. I'm here to protect my son.”

Both Casements looked at him in puzzlement. “Jack? Why, what's he got to do with this?” Casement held up his hands again: they had become Exhibit A.

“
Nothing. But things may be connected in all this mess and I wanna make sure Jack is right out of it.”

“Are you playing detective? Jack, I don't mean to be offensive, but I find that amusing. You, an old retired—” He paused.

“Crim?”

“All right, if you think it fits. An old retired crim playing detective.”

“Cormac, who better than me would know a criminal act? Don't let's pussyfoot around. I'm being careful with my language here, Ophelia.” He grinned at her, as he had at Kate Leigh and Tilly Devine and other old molls. “I know where to look, where to ask. How d'you think I got that back for you?” He nodded at the watch, now on the ormolu-legged table beside Ophelia. “I want to know what you knew about young Rob before he was done in.”

A less observant man might have missed Casement's caution; or was it that Ophelia came in before her husband could reply? “Jack, we knew nothing of Rob's doings before he was—was
done in
. We would have him here occasionally at our parties, but only because he was young and good-looking and he'd bring a pretty girl with him. He was—decoration, if you like.”

“He never talked business with you, Cormac?” His disregard of Ophelia was almost bluntly rude. “Jack tells me Rob came to him for a loan a week after they met. Did he ever put the bite on you?”

Casement smiled at the old slang; banks now had portmanteau phrases for the same thing but still finished up bitten. “Not me, no.”

“You, Ophelia?” He tried to give her a kind look, but his eyes were too old and experienced.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. She patted her husband's arm. “Relax, darling. I gave him nothing.”

She could lie with all the gravity of a fallen angel; though long removed from it, she came of stock that saw no sin in infidelity. Her mother's female deity had been Queen Marie, though that high-spirited consort had been half-English, half-Russian and her affairs had never been as numerous as gossip said they were. Ileana's own affairs had been tolerated by Adam, since she tolerated his; they knew that
their
passion for others never equalled their passion for each other. It was just that they enjoyed the spice of variety. Ophelia felt the same way, but she had never attempted to explain it to Cormac, he was too Protestant Irish for that.

“Jack,” said Casement, “I don't see how anyone could link Jack Junior to all this.”

“Mud sticks. Every reporter in town knows I'm his father. They don't mention it in their columns, they're afraid I might pay „em a visit. Which I might. Al Capone, you remember him?”

“Not personally,” said Casement and smiled; he enjoyed the company of this old—old crim. “Did you ever meet him?”

“I didn't get to the States till after the war, he was dead by then. Nineteen forty-seven, I think he died. He was King of Chicago,” he explained to Ophelia, adding with a smile, “Someone once called me King of Sydney. There was no comparison. But Capone, he said something once. He said a kind word sometimes gets things done. A kind word and a gun
always
gets things done. Something like that. Anyway, it's true.”

“You still carry a
gun
?” said Ophelia.

“Not in years. But I call on a feller in his office who's written something nasty, you think he's gunna know whether I'm carrying a gun or not? Sometimes it pays to have a reputation. Except when they try to pass it on to your son.” He looked at her with suddenly sad eyes. “Shirl, that was the wife, she'd come back to haunt me.”

Casement said quietly, “I think I can assure you that young Jack will never be linked to any of this mess. I'll talk to Derek about it.”

“No, leave him to me. I do my own dirty work, Cormac.”

“It won't be dirty work—”

“It could be. I don't think this is your kind of game.”

IV