Autumn Maze (26 page)

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.”

“
I thought it would do him good. He loves ballet. He's recovering—he was at a board meeting this afternoon. Cormac is tough, Mr. Malone, very durable.” She looked at him sideways and he wondered if there was any sexual innuendo in her words. She was wearing a strong perfume and he was aware of the animal in her. He gave her no encouraging reaction, not with Lisa three paces behind him and reading his thoughts.

Verady's was the sort of restaurant where Malone was glad he was not picking up the tab; financial arthritis would have gripped him from the shoulder down. The place was full, a mix of young people and some older Opera House patrons; in these hard times Malone wondered where the money came from. But then, he had read, even the restaurants in today's Belgrade were full: money or credit cards, like water, could always find an empty vessel. The Casement party settled into a corner booth, the head waiter hovering around like a man on a retainer. Orders were taken, then the four were left alone.

Casement was wearing white gloves to cover the dressing on his hands; he was unselfconscious of them. “You're a ballet fan, Mr. Malone?”

Malone shrugged and Lisa said, “Just occasionally. Most of the time he's a Philistine. But my favourite Philistine,” she said and smiled a warning smile at Ophelia.

“Why haven't the Philistines founded an international organization?” Casement, it seemed, was doing his best to keep the mood light. “There are so many of them around the world. They had their own Diaspora, like the Jews, but they never got themselves organized.”

“They try,” said Lisa. She was at ease with the Casements, more so than Malone. But then other people's money and social position had always worried her less than it did him.

Supper was brought, omelettes for three, blueberry pancakes for Malone. He was a sweet-tooth man and he knew they would lie on his chest all night, but he hadn't been able to resist them. In the next booth two young couples had just ordered another bottle of Bollinger and he wondered what they had to celebrate. When he turned his head he saw that one of the young women was Justine Springfellow, who had once lived in this building, whom he had once wrongfully arrested for murder. He looked away quickly, but not before she had seen him and her face had turned to stone.

O
phelia was saying, “It must be a relief for you to get your mind off your work. And for you too, Mrs. Malone.”

Both women seemed wary of each other. “He never brings his work home,” said Lisa. “It's a rule. He's broken it once or twice, but that wasn't his fault. Someone once dumped a body in our pool.”

“Ugh!” But it was a muted exclamation; Ophelia neither shuddered nor even looked upset. “Cormac brings his work home occasionally, but he says he tries to protect me. Business fascinates me. It's the last field for the would-be Napoleons.”

Casement, fumbling with the fork in his gloved hand but refusing any help, smiled at Malone. “He was never one of my heroes. I preferred De Gaulle . . . My secretary called me, said you wanted to see me tomorrow morning.”

“It can wait.” Then, tired and abruptly irritable, he thought,
What the hell
? “It was about your briefcase.”

The fumbling hand in its glove was suddenly still. “My briefcase?”

“You made no mention of it. Had you forgotten it? Did those kids steal it?”

The fork sliced into the omelette. “I can only assume I forgot it, forgot to mention it. I'd dropped it on the front seat of the car, I think—when the car went up in flames, I suppose I took it for granted the briefcase went up, too. How did you know about it? Have you found it?”

Malone was aware that Lisa was concentrating on her omelette; if she was displeased at his raising police business at the table, she was hiding it. Ophelia, on the other hand, was leaning forward, her interest almost intense. He said, “Jack Aldwych told me about it.”

“Jack? Did he find it? He brought me the watch they stole—”

“He told me about that. As for the briefcase—” He told them what had happened to Aldwych that morning. The two Casements both leaned forward, their food forgotten; even Lisa stopped eating. “The two fellers who abducted him asked him if he had been after the briefcase when he went around the pawnbrokers. He said they appeared pretty concerned about it.”

“Did Jack say whether they had it or not?”

“
He couldn't tell. What was in the briefcase that would interest them?”

The two couples in the next booth were leaving. As they passed on their way out, Ophelia, who had had her back to them, looked up. “Justine! How wonderful you look! Oh, this is Mr. and Mrs. Malone—”

“We've met,” said Malone. “How are you, Miss Springfellow?”

“Not guilty,” she said and with a nod to the Casements walked quickly towards the door.

There was silence for a moment in the booth, then Casement said, “Do you get that often? People who never forgive you?”

“Were you in charge of the Springfellow case? Oh my God!” Ophelia wanted to give herself over to gossip, which always reduces one; she suddenly did not look as formidable, no more than a society matron. “I never connected you with it—”

“No one ever does,” said Lisa, her voice tart, as if the omelette had too much salt in it. “Perhaps it's just as well.”

“We got the real killer in the end,” said Malone. “He almost blew my head off, but we got him. I thought she might have forgiven me.” He looked towards the revolving door at the front of the restaurant.

“The female of the species,” said Casement, then ducked his head apologetically at Lisa. “Sorry, Mrs. Malone, that's an old man's chauvinism.”

“I'm used to it,” said Lisa. “Old and young.”

She glanced at Ophelia, but the latter, whatever she thought of men, had never put them down. Instead, she patted her husband's gloved hand. “Darling, you're not old. I was telling Mr. Malone how durable you are.”

Malone got the conversation back on track: “What sort of briefcase was it?”

“Leather. Coach-hide, with combination locks.”

“Coach-hide? That's fairly thick, isn't it? It probably wouldn't burn to a cinder. What was in it?”

Casement pushed his plate away, the omelette hardly touched. “Just papers, minutes of a board
meeting.
I can't understand why the men who grabbed Jack would be interested in them. Nothing's going on at—” He named the company, one of the icons of the country's commercial world. He all at once did look
old
; he put the gloves up on either side of his face and stroked the corners of his eyes. “I'm tired. Will you excuse us?”

Ophelia dropped the society look, was a hospital matron. She gathered up her handbag and stole, was on her feet, helping her husband out of the booth while Malone had a forkful of blueberry pancake halfway to his mouth. “I've worn you out! I shouldn't have insisted we go to the ballet—”

“No, no, it was a good idea—” They might have been alone. Then Casement, now on his feet, stood still and looked down at the Malones. “I'm not usually as rude as this, will you forgive me? But all of a sudden I feel I'm going to fall over—”

“They understand, darling. Come on, I must get you to bed. Goodnight, Mrs. Malone. Finish your supper. The bill will be taken care of.”

Then they were making their way towards the front door, the head waiter backing his way ahead of them, heads turning at the other tables as the Casements were recognized. Ophelia knew how to make an exit: she straightened up and marched towards the door and Casement all at once had to quicken his pace so that he was not left behind. He caught her in the revolving door and they disappeared, though Malone, mouth full of pancake, would not have been surprised to see the old man come spinning back into the restaurant.

Lisa said, “Well, that's the first time someone else but you has dumped me.”

“What did you think of them?”

“Her or him? They're not a pair. But he's afraid of losing her.”

“Him? Why would he be afraid of losing her? He's rich, he's powerful—though I don't think he's really interested in power, not the way his brother-in-law, Sweden, is. He's
secure
, the way the rest of us will never be. And he's too old to be lovesick.”

“I hope you're still lovesick over me when you're his age. He's in love, he's afraid of losing her, I tell you. Not that I think she'd ever leave him, not till he's dead. I didn't like her at all.”

“
I gathered that. Neither do I.”

“Were you satisfied with his answer about the briefcase?”

“You're playing cop again. No.”

“Let's go home to bed. What do you think of Russ sharing Romy's bed?”