Dragons at the Party (29 page)

“A professional what?” said Anita as she fitted herself into her husband’s stiff arms.

Malone took Delvina into his arms, cautiously. “What’s going on, Madame? Don’t start using me for any tricks.”

“You’re a good dancer, very light on your feet.” They were not dancing close together, but she could detect the bulge of his gun in its shoulder-holster. “Do you remember the old Mae West joke? Is that your gun or are you just glad to have me in your arms?”

“Cut it out, Delvina.” He was uncomfortable, but not sexually. He was conscious that, no matter how subtly, she was leading him in the dance. “Where are we going? Not outside, I hope.”

“No, we’re going down to pay our respects to General Paturi.”

Malone was aware of everyone they passed staring at them, some of them candidly, others giving themselves eye-strain in their efforts to be both polite and curious. Other couples on the floor peeled away from them as if he and Delvina were about to do a speciality routine; he would not have been surprised if the band had struck up one of the old Astaire—Rogers numbers. At the tables the diners, turning away
from
their Waltzing Matilda torte, a cake made in the shape of a bed-roll with marzipan straps, were observing their progress down the hall like guests watching a wedding march; short-legged diners and the short-sighted were standing up to get a better view. Malone could hear the questions: “Who’s the man? It’s not President Timori, is it? He doesn’t
look
foreign, does he?”

He wanted to dump Delvina, just let his arms drop and walk away from her. He had, however, been cured of his Australian male chauvinism by Lisa: he could not treat a woman as crudely as he sometimes treated men. On top of that she was leading him close to General Paturi, the reason, so Zanuch reasoned, he was here tonight. They went from dance floor to dance floor; the four bands were playing simultaneously and by now were playing the one number. Malone and Delvina waltzed a hundred and fifty yards, a marathon, and by the time they reached the Premier’s table Malone could feel the sweat soaking his shirt. Delvina looked as if she had just glided through an ice-works.

She eased herself out of Malone’s arms. “Mr. Premier, I haven’t met your charming wife. I’ve heard so much about you, Mrs. Vanderberg.”

Gertrude Vanderberg, in thirty-five years in politics with The Dutchman, had met all types; the richest whore in the world, as she thought of Delvina, was just another type. “Madame Timori, I’m so glad you’re enjoying our little soirée.”

Malone grinned inwardly. He didn’t know whether Gertrude Vanderberg could speak French, but her pronunciation of the one word had sounded perfect to him, even though her tongue had been in her cheek.

“A lovely understatement,” said Delvina, recognizing that this homely old cow was as shrewd as the equally homely old goat sitting beside her. Then she looked at Paturi. “General, what a surprise to see you here! Are you planning a coup here in Sydney, too?”

Even Vanderberg had to chuckle at that. But Paturi just sat stone-faced; in ten years of dealing with Madame Timori he had never scored a point. Not until the coup of last week, and he was still getting adjusted to that.

“I have nothing to say,” he said, which was the truth.

“
Oh, you haven’t met Inspector Malone.” She waved her hand at Malone as if he were a prize possession. “He is in charge of the police trying to find out who is trying to kill the President. I think he suspects you, General.”

There was a gasp from the wife of the Minister for Water Resources: it sounded like a pipe bursting. Everyone else at the table sat up in shock; all except The Dutchman, who continued to lounge in his chair as if he had heard all this, or something like it, before. Malone, aware that everyone was staring at him, kept his eye on Paturi.

The General said, “You are mistaken, Inspector.”

“I hope I am, sir. But perhaps I may talk to you some other time? Tomorrow morning, maybe?”

Paturi just shook his head and Vanderberg said, “The General has diplomatic immunity, Inspector. But maybe I can persuade him to talk off the record with you.” He was a master himself at talking off the record; that way he had torpedoed more opponents, in his own party and in the Opposition, than he could remember. “Leave it with me.”

Paturi saw he was trapped. Being a general who had fought no wars, he knew no way to retreat. He just sat in stony silence. Delvina gave everyone at the table a regal smile, took Malone’s arm and guided him back on to the dance floor. But now the music had stopped and they had to traverse the length of the hall past tables lined with stares. I’m dreaming this, Malone thought, I’m walking down here in a Maidenform bra and nothing else.

“You’re not used to the limelight, are you?” said Delvina.

“That was something I told my kids just a couple of hours ago.”

“You have children? One never thinks of policemen having them.”

“You’ve read too many American detective novels. How did you know we have General Paturi on our list of suspects?”

“It’s logical, isn’t it? The assassination attempt fails, he arrives here a couple of days later. It’s too much of a coincidence.” She was echoing Zanuch.

“Aren’t you afraid you’re on the hit list, too?”

“
No. Well, yes, maybe.”

They had almost reached the Norvals’ table. She had made her royal progress and the bystanders, even those who sneered at or hated her, would be sorry to see her go. Society, T-shirt as well as shirt-front, was tolerant of her tonight at this celebration of Australia making good. She was an Aussie who had made good, if by the worst possible means; if the outlaw Ned Kelly was a national saint, that was no sin. If footballers could become heroic by thuggery, they must give equal rights to a woman. It was the husbands who said that, not the wives.

“Will you arrest General Paturi if I’m shot?”

“We may. Or we may arrest Sun Lee. He’s made some interesting phone calls to Beirut since he’s been here. Did you know that? Good night, Madame. Thank you for the dance.”

He left her staring after him. He could have sworn that her eyes were glazed with fear.

III

Seville sat in the attic of the big house on the high side of the street from the Hickbed mansion. It was an old house, built at the turn of the century, all gables and balconies, the baronial castle of a family that was a household name in the State’s history. Most of the rooms were now unused, their Victorian furniture covered with dust-sheets; only an elderly couple, the last of the family, still lived in the house.

Seville had come out here to Point Piper this afternoon, having deposited the canvas bag with the rifle and ammunition and his brief-case in a locker at Wynyard Station in the centre of the city. He had had confidence in his disguise; he had settled into the identity of Martin Dijon. He had used public transport to get here, getting off the bus at the beginning of the road that ran along the ridge and walking to the end of the point. This was not an area where people sat out on their front verandas; the front doors looked as if they might never be opened. No one tinkered with his car or washed it in these streets; no children played on the footpath. Some of the houses were striking advertisements of the wealth on this narrow point, but in the main anonymity was the name of the game. Conspicuous anonymity, perhaps, like the dark glass in celebrities’ limousines, but at least a knee was bent to the wish.

The
street where Russell Hickbed lived was not deserted. There, the demonstrators were still doing their picketing and at least one television crew was still staking out the house. A few spectators, outsiders, not locals, had arrived, but, having got there, looked as if they were not quite sure why they had come. Two police cars stood outside the Hickbed ornamental gates, which looked to be decorated with crossed dollar signs and three golden balls, the gamut of financial speculation. Seville, standing amongst the spectactors, could see at least two uniformed policemen in the mansion grounds.

Then he had gone looking for the house he had observed through the glasses from the cruising ferry this morning. It was almost opposite the Hickbed house, on high ground held up by a sustaining stone wall. A curved driveway, beyond gates even bigger and more ornamental than Hickbed’s, led up through gardens to the house. A sign on the gates said that the property was protected by Delphi Security Service.

Seville studied it without making himself too conspicuous. He decided that the line of sight from the attic windows in the gabled roof would give him a clear view into the Hickbed house. All he had to do was bide his time, come back this evening and hope that he could force entry into the house without too much commotion. He did not want to have to kill again unless it was absolutely necessary. It was, of course, necessary that he kill Timori.

He was back again at nine o’clock, this time with the canvas bag and his brief-case. He had again come by public transport; again he walked along Wolseley Road to the end of the point. But this time he cut up into a side street before reaching the street where Hickbed lived. He entered the side gate of a rambling stone-and-brick house; the gate said
Tradesmen’s Entrance
, a relic of times past; but he was a tradesman and he smiled at the irony. He went down a side passage, treading quietly in his rubber-soled shoes, and through the sweet-smelling garden at the rear. He climbed the back wall and dropped down under the trees in the rear garden of the old gabled house. It was not fully dark, but he felt certain he would be difficult to see in the shadows under the thick camphor laurel trees.

The rear of the house was in darkness, but there were lights in the front rooms and upstairs. There was no flood-lighting in the gardens; whoever lived here kept advertising to a minimum; the grand
old
house itself was enough advertisement. Seville had no idea who lived in the house nor did he care. If he had to kill them, he would rather not know their names. Now that he had decided to retire, he wanted to discard memories, not go on collecting them. He smiled at the thought that perhaps, subconsciously, he was aspiring to his mother’s sense of respectability.

As he had suspected, the grounds were being patrolled. He crouched down behind two large, thick camellia bushes as a policeman, cap off as he wiped his sweating forehead, strolled past. The officer, a young man, paused, then stepped into another clump of camellias farther along. A moment later Seville heard him relieving himself. Then he stepped out of the bushes and continued on his round.

Seville waited till he came by again. It took him six minutes to circle the grounds; he must have paused for a while at the front of the house. Seville waited and watched as the policeman did two more circuits: five minutes and seven minutes. It was not tight security, Seville noted, but perhaps the presence of the police was meant as no more than a deterrent. There was, he guessed, probably another officer at the front of the house.

As soon as the young policeman passed out of sight on his fourth round Seville made his move. He sprinted across the back lawn, stumbling as his knee almost gave way, and finished up on a wide back veranda that was half-enclosed by latticework. It took him three minutes to find the alarm system; it was as ancient as the house. Perhaps the Delphi Security Service was better at protecting oracles.

Then he heard the policeman coming back, this time accompanied by a colleague. He crouched down low, shielded by the lattice-work. He had zipped open the canvas bag and he had one hand on the Smith and Wesson that lay on top of the dismantled Sako rifle. The policemen paused almost opposite him and one said, “Geez, I’d love a beer!”

They passed on and Seville went to work. He opened his brief-case and took out a small hand-drill. He drilled a hole in the alarm-box by the back door; he had to smile at the simple innocence of people who believed in such an antiquated safeguard; it would not have kept out a lapsed Boy Scout. He put the drill away in the case, methodical as always; then he took out a can of fast-setting foam and sprayed the foam into the hole. He wiped the nozzle of the can and put it back in the case and took out a
Swiss
army knife. Then he heard the footsteps again and he dropped back down behind the lattice-work.

The young policeman, alone this time, came by again. He paused, then walked across the lawn. Seville, watching him through the lattice-screen, saw him draw his pistol; then the beam from a torch he held probed the bushes along the back wall. A cat darted out of the bushes and the policeman gave a grunt, then laughed and switched off the torch. He continued on round the front of the house.

Seville stood up again, sure now that the foam had set and neutralized the bell in the alarm box. With the knife he slipped back the catch of the window into the kitchen. He put the knife back in the brief-case and snapped it shut. Brief-cases were the tool-bags of bankers, businessmen and diplomats: his carried just a few extra tools.

He slid over the sill and found himself in the large kitchen, the sort where in other days, when such human conveniences existed, the staff would have eaten. He could hear voices and music from inside the house: someone was looking at television. He went quietly along a narrow hallway that led into a wide entrance hall. He paused a moment, listening to the sounds coming out of a doorway to the left; the television set was in there. An old movie was playing; he heard a distinctive voice, Cary Grant’s, say, “Never trust anyone.” Seville nodded at the sentiment.

He went quickly and silently up the wide stairs that led to the upper floors. Some of the rooms were lit, but most of them were in darkness. He passed a huge bedroom; it was like peeping into a corner of a Victorian museum. A big brass-railed bed, two heavily stuffed armchairs, a full-length mirror on wheels: it was like a return visit to his grandmother’s bedroom in the
estancia
near Bariloche. He went on past it, hurrying now, struck by some odd feeling he couldn’t identify. Was it regret for the way his life had gone, or conscience, or just homesickness?