Dragons at the Party (36 page)

Zanuch changed tack: “How’s President Timori?”

“It doesn’t look good.”

“Madame Timori? I saw her come in and go straight upstairs.” He was miffed that he hadn’t met her. He was always interested in any good-looking woman, but Delvina Timori was much more than
that.
He had never met her in her days with the dance company. He had not been Commissioner material then, so had had no social aspirations and had not gone to the ballet or the opera. He was also miffed that Malone, a mere inspector, had come back in the Rolls-Royce with the woman. “How’s she taking it?”

“Calmly.”

Zanuch gave him a sharp look. “That’s close to libel, Inspector.”

“Only if it gets in the papers, sir. But that’s what I’m going to write in my report.”

They were interrupted as Hickbed and Sun Lee came into the kitchen where they stood. Malone had come in the back door from the garden and Zanuch had been waiting for him, sipping a cup of tea that the maid had made for him. The maid, who had been in a dressing-gown, had now disappeared, presumably to get dressed.

Hickbed pulled up short and Sun bumped into him. “Oh! Superintendent—Zanuch, isn’t it? We met a couple of years ago.”

“Assistant Commissioner.” And he’d been a
Chief
Superintendent two years ago; civilians never seemed to appreciate police rank. He refrained from reminding Hickbed that their meeting had been during enquiries into fraud in a Hickbed company, enquiries that had come to nothing.

“Of course.” But Hickbed made no apology. Rank had never meant anything to him; what you had and what you’d made were what counted. “This is Sun Lee, President Timori’s secretary.”

Zanuch and Sun acknowledged each other, then Zanuch said, “Do the other Paluccans know what has happened to their President?”

“I have just telephoned them at their hostel,” said Sun. “Some of them are going to the hospital to wait. A vigil, I think you call it.”

Hickbed was making a pot of tea for himself and Sun. He looked at Malone and the latter nodded; Hickbed added another spoonful of tea. Malone was looking around the big gleaming kitchen: Lisa would be sure to ask him about it, too. It seemed to have every device and gimmick that opened and shut; to him it looked more like a laboratory for the start of Star Wars. But when the tea was made it tasted like the good old-fashioned brew his mother used to make.

“
The best from China,” said Hickbed. “It was ordered specially. President Timori drinks nothing else.”

“Better than Bushells?” said Malone. But Hickbed didn’t smile; he never looked at television commercials. Serves me right, thought Malone: I’m starting to sound like Maureen.

Zanuch was talking to Sun: “. . . You must be finding our way of life so different.”

Oh Christ, thought Malone. A cup of tea and a little chat: what the hell does he think has been happening tonight? “Excuse me, Mr. Zanuch,” he said, putting down his cup, “I’d like a word with Mr. Sun. I have to get my report finished—”

“Sure, sure.” Zanuch turned his attention to Hickbed, the richest silvertail he’d ever met. “I’ll double the number of men here, Mr. Hickbed. We don’t want
you
endangered . . .”

Malone led Sun out of the kitchen and on to the back terrace. The lights in the garden had all been turned off. The harbour immediately below was a mill-pond of tiny lights, like phosphorescent water-lilies: hundreds of small craft had gathered for tomorrow’s celebration. The night was still warm and the smell of the flowers and shrubs was heavy on the air. Malone put his hand on the balustrade of the terrace, but the stone had lost the heat of the day and was cold to the touch. Sun Lee was equally cold.

“What do you want with me, Inspector?”

Malone was too tired to be anything but blunt: “When you were at Kirribilli House you made two phone calls to Beirut. You spoke to a Mr. Zaid.”

“I don’t recall making any phone calls to Beirut. I know no one there.” The light from the kitchen window illuminated only one side of Sun’s face: it was half a mask.

“I’ll jog your memory, Mr. Sun. The number was 232-3344. You told Mr. Zaid, who is an agent of some sort, that his client had killed the wrong man.”

“Have you spoken to this Mr.—Zaid?”

“Yes.” Malone hoped his own face was a mask; he had moved a little to his left so that the kitchen light was behind him.

“I don’t believe you, Inspector.” Sun was cool.

“
Please yourself. But you’ll believe the tapes we have when I run them for you.” He knew he would have to back down if Sun insisted on hearing the tapes, would in the end have to deny they existed. “You told Mr. Zaid that we had identified his client, though you didn’t name him. You were trying to get in touch with Seville, for some reason, but Zaid didn’t know where he was. Why were you trying to contact Seville? Were you trying to call off the assassination?”

Sun was silent, Orientally impassive. Malone waited with Australian patience, which usually isn’t durable. Then Sun said, “I didn’t organize this. I have only been the go-between.”

“Who is paying Seville?” All at once he was no longer tired; he was fired by excitement.

But Sun shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

“You mean you won’t?”

“I suppose that is what I mean.” It was Sun who now sounded tired; or fatalistic. Malone had questioned suspects in Chinatown and they had always baffled him, even the ones born in Australia.

“Then you’re the one I’m going to have to arrest.”

“So be it. Isn’t that what you say?”

“Not me,” said Malone. “I’m a bugger for never accepting anything. You sure you want to take the blame for this?”

“You’ll have to prove it, Inspector. I have great respect for British justice.”

“This is Australia. You have no idea the tricks we can get up to here.” He was tired again, all the excitement had gone out like a fire of tissue-paper. “Who are you protecting, Sun? Madame Timori?”

Sun Lee had turned away from the light; but there was a slight hunching of the shoulders. “No.”

Yes! thought Malone; and felt the excitement stir again. “Righto, let’s go. We’ll tell Mr. Hickbed and the Assistant Commissioner.”

“No handcuffs?”

“I’m in evening dress. They’re not the proper accessories.”

Sun smiled, the first time he had shown any emotion. He seemed relaxed, confident everything
would
turn out all right. “You have a Chinese sense of humour, Inspector.”

“Don’t bank on it, Mr. Sun.”

They went back into the kitchen, but Hickbed and Zanuch were no longer there. Malone pushed Sun ahead of him and they went further into the house and found the other two in the big living-room. They were sitting in the silk-covered chairs, Zanuch lolling back as if this were his natural habitat. Which was what he aspired to, but would never achieve, not since honesty had become one of the police force’s better policies.

“I’m arresting Mr. Sun,” said Malone, “for conspiracy to murder.”

“Jesus!” said Zanuch and “Christ Almighty!” said Hickbed, like a team of profane comics.

Hickbed was first to recover. “On what grounds?”

“You’ll know that when the prosecutor puts the evidence.”

Hickbed looked ready to erupt. “We’ll see about that! You can do something about this, Mr. Zanuch—”

Zanuch had stood up. “You’re sure of everything, Inspector?”

“Yes, sir.” Malone returned the Assistant Commissioner’s hard stare. He knew Zanuch would back him, at least for the moment. For all his ambitions, professional and social, Zanuch had the reputation of never putting his men down in front of the public. In that he was a true policeman.

Zanuch nodded, then said, “Are you in this alone, Mr. Sun?”

“I am not admitting that I am in it at all,” said Sun. He’s the coolest bugger in this room, thought Malone. “May I tell Madame Timori you are arresting me?”

“You don’t need to disturb her,” said Hickbed, looking very disturbed. “She’s had enough to upset her for one night—”

“You can tell her,” Malone said to Sun, ignoring Hickbed. “She’d want to know, I think.”

Zanuch went to say something, then thought better of it and nodded to Malone. “A good idea, Inspector. It’s the courteous thing to do.”

“That’s what I thought, sir,” said Malone, who hadn’t thought any such thing.

He
let Sun lead the way upstairs. The stairs were marble, matching the floor in the entrance hall. On the landing a large portrait of Hickbed glowered at them; the artist, for a large fee, had been sycophantic but had still not managed to disguise his sitter’s natural aggression. Sun led the way towards a door at the far end of the landing.

When Delvina sat up in bed and Sun told her he was being arrested, Malone noticed at once that she showed little surprise; there was just a slight tightening of her neck muscles. Then when she saw him standing in the doorway she turned up, like a gas flame, some sudden exasperated shock: “But you know it’s that man Seville!”

“He’s the one pulling the trigger. But I’m charging Sun Lee with conspiracy, with being the one who’s paying Seville.”

Delvina looked at Sun and shook her head. “I don’t believe it, Sun. You love the President as much as I do. Don’t worry. I’ll get you the best lawyers—”

“I’m not worried, Madame,” said Sun, and didn’t look to be so. “I’m sure you’ll do everything you can for me. The President would want you to.”

9

I

DELVINA SAT
in bed for a few minutes after Sun and Malone had left her bedroom. Back in the palace in Bunda neither man would have been allowed within a stone’s throw of her bedroom door; Abdul had had an old-fashioned Muslim attitude towards his wife’s privacy. She had not been disturbed that Sun had knocked on her door and then asked if he might come in. The night’s events had been such that she knew he would not have suggested such an intrusion unless something urgent had happened. At first, coming awake, she had expected it to be the news that Abdul was dead. She had lain a moment, more relieved than sad; after all, she had told herself, with that reasoning that the guiltless often need to make themselves feel better, Abdul would only have been an invalid for the rest of his life. And then Sun had given her the really bad news.

She got up, pulling her robe about her, and went downstairs. Her slippers’ heels clacked hollowly on the marble; there was no dancer’s glide to her walk now. She went into the living-room and saw Hickbed with a tall handsome man in a dinner suit, evidently one of his business friends.

“I’d like to see you, Russell.”

“Are you all right?” said Hickbed. “Madame Timori, this is Assistant Police Commissioner Zanuch.”

Delvina gave him only a curt nod. “Will you excuse us? In your study, Russell.”

She turned and walked out of the room. Zanuch felt he had been snubbed like a trainee constable. “Excuse me, Madame Timori, I’d like a word with you—”

She stopped, looked over her shoulder. “Not now. Russell?”

She walked across the entrance hall, her heels rapping as if she were calling Hickbed to
attention.
He looked at Zanuch, shrugged, then followed her across the hall and into the study, closing the door behind them. Zanuch looked around for someone to vent his spleen on, but there was no one. He went out into the garden looking for a target.

In the study Delvina said, “What happened with Sun? How did he get himself arrested?”

“I don’t know. He and that guy Malone were outside for a few minutes. Then they came in and Malone just announced he was arresting him. Christ knows what was said out there on the terrace. I thought you might have guessed.”

“Why me?”

“Because I think you know more than you’ve told me.”

“You don’t need to know everything,” she said and told him nothing. “We have to get in touch with Philip Norval.”

Hickbed shook his head. “He won’t want to know.”

“He’s got to know! He’s got to have Sun released . . . God, don’t you realize . . .” She was angry at his stupidity. “If Sun talks, he’ll tell everything! About our investments, about you and what you were going to pay Philip—”

“Keep your voice down!” His own sank to a hoarse whisper; he looked around as if he expected microphones to be hidden behind the unread books. “You don’t know Phil as well as I do . . . He can be as stubborn as hell about doing nothing. He hates to interfere—”

“He’d bloody better interfere in this!” Her accent had lapsed into the Australian she had so carefully tried to eliminate; she could have been back in the dance company arguing with a choreographer who couldn’t see reason. “I’m calling him! What’s the number of Kirribilli House?”

“You’re making a big mistake—he’ll never listen—” But he could sense that she, too, wouldn’t listen. He gave her the number. “It’s gone one-thirty. They probably won’t wake him—he thinks he should work only from nine till five—”

The security guard who answered the phone said, “I’m sorry. The Prime Minister can’t be woken—”

“
This is Madame Timori—” Delvina’s accent was under control again; her tone was polar-cold. “Will you tell the Prime Minister it is urgent that I speak to him. At once!”

There was a moment’s hesitation; then: “Just a moment, Madame. I’ll put you on to his adviser, Mr. Godbold,”

She waited impatiently while Godbold, whoever he was, was found. Then the pompous voice came on the line and she remembered him: “Good evening, Madame Timori. Or should I say good morning?” You don’t need to remind me what time it is, you pompous little upstart, she thought. “The PM is asleep . . . Perhaps I can help?”

“No, Mr. Godbold, you can’t. I have to speak to the Prime Minister.”

“Is it the President? Has he passed away?”

“No, he hasn’t! Get me the Prime Minister!” Her voice rose and her accent lapsed again. “
Now!
”

It was almost five minutes before Norval came on the phone. She wondered with whom he had stopped for advice—Godbold, Anita? Perhaps he had stopped to consult the latest opinion poll, to see if he could afford to be seen talking to her.

“Delvina? What’s the matter? Is it Abdul?”