Man in the Shadows (12 page)

Cy supposed he could fit in nine holes the following morning to relax him for his afternoon in court. He proposed a drink in the club bar at noon.

By then I'd had too much sleep and too much of my own company. I was refreshed, showered and shampooed and taking an interest in every woman I saw between seventeen and seventy. The waitress in the Royal Eastern bar was about thirty and moderately good looking. When she served me my
Swan Light my blood raced. Sackville wandered in and ordered Perrier.

‘How'd you do?' I said.

‘Forty-one, double bogeyed the eighth, bugger it. Here's what you want.'

He handed me a slip of paper. The bar was almost empty but I kept my voice low. ‘Clyde Teasdale, Reginald Broderick, Montague Porter. That wouldn't be Monty Porter, would it?'

Sackville sipped Perrier. ‘Believe so. Any help?'

‘Could be. Thanks a lot. What's the case this afternoon?'

He yawned. ‘One of the doctors claims one of the lawyers was embezzling from him.'

‘Was he?'

‘Probably, but we'll sort it out.'

Monty Porter, if he wasn't actually Mr Big, was Mr Big Enough. If he'd been responsible for half the things that were alleged against him he'd never have had time to wash his socks. Gambling, pimping and drugs were his mainstays, but he probably financed some heavier stuff as well. Monty was married to Marjorie Legge who had a high profile in the fashion industry and the right-wing media, so for every allegation against him there was a champagne glass raised as well.

A trip to Surfers would have been welcome but I couldn't justify it. I phoned Roger Wallace who operates several detective agencies in the eastern states. When he reached fifty, he picked his Southport agency as the one that most needed his personal touch. I asked him to run a check on the guests in the Tropicana over the period of Hayward's stay. We exchanged pleasantries, agreed on terms and he phoned back towards evening.

‘Subject didn't get much of the sun,' Roger said.
‘Seems he spent most of his time in smoky rooms.'

‘Who with?'

‘Hard to say, but it could easily have been Monty Porter.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yeah. Monty was in the Honeymoon Suite at the Tropicana for some of the time. I'll send you a list of the other names if you like.'

‘Don't bother. Thanks, Roger.'

‘Not working for Marjorie Legge, are you?'

‘No, why?'

‘Monty was honeymooning without her.'

That was intriguing, but I was more interested in the clear focus I was getting on Kent Hayward. I enlisted Lean's help and took a closer look at Hayward professionally and personally. He was manager in the section of the computer operation that despatched and made up accounts and upgraded the data base as required.

‘Box seat,' Lean said.

‘What about for forging the cards?'

‘That too. He'd know the codes, the cut-outs, everything. Of course, he'd have to know some physics and electronics to make much of it.'

‘He does,' I said. ‘I've followed him to the library and into bookshops. He'd rather read electronics textbooks than Wilbur Smith.'

‘I'm a Ludlum man myself,' Lean said. ‘So what next? You going to collar him?'

‘There's no direct proof. If he's been careful all the way through he could show up clean.'

‘Yeah. I've been doing a little quiet snooping myself. Don't worry, not on the ground. Through the computer—there's something a bit funny about this fraud.'

‘Struck me they could've got away with a hell of a lot more if they'd wanted to,' I said.

‘There's that. But it looks as if all kinds of things have been tried out, all parts of the program.'

‘Don't follow.'

‘Goods sent to addresses, goods returned and exchanged, items queried, lots of checking of the data base. You'd have thought they'd run the phony cards through the easiest channels but it hasn't been like that at all. They've gone the tough route most times.'

‘As if they were checking that it all worked?'

‘That's what it looks like. What d'you make of it?'

‘All I can think of is that something bigger is on the way. Thanks Kelvin, you've been a big help.'

‘As I say, put it in the report.'

They were the last words I ever heard from Kelvin Lean. A little later, after I'd done some more surveillance of Hayward without result, Marr telephoned to tell me that Lean had killed himself.

‘It was a great shock. He was a good man, or so we thought.'

‘Me too. Why?'

‘He left a note to say that he was afraid he had AIDS.'

‘Looked pretty healthy to me.'

‘Well, there it is. I suppose the autopsy will tell the story.'

‘How did he die?'

‘He used his shotgun. I believe. Now, d'you think this could have any bearing on your investigation?'

‘Don't know. Do you?'

‘No fraudulent card use has been reported in the past week. What have you turned up so far?'

‘A suspect with no proof.'

‘Any connection with Lean?'

‘I'll look into it.'

‘If there are no further losses . . . '

‘Sure, you'll consider the case closed. Give me a few more days, Mr Marr.'

I didn't believe Kelvin Lean had AIDS or thought he had it. And I didn't believe he committed suicide. I phoned Detective Inspector Frank Parker of the Homicide branch and found the police weren't too convinced either.

‘Difficult to say, Cliff. Typed note. Prints on the shotgun but you know . . . '

‘What do you think of the AIDS theory?'

‘Not gay, no drugs and what was left of him would put you and me to shame for muscle tone. What's your interest?'

‘Can't say. When will you get the autopsy report?'

‘I can't say. Perhaps when you decide to co-operate.'

Logic led to Hayward. As a working theory: Hayward finds out that Lean has been checking on him through the computer. Hayward has a lot to hide and nasty friends like Monty Porter. Exit Lean. Confronting Hayward seemed like my only option if Partners were going to pull the plug on me. Besides, killing Lean looked like an overreaction to a fraud investigation, even a major one. Maybe I could panic Hayward.

He lived in Woollahra, in a big white building that looked as if it had once been a squatter's townhouse but was now four elegant flats. Elegant but old, or perhaps elegant because old. At 6 pm I was parked on the other side of the road watching the expensive cars swirl around the streets, slip into the garages slotted in under the high-sitting houses or jostle for parking space under the plane trees. Hayward had a garage for his Holden Calais. When he closed the roller door I was only a few metres away. When he put the key in the front door to the building I was by his side.

‘Let's go inside, Mr Hayward. Let's talk.'

‘Who the hell are you?' He threw back his head, to toss long hair out of his eyes and to look through the bottom part of his bifocal lenses. He had his suit coat over his arm, neatly folded, and he was wearing a bow tie. This made me happier about heavying him. I gripped his elbow and bustled him through the door. He tried to prop but he had no experience in the physical side of life. I kept him moving up the stairs and to the door of his flat by keeping him off balance and increasing the pressure on his arm. He was saying things like ‘This is intolerable' but I wasn't listening.

So we were in the passageway of his flat and I was doing fine when suddenly things went wrong. First, a man appeared out of nowhere; he moved smoothly, seeming to take all the time in the world, and he shot Hayward between the eyes. I felt Hayward sag away from me and collapse. I flattened myself against the wall and tried to reach for my .38 knowing all the time that I'd be much, much too slow.

The gunman knew it too; he sighted on my chest and gestured for me to drop my hand. I did it; at that range he couldn't miss.

‘Well,' he said, ‘what's this?'

Another man edged cautiously from a room off the passage. The gunman was medium-sized and wide with a bald head and an almost immobile face. The second man was younger, not out of his twenties. He had long dark hair and a slack, shocked expression on his face. He said, ‘Shoot him,' so I liked him less than the other who could've shot me but hadn't tried.

‘This isn't the bargain basement, sport. I don't do it in job lots.'

‘Come on,' the dark one said. ‘He seen everythink. You've gotta . . . '

‘I don't have to do anything. Look at him. The man's carrying a gun. He could be a cop. Or he could be someone I can talk to.'

‘That's right,' I croaked.

‘Shit! You just want more money.'

The gunman kept his pistol, which looked like a silenced .22, very steady. ‘That'd help,' he said. ‘Let's get out of the hall. We can sit down and you can use the phone.'

We went through to the big living room which was dark because all the curtains had been drawn against the light and the heat. The gunman didn't seem to have any trouble seeing; he gestured for me to sit in a chair in the corner and for the other man to use the phone.

‘Hey, don't give me orders. Just kill him.'

‘You don't have the clout to order a kill, friend.'

The dark man picked up the phone and hit the buttons. He waited, began to speak and stopped. ‘Okay,' he said. ‘Ten minutes, but tell him it's important.' He read the phone number slowly and clearly and hung up. ‘We gotta wait.'

The gunman smiled; until then his face had been so still I was surprised he could do it. ‘Why don't you make us a drink, Charley?' he said.

‘Fuck you. And my name isn't Charley, it's . . . '

‘Shut up, you bloody amateur. Charley'll do. Get us a drink, unless you'd rather hold the gun?'

My eyes had grown used to the gloom; it was a big room with a bay window and some low, unobtrusive furniture. The hi-fi looked good and new, so did the TV and VCR. The gunman sat three metres from me and out of the way of all distraction. He saw me judging distance and angles and shook his head. Charley came in with two drinks, whisky and ice.

‘One for him, too.'

‘What the fuck for?'

‘You're paining me, you know that? I didn't like
having to bring you along in the first place and I'm liking it less. Just do as I say. It might help him talk. By the way, sport. You might put the gun on the table here. Easy.'

I took out the .38 and put it on the coffee table. I had to lean almost out of my chair to reach it. The gunman would have had to get up to take it but he didn't bother. He gestured for me to sit back. Charley returned with a solid Scotch and I took a drink thinking that the odds had shrunk from short to hopeless.

‘Name?'

‘Hardy.'

‘Cop?'

I shook my head. ‘Private. Partners hired me to look into the card business.'

He nodded. ‘Anything to trade?'

I shook my head again. I was thinking about throwing the glass and risking a .22 in the body, but the precise way Hayward had been plugged deterred me.

‘This is a big operation,' Charley said. ‘The trump won't want any loose ends.'

I jerked my thumb at the passage. ‘Is that what he was?'

‘Yeah. He was leavin' tracks.'

I drank some more Scotch and sneered at him.

‘Big operation my arse,' I said. ‘Hitting a department store for a few thousand. Fake credit cards. That's not big, it's medium at best. I think our friend here better worry about getting his fee.'

‘He'll get it,' Charley said. ‘This is really big. Three dead men.'

‘I make it two, Lean and Hayward.'

‘I was countin' you, arsehole.'

‘You talk too much,' the gunman said contemptuously. He sipped his drink. ‘Why don't you just tell him all you know while you're at it?'

Charley threw his Scotch straight down. ‘Why not? He's dead when the phone rings. You think the Partners stuff is small time? You're right. But it's a practice, you dumb arsehole, and it's not the only one.'

Suddenly it all made sense—the thorough testing of the data base, the relatively small yield. ‘Practice for what?'

‘I wouldn't,' the gunman said. ‘I don't want to know.'

‘Screw you. For when they bring in the Australia Card. We're gonna be ready to crack it wide open. We'll get millions out of it before they know what's fuckin' happened to them.' He smiled triumphantly but his face still looked unambitious and dumb.

‘Who's we?' I said.

The phone rang. I finished my drink and looked at the gunman who put down his glass and indicated that I should do the same.

‘Yeah,' Charley said into the phone. ‘He's here.' He listened and then extended the phone to the gunman. ‘Wants to talk to you.'

The gunman got up in an easy fluid movement, kept the pistol on me and took the receiver. He listened, said ‘Understood,' and handed the receiver to Charley.

‘What'd he say?'

‘He said to make it a double. Sorry.' He shot Charley in the head. I moved like a twelve-year-old, springing from the chair, hitting the floor in a diving roll and grabbing my .38 from the table all at once. I heard the .22 crack and I got one shot off that went into the ceiling, but by then I was almost behind a high-backed chair and the gunman was facing a heavier calibre gun and a more desperate man. He fired once at the chair but he was already on the retreat. He was quicker than me; by the time I was clear of the chair and had hurdled Charley's body,
the passage was empty apart from the slumped body of Kent Hayward. The door was flapping open. A face appeared in the opening, a woman.

‘Hey,' she yelled.

I said, ‘Call the police.' Then I looked at Hayward and the gun in my hand. I tried to look reassuring but she covered her face with her hands and shrank back. ‘No, don't bother,' I said. ‘I'll do it myself.'