Dragons at the Party (2 page)

Outside, on the other side of the harbour, the fireworks had begun. The sky was an explosion of illumination. The city turned red, white and blue, the colours of the British, the founding fathers; someone had forgotten to light the green and gold rockets and local patriotism, as so often, remained in the dark. The citizens were still getting used to the idea that their nation was two hundred years old this week, not sure whether it was a good or a bad thing.

The ambulance had just come in the gates and in a moment or two Mohammed Masutir, the dead man, would be lifted into it and carted away to the morgue; but as far as Malone could see, Madame Timori had already forgotten him, had put his murder out of her mind.

“I’d like to ask some questions, Mr. President.”

“The President is too upset at the moment to answer questions,” said the President’s wife and, belatedly, made her own effort to look upset. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief; Malone noticed it came away unmarked by any of the thick mascara she wore. “Poor Mr. Masutir.”

“Yes.” Malone noticed that she, notorious for her jewels, wore none tonight. She was crying poor mouth, silently. But there were the emeralds that had been taken from Masutir’s pocket. He said bluntly, “The bullet was meant for the President—we can be pretty sure of that. Do you know of any organized opposition group here in Australia that would be likely to try and kill you, sir?”

“Start asking that trash in the street outside—”

Timori
raised a tired hand, silencing his wife. He took a sip of Scotch from the glass in his other hand; he was one of those Muslims, Malone guessed, who bent his religion to his own tastes. Malone, a Catholic, knew the feeling.

“Mr. Malone, I have enemies everywhere. Tell me a ruler who does not. The President of the United States, your Prime Minister—”

“I don’t think Philip Norval thinks of himself as a ruler, darling,” said Madame Timori. “Does he rule you, Mr. Malone?”

Malone gave her a smile and looked at Kenthurst. “Sergeant Kenthurst could answer that better than I can. He’s from Canberra, where everyone rules. Yes, Sergeant?”

Clements had knocked on the door and put his tousled head into the room. “Can I see you a moment, Inspector?”

Malone went out into the hall. With the edge of his eye and mind he was aware of the furnishings of the house; it was the sort of place he wished he could afford for Lisa and the kids. Then he consoled himself: the voters could kick you out of here quicker than any foreclosing bank. “What is it, Russ?”

“None of those out in the street know anything—I’m inclined to believe them. We’ve been into those flats opposite—some of the owners are away for the weekend. Those that are home said they heard nothing because of the noise of the clowns up the street.”

“What about the top-floor flats? That’d be the best bet where the shot came from.”

“The whole of the top floor is owned by an old lady, a—” Clements looked at his notebook “—a Miss Kiddle. The bloke below her thought she should be home, but we can’t raise her.”

Malone looked at the burly, greying sergeant in uniform behind Clements. “What do you reckon, Fred?”

Thumper Murphy was a senior sergeant in the local North Sydney division. He had played rugby for the State and for Australia; his approach to football opponents and law-breakers was the same: straight through them. He was the last of a dying breed and Malone sometimes wondered if the Force
could
stand their loss. “We could bash the front door down. I’ve got a sledge-hammer in me car.”

“I thought sledge-hammers had gone out of fashion.”

“Not on my turf,” said Thumper with a broken-toothed grin.

“Righto, get in any way you can. But don’t scare hell out of the old lady.”

Thumper Murphy, accompanied by Clements, went away to get his sledge-hammer and Malone went back into the drawing-room. The President had lapsed back into the bleary-eyed look he had had when Malone had first walked into the room; the whisky glass in his hand was now empty. Madame Timori took the glass from him, slapped his wrist lightly as if he were a naughty child, and glanced at Malone.

“I’ve suggested to Sergeant Kenthurst that the President be allowed to go to bed. He’s worn out.”

Malone looked at Kenthurst, who somehow managed to shrug with his eyebrows,
What could I say?
“All right, Madame Timori. But I’d like to see the President again in the morning. By then I hope we’ll know where we’re going.”

Timori was helped to his feet by his wife; he suddenly looked ten years older, sick and tired. “You don’t know where you’re going, Inspector? Neither do we. Good night.”

He brushed off his wife’s helping hand and walked, a little unsteadily, out of the room. Madame Timori looked at the two policemen. “We’ve been through a lot this past week, as you’ve probably read.”

And it hasn’t put a hair of your head out of place, Malone thought. Surviving a two-day siege of their palace, then a successful, though not bloody, coup, seemed hardly to have fazed her at all. Exile, however, might do that.

“You may have to go through a lot more, Madame. This may not be the last attempt on the President’s life. Or on yours,” he added and waited for the effect of the remark.

She did not flinch. “I’ve had three attempts on my life in the past three years. One gets used to it.” It was bravado, but Malone had to admire it. “I suppose we were careless this evening. One just
doesn’
t expect assassination attempts in Australia. Except character assassination,” she added with a smile that would have cut a thousand throats. “Now, is there anyone else you’d like to question?”

She had taken charge of the investigation. Malone grinned inwardly: Lisa would enjoy the police gossip in bed tonight. If he got to bed . . . “Anyone you’d care to suggest?”

Madame Timori gave him a look that would have demoted him right back to cadet if she’d had the authority. “The household staff?”

“I think we can leave them till last. I’d like to talk to the staff you brought with you from Palucca. They’d know more about your enemies.” He was treading on dangerous ground. He was aware of the warning waves coming out of Kenthurst, the Canberra man.
You’re dealing with a Federal Government guest, a personal friend of the Prime Minister
. “That is, if you don’t mind, Madame?”

“You mean am I going to claim diplomatic immunity for them?”

“I don’t think they’d want that. Not if they want to know who is trying to kill their President.”
Even if he’s only an ex-President now
.

“You sound so efficient, Inspector. So unlike our own police back home. I suppose, then, you should start with Sun Lee.”

Sun Lee was the President’s private secretary, a Chinese in his mid-forties with a skin as smooth as jade and eyes like black marbles. He was just as cold as both those stones. “I have nothing to tell you, Inspector.”

Malone looked at Madame Timori, who gave him a smug smile. Then he looked back at the Chinese. “Maybe you could show me Mr. Masutir’s room?”

Sun frowned, a thin crack in the jade. “He shared a room with me—the accommodation here is limited—” He spoke with all the expansive snobbery of a man accustomed to a palace. “There is nothing in Mr. Masutir’s room but his personal belongings.”

“Those are what I want to see.”

Sun glanced at Madame Timori, but she said nothing. Then he turned abruptly and led Malone out of the room and upstairs. The house, for an official residence,
was
small. Australia did not believe in
any
grandeur for those it voted into office; that was reserved for those forced upon it, the Queen’s Governors and Governor-General. There was a substantial mansion right next door to Kirribilli House, but that was the Sydney residence of the Governor-General and no place for a deposed President. The Queen, through her representative, only entertained exiled monarchs. A certain protocol had to be observed, even in disgrace.

The room was comfortably and attractively furnished, but Sun obviously thought it was a converted closet stocked from a discount house. “There is no room to move . . . Mr. Masutir’s things are still in his suitcase. We were only allowed to bring one suitcase each.”

“I read in the papers that the RAAF plane that brought you was loaded with baggage.”

“The newspapers, as always, got it wrong. We brought packing cases, but they are full of official papers—records, files, that sort of thing. President Timori wanted to leave nothing for the vandals who have taken over the palace.”

“What about Madame Timori? Did she bring only one suitcase?”

“Madame Timori has a position to uphold.”

“I thought she might have. The papers said she brought twelve cases and four trunks. But women never travel lightly, do they? So they tell me.”

Masutir’s suitcase, a genuine Vuitton or a good Hong Kong fake, Malone wasn’t sure which, was not locked. Malone flipped back the lid, was surprised at how neatly everything was packed; had Masutir been packed for weeks, waiting for the inevitable? Most of the contents told Malone nothing except that Masutir had always bought quality: the shirts, the socks, the pyjamas were all silk. In a pocket in the lid were Masutir’s passport and a black leather-bound notebook.

Malone flipped through the passport. “Mr. Masutir had been to Australia before?”

“I understand he had been here before.”

“Six times in the past—” Malone looked at the earliest date stamp “—eight months. Did you know about those visits, Mr. Sun?”

If Sun had known about the visits he didn’t show it now. “No. Mr. Masutir was more Madame
Timori’
s secretary than my assistant. Back home in Palucca she was a very busy woman, as you may know.”

“Are you a Paluccan, Mr. Sun?”

“Fourth generation. My family came to Bunda from Hong Kong after the Opium War.”

“Which side were they on?” Sun looked blank and Malone added, “The war?”

Sun still looked blank, made no answer. So much for being a smart arse, thought Malone; but the quietly arrogant Chinese was beginning to get under his skin. Malone flipped through the black notebook, saw a list of Sydney addresses and phone numbers. He decided against asking Sun about them.

“I’ll take this, I’ll give you a receipt for it.”

“Can you do that?”

“Do you want me to find out who murdered Mr. Masutir?”

The tiny frown was there again, but just for a moment. “Of course. But how will his address book help you?”

“We have to start somewhere, Mr. Sun. Every murderer has a name. Our murderers may be in this.” He held up the notebook, then slipped it into his pocket. “I think that’ll be all, Mr. Sun.”

Sun looked surprised, and Malone was surprised to see him capable of such an expression. “You don’t want to question me?”

“I’ll be back to do that, Mr. Sun. In the meantime you prepare your answers.”

He went ahead of the Chinese down the stairs, not bothering to look back at him or say anything further. He sensed there might be something in Masutir’s notebook which might worry Sun Lee. A night to think about it might put another crack in the jade face.

When Malone reached the front hallway Clements was waiting there for him. He read the bad news on the big man’s face before Clements said it. “We bashed the door down and found the old lady. She’d been strangled.”

“Any sign of the killer?”

Clements shook his head. “He’d left his gun, though. A Springfield .30, with a telescopic sight. He was a pro, I’d say. I’ve rung Fingerprints, they’re on their way.”

“
What about the old lady? Had he knocked her around?”

“No. It was a neat job, with a piece of rope. He’d come prepared. Like I say, he was a real pro.”

“Righto, I’ll be over there in a while. In the meantime, give this to Andy Graham, tell him I want every one of those Sydney addresses and phone numbers tracked down. Tell him to tell them to stand by when he finds out who they are. I’ll want to interview them.” He handed the notebook to Clements, aware of Sun standing behind him and hearing every word. “Something doesn’t add up here. Maybe they meant to kill Masutir, after all. You think so, Mr. Sun?”

The mask was flawless this time. “It would be presumptuous of me even to guess, Inspector. I am not a detective.”

Clements watched the small exchange, but his own wide open face was now expressionless. “I’ll wait for you over the road, Inspector.”

Malone went back into the drawing-room, said directly to Madame Timori, “There’s been another murder. An old lady over in the flats opposite.”

She just nodded. She did not appear disturbed; the handkerchief was not even produced this time. She stood up, giving herself regal airs if not a regal air, which is different; she was the most common of commoners but she had always had aspirations. She had always wanted to dance the royal roles when she had been with the dance company; nobody would ever have believed her as Cinderella. “I’m retiring for the night.”

I’d like to retire, too, thought Malone; or anyway, go to bed. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, Madame. I hope the President will be well enough to answer some questions.”

“What sort of questions have you in mind? I’m sure I could answer them all.” She paused, as if she might sit down again.

“You must be tired,” said Malone, not offering her any further opportunity to take over the investigation. “Good night, Madame. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He went out into the warm night air. There he exchanged information with the two other Homicide men who had come with him and Clements. One of them was Andy Graham, a young
overweight
detective constable who had just transferred from the uniformed division. He was all enthusiasm and ideas, most of which were as blunt as Thumper Murphy’s sledgehammer.

“I’ve got the notebook, Inspector.” He brandished it like a small black flag. “I’ll have ‘em all waiting for you first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Not all at once, Andy. Use your judgement, get the big ones first.”

“Right, Inspector, right.”

“Take Kerry here with you. Divide up the addresses and numbers between you. Be polite.”