Dragons at the Party (28 page)

“They’re not going to drop in on Lisa? I don’t want her scared stiff.”

“No, they’ll just cruise by, keep an eye skinned. If Seville’s watching your place, maybe it’ll scare him off. I didn’t know whether to tell you . . .”

Malone put a hand on Clements’ arm. He was not given to affectionate gestures; he belonged to the old school of men who didn’t throw their arms round each other. In that he was like his father: Con had been heard to remark that he was glad his son had retired from cricket before all the kissing and
hugging
poofters had invaded the game. But Malone was not afraid of sentiment and emotion.

“Thanks, Russ. If anything happened to her and the kids . . .”

“I know how you feel,” said Clements, the bachelor.

Before they left Homicide, Malone rang Lisa at home. He felt weak with relief when her calm, confident voice came on the wire. He sat down heavily in his chair. “I—I just wanted to say I’m sorry I spoiled the evening.”

“Sometimes I could kill you,” she said. “Or anyway the Police Department. But you’re forgiven. What about tomorrow?”

“What about it?” He was losing track of the days.

“Scobie—” She usually called him
darling
or
sweetheart
: when she called him by name she was annoyed. “You promised to take us all out on a tug. Have you forgotten that?”

He had not forgotten; at least not till the last hour or so. It had been at the back of his mind for the past three days. He had arranged weeks ago with a tug-boat captain, for whom he had done some legitimate favours, for Lisa and the children to accompany the captain’s own family and friends out on the harbour to see the sail-past of the tall ships. With the enthusiasm that fathers feel for what they think their children should enjoy, he had hoped it would be the highlight of the year for them, something they would remember all their lives.

“It’s all fixed,” he said, hoping the tug wouldn’t sink at its berth overnight; it would run true to his current luck if it did. “We have to be down at the wharf at nine o’clock.”

“You too?”

“Of course,” he said and tried to sound confident. “I should be home by midnight at the latest. Keep the bed warm.”

“In this heat? I hope you break a leg while you’re dancing with Russ Clements.” Then she said, “I still love you.”

“What was that noise in the background?”

“It was Tom saying Erk! Enjoy the ball, darling. Give my love to Mr. Zanuch, the bastard.”

“
I hope your son didn’t hear you say that. I love you, too.”

“Did I hear a noise in the background?”

“It was Russ saying Erk!” He hung up and grinned at Clements. The latter grinned back, saying nothing but saying a lot. Some day he would do something about the occasional loneliness he felt.

Malone was quiet on the way to the Exhibition Centre. It might be just sheer chance that Seville had dumped the stolen car in Randwick, nonetheless he was worried. He had always managed to keep his family life separate from his police work; despite the number of criminals he had brought to justice, none of them had ever threatened his family. If Seville was not caught within the next twelve hours, he would move Lisa and the children to her parents’ home. They were not going to become part of the stakes in this case.

A special section had been set apart in the parking area for police cars; Malone was surprised at the number there. Zanuch, as usual, had over-reacted.

“Well, we’re among the usual company,” said Clements. “Look who’s here.”

Malone looked at the two groups of guests going in ahead of them. One of them was led by the biggest criminal in Sydney, a man as notorious for never having gone to jail as for the crimes that should have sent him there; he was a worthy descendant of the more evil convicts who had helped found the colony and therefore deserved to be here to celebrate. The second group was led by the city’s most famous madam, giving her girls a night off their backs and a glimpse of their clients with their wives. All the city’s minority groups had been catered for and made welcome.

Assistant Commissioner Zanuch, handsome as a male model in his expensive dinner suit, was waiting for them in the foyer. He seemed surprised that his two junior officers looked as good as they did. Even the beefy, usually rumpled Clements appeared to have been slimmed down and run over by a steam-iron.

“No one would ever know . . .”

“That we’re coppers, sir?” said Malone. “The shoulder holster makes my jacket a bit tight. My gun would have stuck out more if I’d worn it on my hip.”

“
You won’t be doing any dancing, so no one will notice.”

“Why are we here?”

“General Paturi is here, at the Premier’s table.” Zanuch turned away for a moment to acknowledge greetings from two politicians and their wives; as he turned back he then nodded his head and flashed a smile at three businessmen and their womenfolk. He knows everyone, thought Malone: he was his own PR department, his eye always on the right connection, the main chance. “I’ve put him down as one of the chief suspects.”

It took Malone a moment to follow his chiefs thinking. Then he caught on, “You think he could be the one employing Seville?”

“Of course. It’s too much of a coincidence that he arrives here just after the assassination attempt fails. He and his fellow generals have the most to gain with the death of Timori. He’s the logical suspect. What are
they
doing here?”

A group of homosexuals had just come in. They looked no different from any of the other men, except for a superfluity of thick moustaches and short-cropped hair; they might have been a team of footballers having a stag night out, except that some of them were holding hands, something footballers might do on the field but never off it.

“Sydney’s the gay capital of the country,” said Clements, who had been a poofter-basher in his youth but now was tolerant of them. “The ball committee said everyone had to be represented.”

“Disgusting,” said Zanuch. “They should all be locked up. Is he smiling at you, Malone?”

One of the men, recognizing Malone, had smiled and waved a greeting. “Yes, sir. He’s one of ours, on the Vice Squad. Are we expected to tail General Paturi?”

Zanuch glared at Malone, as if he suspected the latter was pulling his leg; but he decided to risk his leg no further. “Yes, keep an eye on him. And Seville himself might turn up here. They have to make contact again some time, one assumes.”

Malone held his tongue. He and Clements, it seemed, had been called in on a job that any junior detective constable could have done. Zanuch noticed his silence.

“
Something wrong, Inspector?”

But then a party of eight came into the foyer, all fluting vowels, too-wide smiles and three-thousand-dollar gowns, making their own loud entrance into the third century of the country. Malone recognized the women if not the men: they were the queen bees of the charity balls. But tonight’s affair was not a charity ball and The Dutchman, with his malice towards those who would never vote for him, had seen to it that they had all been placed at the one table. The queen bees were sharing the one hive tonight and they were buzzing loudly to show everyone that they did not care. Zanuch left Malone and Clements, went across to the group and bowed low over the hands of the women.

Clements looked at Malone in disgust. “Thank Christ I’m not ambitious!”

“Let’s go inside before he gets our backs up any further.”

They went into the crowded auditorium, keeping to the walls, not sure what they were supposed to be looking for, even less sure what they would do if they found it. Surely Seville wouldn’t come here? Malone thought. Then he saw Delvina Timori sitting at the table at the far end of the room.

Delvina was having her best evening since arriving back in Australia. She delighted in other people’s discomfort; her malice, unlike Vanderberg’s, was almost juvenile. A good many of the people here at the ball, including those at this table, would not have entertained her back in the old days of the dance company. Besides
la crème
of the natives, there were foreign dignitaries at the neighbouring tables: ambassadors, foreign ministers, even an African chief who had been invited on the mistaken assumption that he still amounted to something in his own country. There were no Heads of State. So that Delvina, who had studied protocol as other women study diet charts, knew that she out-ranked them all. As the wife of a President, an ex-President maybe but one still recognized, if only because of slackness or indifference, by most governments, she knew who belonged to the common herd and who did not.

Anita Norval was one of those who belonged, though no one had ever thought of her as common. Delvina leaned towards her, her smile like a knife in honey. “You’ll never have a bigger night, will you, Anita?”

Anita was equal to the jibe, “I suppose it’s bigger than your last night in the palace in Bunda.
What’
s it like when the bailiffs move in? Especially with tanks?”

Everyone at the table leaned forward as if grace were being said; ears stood out like satellite dishes. They all despised Delvina, but they would have fought, with tanks if necessary, if anyone had suggested they should move from this table.

Delvina did not disappoint them. “Unless you’ve lived dangerously, Anita, I couldn’t describe it to you. But you’ve always played it safe, haven’t you? Both of you.” She smiled at Philip Norval across the table. “I suppose one has to when one has to pander to the voters. We never had to do that in Palucca.”

All the voters around the table looked at the chief panderer. Norval, for the second time that day, wished someone dead; but he knew it would take more than a steely glare to kill Delvina. There had been times when he could not resist jumping into her bed. She had taught him that the
Kama Sutra
, which he had read as a schoolboy, was actually only a nursery primer; he had learned things from her that were never mentioned on quiz shows. Then he had become conscience-stricken, a condition that goes with loss of potency; he had always loved Anita and still did, and he had been relieved when Delvina had moved on to foreign fields and foreign beds. But the allure of her still remained, like a musky scent that no amount of Persil can wash out of old sheets. And he knew that Anita knew it. Women have a nose for such things.

He was saved from replying by Russell Hickbed, who decided the baiting had gone far enough. He had protested at first when Delvina had suggested he should bring her to the ball; then, though he had little or no humour in him, he had seen the chance of some comedy. And of sensation, a ploy to which he was no stranger. Delvina had that effect on men: she raised them above themselves, though not in moral terms.

Hickbed said, “President Timori sent his respects to you, Anita. He is a great admirer of yours.”

“Really?” said Anita, who had never spoken to the ex-President. “Philip has never told me so.”

“I must have forgotten,” said the Prime Minister, who couldn’t remember having an unhappier night; this was worse than the night he had beaten Neil Kissing by only one vote for the Party’s leadership. A waitress put something down in front of him and he looked at it. “What’s this?”

“
Pumpkin pavlova, sir,” said the waitress. “The Premier’s wife, Mrs. Vanderberg, made it specially for you.”

Norval looked down the long hall. In the far distance Gertrude Vanderberg was fluttering her fingers at him, smiling brightly and nodding. He knew there was no spite in the old duck; in fact, on the rare occasions that they had met he had liked her. He bit into the pumpkin pavlova, was surprised that he liked it and waved a hand in acknowledgement to Gertrude.

“Any taste of arsenic?” whispered Anita.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Pity,” she said.

Delvina had been looking around the auditorium, basking in the unabashed stares of the thousands as if it were the sun in her private garden in the palace in Bunda. If the more radical of the guests were hating her, it was water off a swan’s back; she just arched her neck and looked more regal, or what she thought was regal.

“Let’s dance, Russell.”

He shook his head. “I can’t dance. I’m not going to make a fool of myself out there on the floor. Ask Phil—he thinks he’s Fred Astaire.”

She was tempted to ask Norval to take her out on the floor, but Anita had overheard Hickbed’s suggestion and was already rising to grab her husband. Then Delvina saw Inspector Malone standing against a decorated pillar, looking manly and almost handsome, certainly better than he had looked this morning.

The band on this particular dance floor had just struck up a modern waltz; they were under instructions to cater to everyone up to their eighties, since several senior citizens were on the invitation list. Malone saw Delvina raise a hand and crook a finger at him. He was about to turn away and ignore the summons when Zanuch appeared beside him.

“Is that for you or me, Inspector? I’ve never met the lady.”

He sounded as if he were ready to crawl on hands and knees across the floor to the lady, and
Malone
encouraged him. “I think she means you, sir.”

Zanuch put a finger to his chest, but Delvina shook her head and pointed to Malone. The Assistant Commissioner, the bruise to his ego already turning blue, looked at his junior officer. “It’s you, Inspector. Go ahead.”

“Do I have to? Isn’t that what we call consorting with criminals?”

“It’s an order, Inspector,” said Zanuch, another with little or no humour, and marched back to his table and his long-suffering wife.

Malone made his way to the Prime Minister’s table, aware that everyone within fifty yards was staring at him; several couples already on the dance floor missed their step and there was a small pile-up near the dance band. Two of the girls at the brothel table waved to him, but he just kept going. Delvina stood up as he reached her.

“Of course, Inspector,” she said before he could say anything. She glanced at Anita and the other women. “Inspector Malone asked me to dance with him years ago, but I was a professional then.”