Dragons at the Party (31 page)

“You wouldn’t do that, John. Care for some of Gert’s pumpkin pavlova? It’s better than this cake they’re serving.”

Malone, squeezed in at a wall table for two with Clements, a thundering rock band right above them, saw Delvina go and was relieved. Then he saw the Commissioner beckoning to him. He got up and made his way round the rocking dancers to the Premier’s table. Here the decibels were much lower; just by leaning down he could hear Leeds’ quiet voice.

“The Premier wants to see you in his office at eight tomorrow morning. You’d better go home and get some sleep.”

“What’s it about, sir?”

Leeds looked at Vanderberg, who was watching them with a crocodile’s eye. “I’ll leave him to tell you in the morning.”

“Does Mr. Zanuch know I’m to be there?”

“I’ll tell him. You go home and get a good night’s sleep. You may have a busy day tomorrow.”

Not if can help it
. But Malone couldn’t tell the Commissioner about his plans to take Lisa and
his
family out on the harbour. Leeds might understand and sympathize, but he was a policeman: duty came first.

Malone went back to Clements, who stood up from his half-eaten dinner, bellowed, “Too much bloody noise!” and followed Malone out to the lobby. There Zanuch was waiting in ambush for them, as if he had expected them to sneak off early.

“Where are you going, Inspector?”

“Home, sir. The Commissioner’s orders. I have to report to the Premier’s office at eight in the morning.”

“What for? Why wasn’t I told?”

Malone had no answer to either question.

Zanuch knew he had just been stripped of some of his authority by the Commissioner and, he had no doubt, the Premier. But he had to show he had some left: “On your way home go out to Point Piper and see that Madame Timori has arrived safely.”

“Me, too, sir?” said Clements, eager to be gone.

“No, you stay and keep an eye on General Paturi. He is still our chief suspect. Stay with him till he goes home to the Consulate. He may try to contact Seville—there he goes now! He’s leaving now!”

General Paturi, bored almost to the point of sleep, deafened by what the Australians evidently thought was music, had had enough. It had not taken him long to realize that Premier Vanderberg was on his side; but to what effect and to what extent he did not know. He was ignorant of State and Federal politics in this country; it seemed to him, having lived under a virtual dictatorship all his adult life, that Australia was over-governed. But he understood jealousies and the animal instinct of the territorial imperative and he knew Premier Vanderberg would never do anything to help Prime Minister Norval. Instead, he might do an awful lot to help General Paturi and his colleagues.

But Paturi could suffer just so much in the cause of Paluccan democracy. He thanked The Dutchman, saluted him and Gertrude, and marched out of the huge hall while the nearest band, at full blast, belted out “Papa, Don’t Preach.”

Malone
and Clements went their separate ways, each following his own quarry.

Delvina sat in the back of Hickbed’s Rolls-Royce, well away from his tentatively groping hand. “None of that, Russell. I had enough of that from the New Zealand PM.”

“You were the one who wanted to go to the ball.”

“I made a mistake.” She made few mistakes and rarely admitted them. “The sooner we are out of Australia, the better. Even Upper Volta would be preferable to this.”

He had no idea where Upper Volta was; and she only knew because she had been studying atlases this past week, looking for havens. “I’ll try for Upper Volta, if you like.”

“You would,” she said witheringly.

“Don’t get too nasty, Delvina, or I’ll kick you and Abdul out of my house. I don’t have to put up with your tantrums. Without me you’d have been out on your arse on some beach in Palucca, with all the Aussie hippies.”

“God forbid!”

They sat in sullen silence for the rest of the journey back to Point Piper. When they got out of the Rolls-Royce she strode into the house without saying good night, went up the curving staircase and along to the main guest bedroom at the front of the house. She had been upset that she and Abdul had not been given Hickbed’s own bedroom, with its magnificent view of the harbour, but Hickbed never stretched his hospitality too far. She flung open the door and marched in, in no mood for further argument with Abdul.

He was sitting in a chair facing the door, his hands folded in his lap.

“I’ve come to get my night things,” she said. “I’m sleeping in another room.”

“With Russell?”

“No, not with Russell.” She snatched up her night-gown, then moved to the dressing-table to get her creams and lotions. She stopped, looking at him in the mirror, suddenly caught by his very still composure. “What’s the matter with you? Are you sick or something?”

“A little. I’ve been talking to Sun.”

“
What about?” She turned round, one hand screwing up the night-gown.

“Just about everything. I know who’s paying to have me murdered.” He stood up and for the first time she saw the gun in his hand.

“Who?”

He had moved away from the chair, stood with his back to the window, the yellow silk drapes framing him on either side. He lifted the gun and pointed it at her.

“You.”

Then, as he pulled the trigger of the Colt .45, the window glass behind him cracked and he stumbled forward. He fell across the foot of the bed, hitting his head hard on the iron-bound corner of the jewel-case, then he crashed on to the carpet.

8

I

WHEN MALONE
got out to the car park from the Exhibition Centre he was accosted by Thumper Murphy, in uniform and a bad mood. “Night, Scobie. Been enjoying yourself?”

“No.”

“Me, neither. I’m over here in charge of a detail looking after four thousand bludgers who should be paying for their own security. All the crims on my own turf must be having the time of their lives, breaking and entering and raping old ladies.” Then he said quietly, “I hear you had a bad trot this morning with that bastard Seville.”

Who hadn’t heard of it? Some deaf Laplander north of the Arctic Circle? “I wouldn’t want it to happen again.”

“I’m glad you got out of it okay.” Thumper Murphy was a man afraid of sentiment; somehow he managed to make his sympathy sound like abuse. “Don’t shove your neck out too far. No one’ll ever appreciate it.”

Malone smiled and nodded, suddenly warmed by the rough old cop’s support. He walked across to his car, his own Holden Commodore in which he and Clements had come to the ball, got in and manoeuvred his way out of the packed car park. He took his time, in no mood to go tearing after Delvina Timori and Russell Hickbed. As Thumper had said, they should be paying for their own security.

He drove leisurely out to Point Piper. There was a lot of traffic and he just let himself be carried along with its current. At one point he found himself wishing Seville could end the situation by killing Timori; but of course the situation would not be ended nor would he have peace of mind. There had been times in the past when he had felt no regrets, indeed had felt satisfaction, at the murder of some
vicious
criminal or a child molester or a brutal rapist; there had been just a simple atavistic sense of justice having been done. He had, however, never before wished for a man to be murdered; though he had, on one occasion, wanted to kill a man. That had been in New York on a trip he and Lisa had made before the children were born. They had won twelve thousand dollars in a State lottery and decided to blow half of it on a cheap world trip before they settled down to having a family. In New York Lisa had been kidnapped by a pair of Anarchists; her kidnapping had been accidental, since the Anarchists’ real target had been the wife of the then Mayor of New York. Malone had spent an agonizing couple of days and when he had finally sighted the male kidnapper all thoughts of law and order had been wiped from his mind: he had wanted to kill the man. He had stopped being a policeman; he had become a desperate, avenging husband. Fortunately he had been caught in time, but he had never known such rage before or since.

He felt no rage about Seville or the Timoris, just frustration and a sour cynicism and disgust. If he felt any anger at all it was at the future his children faced, a world where corruption and greed were no longer capital sins.

He had just got out of the car in the narrow street in Point Piper when he heard the shot. At first he thought it was another firework rocket going up; he instinctively looked up towards the sky over the harbour. But the sky remained dark; then he knew there had been a shot. Perhaps two: he couldn’t be sure. He ran towards the Hickbed mansion, was held up for a moment at the gates by a Federal policeman who didn’t recognize him in his dinner suit. Then he was in the driveway, was joined by Joe Nagler who had come panting up from the waterfront.

“Where did that come from? Inside?”

“I think so—I dunno. Were there two shots?”

Kenthurst had now appeared; he looked as if he had been asleep somewhere. They banged on the front door and it was opened almost immediately by Hickbed.

“Upstairs—the front room!” He had lost his glasses or forgotten to put them on; his face was blank with shock. “It’s the President!”

Malone
led the way upstairs at a run. The door to the front bedroom was wide open; Sun Lee stood there with hand spread as if inviting them to come in. Delvina sat slumped on the big silk-covered bed. Abdul Timori lay face down on the yellow carpet, a gun clutched in his right hand and blood oozing from both the top and the side of his head. It was only later that Malone would remember that there was a remarkable silence in the room, that there was no sound at all out of Delvina or Sun and certainly none out of the seemingly dead Timori.

“Get the emergency unit!”

He dropped to his knees beside Timori as Kenthurst picked up the phone and dialled the Police Centre. Malone saw the extent of the two wounds on Timori’s head and was certain the emergency unit was already too late; but when he felt the President’s throat there seemed to be the faintest hint of a pulse there. He looked up at Nagler, who was bending over him anxiously.

“There’s still a flicker there. But they’d better hurry!”

He took the Colt .45 from the President’s hand, smelled the barrel, checked the magazine, then looked for a sign of the bullet that had been fired. Delvina saw what he was looking for and without a word pointed to the hole in the silk coverlet beside her on the bed.

He looked down at Timori lying face down on the floor, then he turned to the window and saw the bullet-hole and the star effect in the glass. He stepped to the window and looked out and up, saw the old house on the high ground on the opposite side of the street. He saw two uniformed police down in the front garden. He pulled up the window, careful not to shatter the glass.

“Get over into that house opposite—that’s where the shot came from! Get on the blower to Centre—tell ‘em I want SWOS or Tac Response here on the double! Move!” He turned back into the room, looked at Kenthurst. “Bob, get things organized around here, will you, till my fellers turn up. Check the streets—we’re looking for Seville. No description except that he’s slim and dark and walks with a sailor’s roll. I’ll look after Madame Timori.”

Kenthurst went out on the run and Malone looked at Delvina. She had been sitting absolutely still, gazing at her unconscious husband; not staring but just gazing at him as if she were making some
decision
about what to do with his body. She looked up when she became aware that Malone was waiting on her.

He gestured towards the doorway. “Let’s go somewhere else, Madame. Sergeant Nagler will stay with the President.”

Sun Lee spoke for the first time. “I shall stay, too.”

Delvina stood up, took another look at her husband, then went ahead of Malone out of the room. “Downstairs,” he said, trying to make it sound like a suggestion rather than an order.

At the foot of the stairs Hickbed was waiting, his glasses restored, his arrogant air, though a little tattered, re-donned. “Is he—?”

“Not yet,” said Malone. “We’ll have him on his way to hospital as soon as we can. Can we go in here?”

But he had already led the way into the huge living-room. It was not a room to offer comfort to the spirit: comfort for the bones and flesh, yes, but not for a grieving, frightened soul. It did not matter: Delvina looked neither grieving nor frightened. Her only sign of agitation was that when she sat down she asked Hickbed for a cigarette.

“The window cracked and Abdul just went down. I—” She drew on the cigarette, then blew out smoke. Most people Malone had interviewed did not blow out smoke, when agitated, in such a cool manner.

Malone, sitting on the edge of a deep, raw silk-covered chair, put the Colt .45 down between his feet. “What was the President doing with this in his hand?”

Delvina stubbed out the cigarette, carefully and with no nervousness. “He was trying to shoot me.”

She was sitting on a long couch and Hickbed was standing at the end of it, as if not sure whether he was wanted for the interview or not. Now he suddenly moved and sat down heavily. “Jesus, Del, what are you saying? Don’t take any notice of her, Inspector, she’s upset by this terrible happening—”

“I’m upset, Russell, but I know what I’m saying. Abdul was trying to kill me.” She was still
wearing
her tiara and her jewellery, but now she began to take them off, as if she thought them inappropriate. She opened her legs just a little and put the treasure in her lap, a peasant’s way of holding it.

“Why?” said Malone, watching her carefully.

“I’m not sure. Before I left for the ball he mentioned suicide—he wondered if it was worthwhile going on—”

She’s lying, thought Malone. “What did he say when you came home?”

“Nothing. Well yes, he said
you
.”

“You? Y-O-U?” She nodded. “And that was all?”

“Yes. I don’t know whether he intended to kill me and then commit suicide. Or—” She didn’t finish the alternative. “Then the gun went off and he fell. Or it must have gone off as he fell—that was how the bullet hit the bed. He hit his head an awful crack on my jewel-box—” She shuddered, as if the memory of that was worse than the thought of the bullet that had creased the top of his head.