Five-Ring Circus (14 page)

Why not? Malone wanted to ask him.

“Do students who come in here,” said Gail, “do they have to register with the consulate?”

“Of course. They like to keep in touch. You are referring to the unfortunate student Zhang?”

“He and another student named Li Ping.”

Chen opened his narrow eyes. “She has been also murdered?”

“
We don't know,” said Malone. “She has disappeared, along with two other people, not students. Mr. Tong and Mr. Guo—are they registered with the consulate?”

“Yes.” He appeared to have a computer list in his head. Or perhaps the names were in the papers on his cluttered desk. “They have disappeared also? That is very disturbing.”

“Yes, you could say that.”

Chen unexpectedly smiled, an unexpectedly sweet smile. “We are not reluctant to co-operate, Inspector. But it is not in our character to fling the door wide open as soon as you knock.” Then somehow the small mouth widened further. “You expect us to talk in aphorisms, don't you?”

Malone was aware that Gail, sitting beside him, was sharing Chen's smile. “I have to tell you, Mr. Chen, I am still working on Constable Lee's character.”

The Chinese consulate was in Woollahra, a habitat for consuls who had a yen for tree-lined streets, trendy cafés and smart restaurants; one worked better for one's country if one could leave the visas and go out and flash a Visa. The Chinese consulate had moved here after the taking over of Hong Kong, into a small mansion where the red flag hung from a flagpole in the garden like something that had blown in from another era.

Driving back from Bondi Gail had suggested dropping in at the consulate, which was on the way back to Strawberry Hills. Normally, when working on a case, she had a cool detachment; on this one there was an involvement, a
determination,
that he had not remarked before. As if she had stepped into an examination she had to pass.

“Persistence,” she said now to the two men, “it's the secret of every woman's character.”

Chen and Malone exchanged male smiles; then Chen said, “To be serious, we are very much disturbed about the young people you have mentioned.” Though he had to be less than thirty, he spoke as if the missing student and engineers were mere children. “The Fraud Squad have already been to interview us about those extraordinary amounts in Zhang's and Li Ping's bank accounts.” Now that he was relaxed his words came out less explosively. “That sort of thing is a great embarrassment.”

Malone had not expected such an admission. “Can you explain how such an embarrassment
was
allowed to happen?”

“Mr. Deng, our consul-general, is down in Canberra—”

“Deng?” said Gail. “As in Deng Xiaoping?”

Again the sweet smile. “No relation.”

“That must be fortunate for you. No nepotism so far south. My father told me nepotism rules the roost in China.”

“Where does he come from?”

“Oh, he was born here. But my grandparents came from Hunan.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Changsha.”

The smile widened, was almost joyous. “Where I come from! How remarkable!”

Nice work, Gail, thought Malone. She had Mr. Chen completely relaxed.

“Does Mr. Deng work out of Canberra?” asked Malone.

“Oh no, he is down there at a conference at the embassy. That is why I am holding the fort.”

Malone wondered if Deng would be as expansive as Chen now appeared to be. “A conference on the murders we are investigating? On Mr. Shan in particular?”

“We now have problems, just as you did in the 1980s. Entrepreneurs—” He shook his head.

“What do you do with them?”

Chen smiled again, less sweetly this time. “We don't let them flee to Spain or Poland. We keep an eye on them, but they are slippery customers.”

“Was Mr. Shan a slippery customer?” said Gail. “He seemed to have an awful lot of money at his call.”

Suddenly the mouth was a hyphen again. “Mr. Shan was not who he claimed to be.”

“Who was he then?”

A moment's hesitation; but he was still relatively relaxed: “He was General Huang Piao. Ex- general, I should say.”

“
Then he never worked for the Central China Department of Trade?” said Gail.

“Not as far as we know. He was retired from the army five years ago—”

“Retired?” said Malone. “Or sacked?”

Chen shrugged. “He had an honourable record. But—” Then he stopped: he had said too much. “Go on, Mr. Chen.”

“No, I think it best that I wait till Mr. Deng comes back from Canberra.”

“I'm an ordinary Australian voter, Mr. Chen—we take everything that comes out of Canberra with a grain of salt. Whether from our government or foreign embassies. Reality never bites down there.”

“You can be so free with your opinions of your government.” Chen sounded almost wistful. “Do you think Mr. Deng will not come back with the truth?”

“Oh, I'm sure he'll come back with the truth. Whether he'll pass it on to us—well, what d'you think?”

He was no longer smiling. “As soon as Mr. Deng returns I shall call you.”

“Before we go,” said Malone, “what do you know about a woman named Tzu Chao? Madame Tzu, as she likes to be called.”

“I think Mr. Deng should answer that.” He had retreated behind his own Great Wall. “I shall call you as soon as he returns.”

Outside in the street Gail Lee said, “Where to now?”

“I think we'd better go and see Madame Tzu before
she
bolts.”

IV

The Vanderbilt was one of the oldest apartment blocks in the central business district, built right after World War One. There were few Australian millionaires then, so such style and luxury had to be named after the American super-rich; the American invasion has been around much longer than the cap-on-backwards, basketballing, guys-and-gals generation know. Nobody bought off the plan; that sort of gamble came later. But as soon as the building was finished, buyers fell over each other to be amongst the
chosen
few. For the next seventy-five years living in the Vanderbilt retained its cachet. It was in Macquarie Street, the finest street in the city. It rose twelve storeys above the Botanical Gardens and was halfway between the Opera House and Parliament House, equidistant from harmony and discord.

The concierge was missing from his cubicle and Malone and Gail Lee walked straight through the foyer to the lifts. The timber panelling of the lift looked as if it was polished every week; the button-panel was a brass mirror.

“I like luxury,” said Gail. “This old-fashioned kind.”

“Notice how slowly the lift travels? Nobody in this building has to rush to earn a dollar.”

“I wonder how the other tenants feel about having Communists as neighbours?”

“Rich
Communists—there's a difference. Anyhow, do you think Madame Tzu is a Communist?”

The Bund apartment took in all the tenth floor. It was expensively furnished, with only the occasional Oriental piece, as if the interior decorator had been given a nudge. The big living room did have a large silk rug laid over the plain white carpet. The pictures on the walls were Oriental scenes, but none of them suggested anything that might remotely resemble Chairman Mao's philosophy. The Great Leader had faded from the scene, at least here.

Madame Tzu hadn't bolted. She received Malone and Gail Lee with the impeccable charm of a professional hostess. The smile, perhaps, was put on like make-up; she showed them to chairs as if seating them at ringside. If she was wary of them she gave no sign of it. She was absolutely at home in the Vanderbilt.

Malone, as soon as he had stepped into the apartment, had a feeling of familiarity. He must have betrayed it in some way because Madame Tzu said, “You are looking for something, Inspector?”

“No,” he said, suddenly remembering, “I was here in this apartment eight or nine years ago. “The woman who owned it was murdered.”

She showed no shock, gave no shudder. “How interesting. I haven't noticed any ghost. Were you expecting to see one?”

“Homicide detectives never look for ghosts. We'd never sleep if we did.”

She
offered them tea, rang a bell on a side table and an elderly woman in a blue smock appeared from a rear door. Madame Tzu said something in Chinese and the woman disappeared. Then she sat down, arranging herself in a gilt-armed chair as if granting them an audience. She was wearing a grey silk dress and a single strand of black pearls. This morning she was not wearing sunglasses and Malone, for the first time, saw the calculation in her eyes. Ghosts would never disturb her.

“So how can I help you?”

Malone plunged straight in: “Madame Tzu, on Saturday you told us that you and Mr. Shan had known each other since student days. You also told us you had once worked together in the Central China Department of Trade. Would you care to alter your story?”

There was a sudden remoteness in the dark eyes. “In what way?”

“Well, for one thing, Madame Tzu, Mr. Shan never worked in the Department of Trade. For another, I doubt if you were ever students together. He must have been older than we thought—when he was retired from the army five years ago, he was a general—General Huang Piao. You knew that, of course?”

She sat very still, saying nothing.

Malone went on, “Even in the Chinese army I don't think they have generals who are barely middle-aged.”

Her smile was white lacquer. “You are guessing at my age again.”

She's playing for time.
“We're guessing at a lot of things.”

They were interrupted by the maid bringing in a tray; Malone wondered if a kettle was kept on constant boil out in the kitchen. Tea was poured from a china pot into thin china cups: it was pale tea with a slice of lemon, take it or leave it. But the biscuits offered with it were Aussie icons: Monte Carlos.

“Do I have to answer your questions, Inspector?” Madame Tzu sipped her tea, nodded her approval at the maid, who slipped out of sight again. “Perhaps I should have a lawyer here with me? I seem to be under suspicion of some sort. You like your tea?”

“It's fine, thanks. You can have a lawyer, if you wish, but I think you can handle our questions
without
any outside help.”

Madame Tzu looked at Gail. “Is he flattering me?”

“I've never known him to do it before,” said Gail, not looking at her boss.

Madame Tzu seemed to be searching for answers in her tea leaves; then she said, “Yes, Mr. Shan was an army general. But we did know each other as students—he came to Oxford to study History. History as the West has written it, that is.”

“He was older than you?”

“Yes, he was a colonel at the time. A mature student, I think they are called these days.”

“Did
you
ever work for the Department of Trade?”

“Yes, I did. So did Mr. Shan after he left the army—he was an outside consultant. I take it you think I lied to you?”

“I think you believe all truth is relative.”

Madame Tzu looked at Gail again. “You have taught him Taoism?”

“He's a quick learner,” said Gail.

Malone said, “Madame Tzu, let's cut out the—”

“Bullshit?” The word hung on her lips like a cold sore.

“That wasn't the word I was going to use, but okay, it'll do. I take it you knew the two young engineers who worked at Olympic Tower? Tong and Guo?”

“Worked? They still do, as far as I know.”

“I don't think so. They didn't report in this morning and we've been to their flats. They're both gone.”

She took refuge in her teacup again, considered, then said, “Yes, I know them. I have no idea why they have disappeared.”

“A student named Zhang and a girl student Li Ping—did you know them?”

“No.”

But she had hesitated. “You're sure? We asked you about Zhang on Saturday morning—you
didn'
t appear surprised that he had been murdered.”

“If I didn't know him, why should I be surprised? You are a homicide detective—are you surprised by murder?”

“It's our trade.”

“Inspector, I'm old enough to have seen a thousand murders. My country went through a terrible period . . .” She put down her cup; there was just the slightest agitation in her hand. “No, I am not surprised by murder.”

“Not Mr. Shan's?” said Gail.

The older woman looked at her. “You are one of the lucky ones. You have our heritage but none of our tragedy. Don't start judging what you've never experienced.”

“Were you a Red Guard?”

“No, I was not!” All the composure was gone; she was consumed with hatred, anger that made her ugly. But not at us, thought Malone: “Those idiot fanatics murdered my parents and my brother!”

Thirty years on was a little too late to offer sympathy; both detectives remained silent. Madame Tzu faced away from them for a long moment; then she slowly turned back. Her face was expressionless; it was as if nothing had happened. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Not at the moment,” said Malone, rising. He was no fisherman, but he had learned the value of a long line. “But I'm sure there'll be more questions. Thank you for the tea.”

At the door he turned back. “Do you have any contact with the media, Madame?”

“None at all. I've never found them necessary.”

Oh, if only we could have that attitude.
“Keep it that way. As a favour.”

“Tell me when you're coming next time,” she said, “and we'll do it with a little more ceremony.”

“That'll be nice,” he said. “Why did you visit Mr. Tong on Friday night?”

He had jerked on the line: she stiffened. “I thought you said Tong had disappeared?”