Murder Song (15 page)

The Victorian pile of the Town Hall was floodlit, making everyone going up the wide front steps a splendid target for an assassin. There were plenty of voters who had no time for the Prime Minister; but there had been only two attempted political assassinations in Australia and most people had now forgotten those. There were, however, several groups of demonstrators on the footpath at the bottom of the steps, waving banners and chanting slogans and abuse at the guests as they arrived. There were conservationists, Aboriginals, retrenched social workers, anti-abortionists and two women under a banner protesting that the Second Coming of Christ had been delayed by a recently passed Act, a miracle that would have gone to the head of parliament if it had believed the accusation.

Malone and O'Brien got out of the limousine, preceded by the two security men. The crowd, not recognizing them, abused them anyway: anyone who arrived in a stretch limousine couldn't be in favour of conservation, Aboriginals, social workers, the right to life or Jesus Christ. If they had known
Malone
was a cop, the volume of abuse would have increased.

The two security men were left in the lobby of the Town Hall and Malone and O'Brien passed into the huge main hall. Malone at once recognized at least a dozen faces: the cream, or the scum, depending on one's social prejudice, of Sydney was here. The reception was a United Nations celebration and, like motherhood, it had to be supported; one could rant against the UN in private, as one could use contraception against the chances of motherhood, but one never did so in public. A man who knew the full value of a public face stopped by Malone.

“Inspector Malone—” Hans Vanderberg, the State Premier, never forgot a name or a face. “I saw who you came in with. Mr. O'Brien. Is he under arrest or something?”

“No, Mr. Premier.”
You'd have known of it at once if he were under arrest.
The Dutchman missed nothing that went on in his State. “I can't tell you what's going on, but Assistant Commissioner Falkender will tell you.”

“I
am
the Police Minister.” The old man ran a claw of a hand over his mottled bald head; he was an eagle too old to fly but one that could not be trapped. He glared at Malone as if the upstart inspector was trying to throw him a poisoned bait.

“I know that, sir. But I think it would be better if you got it from Mr. Falkender.”

Vanderberg glared at him a moment longer, then nodded and moved on, the old political smile back on his face like a mask re-donned. When they lowered him into the grave he would be smiling back up at the voters, the coffin lid left open on his orders, as if he believed in resurrection.

Malone glanced around him. He had been to very few official receptions, but the crowd always looked the same. There were the natives standing in groups telling each other about their health (“Never ask an Aussie how he is,” Malone had once heard an American say, “because sure as hell he'll tell you. In great detail.”) Italians were huddled together telling Greek jokes; the Greeks were advising each other never to have a Lebanese do any work for them; the Hungarians moved amongst everyone else as if they owned the Town Hall. In one corner stood half a dozen token Asians, wondering if they would have been more welcome if they had volunteered to stay behind afterwards and clean up and take home the laundry.
Malone,
a cop, felt as much an outsider as any of them.

He looked up and around him at the galleries on the second level and at the ornate, three-storey-high ceiling. The Town Hall was sometimes referred to by the more modern, less-is-more architects as a huge barn; but on the two or three occasions he had been here he had fallen for it. It had a solidity about it, a reminder of other times; chicanery might go on in the city council rooms elsewhere in the building, but this auditorium had an honesty about it. It was Victorian but somehow it suggested none of the hypocrisy of that era.

The galleries were packed, lesser guests standing at the balustrades and looking down, perhaps their only opportunity ever, on the leading lights below. Malone looked at them and decided no assassin would chance a shot from amongst that crowd. Frank Blizzard, if he was the hitman, was not a public performer.

Malone looked for O'Brien, saw him standing against a side wall. Just along from him were Arnold Debbs and his wife, whom Malone recognized from her newspaper photos; it seemed to him that Debbs was studiously ignoring O'Brien because all at once he took his wife's arm and the two of them moved away from O'Brien. The latter looked after them, then looked across and saw Malone. He smiled thinly and shrugged. Crumbs, thought Malone, could Penelope Debbs be the woman he's in love with?

There was a stir from the lobby and Prime Minister Philip Norval and his wife entered. Lights flashed and Malone saw the famous blond head pause and turn, offering further photo opportunities. The equally famous smile almost outshone the camera flashes; Norval's hands went out, grasping other hands, some of which had not even been lifted towards him. The PM and his wife and minders moved on into the main hall and were at once surrounded. Malone noticed that one of those who did not rush to greet the PM was The Dutchman, a sworn political enemy.

Malone looked around again for O'Brien, saw him standing in the same place against the side wall. He was staring at someone in the official group, a rapt expression on his face that made him look suddenly younger, almost vulnerable. Malone pushed his way through the throng and joined him. He spoke to O'Brien, but the latter did not appear to hear him.

Malone,
curious now, looked in the direction of O'Brien's gaze. Was he, the cynical entrepreneur, the probable crook, such an admirer of Prime Minister Norval, the country's figurehead leader who, reputedly, was only honest and upright because he hadn't the brains to be otherwise? Then Malone saw the beautiful dark-haired woman beside the PM turn her head and look across the crowded room at himself and O'Brien. He was no expert on love and its atmospherics; there was too much Irish in him for that. He had, however, spent all his professional life intercepting and interpreting glances and covert looks. He slowly turned his head and saw that O'Brien was in love and realized with a shock that O'Brien's lady friend was Anita Norval, wife of the Prime Minister.

She came towards them, casually, unhurriedly, pausing to smile and speak to people on the way; Malone had seen her once or twice before at close quarters and had always been impressed by her grace and dignity. It was not a queenly approach: that would never have gone down with the natives, even those who fell on their knees when British royalty hove in sight. She did, however, suggest that she knew her husband's office was one of the symbols of what the country stood for and she wanted to polish it rather than tarnish it. She was the most popular woman in the nation and now, it seemed, she was in love with or, at best, loved by one of the nation's least popular scoundrels.

“Mr. O'Brien, isn't it? I think we met once before.”

Malone could feel the warning vibrations coming out of O'Brien; but the latter somehow kept his composure. “Hullo, Mrs. Norval. Oh, this is Detective-Inspector Malone, an old friend.”

She gave Malone a smile that, unlike her husband's or The Dutchman's, was not looking for a vote; yet it seemed to Malone that there was a plea in it. “Are you his minder, Inspector?”

But before Malone could reply, the Prime Minister had appeared at his wife's elbow. “We have to move up on to the stage, darling. It's time for my speech.”

“Another one? This is the seven-hundred-and-forty-third so far this year.” Husband and wife exchanged the public smiles of long marital experience, the hypocritical doodads that couples carry with them like breath sweeteners. “Nice meeting you again, Mr. O'Brien. You too, Inspector.”

Norval gave the two men only a nod, nothing more, and steered his wife up towards the flag-
bedecked
stage. Malone looked at O'Brien, said quietly, aware of the lingering glances of those who had been staring at O'Brien and Anita Norval, “I think we'd better get out of here. You're a bit obvious.”

O'Brien's craggy face was suddenly shrewd again. “It shows, does it? Well, now you know.”

As soon as Norval, up on stage, began to speak in that husky, honeyed voice that had once made him the country's favourite television star, the guests turned their backs on O'Brien. He and Malone at once moved out of the auditorium as quietly and surreptitiously as they could. The security men were waiting for them in the lobby. One of them hurried away to get the limousine and five minutes later was back with it and its driver. Only then did Malone take himself and O'Brien out and down the floodlit steps to the car.

The night was still brilliantly clear. All the stars in the universe seemed to have slid into the southern skies; there were more there than any planet deserved, more than enough for all the living and dead of all time to dream upon. The day's wind had dropped, but it had done its job, swept away all the smog. It was a good night, Malone thought, for a sniper.

He pushed O'Brien into the limousine, jumped in after him and waited while the two security men got in. Only then did he relax back in his seat. Out on the pavement he saw the demonstration groups glaring at him and O'Brien with a mixture of expressions from hatred to indifference; but there was no murderer amongst them, their passion burst out of them in other ways. Flying abuse, eggs, tomatoes, the occasional fist: but never bullets.

They drove down towards the harbour, against the cinema and theatre traffic. The pavements were not crowded, but there were still plenty of people about. He won't strike tonight, Malone thought, and relaxed still further, suddenly feeling tired.

“What sorta guy should we be ready for, Inspector?” said the security man on the front seat, Ralph Shad. The question was only unexpected in that neither security man had asked it before.

Malone thought a while. What sort of man was Blizzard, assuming it was the ex-police cadet who was trying to kill him and O'Brien? How did you describe a ghost you had never really known? “All I can say is he appears to be ruthless and bloody efficient. I haven't a clue what he looks like, whether he's a
psycho
—”

“He must be that,” said O'Brien.

“Not necessarily. All killers aren't psychos, not in the sense of being off their rocker. He may be a perfectly reasonable man, except when it comes to wanting to kill you and me.”

“That's psycho enough for me.”

“I'm afraid I agree with Mr. O'Brien,” said Shad.

“What about you, Trevor?” Malone asked the security man in the front seat. He noticed that the driver, a young Asian, was now sitting very stiffly behind the wheel, as if up to this very moment he hadn't known he was in any danger.

Trevor Logan must have sensed the driver's concern; he patted him on the shoulder. “You don't have to worry, Lee.” Then he turned back to Malone and contradicted what he had just said. “I think he's dead certain to be a psycho, Inspector. They're the sort that'll have a go, regardless of the odds.”

Malone said nothing, not sure that Blizzard, or whoever the assassin was, was not psychotic. If he was, then the odds were that, sooner or later, he would give himself away, come out into the open and at last be within reach. But how much sooner, how much later, after how many more murders?

The limousine turned up into the entrance to the Congress. The hotel was set back a few yards from the street and there was a slight ramp that curved up to the front doors and then back again to the street. A portico stretched out to the pavement, over the ramp and a small garden plot of hardy shrubs. Most of the guests leaving the hotel at this time were still inside the front doors, sheltering against the cold night air while they waited for their cars or taxis; but a few stood outside beside the commissionaire. The limousine pulled up and the commissionaire stepped forward and opened the front and rear nearside doors. Both security men slid out and looked about them, as if the talk about the hitman had all of a sudden made them more alert. Malone had an abrupt impression of how obvious they looked, like the Secret Service men who were always so conspicuous when an American president appeared in public.

He got out of the car and waited for O'Brien. The latter appeared to hesitate, as if he had become shy of the people standing behind the commissionaire; they were staring at the two security men
and
wondering whom they were minding. Then he stepped out of the car and pushed past Malone.

In that instant, over O'Brien's shoulder, Malone saw the man with the hand-gun rise up above the parapet that separated the entrance ramp from a second ramp that led down to the hotel's garage. He dropped down, pulling O'Brien down with him. He heard no shot, the gun must be fitted with a silencer; but Trevor Logan gasped and fell back against the open car door. A second bullet thudded into the car door, but again there was no sound of a shot. He heard a woman scream and saw Ralph Shad, flat on the ground, raise his gun to return the shots.

“No!” Malone yelled. “Get „em all inside!”

He pushed O'Brien off him, ducked round the back of the car and came up on the driver's side. He couldn't see the young Asian; he must be cowering under the steering wheel. He crept along the length of the long car, chanced a look and saw that the gunman had disappeared. He stood up, wrenching his gun from his holster, and ran towards the parapet.

“He's gone down into the garage!” he heard the commissionaire shout.

He vaulted the parapet, landing heavily on the sloping concrete below but managing to keep his feet. He ran down the ramp, keeping close to the wall. A car came up the ramp, headlights blazing, and he knew at once he was a dead man. He flattened himself against the wall, the taste of his crushed body already in his mouth: Christ, what a way to die!