Babylon South (22 page)

Malone didn't answer her question, but looked at Alice. “Did you know she had taken it, Mrs. Magee?”

The two women stared at each other; this was something they had not expected. Then Alice Magee said, “Yes, I knew. I suggested it—I thought she needed something for protection, living alone here in this flat.” It was a flat to her, not an apartment.

“
You didn't tell us that when we talked to you before. Why?”

“I—I knew she didn't have a licence for it. I didn't want to get her into trouble.”

“She's in trouble now,” said Clements, saying something at last. “Her aunt was killed by two .380 calibre bullets that could have been fired from a Walther.”

Both women's hands tightened on the arms of their chairs; Justine's hands looked particularly white, almost skeletal. She said huskily, “Are you accusing me of murdering my aunt?”

“We're just asking questions at the moment,” said Malone before Clements took them too far down that road. “Do you still have the gun?”

“No.”

“Where is it?”

“I was frightened of it. I took it back to my mother's house. I don't know when—” She was flustered; all intelligence seemed to have dropped out of her face. “Yes, I do. It was the day of my father's funeral. I took it with me and put it back in the collection, in the gun cabinet.”

“Did anyone see you put it back? You didn't tell your grandmother?”

“No, I don't think so. My mind's a bit hazy about that day—I'd never been to a funeral before—”

You're lucky, thought Malone. Twenty-two years old and she'd never been even remotely touched by death. Now, in the space of a few weeks, she had been hit, violently, by violent death. “Is the gun still there?”

“No,” said Alice Magee. “I'll save you the trouble of going over to Mosman. It's gone again.”

“Did you see it after Justine returned it?”

“No. If she put it—when she put it back, it couldn't have been there long. I'd have noticed it.”

“Are you in the habit of checking the gun collection?” said Clements. He was not taking notes. His notebook lay on the table beside the white coasters.

“No. I just
notice
things, especially about the house. I've got a housekeeper's eye, so my daughter says.”

“What about
the
housekeeper? Would she have noticed it?”

“
I don't know. You'll have to ask her.”

“Miss Springfellow, was your argument with your aunt about money?”

“Of course.” She sounded as if she believed all arguments were about money. Then abruptly she softened, something else coming out from behind the hard shell she had tried on in her mother's image: “Well, no, it was not all about money. There were other things—undercurrents. Mother and I and my grandmother, we were always treated as outsiders by Emma. She hated the thought that Mother and I had the Springfellow name.”

“She thought Magee was common,” said Alice, who had her own hard shell; snobbery would bounce off her like rocks off a tank. “She hated anything that smacked of the Irish or Catholics.”

Malone grinned at Clements, “I wondered why she didn't like us that day we met her. I thought it was just because we were cops.”

“Had you ever threatened her?” said Clements, taking up the questioning again. Malone noticed that in Clements's approach to Justine there was a trace of the antagonism he had shown towards the two yuppies in the Springfellow lift. Clements had never before given even a hint that he would take up any proletarian cause; indeed, in his uniformed days he had relished the opportunity to rough up demonstrators, particularly any leftist trade unionists or students. Now, all at once, he was beginning to wave a banner, if only in his manner. He had developed a sudden resentment of the rich, especially the young rich.

“Threatened her?” Justine was puzzled, the hard shell cracking even more. She plucked nervously at the blue dress she wore.

“There was a note in her diary said you had done that.”

That's not entirely true, Malone said silently; the entry said that
J.
had threatened her. But he wasn't going to contradict Clements in front of the two women. At the same time he realized that, sooner or later, he would have to ask the question himself of the other J., John Leeds.

Justine looked dumbly at her grandmother; Alice Magee stepped into the breach. “We all threatened her at one time or another—we had some real donnybrooks. I threatened to throw her out of
my
daughter's house one day. She was a real nasty woman, but somehow I felt sorry for her. She was around the bend, I think. It's tougher for women, being alone like her.” She had a natural sympathy for the underdog, even a rich one. “She thought the whole world was against her.”

“I know the feeling,” said Malone; then looked directly at Justine. “Miss Springfellow, we don't think you're telling us all of the truth.”

Justine seemed to go totally rigid, as if even her young flesh had calcified. Her voice rasped: “What do you mean?”

“You did go back to see your aunt a second time. A Mr. and Mrs. Pandon let you into The Vanderbilt and you went up in the lift with them. That was around eleven o'clock, when you went out for your walk.”

“Don't say anything, sweetheart.” Alice Magee stepped into the breach like a professional bodyguard.

Justine said nothing for a moment; then the stone crumbled, just a little. “Yes. Yes, I did try to see Emma again.”

“Why didn't you tell us that the first time?”

“I—I was frightened. I still am.”

“Sweetheart—”

“No, it's all right, Nana. I haven't
done
anything, I mean not to Emma. Yes, Inspector, I went back there. I went up to Emma's apartment and rang the doorbell, but it wasn't working. Then I knocked, but I got no answer. I didn't know whether she guessed it was me or whether she had someone else in there. I just gave up and went back down in the lift. Then I went for the walk I told you about. I didn't see Emma the second time. That's the truth, Inspector.”

Malone looked at her, wanting to believe her. “You saw no one else going into or coming out of The Vanderbilt?”

“Only Mr. and Mrs. Pandon.”

“I don't think they're suspects,” he said drily. He knew she should be questioned further; but
abruptly
he stood up. “I think that'll be all for the moment, Miss Springfellow.”

“Not quite,” said Clements, “I think we need some fingerprints. Would you come up to Homicide with us?”

“No,” said Alice. “Not unless you're going to charge her with something. That's the law.”

“You know something about the law?” said Clements.

Whatever happened to my authority? Malone wondered. But he let it go: he hadn't yet got his bearings, for attack or defence.

“A little,” said Alice, “I had a husband who was always in trouble. I don't think my granddaughter ought to say any more without her lawyer.”

Clements stood up, bending over the coffee table to pick up his notebook. At the same time Malone glanced at Justine. She was standing now, her back straight. She's scared stiff, he thought, but there's a lot of her mother in her. And of her grandmother, who went on, still talking to Clements, “Justine didn't murder Emma. You'll never make a case against her.”

“I've heard that before, Mrs. Magee.” Clements straightened up, slipping his notebook into his jacket pocket. He hadn't raised his voice, but Malone could sense the hard antagonism in him. “You'd be surprised how many times they've been wrong.”

II

Going down in the lift Clements said, “What did you make of that?”

Malone looked at himself in the brass-framed glass; he was surprised to find he hadn't changed, that he still looked calm and unworried. “Why did you try that dumb trick? You were never going to get away with it. As soon as you got her into Homicide, she'd have been on the phone to her mum. Then we'd have had Lady S. down on us with a battalion of lawyers raising bloody hell. I can do without that.” He could do without a lot of things, including a sergeant who was, unexpectedly, turning nasty. “Russ, what's the matter with you?”

Clements looked into the mirrored walls, as if looking for an answer there. Then he shrugged.
“
I don't bloody know. I think I've all of a sudden got shit on the liver against the rich. I've never been a red ragger—the Commos wouldn't touch me with a forty-foot pole. I've never resented other people having money, but all of a sudden, with these bloody Springfellows—” He stepped out of the lift with a last look at himself in the mirrors. “They tell me there are always reasons for prejudices, but I dunno—I think it's just like catching a cold. One day you're okay and the next . . .”

“You're richer than I am. Are you going to give your money back to the bookies?”

“I'm prejudiced, but I'm not bloody stupid.”

But you're going to be a weight round my neck on this case:
Malone looked at his friend, the albatross. “Just tread carefully, Russ. We don't know how much clout the Springfellows have.”

“Clout has never worried you before.”

“Maybe I'm like you. I'm feeling middle-aged.”

Then Clements took out his notebook. Something slipped out of it and he held it gingerly by its narrow edges: it was a white drink coaster. “I lifted this.”

“The one she was handling? For Chrissakes, Russ—”

“I'm not going to use it officially. I'll just get Don Cheshire out at Fingerprints to put it on file, no names, no pack-drill. Just so's we'll have something to refer back to, if and when.”

“If and when what?” But he knew.

“If and when we nail her. She did it, all right.” They retrieved their car from the garage in Springfellow House and drove back to Homicide. The air-conditioning had stopped working, a frequent malfunction in police vehicles, as if the taxpayers, even the honest law-abiding ones, occasionally put a hex on it to remind policemen who paid their wages. Malone and Clements wound down their windows, but the hot air that blew into the car did nothing for their comfort. As they passed Hyde Park Malone looked up through the trees and saw the Archibald fountain sparkling like falling ice-drops in the sunlight. They pulled up at some traffic lights and a girl crossed in front of them, looking as cool as a mermaid in a pale-green sleeveless dress.

“Sometimes I wish I was a drag queen,” said Clements, “so's I could dress like that.”

Malone
looked at the hulk beside him. “You'd set sex back five thousand years.”

They grinned at each other, their faces glistening with sweat and, yes, affection, though both of them would have shied away from the word. I couldn't wish for a better sidekick, thought Malone. It was a pity, though, that Clements wasn't on vacation right now, somewhere out of the State or even out of the country.

When they got back to Homicide Malone's phone was ringing. He picked it up; the Commissioner was on the other end. “I've had a call from Lady Springfellow, Inspector. I believe you've been harassing her daughter.”

“Harassing, sir?” Malone felt himself get suddenly hot and not with the summer heat.

“Her word, Scobie. I hope you haven't been—harassing her?”

“No, sir. Just questioning her.”

“I thought I told you I saw her leaving The Vanderbilt?”

What's happening to the man?
He had never known the Commissioner to interfere like this. “Yes, sir, you did. But I just can't
stop
.”

“You could direct your enquiries elsewhere, for a start.”

“I'll do that too. Unfortunately, sir, I'm not on this case on my own.” He looked down the long room at Clements, who had stopped to talk to Andy Graham. “Sergeant Clements is working with me—and he's pretty dogged.”

There was silence at the other end of the line; then Leeds sighed, sounded weary. “I'm sorry, Scobie. Do it your way. The right way.”

III

Malone had a moment of inspired hope. After hanging up the phone he had sat utterly dejected; Clements, coming up to sit opposite him, had spoken to him but he hadn't answered. The silence between the two men was threatening to become bitter; Malone was aware of it and was desperate to break it. Then he had his inspiration.

“
Maybe we're barking up the wrong tree.”

Clements gave him a hard look. “What tree's that?”

“The Springfellow tree. What about that cove Dural who was released the same time we found Walter's bones? He was a raver against Walter for refusing his appeal. Maybe he's revenging himself by killing off someone else in the family.”

“You're stretching it,” said Clements, unexcited.

“Maybe. But it's worth a try. Corrective Services will give us an address on him. I think I read he's out on licence.”

They went to see Chilla Dural, Clements showing no enthusiasm at all for the venture. Dural was just coming out of the front door of his rooming house when Malone and Clements drew up at the kerb. As soon as he saw the two tall men get out of the car parked in a No Parking zone, he recognized them for coppers. He felt something flutter inside him: was he going to be pinched after all? He gave them a genuine smile of welcome.

“Could we go inside, Mr. Dural?” said Malone after he had introduced himself and Clements. “It's a little hot out here.”

Dural led them back down the hallway. At once Killeen's door opened, the wrinkled face appeared, the watchdog eyes wary. “Trouble, mate?”

“I don't think so, Jerry. I'll call you if I need you.”

He ushered the two detectives into his room, closed the door. The room was still bare of any identification except for the photo on the dressing-table; he wasn't prepared to declare this as home. He gestured to Malone and Clements to sit down on the room's two chairs and he stood leaning against the dressing-table.