Murder Song (34 page)

“Mr. Malone—” he said, putting out a hand as smooth as silk; O'Brien had not introduced the detective with his rank. “You are interested in horses?”

“Not really, Sir Keye. I'm just a friend of Mr. O'Brien's. An old schoolmate.”

“Mr. Malone is a detective-inspector,” said Leslie Chung, who had risen, like all the others, and shaken Malone's hand with a formal politeness. “He is one of our State's finest.”

Malone gave him a sharp look, but Chung's mile was bland. “Do you race horses, Mr. Chung?”

“Never. I have tried to tell Sir Keye there are too many imponderables in the racing game—corrupt jockeys, corrupt trainers, horses that break down without warning—”

“Mr. Chung has no faith,” said Sir Keye, whose only faith was in himself. “I was educated in Hong Kong, he went to school in Shanghai. He was taught all the wrong things. They gave him Hsun Tzu to read. Too bad. Hsun Tzu once wrote, „If a man is clever, he will surely be a robber; if he is brave, he will be a bandit . . .' You read the wrong books, Leslie.”

He
looked at Chung and the two men smiled at each other with all the innocence of born-again infants. He knows how Chung makes his money, Malone thought; and wondered how Sir Keye made his. But the British in Hong Kong had not only given him the right books to read, whatever they were, they had given him a knighthood and a place in their own society. Malone, who had inherited a little of his father's rabid anti-British feeling, suspected that the British knew there were more ways to trap a tiger than by shooting it. But maybe Sir Keye Chai was a totally honest man; why was he so suspicious of him? That was Con in him again, the racism he tried so hard to smother.

“May I see you a moment, Mr. O'Brien?” said Chung and took O'Brien's arm and led him away.

Malone looked after them, then, because he could think of no polite way of saying no, accepted Sir Keye's invitation to join him for a cup of tea.

“Indian tea, I'm afraid. A little strong for our taste, but then we find everything in Australia is like that.” Again there was the polite bland smile. Malone envied the Chinese their finesse at insults. “Or perhaps your own tastes are subtle, Mr. Malone?”

“I'm afraid not, Sir Keye. I'm part-Irish.”

“Remarkable people, the Irish,” said Sir Keye, letting one of his companions pour the tea. They were both burly men and Malone, more security-conscious than normal, wondered if they were bodyguards. “Two thousand years in the bogs and still treading water.”

Oh, Dad would love you! Bodyguards or no bodyguards, you'd be on your back in less than a minute.

Out beyond the rows of stables, where Chung had led him, O'Brien was not being insulted, just threatened.

“A word of warning, Mr. O'Brien. A Chinese philosopher once said, If you keep your trap shut, you'll never catch anything, least of all yourself.”

“Who said that? Hsun Tzu?”

“No, actually it was myself.”

O'Brien's smile was so thin it was almost indiscernible. “Do you guys play at being clones of
Confucius?”

“I could be blunter, Mr. O'Brien, but I don't want any violent reaction from you. Not in front of your guests. Take what's coming to you on Tuesday, Mr. O'Brien, and don't try to drag others down with you. You have already done the dirty on us. Don't try it again.”

“It was you people who put me in with the NCSC.”

“What did you expect? You're not dealing with little old ladies and their pension cheques.”

“Who are you speaking for? Just yourself or Debbs and the others?”

“Certainly not Debbs—he can look after himself, I hope. Nor for Pelong and Lango.”

“So it's just you and Jack Aldwych?” O'Brien suddenly felt cold, though the sun was warm on his back. “You're an odd couple.”

Chung shrugged his slim shoulders. “Only temporarily. We'll go our own ways again after Tuesday. Be sensible, O'Brien. Keep your trap shut. Otherwise . . . Let's go back and join your friend Inspector Malone. Why is he here?”

“Someone else is trying to kill me.”

“You do have troubles, haven't you? Well, good luck. I think you may need it, one way or another.”

Later, when all the horse owners had gone, Malone sat out on the verandah and waited for O'Brien, after saying goodbye to the last of the guests, to come up and join him. The catering staff were carting away the tables and chairs, and out in the paddocks the horses were settling down after all the attention they had received. The day was abruptly peaceful again, the landscape soothing; but Malone could feel rage and impatience beginning to swell in him. It was not the visitors who had caused it. It was the
expected
visitor who had not appeared.

“Why the bloody hell doesn't he come?”

“Who?” O'Brien was still preoccupied with Chung and his threat. Then he looked out over the stud, following the direction of Malone's gaze towards the distant road, as if that was the route they expected their killer to take. “Oh,
Blizzard
.”

“
Who else did you think?” Malone waited till O'Brien sat down beside him; only then did he notice the latter's abstraction. “What did Les Chung have to say?”

There was no need now to keep secrets from Malone; instead, there was a need to tell him. Not to tell the police, but to tell a friend. “He's promised to do me in if I open my mouth on Tuesday.”

“Kill you?” O'Brien nodded. “He was blatant as that?”

“Well, not exactly. But he didn't have to spell it out. He's not that dumb and neither am I.”

“I could have him picked up.”

“What'd be the use, Scobie? He'd deny it. It'd be my word against his and who d'you think they'd believe right now? Forget it.”

“What are you going to do Tuesday? Tell everything?”

“I don't know,” said O'Brien; then added after a pause, “I guess it depends on whether Blizzard catches up with us between now and then.”

Then a car came up the long driveway and both men, as if the mention of Blizzard's name had made them nervously alert, stood up. Malone had seen it travelling fast down the distant road, but the gates were hidden from the house by a grove of trees and he had not seen it turn into the stud. Now it swung in before the house and Clements got out.

When he was still some distance from them he almost shouted, “I think we've got a trace on Blizzard at last!”

II

Clements turned out into the narrow country road and saluted the two security men on the gates. It was a brand new unmarked car and so Malone had not recognized it. “Harry Danforth saw me taking delivery of it yesterday morning and got a bit shirty. He's still got his old one.”

“Why would they give him a new one? They're still hoping he'll resign. Does he know you've got the lead on Blizzard?”

“No, I didn't have it when I saw him. What he doesn't know won't hurt us or him.”

Clements
drove on up the road, through the long shadows thrown by the long line of trees bordering the stud. They turned left on to another road that led to the main highway three miles away; they drove between what looked to be a plantation of trees. The road was badly pot-holed from the long wet summer and autumn, the worst in living memory; twice Clements had to swerve at the last moment to avoid holes that looked like baby craters. This electorate was represented in the State parliament by a National Party member and no Labour government, least of all Hans Vanderberg's, was going to waste money on smooth riding for voters who elected a conservative.

The road dipped down into a cutting between steep rock-ribbed banks, went into the dusk under a narrow wooden bridge and came up to run for another half-mile before it came out between open paddocks where cattle grazed and a boy and his father flew a model aeroplane that went into a dive as the police car went past and crashed with a sickening jolt into the ground and disintegrated. Malone, looking back, could imagine the boy's cry of anguish. The boy, running desperately through the long grass, could have been Tom.

They drove on, leaving the boy and his father behind. In the far distance could be seen the outskirts of the town of Camden. The light was a sort of golden silver and Malone could see nothing moving in it now, not even a bird. The world had stopped and, beyond the hum of the car, was dead silence.

Malone slowly began to relax. He had said nothing since they had left the stud gates and Clements, sensing the tension in him, had kept quiet. Now he glanced sideways at Malone.

“I think he knows you're up here at the stud. It's a guess, but I'd bet on it.”

“I'm not just going to sit and wait for him. I'm too jumpy, Russ. Now I know who he is.”

He had felt no surprise when Clements had told him and O'Brien about the lead to Colin Malloy; and had been surprised that he had taken it so calmly. He had not suspected Malloy and yet now he knew the TV cameraman should have been on the list of suspects. But when you were chasing a ghost, it was difficult to add flesh to the picture. He realized now that he had had no real list of suspects, that he had been no more than seeking a faceless man in a huge faceless crowd.

Clements
had told him and O'Brien, “I went up to Channel 15 and talked to the news editor there, a guy named Katzka. I asked how the news crews were rostered and he said a cameraman usually worked with the same reporter and sound-man—in Malloy's case, it was a sound-
girl
. But on two of those clips we saw, Malloy was with a
different
reporter, Katzka said. Malloy wasn't originally rostered for those jobs, but he volunteered. I asked Katzka if that was unusual and he said he didn't mind if crews swapped shifts, just so long as someone was there to do the job—That got me thinking.”

Clements had been carrying a book when he got out of the car; he had held it out to Malone.
“Farewell, My Lovely.”

“So?” Malone had taken the book.

“A leading character in that is named Malloy—Moose Malloy. But Blizzard—I
know
it's him—wasn't stupid enough to call himself Moose. He just picked a name from his favourite author.”

O'Brien had taken the book from Malone and was leafing through it. “Why not Marlowe? He was Chandler's private eye.”

Malone took his time, dredging up the results of experience. “Too obvious. When people choose an alias, one they're going to use permanently, nine times out of ten it's not a random choice. It's usually a name with some association, something that's easier to respond to. You pick a name you've never heard before and the chances are you won't react when someone calls you by that name. Blizzard would've been smart enough to work that out.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You stay here, don't go outside the house. Get all your security men and our four blokes on duty till I get back. Russ and I are going to see Mr. Malloy. You know where he lives, Russ?”

“He lives in Wollstonecraft. He and his wife, there are no kids, have a flat in Temple Road.”

“We'll radio in for some men from the local region—we don't want them thinking we're busting in unannounced on their turf. We'd better have some strong back-up too, just in case. Ask for a squad from SWOS. But tell them and the local fellers to hold off, stay out of Malloy's street, till we arrive. I don't want all hell breaking loose before we get there.”

Clements
had gone out to make the radio call from his car while Malone went in to get his gun and raincoat. O'Brien followed him into the house.

“I'd like to go with you.”

Malone paused as he strapped on his shoulder holster. “No, this isn't any of your business.”

“I'm one of the intended victims. For Christ's sake, don't tell me it's none of my business!” O'Brien was suddenly agitated, tension breaking out of him in a mixture of rage and fear.

“No, it isn't, Brian,” Malone said firmly. “If I let you come with me and you were killed or even wounded, it'd be the end of me in the Department. The police have copped enough crap this past year—some of it deserved, I know, but not all of it. I don't want more flung at us. You saw what the papers did today to the hit list story. I don't know where they got it from, we've done our best to keep it as quiet as possible, but they made a circus of it.”

“Maybe Blizzard fed them the story?”

Malone put on his jacket over the holster. “Could be. I hadn't thought about him. But if he is this bloke Malloy at Channel 15, he'd know who to call at the newspapers, he'd know how to feed them enough without giving himself away.”

“Well, I still want to come now.” O'Brien was dogged. His life was coming to an end and he was going to be removed from its climaxes.

“No. I mean it, Brian—no.” He was sympathetic to O'Brien's frame of mind; but you could kill people with sympathy, even if only indirectly. “You stay here and worry about Les Chung and his mates. If we get Blizzard, you'll be the first to know. I promise.”

O'Brien stood silent and motionless for a moment like a sullen child; then he put out his hand. “Good luck. Try and take him alive. I'd just like to kick him in the balls while he's still alive. Not for myself, but for Mardi Jack.”

Malone grinned. “I'll give him one for you.”

Then as the detective went out the front door O'Brien said, “Look after yourself, Scobie.”

Malone nodded to a friend, recognizing the real concern in the long bony face.
What a pity you
were
a bastard for so long, Horrie.

Now, as Clements, foot hard down on the accelerator, blue light flashing on the roof, put them on the road to Sydney, Malone took the radio microphone, switched to the Police Centre channel. “Put me on to Constable Graham in Homicide.” Then he looked at Clements. “He's on duty?”