Dragons at the Party

Madame Timori gave him a look that would have demoted him right back to cadet if she’d had the authority. ‘The household staff?’

‘I think we can leave them till last. I’d like to talk to the staff you brought with you from Palucca. They’d know more about your enemies.’ He was treading on dangerous ground. He was aware of the warning waves coming out of Kenthurst, the Canberra man. You’re dealing with a Federal Government guest, a personal friend of the Prime Minister. ‘That is, if you don’t mind, Madame?’

‘You mean am I going to claim diplomatic immunity for them?’

‘I don’t think they’d want that. Not if they want to know who is trying to kill their President.’ Even if he’s only an ex-President now.

‘You sound so efficient, Inspector. So unlike our own police back home. I suppose, then, you should start with Sun Lee.’

Sun Lee was the President’s private secretary, a Chinese in his mid-forties with a skin as smooth as jade and eyes like black marbles. He was just as cold as both those stones. ‘I have nothing to tell you, Inspector.’

Malone looked at Madame Timori, who gave him a smug smile. Then he looked back at the Chinese. ‘Maybe you could show me Mr Masutir’s room?’

Sun frowned, a thin crack in the jade. ‘He shared a room with me – the accommodation here is limited –’ He spoke with all the expansive snobbery of a man accustomed to a palace. ‘There is nothing in Mr Masutir’s room but his personal belongings.’

‘Those are what I want to see.’

Sun glanced at Madame Timori, but she said nothing. Then he turned abruptly and led Malone out of the room and upstairs. The house, for an official residence, was small. Australia did not believe in any grandeur for those it voted into office; that was reserved for those forced upon it, the Queen’s Governors and Governor-General. There was a substantial mansion right next door to Kirribilli House, but that was the Sydney residence of the Governor-General and no place for a deposed President. The Queen, through her representative, only entertained exiled monarchs. A certain protocol had to be observed, even in disgrace.

The room was comfortably and attractively furnished, but Sun obviously thought it was a converted closet stocked from a discount house. ‘There is no room to move … Mr Masutir’s things are still in his suitcase. We were only allowed to bring one suitcase each.’

‘I read in the papers that the RAAF plane that brought you was loaded with baggage.’

‘The newspapers, as always, got it wrong. We brought packing cases, but they are full of official papers – records, files, that sort of thing. President Timori wanted to leave nothing for the vandals who have taken over the palace.’

‘What about Madame Timori? Did she bring only one suitcase?’

‘Madame Timori has a position to uphold.’

‘I thought she might have. The papers said she brought twelve cases and four trunks. But women never travel lightly, do they? So they tell me.’

Masutir’s suitcase, a genuine Vuitton or a good Hong Kong fake, Malone wasn’t sure which, was not locked. Malone flipped back the lid, was surprised at how neatly everything was packed; had Masutir been packed for weeks, waiting for the inevitable? Most of the contents told Malone nothing except that Masutir had always bought quality: the shirts, the socks, the pyjamas were all silk. In a pocket in the lid were Masutir’s passport and a black leather-bound notebook.

Malone flipped through the passport. ‘Mr Masutir had been to Australia before?’

‘I understand he had been here before.’

‘Six times in the past –’ Malone looked at the earliest date stamp ‘– eight months. Did you know about those visits, Mr Sun?’

If Sun had known about the visits he didn’t show it now. ‘No. Mr Masutir was more Madame Timori’s secretary than my assistant. Back home in Palucca she was a very busy woman, as you may know.’

‘Are you a Paluccan, Mr Sun?’

‘Fourth generation. My family came to Bunda from Hong Kong after the Opium War.’

‘Which side were they on?’ Sun looked blank and Malone added, ‘The war?’

Sun still looked blank, made no answer. So much for being a smart arse, thought Malone; but the quietly arrogant Chinese was beginning to get under his skin. Malone flipped through the black notebook, saw a list of Sydney addresses and phone numbers. He decided against asking Sun about them.

‘I’ll take this. I’ll give you a receipt for it.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘Do you want me to find out who murdered Mr Masutir?’

The tiny frown was there again, but just for a moment. ‘Of course. But how will his address book help you?’

‘We have to start somewhere, Mr Sun. Every murderer has a name. Our murderer’s may be in this.’ He held up the notebook, then slipped it into his pocket. ‘I think that’ll be all, Mr Sun.’

Sun looked surprised, and Malone was surprised to see him capable of such an expression. ‘You don’t want to question me?’

‘I’ll be back to do that, Mr Sun. In the meantime you prepare your answers.’

He went ahead of the Chinese down the stairs, not bothering to look back at him or say anything further. He sensed there might be something in Masutir’s notebook which might worry Sun Lee. A night to think about it might put another crack in the jade face.

When Malone reached the front hallway Clements was waiting there for him. He read the bad news on the big man’s face before Clements said it. ‘We bashed the door down and found the old lady. She’d been strangled.’

‘Any sign of the killer?’

Clements shook his head. ‘He’d left his gun, though. A Springfield 30, with a telescopic sight. He was a pro, I’d say. I’ve rung Fingerprints, they’re on their way.’

‘What about the old lady? Had he knocked her around?’

‘No. It was a neat job, with a piece of rope. He’d come prepared. Like I say, he was a real pro.’

‘Righto, I’ll be over there in a while. In the meantime, give this to Andy Graham, tell him I want every one of those Sydney addresses and phone numbers tracked down. Tell him to tell them to stand by when he finds out who they are. I’ll want to interview them.’ He handed the notebook to Clements, aware of Sun standing behind him and hearing every word. ‘Something doesn’t add up here. Maybe they meant to kill Masutir, after all. You think so, Mr Sun?’

The mask was flawless this time. ‘It would be presumptuous of me even to guess, Inspector. I am not a detective.’

Clements watched the small exchange, but his own wide open face was now expressionless. ‘I’ll wait for you over the road, Inspector.’

Malone went back into the drawing-room, said directly to Madame Timori, ‘There’s been another murder. An old lady over in the flats opposite.’

She just nodded. She did not appear disturbed; the handkerchief was not even produced this time. She stood up, giving herself regal airs if not a regal air, which is different; she was the most common of commoners but she had always had aspirations. She had always wanted to dance the royal roles when she had been with the dance company; nobody would ever have believed her as Cinderella. ‘I’m retiring for the night.’

I’d like to retire, too, thought Malone; or anyway, go to bed. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning, Madame. I hope the President will be well enough to answer some questions.’

‘What sort of questions have you in mind? I’m sure I could answer them all.’ She paused, as if she might sit down again.

‘You must be tired,’ said Malone, not offering her any further opportunity to take over the investigation. ‘Good night, Madame. I’ll see you in the morning.’

He went out into the warm night air. There he exchanged information with the two other Homicide men who had come with him and Clements. One of them was Andy Graham, a young overweight detective constable who had just transferred from the uniformed division. He was all enthusiasm and ideas, most of which were as blunt as Thumper Murphy’s sledgehammer.

‘I’ve got the notebook, Inspector.’ He brandished it like a small black flag. ‘I’ll have ’em all waiting for you first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Not all at once, Andy. Use your judgement, get the big ones first.’

‘Right, Inspector, right.’