Bear Pit

‘Here,’ said Ladbroke, coming in the front doors behind them. In the past hour he appeared to have lost weight; he was haggard, his shirt rumpled, his jacket hanging slackly. ‘I’ve just come from the hospital, I’ve left my assistant to hold off the vultures. I want to know what’s happening here.’

‘How is he?’

‘They’re preparing him for surgery. It doesn’t look good.’

The big lobby was deserted but for police and several hotel staff standing around like the marble statues in the niches in the lobby walls. Malone didn’t ask where the guests were; the less people around, the better. Keep them in their rooms, especially any Olympic committee visitors. ‘Roger, did the Old Man have many enemies?’

Ladbroke was visibly upset at what had happened to his master, but he was case-hardened in politics: ‘Come on, Scobie. He’s got more enemies than Saddam Hussein.’

‘I had to ask the question, Roger. Cops aren’t supposed to believe what they read in the newspapers. Let’s go and talk to the Aldwyches.’

The manager’s office was large enough to hold a small board meeting. Its walls held a selection of paintings by Australian artists; nothing abstract or avant-garde to frighten the guests who might come in here to complain about the service or the size of their bill. There were more scrolls and certificates than there were paintings, and Malone wondered how a hotel that had opened its doors only last week had managed recognition so quickly.

The manager must have seen Malone’s quizzical look because he said, ‘Those are diplomas for our staff, our chefs, etcetera. And myself. And you are –?’

Malone introduced himself and Clements. ‘And you are?’

‘Joseph Bardia.’ He was tall and distinguished-looking, a head waiter who had climbed higher up the tree.

‘From Rome,’ said Jack Aldwych.

‘Paris, London and New York,’ added Bardia.

‘May we borrow your office, Mr Bardia? We won’t be long.’

Bardia looked as if he had been asked could the police borrow his dinner jacket; he looked at Aldwych, who just smiled and raised a gentle thumb. ‘Don’t argue with him, Joe. Outside. I’ll see he doesn’t pinch the diplomas.’

Bardia somehow managed a return smile; he hadn’t forgotten his years as a waiter. ‘Be my guests.’

He went out, closing the door behind him and Jack Junior said, ‘Dad, you don’t treat hotel managers like that. Two-hundred-thousand-a-year guys aren’t bellhops.’

‘I’ll try and remember that,’ said Jack Senior; then looked at Malone and Clements. ‘Looks like the jinx is still working.’

‘Just what I said, Jack,’ said Malone and sat down on a chair designed for the bums of 500-dollars-a-night guests. ‘You and Jack Junior were lucky.’

‘Do you think the bullet was meant for either of you?’ asked Clements. The big man had sat down on a couch beside Jack Junior; the elder Aldwych sat opposite Malone. ‘The bullet might of been off-target.’

Aldwych shook his head. ‘We’re spotless, Russ. Since we finally got Olympic Tower up and running, nobody’s troubled us.’

‘And we’ve troubled nobody,’ said Jack Junior.

‘What about the past?’ said Malone. ‘Jack, you’ve got enemies going back to Federation. Now you’re top of the tree, respectable, retired from the old game, what if someone decided he had to pay off old scores?’

Aldwych shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Scobie. The old blokes who had it in for me, they’re all gone. I’m history, Scobie, and so are they. The new lot –’ he shook his head again – ‘the Lebanese, the Viets, they wouldn’t bother with me. They’re too busy doing each other.’

Malone looked at Ladbroke, who had gone round the big desk and sat in the manager’s chair. He was still shaken by what had happened to The Dutchman, but half a lifetime of working in politics had built its own armour. ‘Okay, like I said, the Old Man has enemies. They want to get rid of him before he calls the election, but they wouldn’t want to shoot him. That would only queer their own pitch.’

‘Why?’

‘They’d become the first suspects. Who’d vote for them if you proved anything against them?’

‘If we prove anything against them, they won’t be running for office. We want a list of all those who’ve been working to toss the Premier.’

Ladbroke frowned. ‘I can give you a list, but you won’t let ’em know where you got it? I’ve already been approached to work for them if they get rid of Hans.’

Malone looked at the other three men, raised his eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you glad we aren’t in politics? Would you work for them, Roger?’

‘No,’ said Ladbroke, managing to look hurt that he should be thought venal. ‘But I wouldn’t tell them that till I’d found another job. And though the Old Man’s been a pain in the arse at times, I don’t think I could work for anyone else, not after him.’

‘You’d be lost out of politics,’ said Malone, and Ladbroke nodded. ‘What happens if he doesn’t recover? He probably won’t, not with a bullet in his neck at his age. Not enough to go back to work.’

‘Then the Deputy Premier will call the election – it’s got to be called, two months at the latest, in March. Our time’s up.’

‘That’s what Hans said tonight,’ said Aldwych. ‘That his –enemies, we call ’em that? – they reckon his time was up, he’d reached his use-by date.’

‘Is the Deputy Premier one of the enemies?’ Malone had had no experience of Billy Eustace. He had slid in and out of ministerial portfolios with hardly anyone noticing. He had never held any of the law-and-order portfolios.

Ladbroke pursed his lips. Those in political circles, whether politicians or minders, are wary of discussion with outsiders. Discussion and argument are food and drink to them, but they don’t like to share it. ‘Billy Eustace? He could be, but I don’t know that he has the troops. And he’d never hire a hitman, not unless he got a discount and fly-buy coupons. Billy has the tightest fist I’ve ever come across.’

‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Clements, but didn’t look at Malone. ‘Jack, can we eliminate you and Jack Junior for the time being?’

‘For as long as you like,’ said Aldwych.

Ladbroke stood up. ‘I’d better get back to the hospital. If the Old Man dies –’ He bit his lip; it was a moment before he went on: ‘I’ll let you know right away. Then get the bastard – whether the Old Man lives or dies!’

It was the first time Malone had seen Ladbroke raised out of his laid-back, almost arrogant calm. ‘We’ll do that. If he regains consciousness, then tomorrow we’ll have to talk to him.’

‘You’ll have to talk to Mrs Vanderberg. She’s running things now.’

‘How’s she taking it?’

‘Badly, I think. But she’s hiding it. She’s as tough as the Old Man. The bastards who wanted to get rid of him should remember that.’

He went out and Malone and Clements stood up to follow him. ‘Take care, Jack.’

‘You can be sure of it,’ said Aldwych.

Out in the lobby one of the Physical Evidence team was waiting. ‘We think we’ve found where the shot came from.’

‘Where?’

Sam Penfold was the same age as Malone but looked older. His hair was grey and his thin eyes already faded, as if the search for clues had worn them out. He collected spoor like a hunter, which was what he was. ‘Across the road. There’s a row of shops, half a dozen or so, rising three storeys. There’s a common entrance that leads up to the first and second floors, with a corridor running along the back, connecting them. The rooms above the shops are mostly single tenants. A quick-job printer, a watch and jewelry repair shop, things like that. And –’

Why, wondered Malone, were so many cops these days using theatrical pauses? Were they all training for TV auditions?

‘And an alterations and repairs business, the Sewing Bee. It had been broken into. From its street windows you look right across George Street to the steps outside there.’ He nodded towards the hotel’s front. ‘A good marksman with a good ‘scope couldn’t miss.’

‘He did miss,’ said Clements. ‘Or close enough. The Premier isn’t dead.’