Bear Pit. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ party moved amongst the tables almost like deity; no one genuflected, but almost everyone rose to his feet. His feet: the women, no vestal virgins, remained seated. The Dutchman smiled on everyone like a blessing; if the grimace that was his smile resembled a blessing. He stopped once or twice to shake hands: not with party hacks but with backers of the Other Party: he knew he was being watched by Bevan Bigelow. He introduced Jack Aldwych to the Police Commissioner and the two men shook hands across a great divide while The Dutchman watched the small comedy. There was no one to equal him in throwing opposites together. He did not believe that opposites attract but that they unsettled the compass. It was others who needed the compass: he had known his direction from the day he had entered politics.

      Then they were out in the foyer, heading for the doors and the wide expanse of marble steps fronting the curved entrance. Juliet paused to help Mrs Vanderberg with her wrap, another home-made garment, like a purple pup-tent. The two Aldwych men went out through the doors with the Premier, one on either side of him. They paused for a moment while the white government Ford drew in below them. Beyond was the wide expanse of George Street, the city’s main street, thick with cinema and theatre traffic.

      The hum of the traffic silenced the sound of the shot.

      3

      ‘They’ve taken him to St Sebastian’s,’ said Phil Truach. ‘It looks bad, the bullet got him in the neck.’

      ‘Where’s his wife?’

      ‘She’s gone to the hospital. We sent two uniformed guys to keep an eye on things there.’

      Malone, Russ Clements and Truach were standing on the steps outside the hotel’s main entrance. Crime Scene tapes had replaced the thick red ropes that had held back the hoi polloi as the dinner guests had arrived. The hoi polloi were still there, cracking jokes and making rude remarks about the two women officers running out the tapes. Most of the crowd were young, had come from the cinema complexes further up the street or the games parlours; they had come from paying to see violence on the screens and here it was for free. But soon they would be bored, the body gone. Even the blood didn’t show up on the maroon marble.

      ‘Who got shot?’

      ‘That old guy, the Premier, Whatshisname.’

      ‘A politician! Holy shit! Clap, everyone!’

      Everyone did and Malone said, ‘Let’s go inside. Are the Aldwyches still here?’

      ‘In the manager’s office.’

      ‘What about the dinner guests? I read there were going to be a thousand of them.’

      ‘We got rid of them through the two side entrances. You never saw such a skedaddle, you’d of thought World War Three had started.’

      Inside the hotel lobby Malone looked around; it was the first time he had been in the building since halfway through its construction. On one of its upper floors a Chinese girl student had tried to shoot him and had been shot dead by Russ Clements. ‘This place is jinxed.’

      ‘Keep it to yourself.’ Clements was the supervisor, second-in-command to Malone of Homicide and Serial Violent Crime Agency. He was a big man, bigger than Malone, who lumbered through life at his own pace. He had once been impatient, but experience had taught him that patience, if not a virtue, was not a vice. ‘Otherwise the IOC will cancel all its bookings.’

      ‘Phil,’ said Malone to Truach, ‘let me know what the Forensic fellers come up with. Where did the shot come from?’

      ‘They’re still working on that.’ Truach was a bony man, tanned tobacco-brown. He looked Indian, but his flat drawl had no subcontinent lilt. ‘The guess is that it didn’t come from a car. There’s no parking allowed out there and the traffic was moving too fast for someone to take a pot-shot at the Premier. How would they know to be right opposite the hotel just as he came out? Ladbroke, his minder, told me there was no set time for the Premier to leave. His car was on stand-by.’

      ‘It could’ve been a drive-by shooting, some hoons aiming to wipe out a few silvertails. There was a horde of them here tonight, the silvertails.’

      ‘Maybe,’ said Truach doubtfully. ‘But if that’s the case, I think I’ll take early retirement. It’s not my world.’

      ‘Where’s Ladbroke now?’ asked Clements.

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ