Autumn Maze (17 page)

It was like an orgy of youth, though he didn't see it in those terms. Young men, and women, in shirtsleeves, expensive shirtsleeves, shouted at each other; at phone-connected other brokers on other floors, on opposite sides of the city, the country, the world, they shouted even at the green-lettered terminals immediately in front of them. Malone could make nothing of what was being said, the language was just one long roar that only God and Mammon, for once on a network, could understand.

Ondelli, in a blue shirt with a white collar and a fashion-of-the-moment tie that resembled a length of regurgitation, led Malone round the edge of the boiling ring.

“Tokyo's jumping!” he shouted. “The yen's on the rise again!”

Malone just nodded. He hated to shout and he had no answer anyway: he had never
seen
a yen. This was another world where, if he was to believe the social commentators, the rise and fall of the Eighties had begun. He wondered how large had been the shouting mob back in those hectic years, and when he and Ondelli were beyond the hubbub, in a narrow glass-walled corridor leading to the general manager's office, he asked the question.

“Back then we had three floors, we gave practically everyone a job who came in and asked for one. We had money running out of our ears, what did another paycheck matter? Or five or six or ten?” Ondelli shook his head. “It'll never happen again, not in my day.”

“But some time in the future?”

“Sure. Why not? What else have we got to look forward to? Greed's a recurring disease, we all suffer from it.” He grinned, but he had said it without shame. “You're a cop. Do you think human nature ever learns anything from its mistakes?”

Malone
conceded the point, paused before the closed door of Ondelli's office. “These fellers you caught, are they bad buggers or just greedy?”

“Greedy, that's all, I think. They're out of a job, anyway. I just fired them.”

He opened the door, ushered Malone into a medium-sized office where four terminals and a chart, rather than pictures, graced the walls. The furniture was Italian modern, all sharp angles at crotch-level, designed to make
castrati
of careless clients. The big window behind the desk looked uptown into sun-blazing walls of other windows. Malone wondered who, if not the general manager, had the harbour view on this floor. In this town having a harbour view was the same as having your name on a roll of honour.

Kagal rose as Malone and Ondelli came in. His university tie and Malone's police tie made them look like undertakers against the other three ties in the room. “Inspector, this is Roger Statham and this is Leslie Bute.”

Their youth surprised Malone, though he should have expected it. Neither of them looked more than twenty; Statham looked even younger, a schoolboy. He was tall and thin, still acne-scarred, with long blond hair and deep blue eyes that now looked bewildered and embarrassed. Bute was shorter, broader, dark-haired, a young bull who still had his balls but was shocked at how close he had come to losing them. Besides their flowered ties, both young men wore bright red braces, like some sort of regimental regalia. They stood up respectfully, as if they had both come from homes or schools that had taught them manners. Malone at once sensed that neither of these boys had the in-built antagonism to cops that he had become accustomed to. They would be helpful.

He told them to sit down, then took a seat beside Ondelli, on the manager's side of the desk. “I'll talk with you later, John,” he said to Kagal. “Let's hear what Mr. Statham and Mr. Bute have to say.”

Both young men cleared their throats; then Bute said, “First, Inspector, I'd like to say we're not criminals. At least I don't think we are.”

“Mr. Bute, I'm not here looking for crims. I'm here for information.” He glanced at Ondelli. “Detective Kagal told me there'd been some blips.”

“
Roger and Les were dealing with Rob Sweden. He got them in evidently because he needed to spread some money.”

Malone looked back at Statham and Bute. “Righto, explain.”

The two young men exchanged glances, then Bute said, “Rob came to us about three months ago, right?” Statham, who seemed to have trouble finding his voice, nodded. “He said we could make some money on the side if we helped him out. He had a client who wanted to clean up some money, he said.”

“Have you done this before? Cleaned up money?”

“Geez, no!” Statham found his voice, cracked and worn; he sounded as shocked at his own behaviour as at being caught. “I dunno why we said yes . . .”

“Greed,” said their boss, not accusingly but like a specialist offering a diagnosis.

Statham nodded, almost as if glad of the interpretation. “Yeah, that's it.”

“How much did you make?” Malone asked. “On the side?”

“Not that much,” said Bute. “Rob said we'd make more as time went on. We made twenty thousand each.”

“What do you normally make a year?”

“Sixty thousand. Sometimes more, with bonuses.”

Malone looked at Kagal. “We're in the wrong game, John.”

“Yeah, but we get the bonus of occasionally being shot at.” It was heavy-handed, but it made the three Casement men look, if not feel, uncomfortable.

“How was the money to be laundered, Mr. Bute?”

“Rob had this client. He deposited a million bucks, each of us had to handle a third. We were buying North American lumber futures—”

Malone looked at Ondelli, who said, “Like I told you.”

“How come this wasn't picked up before now, if it started three months ago?”

Ondelli looked only slightly ill at ease. “Inspector, I don't think you appreciate the money that
passes
through this office. Rob was smart, he split the money. Three hundred, three-fifty grand, that's not a large amount in our terms. It'd run by the observers without causing any real blip.”

“So when did it cause a blip?”

“When the client called in the money and we had to write the cheque. A million two. The call came late yesterday afternoon and if I hadn't talked to you a coupla days ago, it probably wouldn't have registered.”

Malone, the counter of pennies, marvelled at a mind on which a million two (even the amount sounded unfamiliar) wouldn't register. “Who was the client?” The three Casement men exchanged glances and Malone snapped, “Don't give me any confidentiality bullshit, I've had enough of that for today. Who was the client?”

“Pinatubo Engineering,” said Ondelli.

III

Going back to Homicide Malone said, “Check on Pinatubo, John, they've got to be registered here.”

“Will do.” Kagal sometimes sounded as if he were in the army; when he became police commissioner he would also be a field marshal. “What about those jerks, Bute and Statham? Do we refer them to the Fraud Squad?”

When he was commissioner he would sweep the city clean . . . “John, never give yourself more work than you have to. Let Fraud find them themselves. They've lost their jobs, that's good enough for me.”

Kagal said nothing for a while, then he looked sideways at Malone. “You think I'm an eager beaver, don't you?”

Malone had never ducked bumpers, even though he had been a poor batsman. “You are, aren't you? I don't hold it against you. I'd rather an eager beaver than a lazy bugger who bludged on his mates all the time. But you have to draw a line. What satisfaction would you get out of all the time and paperwork
you'
d spend on getting those two kids to court? And when you got „em into court, it's a fifty-fifty chance the judge'd give them a slap on the wrist and put them on a bond for twelve months. Too many of our judges have a reluctance to go heavy on white-collar crims. No, John, slow down, that's all I suggest. Police work was never meant for sprinters.”

Kagal digested that; then he smiled. “I sometimes find you a pain in the arse, sir, but still I admire you.”

“Likewise,” said Malone and for the first time liked the young man.

Back in the office he did his own paperwork; then sat back and gazed at the note he had found on first coming back to his desk
: AC Falkender called. You are to see the Minister at his apartment at 6 p.m. Lucky you.
The note was in Clements' large scribble.

Then Clements came into the office. “You got the note? You going for cocktails?”

“I'll bet that's what his wife serves—cocktails. If I'm lucky, I'll get a stale beer. Why the hell me?”

Clements dropped his bulk into the chair opposite Malone. “John Kagal told me about Pinatubo. I've already checked on it, as soon as Palady and Junor left. It was registered here two years ago, its full name is Pinatubo
Medical
Engineering. It was managed by a Mr. Belgarda, Ramon Belgarda. If Mr. Tajiri has anything to do with it, he's not down as a registered director or executive. Their offices are down in William Street. I've been down there, it's two rooms above an empty car showroom. Nobody home, the door was locked. I've been on to Romy. She's just rung me back. Pinatubo used to import medical equipment into this country—operating tables, trolleys, stuff like that. There's some of their stuff out at the morgue. Romy has made a few enquiries. As far as she can gather, Pinatubo hasn't been selling medical equipment for at least six months, maybe more. It could of been set up as a front for—” He shrugged: take your pick of a dozen choices.

“These kids I talked to at Casement's, they said they knew nothing of Pinatubo. I believe them. They never met Tajiri or this other bloke—Belgarda? Rob Sweden was their only connection. I asked them if Sweden had ever mentioned Kornsey or Caccia, whatever name he used, but they just looked blank.”

“He's connected to it all, though.”

“
Of course he is. But how? Money is the key to this. It's the be-all and end-all for these people, and I mean the lot of them. They are either born to money or they're born to make it, they marry for it or they kill for it. Or are killed.”

“The commos must miss having you as their spokesman. You've taken in the whole capitalist system there.”

“Romy once told me something, on our first case with her. She said when looking for the cause of death in a homicide, she started from the outer limits, eliminating everything as she went along that might've or might not have caused the death, till she got to a core of probable causes. I think we should do the same with these cases. How're you going with her, anyway?”

They had known each other so long and so well that neither of them was ever fazed when the conversation went off at a tangent. “D'you mean am I having second thoughts about proposing to her? Yes. But I always have second thoughts about everything, even whether I'll have a piss.”

“So, leaving aside whether you piss first time up, how do you feel now you've asked her?”

Clements bit his lip, then nodded. “I'm happy. So's she.”

“Good.” Then Malone looked up at Andy Graham in the doorway. “Yes, Andy?”

“Nothing from the FBI yet.” He scraped his feet, as if about to take off for Washington to find out what was delaying them.

“Waco, Texas,” said Malone. “That's probably all that's on their mind, Waco.”

The horrific end to the siege of the religious cult at their headquarters in Texas had thrown up a glare that had gone right round the world. The FBI itself was now under siege for its handling of the long stand-off, but Malone's sympathy, like that of most cops, was with the law enforcement men. It was an old cliché but true: hindsight was the perfect example of twenty-twenty vision. And no one was ever as decisive in their criticism as those who did not have to make a decision.

“Keep at them, Andy. But gently, try some Aussie diplomacy.”

“What's that?” said Clements.

“Our request is probably going through the system, same as it does here. The Yanks have as
many
bureaucrats as we do. More, probably.”

“You think I should try going through their embassy in Canberra?”

“Forget that, that would only add to the system. We could be here till Judgement Day and I don't think that's on the calendar yet.”

Graham disappeared and Clements said, “You're being extra patient, aren't you?”

“No, I think I'm like you. I'm having second thoughts. I've got the feeling that if ever we solve these cases, make the connection, we'll be wishing we were at Tibooburra.”

IV

The door to the Sweden apartment was opened by Luisa, the Filipino maid. She was in her thirties, plump, plain, but not unattractive with a flat-cheeked face and long-lashed dark eyes that had a remote look about them, as if she had not entirely left the slopes of Zamboanga, her home province. She ducked her head to Malone, but gave him no smile of welcome, instead looked apprehensive. Malone wondered if she was an illegal, if Sweden, unknowingly, was like those White House executive nominees who had neglected to check on their servants' credentials. But illegal immigrants were not Malone's province, he had enough bother with the natives.

There was a smile of welcome from Rosalind Sweden, who came forward hand outstretched. “Inspector! How nice to see you again. You've met my sisters,” she said, as if he were the dim sort of man who went through life never remarking the women he met.

“Of course,” said Malone, irritated, and perversely spread the suavity like honey. The three sisters, collectively, were formidable and he decided the best way of combatting them was with silk gloves. Unlike most Irishmen, he was not afraid of a woman, but in the plural he preferred to treat them with caution, which is the way even Latin men do.

“My husband has been delayed, he's been held up by some demanding constituent. It comes of representing an electorate like this.” She waved a hand as if they were in the middle of an unemployment camp. Malone had never bothered to check his Minister's electorate and he wondered what the poorer
voters
would think of their member living in a pad like this.