Bleak Spring (27 page)

She smiled. “You'd find a use for it. So will Olive, I suppose. But I'll warn her about Mr. Jones.”

She got into her car and drove away, not showing off by burning rubber, the red Ferrari sliding smoothly into the traffic like a salmon into a shoal. Malone walked back to Clements and the Commodore.

“You looked like old mates. What'd she have to say?”

“You're right, she was almost friendly. At least she didn't sneer at me.” He filled Clements in on the brief conversation. “Maybe she's going to be easier to deal with than Olive. Now let's go and have another talk with Bernie Bezrow.”

It took them only ten minutes to drive from Waverley to Coogee. When they got out of the car and approached the gates of Tiflis Hall, the white bull terriers, pink eyes almost red with anticipation, were waiting for them, fangs exposed and growling in their throats. Clements spoke into the intercom and a moment later there was the piercing whistle from the hidden sound system. The dogs gave a disappointed snarl, like lions who had been told the Christians had just recanted, then turned and went helter-skelter up the garden path and disappeared round the back of the house.

“The neighbours must love that,” said Malone. “There'd be a lot of headaches in this street from that whistle.”

They made their way up through the garden terraces and were greeted at the front door by the
Filipino
maid, who still looked apprehensive, still not sure that they were not from Immigration. She ushered them into the same room where they had met Bezrow last Sunday week. He was seated in the same double-chair, as much a fashion-plate as when they had seen him last, but this time looking like a huge blue moon. He didn't rise, but at least greeted them with a smile.

“Another visit? What can I contribute this time? From what I read in the papers, you have already arrested Mrs. Rockne for the murder of poor Will. It's happening more and more, wives disposing of their spouses. I'm a widower, fortunately.”

“We've just had to let Mrs. Rockne go. Not enough evidence.”

“So that's why you're here again? Scraping the bottom of the barrel for any evidence at all? No, I don't mean that, Inspector. Forgive me.”

“There was another murder last night—Kelpie Dunne. It's rather complicated things.”

“Oh yes, I saw that in the papers, too.” He looked at his watch; the gold on his wrist would have cost Malone a month's pay at least. “Is this going to be a long interview?”

“It could be. Depends on how long or short your answers are.”

Bezrow smiled. “I can be very terse when it's necessary, Inspector. But I'm about to have lunch—I always eat early. Will you join me or would that be looked upon as consorting?”

“I think we could stretch a point.”

Bezrow rang for the maid, asked for two more places to be set, then led the two detectives through the house and out to a conservatory that looked down over the slope of red-tiled houses and flat-roofed flats to the sea. Out on the horizon alps of clouds were massed and, closer in, a long bulk-carrier crawled north like part of an almost stationary freight train. All that spoiled the view was a security grille that entirely covered the conservatory. Bezrow and his guests were seated at the luncheon table in a glass-lined cage. Bezrow noticed the detectives' quizzical look at what surrounded them.

“Ridiculous, isn't it? This was to be a hothouse where I could eat among flowers even in winter. Instead it is like eating in one of those new five-star jails. But it's necessary these days, I'm afraid.”

The maid brought them smoked salmon and thin slices of toast and Bezrow poured three
glasses
of riesling. “I hope you're not big eaters in the middle of the day?”

“No,” said Clements, avoiding Malone's eye. “Not before one o'clock, anyway.”

Bezrow smiled, looked at Malone; he seemed entirely at ease, as if he had policemen to lunch every day in the week. “The sergeant obviously is a trencherman. So am I—or was. Here's to success with your enquiries.” He raised his glass. “But what are the questions to which you want long answers?”

“Did you know Mr. Dunne?”

The fat face had a faint fold in it across the brows; then the frown faded. “Oh, last night's victim! Yes, I knew him. Slightly.”

“How slightly?” The smoked salmon was good, the best: Lisa would have approved of it.

“He bet with me occasionally.”

“More than occasionally, according to his bets book. Twice a week at least for the past six months.”

“That often?” The surprise was well feigned. “He was a small punter, Inspector, a hundred here, a couple of hundred there. I don't want to sound like one of our bankrupt entrepreneurs, all of whom seem to have defective memories, but I don't keep track of all those who bet regularly with me. Not unless they are big punters, a thousand, five thousand, ten thousand at a time. My penciller keeps tabs on the others.”

“Charlie Lawson?” said Clements.

“You're well informed, Sergeant. Yes, Charlie Lawson. He'd be the one who would have taken Mr. Dunne's bets.”

“These would have been SP bets?”

“Are we men of the world?” Bezrow looked at them both above the rim of his glass.

Malone grinned, sipping his own wine: it, too, was the best. “We're not from the Gaming Squad. Go ahead, Mr. Bezrow, what you tell us about your SP business stays here in this—” he looked around them “—glass house.”

Bezrow nodded; they were men after his own heart, pragmatic. “Starting price betting answers a
need.
Like prostitution or religion. Yes, I would say that all of Mr. Dunne's bets with us were SP bets.”

“There was also a three thousand to five hundred bet on the Panthers in yesterday's grand final,” said Clements.

Bezrow gave a mock grimace of pain. “Don't mention yesterday. I feel as if I've been hit by the entire pack of Penrith forwards. Mr. Dunne's bet, at those odds, wouldn't have been at the starting price.”

“What sort of car do you drive?” Malone had finished the smoked salmon, wondered if that was all that would be served. Especially if the questions got too close to the bone.

“A Rolls. Why?”

“Where do you have it serviced? At the Rolls-Royce dealers?” He looked directly at their host, letting him know that the questioning now was turning sharp.

Bezrow took his time, chewing slowly on the last of his toast and smoked salmon. “No. It is serviced at a place called Hamill's. They specialize in quality cars.”

“They also specialized in stolen cars. The Motor Squad has closed them down. Did Kelpie Dunne work on your Rolls?”

“I wouldn't know.” The fat man's gaze was as steady as Malone's. “My chauffeur always takes the car there. I don't drive, Inspector. Was that where Mr. Dunne worked? What a coincidence.”

“We find coincidence crops up every day in police work—we'd be surprised if it didn't. Did he do anything else for you besides service your car?”

The maid came in, took away their plates and came back with a crystal salad bowl and a silver tray on which there were three small steaks. Malone wondered if Bezrow ate in such style every day or whether this was to impress a couple of working cops. Bezrow waited till the maid had gone, then said, “Would you like a claret with the steak or will you stay with the white?”

“Red always makes me sleepy in the middle of the day,” said Malone; and Clements looked disappointed.

“We can't afford that, can we?” said Bezrow. “None of us . . . Did Mr. Dunne do anything else for me? This white is a chardonnay, from the Hunter. I have a half-interest in a small vineyard up there.
What
else did Mr. Dunne do?”

“He had a criminal record, mostly stand-over stuff.”

Bezrow carefully transferred one of the steaks from the tray to his plate. “Let me ask you something. Am I suspected of being involved in Mr. Dunne's murder?”

Malone admired the fat man's footwork. “In a short answer—maybe.”

Bezrow shook his head. “The short answer and the true one, Inspector, is no. N-O. I'm no angel, as the saying is, but I'm not, definitely not, a murderer.”

“Did Kelpie do anything for you short of murder, then? Like standing over some punters who were slow to pay up?”

“Do you usually insult people at their own table?”

“Not usually, no. But then we don't usually conduct our investigations over lunch. Not since the government introduced the fringe benefits tax.”

Bezrow smiled. “What a loss that was!”

Clements had sat silent through most of the meal, concentrating on his eating as if spreading out what was, for him, sparse fare. But now he said, “Would one of your punters have killed Kelpie?”

Bezrow considered that while he delicately cut his steak. “Perhaps. It's a thought.”

“If it's a thought,” said Malone, “have another thought. Why would they have killed him? Because you'd asked Kelpie to lean on them? Can you name a punter who has welshed on you, one who might've killed Kelpie Dunne as a warning to you to back off? Thank you.” He held out his glass as Bezrow offered him more wine.

“Let me put a thought to you, Inspector. If some misguided punter killed Mr. Dunne because he wanted to put a warning to me, then what is the connection with Will Rockne's murder? I have a feeling, Inspector, that you are throwing bait into a pond where there is no fish. That's an old Georgian saying. My grandfather was fond of quoting it.”

Malone realized now that he and Clements could sit through an eight-course banquet with Bezrow and they would get nothing from him. “Every saying or proverb has a saying that contradicts it.
But
I can't think of one at the moment. Nice salad. What's the dressing?”

“Russian.”

“Which reminds me,” said Clements. “Do you know a Russian named Jones?”

“Is he one of the St. Petersburg Joneses?”

Clements smiled; he was enjoying this lunch, even if the helpings were inadequate. “Actually, his name is Igor Dostoyevsky.”

“You're still pulling my leg.”

“No, really. He also goes under the name of Boris Collins. He worked for the Soviet embassy in Canberra, but lately he's been selling Mercedes here in Sydney.”

“So why should I know him?”

Malone had been watching Bezrow; the fat man had thrown up defences with each fencing line in the conversation. Nothing short of torture would ever get an admission from Bezrow. It made Malone wonder if that was why torture featured so prominently in Russian history, or what little he knew of it.

“Russians and Georgians have hated each other since time immemorial, Sergeant. We don't fraternize.”

“Mr. Dostoyevsky never came here trying to sell you a Mercedes in preference to a Rolls?” said Malone.

“Dostoyevsky as a car salesman?” Bezrow chortled, in control of the interrogation; torture would, indeed, be needed. But Malone had played the wrong sport, training would be needed. “The picture is a good one, don't you think? You're wasting bait again, Inspector.”

Bait was never wasted; some ponds were deeper than others, gave up different fish. Later, over cheese and fruit, Malone said, “Did you lose much on yesterday's grand final?”

“Are we still men of the world or are you now substituting for the Gaming Squad?”

“We never encroach on each other's turf.”

“Not even when there is a murder on their turf?”

“Ah yes, we do then. But they keep the betting franchise on whether we'll solve it or not.”

“
Sound policy. Yes, I lost a packet yesterday. The final odds were five to four on, but I'd made the mistake of offering much longer odds than that earlier in the season.”

“Kelpie Dunne must of known something, six to one,” said Clements. “Who'll get the money, now that him and his missus are both dead?”

“His estate, I suppose. We'll just wait till there's a claim.”

“You won't go looking for the heirs? They might need the money to pay for the funerals. Punters' heirs usually do.”

“Not yours, Sergeant, from what I hear. You're a punter, you know bookmakers aren't in the Salvation Army game. We're famous for our donations to charity, but not to punters. Be realistic.”

Malone threw more bait: “Mr. Bezrow, your man Charlie Lawson went down to Will Rockne's office last week and asked for your files. The secretary couldn't give them to him because we'd put a seal on the filing cabinets. If you were after your files, that'd suggest Will did some business for you. Yet when we went through the cabinets, there were no files on you. Nor Mr. Jones.”

Bezrow was coring an apple; he did it with all the concentration of a surgeon taking out a vital organ. At last he said, “That's interesting.”

“Yes, isn't it? What would the files on you, if we ever find them, tell us?”

Bezrow looked up, the surgery completed. “This and that. Bits and pieces. Mr. Rockne did some conveyancing for me on some properties I sold.”

“That was all?”

“Yes, nothing more. I was just throwing some business his way because he was a local.”

“So why would the files go missing? And why did Charlie Lawson go asking for them?”

Bezrow ate a thin slice of apple. “You think your bait has finally got a nibble?”

“I think so. Is there a Georgian saying that covers that?” Bezrow just smiled, and Malone went on. “The only two files missing were yours and Mr. Jones's. Mr. Dostoyevsky. There must be some connection.”

Bezrow ate another slice of apple, then said, amiably, “I don't think I'd better answer any more
questions,
Inspector, not till I've consulted my lawyer.”

“I thought Will Rockne was your lawyer?”

Bezrow was still seemingly unperturbed. “Mr. Rockne belonged to the lower grades, Inspector. We're coming up to a grand final, aren't we? I'll have to bring in my first team.”