Helga's Web (17 page)

Malone showed her his badge, then produced the photos of Walter Helidon, Leslie Gibson and Mr. and Mrs. John Savanna. He had had the photos copied and had snipped off the captions identifying the subjects; in an investigation you didn’t have to take everyone into your confidence. “Do you recognize any of those men? Did any of them ever buy chocolates here regularly?”

The woman almost collapsed with relief when she realized she was not going to be either held up or arrested; she grabbed the photos and peered at them as if Malone had just returned a long-lost family album to her. Then she put a long-nailed finger on the face of John Savanna. “Yes. He comes in here regularly. At least once a week, sometimes twice. A very nice man, always buying for his wife. That is his wife? We should have more men like him.”

Malone noted the scold in her voice and determined to

take some chocolates to Lisa. “How long has he been coming here?”

“Oh, a long time. Maybe one year, maybe two/’ She shrugged, more relaxed now. She looked at Malone with an appraising eye, half-coquette, half-saleswoman; she ignored Clements, a man who asked for menthol jubes. “You should try our chocolates/’ She picked one out of an open box on the shelf behind her, pushed it daintily in the direction of Ma-lone’s mouth, standing on her toes to do so. Malone, without thinking, opened his mouth and the woman popped the chocolate into it. “Nice, eh? Your wife would like, yes?”

Out of the corner of his eye Malone saw Clements carefully studying the traffic in the street outside. He chewed on the chocolate, swallowed it and said, “Sorry, my girl friend likes licorice allsorts.”

That was even worse than menthol jubes. The woman sniffed silently, wondering why she had ever left Vienna for this barbaric outpost.

Malone said, “When was this man last in here?”

“Not this week. Last week, maybe? Yes, I think so. Last week, at the beginning. But not since.”

Malone thanked her, debated whether he would buy a box of chocolates for Lisa, saw the prices on several boxes, changed his mind and left the shop, followed by Clements.

“It looked like feeding time at the zoo,” said Clements. “Just as well The Bishop wasn’t there to see that. Did you see her face when you told her your girl friend liked licorice allsorts? You stabbed her right in her plump tit then, mate. Well, where do we go from here? To Savanna’s home or his office?”

Malone had checked on Savanna, learned that he ran a small studio called Olympus Film Productions. “We’ll take his office. He won’t be at home at this hour, not unless he’s apologizing to his missus for being such a two-timing bastard for the past year or two.”

Waterloo, where Olympus struggled like something from the early days of Hollywood, was only a few miles from Double Bay but a geological age away in social strata. Factories and warehouses occupied most of its area, turning it into a brick and corrugated-iron desert at the weekends; squat oases of terrace cottages stood with doors wide open inviting any breeze that might blow in from Botany Bay, hidden to the south behind the wadis of alleys and treeless streets. The Falcon drew up opposite a terrace of cottages and the womenfolk came to their doors, scrutinizing Malone and Clements with the frank, unhypocritical stares of natives who resented and suspected strangers. The women nodded to each other, recognizing coppers as plainly as if Malone and Clements had been in uniform, and anchored their hips and shoulders against door jambs, waiting for the action. Malone, feeling at home as much as if he were in Erskineville, got out of the car. Then he sniffed.

“Beer and meat pies. The national perfume.”

“I dunno that I’d like to be squashed in between them,” said Clements. “You could go home every night smelling like the wharfies’ annual picnic.”

But Savanna didn’t smell like a waterside workers’ picnic, even if his office smelled like the site for it. He wore some tangy perfume, either a hair dressing or an after-shave lotion that had remained on him perhaps longer than usual; whatever it was, it was plainly noticeable. Malone sat down opposite Savanna in the small office and looked at the producer carefully, thinking: this bloke wouldn’t be out of place in his own commercials. Old Spice for the dark chin, Pantene Blue for the grey hair, the weekend farm somewhere up in Marlboro country; put a patch over one eye and he’d probably get a lifetime’s free supply of shirts. But no hero of a TV commercial had ever looked as ill at ease as Savanna did, unless it was the feller with halitosis before he got the magic cure.

“Helga? I find it hard to believe—I mean, that she’s dead. Like this. I thought she had gone back to Europe.” His hands were on the desk in front of him and he rubbed them together as if he were cold.

“Did you know her well?”

“Well, I knew her. She—she worked for me several times. She was a model, you know. I’m—” One hand left the other and strayed to the carved African head that doubled as a paperweight. Malone noticed that he had big strong hands, with long supple fingers that picked up the heavy piece of stone as if it were no more than a piece of pumice. “I’m sorry to hear of her death. Especially like—like this.”

“Was she a girl who would have made enemies?”

Savanna didn’t answer at once, but stared at the carved head. Then he looked up. “I don’t know, to be honest. I suppose we all make enemies at some time in our lives. Most of us just never recognize them, that’s all. She could have had enemies. I don’t know what sort of life she led before she came out here from Germany.”

Malone told him what sort of life she had led in Hamburg. One eyebrow went up, but he showed no real surprise. “She certainly disguised it pretty well. She always seemed to me a perfect lady—I just wish some of our other actresses and models knew how to behave as well.”

“How did she behave when you were alone with her, Mr. Savanna?”

The long fingers tightened on the stone head and Malone prepared to duck. Even Clements sat up straight at the blunt-ness of the question. “What’s that supposed to mean, Sergeant?”

“Chocolates. You’ve been taking her chocolates once or twice a week for at least twelve months.”

Savanna put down the head, reached for a packet of cigarettes lying on the desk. He took out a cigarette and Malone waited to see how he would fight it; but he reached into his

pocket and took out a lighter instead of a box of matches. Malone watched him carefully, recognized the playing for time; but Savanna wasn’t as good at the game as Hehdon had been. The strong fingers, playing with the lighter, now looked suddenly as fragile as twigs.

“You chaps don’t miss much, do you?”

“We try not to.” He had begun to notice other things about Savanna: the worn cuffs of the silk shirt, the cuff-links that did not match. Things looked as if they might not be going too well for the producer: the Pantene Blue being used a little more sparingly, the Marlboro being smoked a little closer to the cork tip: had Helga, too, started to prove a bit too expensive?

“I read about that girl being found down at the Opera House. I mean I glanced at it—I don’t usually follow murder cases—” He glanced at them. “Does that make me sound callous of other people’s tragedies?”

“No,” said Malone, having already decided that Savanna, whatever his faults, was not callous. “Most people are not interested in murder, unless it’s a particularly juicy one.”

“If you’d described this one as a juicy one—I mean, you saw the tattoos on her behind? Well, if that had been mentioned, I’d have known at once it was Helga.”

“We’re still a bit straitlaced,” said Malone. “If we’d announced that to the papers and they had printed it, we’d have had questions in Parliament about bounds of decency and all that. The public mustn’t be offended. Would you have come to us and identified Miss Brand if we had printed that description?”

Savanna puffed on his cigarette. “That’s a leading question, isn’t it? Am I entitled to any warning—you know, anything I may say et cetera?”

“If you wish,” said Malone. “I must warn you anything you may say et cetera.”

“Thank you,” said Savanna, and managed a smile. “No,

Sergeant, I probably wouldn’t have come near you. I’m a married man and my wife doesn’t know anything about Helga. It’s not that I would be afraid of her if she found out— I’d just rather not—not hurt her.”

“You do admit you’ve been seeing Helga regularly?”

“Yes, I’ve been seeing her on a—non-professional basis, if you like to call it that.” To Malone’s surprise, Savanna suddenly looked relieved at the confession; he actually sat up straighter, seemed to square his shoulders. “That’s why I’m, well, upset by what you’ve told me. About her being—murdered, I mean.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Last Friday week.”

“You’re very sure of the day, aren’t you?”

“I—” Savanna did not look the sort of man who would ever be embarrassed, but that was what his smile suggested. “Those were my days—my visiting days, if you like. Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“You visited her last Monday week,” said Malone.

Savanna’s hand strayed to the carved head again, but Clements leant across and moved it out of his reach. Savanna looked up in surprise, then gave a half-cough, half-laugh. “Why did—? Were you expecting me to throw it at you?”

Clements glanced at Malone first, then said, “You never know. We went to question an old lady a coupla weeks ago and she threw a knife at us. And she was only wanted for busting a neighbour’s window, not for murder.”

Savanna asked very evenly, “Am I wanted for murder?”

Clements glanced at Malone again. That’s right, Russ, the latter thought, leave the hard ones to me. “Nobody’s wanted yet, Mr. Savanna. Except the man who killed her.”

“Do you think I killed her?” The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up. “Yes? No, Betty, I can’t take any calls right now. Tell them I’ll call them back.” He listened to the girl on the phone for a moment, then looked at Malone. “This

is an important one, a contract I’ve been trying to get for weeks.”

“How long will it take?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes perhaps.”

Malone looked around the shabby office, sighed, then looked back at Savanna. “Sorry, Mr. Savanna. Tell ‘em you’ll call back. Tell them you have another important client here, if you like.”

Savanna bit his lip, then nodded, spoke to the girl and hung up the phone. “I saw you looking around the office. You’re not very impressed, are you?” Malone hesitated, then shook his head. “Six months ago I wouldn’t have told anyone this. But now I don’t care any more. I’m going bankrupt. That contract—” he nodded at the phone “—might have staved off the evil day.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to make sure you’d go bankrupt. But you’ll have to make up your mind what’s more important. Getting a contract or telling the truth about you and Helga Brand.”

Savanna stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. “Put like that—All right, what do you want to know?”

“Did you visit her last Monday week?”

Savanna’s eyes flickered for a moment, as if he were trying to get something into focus: Malone, the question, perhaps even a memory or an alibi. “No. I told you, Tuesdays and Fridays were my days. God, that sounds bloody, doesn’t it? Makes her sound like a stud mare. She wasn’t that,” he said, and his voice softened a little. “At least, I didn’t think so.”

Malone let a few moments of silence pass; Clements smothered a sniffle. Malone had his own idea of what sort of girl Helga had been, but he knew that some men could love a whore with the blind adoration of someone loving a saint. Savanna might not have loved Helga, but it was obvious that he had felt a long way from hating her. If he had loved her, that would have given him a reason for killing her: to keep

her from the other men who saw her on the other days of the week. “What did you do that day? Where were you?”

Savanna seemed to be searching his memory. “I—I was here at the office. I worked late.”

“Till what time?”

“I’m not sure. Six, six-thirty.”

Malone nodded to Clements. “Get the secretary in here, Russ.”

Savanna sat silent as Clements ushered in the secretary. She was a small, neat brunette in a mini-skirt and a sleeveless blouse that exposed the start of the swell of her bosom. Clements blew his nose, peering at her over the mask of his handkerchief. Malone thought, I don’t know how I could concentrate if they had birds like this working as secretaries at Y Division. She was in her twenties, but gave the paradoxical impression of being a very experienced sixteen-year-old. But her experience did not include being questioned by detectives; her worried puzzlement only seemed to accentuate her young look. “Mr. Savanna can’t remember what time he left the office last Monday week. Would you have any idea?”

The girl looked at Savanna, was even more worried and puzzled by the look of anguish on his face. “I—I’m not sure. Is this something serious, Mr. Savanna?”

Savanna nodded. “I’m afraid it is, Betty. It doesn’t matter. I’ve remembered what time I left here. You may go, Betty.”

“Just a moment,” said Malone. “What time did Mr. Savanna leave here, Betty?”

The girl glanced at Savanna again, then looked back at Malone. “It was about three o’clock, I think. He—he was going around some of the advertising agencies.”

Malone thanked her and after another look at Savanna, a pleading one as if she were asking him to forgive her if she had said the wrong thing, the girl went out of the office. Malone waited till the door closed behind her, then said, “You

didn’t go to any advertising agencies, did you?” Savanna shook his head. “Where did you go?”

“I’m afraid that’s something I’m not going to tell you.” There was no antagonism in Savanna’s voice, nor even emphasis; Malone recognized the dispiritedness, the almost melancholy weariness creeping over the man. When they reached that stage it was hardest of all to get any information out of them; the threat of arrest meant nothing, as if it were almost some sort of escape. “All 111 say is, I didn’t see Helga. I went to her place, 111 admit that. I don’t know what the time was, maybe half-past four or five. But she didn’t answer the door and I left.”

“Did you have a key?”