Dark Summer (23 page)

“Okay,” said Rubens, coming in a little strongly; he looked as if he felt
his
prisoner was being taken away from him. “Let's forget the murder. Let's talk about the heroin.”

“Ah no, Sergeant. Not till my lawyer arrives.” He looked up as Clements came back into the room. “He on his way?”

“You're out of luck,” said Clements. “That was his home number, was it? All I got was his answering machine. I left a message, said it was urgent.”

“
You're lying, Sergeant.”

Clements moved round to the corner of the table, stood over Mitre. “The last time a prisoner said that to me, I accidentally fell on him. Make another remark like that and I'll squash you like one of your own eclairs.”

Mitre was not intimidated. “I know you won't do that, Sergeant, not after all the bad publicity the police have had over the past year. You're bluffing and I don't blame you—it's always a good ploy. Incidentally, I don't make eclairs. I can, but I don't run a patisserie. My selling point is that the Matilda is a good, old-fashioned, dinky-di Aussie cake shop. Lamingtons, raspberry-jam-and-cream sponges, pavlovas, even rock cakes. No foreign muck, is my motto. The funny part is, the wogs love them.”

“Heroin is foreign muck,” said Rubens.

The plump face was suddenly still, the glasses turned downwards, catching no light. “I'll wait for my lawyer. May I have a cup of tea? Milk, no sugar.”

“Would you care for a couple of lamingtons with it?” said Malone.

Mitre smiled, but said nothing. The three policemen left him alone and went out to the main room. “What d'you reckon?” said Rubens. “You think he had anything to do with killing that guy?”

Malone shook his head. “He's too smart to have someone bumped off so close to home. Let's look him up, see if he has any record.”

The computer showed no mention of Sydney Mitre. “I'll try the Pharmacy Board in the morning,” said Clements. “Why would a chemist give it up to become a pastrycook? There's more money in a chemist's shop than selling lamingtons and custard tarts.”

“Maybe he wasn't a pharmacist,” said Malone. “Maybe he was an industrial chemist, something like that. Let's wait for his lawyer, see who turns up.”

“The name he gave me was Evans,” said Clements.

And that was who turned up: Caradoc Evans. The Welsh have never made as much impression in Australia as other emigrants from the British Isles: it may be that their devotion to rugby and choral singing, not nationwide sports Down Under, has not fitted them for success. Caradoc Evans, however,
was
a criminal lawyer, a field where putting the boot in and hymnal eloquence are assets, and he was a definite success. Malone wondered how an honest pastrycook could afford him.

“Well, what are they accusing you of, boy?” Evans still had a Welsh lilt and he played the part, as if he had arrived only yesterday from the Rhondda. He was in his fifties, bald, short and stocky, a pensioned-off scrum-half who would grab the balls of any heavier opponent who tried to dump him. He knew how to play dirty, but disguised it with light charm. “Perhaps you'd like to fill me in, Inspector?”

Malone did so. “I think Sergeant Rubens has him dead-set on the heroin charges. I'd like to talk to him about the murder. I'm sorry you had to be dragged out in the middle of the night. We suggested not calling you till the morning, but your client wouldn't hear of it.”

“I came as soon as I got home and heard the message. I've been to a preview of
Godfather Three.
Very disturbing, makes you thankful we live in a law-abiding country like ours.”

“Wales or New South Wales?”

Evans winked, a Welsh wink full of suspicion masquerading as bonhomie; they had been using it on the English since the days of Owen Glendower. It did not work with Malone, another Celt. “We're on the same side, Inspector, aren't we? That of law and order. May I consult with my client?”

Malone looked at Rubens, who nodded.

The detectives left Mitre and his lawyer alone in the interrogation room. Ten minutes later the door opened and Evans beckoned them in. “My client has decided to come clean, as the saying is. He denies any connection with the murder, but he admits you may have found some illegal substance amongst his pastries. He will plead guilty, as a contribution to law and order.”

“I'd like to ask him a few questions,” said Rubens.

“Ah no, no. You won't be answering any questions, will you, boy?”

“No,” said the middle-aged boy. “No questions.”

“We might be able to offer you a deal,” said Rubens. “You tell us who brings in the heroin and we'll see what we can do with the Crown Prosecutor.”

“My client tells me he has no idea who sent the heroin to his shop. It just turned up instead of
an
order for self-raising flour. A mistake, obviously. The regrettable part is that my client took advantage of someone else's mistake—temptation is a terrible thing. He decided, as the saying is, to get into the act.”

“And Leroy Lugos turning up to collect a cake-box full of the stuff?”

“Purely fortuitous.”

“It wasn't very fortuitous for Leroy,” said Malone. “A poisoned needle in your bum isn't everyone's idea of a lucky dip.”

Clements, so far, had been silent. In rugby terms he now came in from far out on the wing: “Mr. Evans, don't you represent Denny Pelong?”

It had been a wild pass and Evans, caught on the wrong foot, had taken it; now he looked as if he wished he could pass it on. “You know, Sergeant, I can't discuss other clients.”

“Sorry I mentioned it,” said Clements. “Do you know Denny Pelong, Mr. Mitre?”

The tinted glasses caught the light as Mitre raised his head; they were opaque, he looked utterly blind. “Pelong? It's a peculiar name. No, I don't think I know him. What does he do?”

“Just about everything criminal,” said Clements.

“I think we should prepare the statement you want and my client will sign it.” The lilt had gone from Evans' voice; we're deadly serious now, boy. “Then we can all go home.”

“Not quite,” said Malone. “He'll be held till we put him before a magistrate in the morning. There may be another charge by then.”

“What charge?”

“An accessory before the fact of murder.”

II

When Caradoc Evans rang Denny Pelong at 11.30 that night with the news of Leroy Lugos' murder and the heroin bust, Pelong went outside and, fully clothed, flung himself into his swimming pool, where he beat the water in a fury. His wife, in a shortie nightgown, her face glistening with night cream, came downstairs when she heard the commotion and out to the side of the pool.

“
You're disturbing the neighbours, sweetheart. You know how they hate all-night swimming out here in the suburbs.” She came from Redfern, where the neighbours don't have to worry too much about swimming pools and what time of day they are swum in.

Pelong told her to get fucked.

“The neighbours don't like that, either, sweetheart. Not out in the back yard.” She started to walk back into the house, then paused. “You want me to get the dogs to jump in with you?”

Then she went into the house, smiling like a cat that had just scratched the eyes out of a Rottweiler.

III

Malone left it to Rubens to appear in court the next morning with Mitre. “Hold him as long as you can without bail.”

“Give the magistrate some Old Testament stuff,” said Clements.

“What's that?” said Rubens.

“Doctored evidence. You Jews invented it, didn't you?”

Rubens looked at Malone. “Is he anti-Semitic?”

“He's just anti-religious. You should hear what he has to say about us Catholics. He's a lapsed born-again Christian, they're the worst. Christ gave him away.”

Rubens grinned. “Did they ever tell you at your Catholic school that old fable about the Apostles being in that locked room and Christ turning up from the dead to say there was no God?”

“Not at school, they didn't. But I picked up an old drunk priest one night and he told me about it. He told me to give it the deaf ear. He said, 'We're all doubters at some time, son, and it doesn't do to encourage ourselves.' It's good advice that I've stuck with. Don't let's doubt that we'll nail Mr. Mitre.”

First thing next morning Clements got in touch with the State Pharmacy Board. No, they had nothing on a Sydney Mitre, but if the police wished, they would get in touch with the boards in other States. The police wished. Half an hour later the Pharmacy Board rang back.

“
South Australia,” said the woman from the Board, no more than a pleasing voice, “they deregistered a pharmacist three years ago for supplying restricted drugs without a prescription. His name wasn't Mitre, however, not his surname. His name was Sydney Mitre Pelong. P-E-L-O—”

“I know how to spell it,” said Clements.

“Peculiar name, isn't it? You've heard it before?”

“Once or twice.” Clements thanked the pleasant voice, hung up and looked across at Malone. “Waddia know! Our friend Syd Mitre is a relative of Denny Pelong.”

Malone pondered a while. “Do you think Syd and Denny would have had Leroy done in?”

“No,” said Clements without hesitation.

Malone nodded. “Neither do I. Why would they kill off one of their own dealers, just around the corner from their supply point? Give Irv Rubens a ring, tell him Syd's real name but tell him to hold off on Denny Pelong for a while. Irv can handle the heroin bust, I don't want us to get into that. But keep Denny Pelong out of it till we've gone a bit more into Leroy's murder. Have you heard from Doc Gaynor?”

“He's handed the body on to Romy. It's another curare job, she's established that, so she's covering the three murders.”

“Four. You're forgetting Jimmy Maddux. Have you seen this morning's papers? A plague of murders, one of them called it. Some of these fellers should be writing advertising copy.”

“It's a change from writing war headlines. Or reading them. Do we set up a Crime Room out at Newtown? Send a coupla our guys out there?”

“Send Andy Graham, he's got enough energy for half a dozen of us, he can drive them crazy instead of us.” Malone was sitting in front of the computer, tapping information into what he still thought of as the murder box. “See this? I got on to the Sydney Cricket Ground, got them to check who paid for Jimmy Maddux's gold pass. Coolibah Investments Services, a private company.”

“It doesn't sound like Jimmy Maddux's own company.”

“No. I'm having it searched, we'll find out who runs it.” He turned from the computer, “In the meantime, you can go out to Bondi, talk to Leroy's uncle and then have a look at his flat and talk to the
neighbours.”

“What are you gunna do?”

“I'm going down to see Ava and Tuesday. I've just had a thought. What if Scungy Grime had been a client of Sally Kissen? Or of the girls? Maybe these curare murders all came out of the one location.”

“What about Jimmy Maddux?”

“Possibly unconnected.”

Clements was sceptical. “I don't buy that and I don't think you do.”

“Why do you throw a bucket of cold water over me just when I think I'm inspired?”

He took his own car, the Commodore, down to Palmer Street, parked it on the pavement, something he growled at if anyone did it in Randwick, and knocked on the door of the Kissen house. It was opened cautiously by Ava, who peered at him suspiciously against the bright morning light. Then she recognized him and slipped off the door-chain.

“You can't be too careful. What's it about this time? Leroy?”

“You heard about it?”

“I saw it last night on TV. They ran it with the late-night war news. I thought it was Tel Aviv or Baghdad or somewhere at first, all those ghouls hanging around.”

She led him into the small living room, where Tuesday sat on the purple and red lounge, her knees drawn up under her chin. She was in a cheap imitation-silk green robe, her bright red hair awry, like a small fire caught in a willy-willy, and last night's make-up was a tear-molten mask. Ava was pale, her face a little gaunt, but she was holding herself together. She offered Malone coffee and Iced Vo-Vos, evidently the brothel's standard morning snack.

“I didn't tell Tuesday what had happened to Leroy, not till this morning. She was working last night.”

“You weren't?”

“No. I'm off the game, as of yesterday. If it interests you, I'm off the junk, too. Or trying to be.”

“
Good luck.” Malone munched on one of the cookies. “Tuesday, did Leroy ever say anything to you about being threatened by anyone?”

Tuesday wiped her eyes with a tissue. She seemed careless of how she looked; Malone was not a customer. “Leroy would never tell me nothing like that.”

“Leroy was a big-head,” said Ava. She was in shorts and a shirt, again with long sleeves, and her long white-blonde hair was tied in a pony-tail. She was wearing no make-up and she gave the impression that she was trying to scrub herself clean of her past life. Malone guessed, however, that she had a long way to go, a lot more scrubbing to do. “He would never let you know he had any competition.”

“You oughtn't to speak ill of the dead.” Tuesday murmured the words as if she were reading them from a tombstone.

“I know you loved him, honey, but lets face it—he was a shit.”

“Did he run any other girls besides you two?”

“No!” Tuesday flared; the robe slipped open, she was naked underneath, but sex was dead in this house, at least for the time being.

“Honey—” Ava shook her head chidingly; she was mothering Tuesday. “He had half a dozen girls besides us. You just never wanted to know . . .” She looked at Malone. “I dunno if ever anyone threatened him, but it was possible.”