Pride's Harvest (35 page)

Drinking
yourself into a stupor?
But Malone couldn't ask that without incriminating Anju Bedi. “Your wife or someone will corroborate that?”

“Oh, indubitably, old man. Wives always support their husbands, don't they?”

Malone noted a sudden change in the climate: as if Nothling had suddenly become recklessly relaxed. As if he didn't care what questions might be asked of him.

Clements had one: “Did you blackball Mr. Sagawa when he applied for membership of the Veterans Legion?”

“I don't belong to the Legion.” The momentary recklessness had gone as abruptly as it had come. “I think I've had enough of this, chaps. I didn't kill Sagawa.”

Malone nodded, turned away; but Clements said, “How well do you know Narelle Potter, Doc?”

Nothling, too, had been about to turn away. “Only as a private patient. Don't tell me she's a suspect, too?”

“No. It's about something else.”

“I only know her as a patient, so anything I know about her is confidential. Now are we finished? This is getting tiresome.”

He sounds like his father-in-law, thought Malone. “Thanks for your time, Doc. We'll see you this evening. Socially.”

Nothling raised his eyebrows. “You're coming to our party?”

“Your wife asked us. Didn't she tell you?”

“I leave all that sort of thing to her. She's a continual surprise.”

He strode off towards the four Japanese still standing outside the office door. Malone said, “Do you think he suddenly looked worried?”

“Something upset him. All of a sudden he looked as if he wanted a double whisky. Where do we go now?”

“Back to the station—wait a minute. Here comes Barry Liss.”

Liss, ear-muffs hanging round his lean neck like growths, came towards them. “You wanna
come
with me?” he said and kept walking right past Malone and Clements; after a glance at each other, they followed him. Malone, looking back over his shoulder, saw Nothling and the four Japanese stop talking and stare after them.

When the two detectives caught up with Liss, Malone said, “Your bosses don't look happy, Barry. You want to leave it and talk to us when you knock off work?”

“No worries, mate. They're never gunna fire me, not right now in the middle of the harvest. I'm the only one around here who's a mechanic, Mr. Fix-it. It's not me who wants to talk to you, it's one of the guys on the harvesters. His name's Alf Pynchon.”

“Before we go over to see your mate, Barry . . . Were you at the Legion club last night?”

“Yeah.” Liss was puzzled by the question. “Why?”

“How long? Say from eleven o'clock till one?”

“Yeah, the missus and me left when they closed down. That was one o'clock, it always is Sat'day night.”

“Was young Phil Chakiros there right up till closing time?”

“Phil Chakiros?” The lean face gullied with concentration. “Yeah, yeah he was. Him and some of his galah mates. They're not my cuppa tea. I don't even pass the time of day with „em. Why, what's he been up to?”

“Nothing,” said Malone. “I guess it was a case of mistaken identity.”

“He's a pain in the arse. But then, so's his old man.”

They crossed the entrance road and entered the fields, walking between the rows, the unharvested white bushes stretching away on either side of them; it was like being in the middle of a frothing surf that had suddenly gone flat as the wind turned. They came to a harvester clacking its way through the bushes, its barbed spindles plucking the seed cotton from the open bolls. Liss waved to the operator in the high glass cabin and at once the man switched off his machine and swung down to the ground.

Liss introduced the two detectives, then said, “I better get back to the gin. Don't make it too
long,
Inspector, just in case the Nips start cracking the whip. They already got the idea if you stop for a breather, you're laying down on the job. We got a long way to go to educate „em. Hooroo and good luck. We all wanna see you nail the bastard who killed Kenny Sagawa.”

He left them on that and Malone and Clements turned to Alf Pynchon. He was as lean as Liss, but taller, with a long thin face, a long nose and skin scarred by sun cancers. He had the air of a patient man, one who had lived on the land all his life and knew Nature couldn't be hurried. Malone wondered if he was one of the small farmers on whom the banks had foreclosed, who was now reduced to working for someone else; worst of all, for foreigners. But he had nodded when Barry Liss had said that all the workers for South Cloud wanted the police to catch the killer of Kenji Sagawa.

“Last Monday night I was coming home from a pub in town—I live out there along the Bowyang road—” He nodded back over his shoulder to the east. “I passed by here about nine o'clock, maybe a little later, I dunno. I seen a car parked just off the road out there, about a hundred yards along from the main gate. It was parked just inside the fence, up there where you can see those two she-oaks—there's another gate there and a track we sometimes use in the spring when we're planting. We've used it a coupla times this week to bring in the semi-trailers.”

“Was there anyone in the car?”

“I couldn't see, but, tell you the truth, I wasn't looking for anyone. It didn't sorta register, you know what I mean? I went past it and I only remembered it a coupla days later. It could of been just a couple having it off in the back seat.”

“What sort of car was it?”

Pynchon shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. All I remember was it was light-coloured.”

“Beige? Could it have been a beige or fawn Mercedes? Like that one over there in front of the office?”

Pynchon squinted towards the office and the Nothling Mercedes parked beside the other vehicles. He was the laconic sort whose only expressive gesture was a shrug; he would answer kings, presidents and prime ministers with it; he used it again. “I dunno. Honest.”

“
Did the police interview you?”

“Yeah, Wally Mungle did. But, tell you the truth, I didn't think to tell him about the car. You know how it is.”

Malone knew, all right. The average person's memory was a waste-basket; one had to know what one was looking for amongst the trash. Wally Mungle, an inexperienced investigator, would not, as early as Tuesday morning, have been looking for a car parked somewhere amongst the cotton rows.

“Did Wally ask you where you were Monday night?”

“Nah. Why would he? Him and me have known each other for years.” It obviously had not occurred to any of the police that Pynchon could be a suspect. It was another form of cronyism, though that interpretation would not occur to them, either.

“Righto, Mr. Pynchon, thanks. We'll go over there to those—silky-oaks?”

“She-oaks. Silky-oaks are the ones that line the main road as you go into town—they're not native to around here. They were planted by old Sir Chester Hardstaff. Hope I been some help.”

Malone and Clements walked away, cutting through the cotton rows towards the fence bordering the main highway. “Silky-oaks?” said Clements.

“I was showing off. I read about silky-oaks once. But is there
anything
the Hardstaffs haven't had a hand in around here?”

They found the track and followed it down to the gate in the fence. It was a wire-netting, steel-framed gate, its chain hanging loose, and they swung it back and began to walk up and down, one on either side of the track, from the road to a distance of twenty or thirty yards into the cotton. Out on the highway traffic whirred and thundered past: cars, trucks and, once, three semi-trailers nose-to-tail, as threatening as a runaway train as they roared by, the tarpaulin of the rear trailer flapping wildly in the wind with a sound like gunfire.

“Here,” said Clements and opened up the grass to show a cartridge case. He ran his hands through the coarse dry grass beside the track but there were no other cases. “Looks like a Twenty-two.”

“The only one?”

“
I can't see any more. One shot—he must've been pretty good. Used a night „scope, probably, like the „roo shooters do.”

Malone carefully picked up the shell, tore a strip from his notebook and wrapped it loosely round the cartridge case and dropped it in his pocket. He wasn't hopeful it would lead him anywhere, but you always had to hope.

“We've got Buckley's chance of picking up any tire marks here. Those semis they brought in would've wiped them out.” He gestured at the wide, deep tread-marks, like some sort of tribal art in the dust. Then he squinted back towards the office and the parked vehicles outside it. “Say Sagawa was outside the office when he was shot. How far would you say that was?”

“A hundred and fifty yards, maybe a bit more. If the lights were on in the office, he'd have been silhouetted against them. It's still a pretty good shot.”

“Why shoot him in the back?”

“Why not? Killers aren't fussy. This wasn't a duel.”

“I know that,” said Malone, testy for a moment. “I'm just wondering about what you said—could it have been an accident?”

“And last night's shot at you was another accident?”

“That could've been someone else.”

Clements shook his head with slow impatience. “Scobie, you're stewing your brain. If this keeps up you'll have enough theories to get you a job as a criminologist. Come on, let's go back to the station.”

They closed the gate and walked back through the cotton rows to the office. Pynchon was taking his harvester down the rows about fifty yards away; he waved to them from his cabin and they waved back. When they got to the office the Mercedes was gone and the Japanese were nowhere in sight. Then Koga came out of the office, blinking through his glasses.

“Dr. Nothling's gone?”

“He said he had to go into town. To the hospital, I suppose. May I ask why you wanted to see Mr. Pynchon?”

“
Did Mr. Tajiri ask you to ask that question?”

Koga shuffled his feet as if his shoes hurt, then lowered his voice. “Yes, Inspector.”

“Tell Mr. Tajiri we refused to answer, that it was police business. If he wants us to solve Mr. Sagawa's murder, we'll do it our own way. Will you tell him that?”

Koga shuffled his feet again, then a smile flickered for a moment on his lips. “No, Inspector. But I'll think of something.”

Malone grinned. “Just tell him it was police business. Forget the rest. Are they going to be here at the gin for the rest of the day?”

“No, Mr. Dircks has invited them out to the golf club to play golf. They are all very keen golfers.”

Bully for them. Malone wondered if they got double time while they were belting a little white ball round a golf course on Sundays. He also wondered if they would be looking over their shoulders in the middle of their swings for the bullet coming from the rough or some bunker.

V

He and Clements got into the Commodore and drove back to town. As they passed between the avenue of trees on the edge of town Clements said, “Silky-oaks.”

“Up yours,” said Malone, but they grinned at each other, glad of the bond that bound them.

When they walked into the station the duty officer, a young policewoman, said, “Inspector Narvo asked if you'd mind seeing him in his office. Would you like some coffee, Russ?”

She looked at Clements and Malone wondered if he would be included in the invitation. As they walked down the short hall to Narvo's office he said, “When did you get so matey with the help?”

“This morning while you were at church. She's been off duty for the past three days, that's why we haven't met her. She thinks I'm Maigret, she wants to be a detective.”

“Well, don't start practising your French on her.”

They knocked on Narvo's door, went in to find him sitting behind his desk, not in uniform but
in
slacks, a button-down shirt with no tie and a pale blue pullover. The starch was fast draining out of him; Malone resisted the temptation to look under the desk to see if he was wearing thongs.

Narvo leaned back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head: Malone waited for him to prop his feet up on the desk, but that would be going too far. “Wally Mungle has been in. He'd like you to go out to the blacks' settlement. His wife is there.”

“Ruby? I'd got the idea she'd turned her back on all that.”

“That's what I thought. Anyhow, she and Wally are out there now and she wants to talk to you.”

“Wally is one of your men, Hugh. Ruby should be talking to you or Curly.”

“I asked Wally if he'd mind if I came along with you and he said, no, he didn't think Ruby would mind. She just won't come in here. Do you mind if I come?”

“Hugh, this is your turf. Let's go out there now. Russ, stay here, wait for that call from Ballistics. Practise your French.” He grinned as the duty officer came to the door with two cups of coffee. “Thanks, Constable, but I have to go out. Sergeant Maigret may ask you to join him.”

Her pretty face creased with puzzlement and as Malone and Narvo went out to the Commodore the latter said, “What's that all about? Is Russ trying to put the hard word on one of my girls?”

“She wants to be a detective. She thinks Russ's middle name is Maigret.”

Narvo sighed as he got into the car. “They all want to be in plain-clothes.”

“You never did?” Malone took the car out of the yard.

“No. It was always my ambition to be boss of this station and I knew I'd never be that if I went into plain-clothes.”

“You're in them this morning.”

“I'm off duty. I just came in to check if anything out of the ordinary had come in overnight.”

“Something out of the ordinary did happen last night. I got shot at.”