Dragons at the Party. Jon Cleary

bank. ‘What is it, Russ?’

      ‘None of those out in the street know anything – I’m inclined to believe them. We’ve been into those flats opposite – some of the owners are away for the weekend. Those that are home said they heard nothing because of the noise of the clowns up the street.’

      ‘What about the top-floor flats? That’d be the best bet where the shot came from.’

      ‘The whole of the top floor is owned by an old lady, a –’ Clements looked at his notebook ‘– a Miss Kiddle. The bloke below her thought she should be home, but we can’t raise her.’

      Malone looked at the burly, greying sergeant in uniform behind Clements. ‘What do you reckon, Fred?’

      Thumper Murphy was a senior sergeant in the local North Sydney division. He had played rugby for the State and for Australia; his approach to football opponents and law-breakers was the same: straight through them. He was the last of a dying breed and Malone sometimes wondered if the Force could stand their loss. ‘We could bash the front door down. I’ve got a sledge-hammer in me car.’

      ‘I thought sledge-hammers had gone out of fashion.’

      ‘Not on my turf,’ said Thumper with a broken-toothed grin.

      ‘Righto, get in any way you can. But don’t scare hell out of the old lady.’

      Thumper Murphy, accompanied by Clements, went away to get his sledge-hammer and Malone went back into the drawing-room. The President had lapsed back into the bleary-eyed look he had had when Malone had first walked into the room; the whisky glass in his hand was now empty. Madame Timori took the glass from him, slapped his wrist lightly as if he were a naughty child, and glanced at Malone.

      ‘I’ve suggested to Sergeant Kenthurst that the President be allowed to go to bed. He’s worn out.’

      Malone looked at Kenthurst, who somehow managed to shrug with his eyebrows, What could I say? ‘All right, Madame Timori. But I’d like to see the President again in the morning. By then I hope we’ll know where we’re going.’

      Timori was helped to his feet by his wife; he suddenly looked ten years older, sick and tired. ‘You don’t know where you’re going, Inspector? Neither do we. Good night.’

      He brushed off his wife’s helping hand and walked, a little unsteadily, out of the room. Madame Timori looked at the two policemen. ‘We’ve been through a lot this past week, as you’ve probably read.’

      And it hasn’t put a hair of your head out of place, Malone thought. Surviving a two-day siege of their palace, then a successful, though not bloody, coup, seemed hardly to have fazed her at all. Exile, however, might do that.

      ‘You may have to go through a lot more, Madame. This may not be the last attempt on the President’s life. Or on yours,’ he added and waited for the effect of the remark.

      She did not flinch. ‘I’ve had three attempts on my life in the past three years. One gets used to it.’ It was bravado, but Malone had to admire it. ‘I suppose we were careless this evening. One just doesn’t expect assassination attempts in Australia. Except character assassination,’ she added with a smile that would have cut a thousand throats. ‘Now, is there anyone else you’d like to question?’

      She had taken charge of the investigation. Malone grinned inwardly: Lisa would enjoy the police gossip in bed tonight. If he got to bed … ‘Anyone you’d care to suggest?’

      Madame Timori gave him a look that would have demoted him right back to cadet if she’d had the authority. ‘The household staff?’

      ‘I think we can leave them till last. I’d like to talk to the staff you brought with you from Palucca. They’d know more about your enemies.’ He was treading on dangerous ground. He was aware of the warning waves coming out of Kenthurst, the Canberra man. You’re dealing with a Federal Government guest, a personal friend of the Prime Minister. ‘That is, if you don’t mind, Madame?’

      ‘You mean am I going to claim diplomatic immunity for them?’

      ‘I don’t think they’d want that. Not if they want to know who is trying to kill their President.’ Even if he’s only an ex-President now.

      ‘You sound so efficient, Inspector. So unlike our own police back home. I suppose, then, you should start with Sun Lee.’

      Sun Lee was the President’s private secretary, a Chinese in his mid-forties with a skin as smooth as jade and eyes like black marbles. He was just as cold as both those stones. ‘I have nothing to tell you, Inspector.’

      Malone looked at Madame Timori, who gave him a smug smile. Then he looked back at the Chinese. ‘Maybe you could show me Mr Masutir’s room?’

      Sun frowned, a thin crack in the jade. ‘He shared a room with me – the accommodation here is limited –’ He spoke with all the expansive snobbery of a man accustomed to a palace. ‘There is nothing in Mr Masutir’s room but his personal belongings.’

      ‘Those are what I want to see.’

      Sun glanced at Madame Timori, but she said nothing. Then he turned abruptly and led Malone out of the room and upstairs. The house, for an official residence, was small. Australia did not believe in any grandeur for those it voted into office; that was reserved for those forced upon it, the Queen’s Governors and Governor-General. There was a substantial mansion right next door to Kirribilli House, but that was the Sydney residence of the Governor-General and no place for a deposed President. The Queen, through her representative, only entertained exiled monarchs. A certain protocol had to be observed, even in disgrace.

      The room was comfortably and attractively furnished, but Sun obviously thought it was a converted closet stocked from a discount house. ‘There is no room to move … Mr Masutir’s things are still in his suitcase. We were only allowed to bring one suitcase each.’

      ‘I read in the papers that the RAAF plane that brought you was loaded with baggage.’

      ‘The newspapers, as always, got it wrong. We brought packing cases, but they are full of official papers – records, files, that sort of thing. President Timori wanted to leave nothing for the vandals who have taken over the palace.’

      ‘What about Madame Timori? Did she bring only one suitcase?’

      ‘Madame Timori has a position to uphold.’

      ‘I thought she might have. The papers said she brought twelve cases and four trunks. But women never travel lightly, do they? So they tell me.’

      Masutir’s suitcase, a genuine Vuitton or a good Hong Kong fake, Malone wasn’t sure which, was not locked. Malone flipped back the lid, was surprised at how neatly everything was packed; had Masutir been packed for weeks, waiting for the inevitable? Most of the contents told Malone nothing except that Masutir had always bought quality: the shirts, the socks, the pyjamas were all silk. In a pocket in the lid were Masutir’s passport and a black leather-bound notebook.

      Malone flipped through the passport. ‘Mr Masutir had been to Australia before?’

      ‘I understand he had been here before.’

      ‘Six times in the past –’ Malone looked at the earliest date stamp ‘– eight months. Did you know about those visits, Mr Sun?’

      If Sun had known about the visits he didn’t show it now. ‘No. Mr Masutir was more Madame Timori’s secretary than my assistant. Back home in Palucca she was a very busy woman, as you may know.’

      ‘Are you a Paluccan, Mr Sun?’

      ‘Fourth generation. My family came to Bunda from Hong Kong after the Opium War.’

      ‘Which side were they on?’ Sun looked blank and Malone added, ‘The war?’

      Sun still looked blank, made no answer. So much for being