Dragons at the Party. Jon Cleary

take this. I’ll give you a receipt for it.’

      ‘Can you do that?’

      ‘Do you want me to find out who murdered Mr Masutir?’

      The tiny frown was there again, but just for a moment. ‘Of course. But how will his address book help you?’

      ‘We have to start somewhere, Mr Sun. Every murderer has a name. Our murderer’s may be in this.’ He held up the notebook, then slipped it into his pocket. ‘I think that’ll be all, Mr Sun.’

      Sun looked surprised, and Malone was surprised to see him capable of such an expression. ‘You don’t want to question me?’

      ‘I’ll be back to do that, Mr Sun. In the meantime you prepare your answers.’

      He went ahead of the Chinese down the stairs, not bothering to look back at him or say anything further. He sensed there might be something in Masutir’s notebook which might worry Sun Lee. A night to think about it might put another crack in the jade face.

      When Malone reached the front hallway Clements was waiting there for him. He read the bad news on the big man’s face before Clements said it. ‘We bashed the door down and found the old lady. She’d been strangled.’

      ‘Any sign of the killer?’

      Clements shook his head. ‘He’d left his gun, though. A Springfield 30, with a telescopic sight. He was a pro, I’d say. I’ve rung Fingerprints, they’re on their way.’

      ‘What about the old lady? Had he knocked her around?’

      ‘No. It was a neat job, with a piece of rope. He’d come prepared. Like I say, he was a real pro.’

      ‘Righto, I’ll be over there in a while. In the meantime, give this to Andy Graham, tell him I want every one of those Sydney addresses and phone numbers tracked down. Tell him to tell them to stand by when he finds out who they are. I’ll want to interview them.’ He handed the notebook to Clements, aware of Sun standing behind him and hearing every word. ‘Something doesn’t add up here. Maybe they meant to kill Masutir, after all. You think so, Mr Sun?’

      The mask was flawless this time. ‘It would be presumptuous of me even to guess, Inspector. I am not a detective.’

      Clements watched the small exchange, but his own wide open face was now expressionless. ‘I’ll wait for you over the road, Inspector.’

      Malone went back into the drawing-room, said directly to Madame Timori, ‘There’s been another murder. An old lady over in the flats opposite.’

      She just nodded. She did not appear disturbed; the handkerchief was not even produced this time. She stood up, giving herself regal airs if not a regal air, which is different; she was the most common of commoners but she had always had aspirations. She had always wanted to dance the royal roles when she had been with the dance company; nobody would ever have believed her as Cinderella. ‘I’m retiring for the night.’

      I’d like to retire, too, thought Malone; or anyway, go to bed. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning, Madame. I hope the President will be well enough to answer some questions.’

      ‘What sort of questions have you in mind? I’m sure I could answer them all.’ She paused, as if she might sit down again.

      ‘You must be tired,’ said Malone, not offering her any further opportunity to take over the investigation. ‘Good night, Madame. I’ll see you in the morning.’

      He went out into the warm night air. There he exchanged information with the two other Homicide men who had come with him and Clements. One of them was Andy Graham, a young overweight detective constable who had just transferred from the uniformed division. He was all enthusiasm and ideas, most of which were as blunt as Thumper Murphy’s sledgehammer.

      ‘I’ve got the notebook, Inspector.’ He brandished it like a small black flag. ‘I’ll have ’em all waiting for you first thing tomorrow morning.’

      ‘Not all at once, Andy. Use your judgement, get the big ones first.’

      ‘Right, Inspector, right.’

      ‘Take Kerry here with you. Divide up the addresses and numbers between you. Be polite.’

      ‘Right.’

      As he and Clements crossed the road towards the block of flats, Malone said,’ How come you never say right to everything I say?’

      ‘Do you want me to?’

      ‘No.’

      Right.’

      The old lady had been taken away in the same ambulance that had taken the dead Masutir; the holiday weekend casualties were starting early and these two not for the usual reason, road accidents. Up towards the corner of the street a large crowd had now congregated behind the barricades that had been thrown up. The protestors had stopped demonstrating, jarred into silence by the sight of the two bodies being pushed into the ambulance, and the crowd was now just a large restless wash of curiosity. Double murders just didn’t happen in Kirribilli: the local estate agents would have to work hard next week to continue promoting it as a ‘desirable area’.

      The fireworks were still scribbling on the black sky, but the crowd seemed to have turned its back on them. A band was playing in the open court at the northern end of the Opera House and the music drifted across the water, banged out at intervals by the explosions of the fireworks. The waters of the harbour were ablaze with drifting lights: ferries, yachts, rowboats, the reflected Catherine wheels, shooting stars and lurid waterfalls of the fireworks. Malone wondered if the local Aborigines here on the Kirribilli shore had waved any firesticks in celebration on the night of that day in January 1788 when Captain Arthur Phillip had raised the British flag and laid the seed, perhaps unwittingly, for a new nation. As he walked across the road Malone looked for an Aborigine or two amongst the demonstrators, with or without firesticks to light their way, but there was none.

      The Fingerprints men were just finishing as Malone entered the top-floor flat past Thumper’s handiwork, the splintered front door. ‘Can’t find a print, Inspector. We’ve dusted everything, but he either wiped everything clean or wore gloves. He must have been a cold-blooded bastard.’

      ‘Have you tried the bathroom?’

      ‘There’s two of them. Nothing there.’

      ‘Try the handle or the button of the cistern. I don’t care how cold-blooded he was, he’d have gone in there for a nervous pee some time.’ The senior Fingerprints man looked unimpressed and Malone went on, ‘It’s the simple, habitual things that let people down, even the most careful ones. I’ll give you a hundred to one that a man doesn’t take a leak with a glove on.’

      ‘I couldn’t find mine if I had a glove on,’ said Clements with a grin.

      The Fingerprints men looked peeved that a Homicide man, even if he was an inspector, should tell them their job. They went away into the bathrooms and two minutes later the senior man came back to say there was a distinct print on the cistern button in the second bathroom. He looked even more peeved that Malone had been right.

      ‘The second bathroom looks as if it’s rarely used, maybe just for visitors. The print’s a new one.’

      ‘Righto, check your records,’ said Malone. ‘I’ll want a report on it first thing in the morning. Sergeant Clements will call you.’

      Malone was left alone with Clements, Thumper Murphy and the sergeant in charge of the North Sydney detectives, a slim handsome man named Stacton. ‘Okay, so what have we got?’

      Clements pointed to the dismantled rifle which lay on the table in the dining-room in which they stood. ‘He must have brought it in dismantled and put it together once he was in the flat – it’s a special job. Then after he’d fired the shot, he dismantled it again and put it in a kit-bag, the sort squash players