7

I

AFTER LUNCH in the Waring house Malone walked out and down to the yards. He stood leaning on the rail of a sand-yard, watching Tom, stiff with pride and some trepidation, trotting a horse in a circle. Then Claire came and stood beside him. He put his arm round her shoulders and felt her move a little closer to him, as if seeking his protection.

“How’s your case going, Daddy?”

“We’re getting there slowly. How’s yours?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any case.”

“I got it from a reliable stool pigeon that you had a case for Tas.”

She squinted up at him, making a face. “God, there’s no privacy in this family! If you must know, I don’t have a case, as you call it, for Tas. It was just a—a phase. Have you seen his girl-friend? God, she’s gross! She’s got bigger boobs than Dolly Parton.”

“Do you mind? I’m your father, not a bra salesman.”

“Daddy, don’t be so stuffy. Mum and I have discussed her figure—Mum agrees with me. They stick out in front of her—”

Crumbs, he thought, where did the little girl go who used to laugh her head off at Bugs Bunny and couldn’t believe that I’d once done the same thing?

“Well, don’t say any more about Tas, please? Here comes TV Guide.” He pressed her shoulder, wanting to protect her against the heartaches of love, puppy or otherwise. Maureen sneaked in under his other arm as he dropped it from the rail.

“Daddy, come home with us tomorrow?”

“I can’t, love. If I did, the Commissioner would either sack me or send me out to Tibooburra. How’d you like to live way out there in the Outback?”

Both girls made a face and Maureen said, “I hate the country! All the flies and the snakes and things—urk! And there’s nothing to do! They only get one TV channel out here. It’s like living at the South Pole.”

“Tom looks happy enough.”

“He’s a boy. He’s a wally, anyway—he’d enjoy anything, I’m never going to move out of the city again as long as I live.”

Tom pulled the horse up in front of them, beamed down on them, the Man from Snowy River with green zinc ointment on his nose and a stockman’s hat two sizes too large for him. There were streams ahead of him to be splashed through, fallen trees to be jumped, steep slopes down which he had to plunge: Clancy of the Overflow waited for him on the other side of a boy’s river of dreams. He could be happy here, Malone thought. He reached across the rail and put a hand on his son’s knee, suddenly sad that, not many years ahead, Tom would be leaving home, bound for a life in which he, the father, might not be needed. For a father, too, has a river of dreams which, too often, run dry behind him.

“Dad, can I have a horse for Christmas?”

“Don’t be spack,” said Claire. “Where would we keep a horse? In the pool?”

“Well, I think I’ll stay here and be a tomeroo.”

“A jackeroo, you wally,” said Maureen.

“My name’s Tom, not Jack.”

Malone welcomed the arrival of the Waring children who had now come out of the house. He saw Sean Carmody moving towards two chairs under a tree and he crossed over and sat down beside him. Carmody handed him a can of Aerogard and Malone sprayed himself against the flies that had followed him. Then he nodded enquiringly at a few clouds that were building up in the west.

Carmody shook his head. “There’s no rain out there. We’re in for a long dry spell, I think . . . Trevor told me about last night’s shooting.”

Malone tensed. “Did he tell the women?”

“No, I gather you told him not to. You got any clue to who it was?”

“Not so far . . . Sean, did you know a local man named Frank Kilburn?”

“Of course. A nice feller, very quiet, except when he had a few in. Why?”

“Did he ever say anything to you about Chess Hardstaff and his war record?”

Carmody looked at him shrewdly. He took out his pipe, lit it unhurriedly and puffed on it before replying; the flies that hadn’t been driven away by the spray now fled from the smoke. “Who wised you up to that little bit of gossip?”

“Is that all it is—gossip?”

Carmody considered. “No, I don’t think so. Frank Kilburn wasn’t a gossip-monger. But once or twice, when he was in his cups, he’d talk a bit more than was good for him. Or for Chess Hardstaff.” He puffed on his pipe again, then took it out of his mouth and let it start to die out. Malone waited, one eye on Tom, now trotting the horse once more round the sand-yard. At last Carmody said, “Frank and Chess were in the same Air Force unit, flying Kittyhawks in North Africa. Chess shot down a German Messerschmitt one day and the Jerry pilot took to his parachute. Chess followed him down, playing him like a cat with a mouse, and shot him when he was about a thousand feet from the ground. Frank was the only one who saw it and he never spoke to him again—he wouldn’t even back up Chess in his claim for the kill. He asked for a transfer to another unit and got it. When he came back to the district he wouldn’t join the Legion in town because Chess was up to be president. If he came into town, he’d cross the road to avoid him. He lived on a property down south about twenty miles, it had been in the family for years, and after he came back from the war I gather he never really became part of the town’s life. He was very bitter about Chess, said he was the most cold-blooded killer, that was what he called him, he’d ever seen.”

“Was he ever married?”

“No, not as far as I know.”

“I understand he died last year. What did he die of?”

Carmody smiled. “Chess didn’t kill him, if that’s what you are asking. He died of pneumonia, something us old fellers are susceptible to. You’re still chasing Chess over the murder of his wife, aren’t you?”

“Not really. His name just keeps cropping up.” He stood up. “Well, I’d better be getting back. I’ll see you at the Nothlings’ party.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for quids.” Carmody knocked out his pipe on the heel of his boot, then stood up. “Do you think Sagawa’s murderer is likely to take another pot-shot at you?”

“It’s possible. But keep it to yourself.”

“Does the thought scare you?”

“Sean, I’m not middle-aged yet. I’ve got a wife and three kids I love. I don’t think I’m scared, but I hate the thought of some bastard wiping me out while I’m still enjoying what I’ve got.”

He went across to say goodbye to the children, telling them he would see them tomorrow at the airport, then he went into the house, collected Lisa and walked with her out to the Commodore.

“What’s the matter with Trevor?” she said. “He’s been jumpy all morning and you saw what he was like at lunch. Didn’t eat a thing.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s lying down. Ida’s in with him. Have you been putting some sort of pressure on him?”

“In a way.”

“God, he’s Ida’s husband! The kids and I are guests in his home!”

“That’s what he told me yesterday morning.” Better to take the blame for Waring’s nervousness himself than to tell her about last night’s shooting, “I’m sorry, darl, but there were questions I had to ask him and he didn’t like the answers he had to give. Now that’s it, don’t let’s discuss it any more.”

“Now you’re getting jumpy.”

“It comes of being married to a policeman’s wife.” He kissed her. “I’ll see you at the Nothlings’. Look your best.”

“Why, what competition will I have?”

He drove back to town, turning off into the showground before he got to the river bridge. The carnival and circus were in full swing; the town’s children, if not their parents, were out in force. Malone found Fred Strayhorn at his stall, exhorting, without much enthusiasm, the locals to try their luck with his bamboo rings. When he saw Malone he handed over the stall to a youth, one of the carnival’s roustabouts, and came across to join the detective.

“Let’s get outa the crowd, Inspector. This is my last day with the show and I think I’m gunna be glad to turn me back on it. It’s all too bloody noisy.”

“What are you going to do? Go back on the track?”

“No, I’m gunna stay here. Settle down. I’ll check into a pub for a night or two till I find something, someone who wants to take in a boarder. Then I’ll look around for a place to buy, something with a coupla acres.”

“Noongulli, for instance?”

Strayhorn grinned through his beard. “I’d only be short four or five million, that’s all. It’s him you’ve come about, right? Chess Hardstaff.”

He pulled a couple of folding chairs out of the back of a five-ton truck and he and Malone sat down. Nearby two elephants, having done their act, were being hosed down by a small blonde girl in a spangled body-stocking that had a big hole inside each knee, as if she had worn it away nudging the elephants into whatever elephants were supposed to do in a circus ring. She looked across at Strayhorn and waved the hose; the sun caught the spray, turning it into a rainbow of greeting. Or perhaps of farewell: Malone wondered if the old man would miss any of these people when they moved on. Circus folk, he had heard, were supposed to be a family.

“I’d like a statement, Fred. I’ve got another witness who’s already made a statement. The two of you are going to make life pretty difficult for Hardstaff. That’s what you want.”

“I dunno that it is, Mr. Malone. Now I’m gunna settle down here . . .”

Malone felt his temper rise. “For Chrissake, don’t pull that one on me! You can’t suddenly become a local again, not after all these years, not after what Hardstaff and his old man did to you and your family!”

Strayhorn looked at him mildly. “Keep your shirt on. I just have to do some more thinking, that’s all.”

“Did you go out and see him this morning?”

“Yeah, he come in and picked me up. In his Mercedes, first time I ever rode in anything like that sorta luxury.”

“Did he offer to pay you off again?” As soon as he said it he knew it was a mistake; he threw cold water on his temper. “Sorry.”

“So you bloody should be,” said Strayhorn, abruptly showing some temper of his own. “Are you Crown Prosecutor as well as cop?”

“What do you know about Crown Prosecutors?”

“I told you, I been in trouble with the law. But that’s all over now.”

“Righto, Fred, let’s call a truce. I shouldn’t have said what I did and I’m sorry. Now I want you to give me a statement about that morning when Mrs. Hardstaff was murdered, just tell us what you told me yesterday morning. I appreciate it may be tougher for you if you decide to settle down again in Collamundra, but I think you may find more people will favour you than blackball you. Chess Hardstaff may be king around here, but he wouldn’t win on a popular vote.”

“Kings don’t need votes, son.” Fred Strayhorn, bachelor, had become fatherly. “You should read more history . . . I’ll think about it.”

“I wanted you to come in with me now to the station.”

Strayhorn shook his head. “That’s not on. Things are gunna be busy here till we close down tonight. I’ll come in tomorrow, soon’s I’ve helped them pack and they’re on the road. I’ll come in whether I’m gunna make a statement or not. It’s been bloody years, another day won’t matter.”

“You won’t change your mind and shoot through on me?”

“Mr. Malone, I’ve left Collamundra for the last time, that’s a promise. Next time I go, I’ll be in a pine box.”

As Malone drove out of the showground one of the elephants trumpeted shrilly and inside the circus tent a lion roared in reply. He wondered if they were missing the jungles of Africa or if, like Fred Strayhorn, they had had enough of being on the road.

Russ Clements and Curly Baldock were waiting for him in the detectives’ room. The look on Clements’s face told him they had dug up a nugget; he just hoped it wouldn’t be fool’s gold. He dropped into a chair and said, “Tell me.”

“We got Ted Hart, he’s the local gun dealer, we got him out of bed. He wasn’t too happy, he and his missus were in bed for their Sunday bit while the kids were out at the carnival. Anyhow, he came in and opened up his shop. We went through his registered sales for the last five years, that’s as long as he keeps „em. He’s sold sixty-two Twenty-twos in that period, most of them Remingtons.”

“Anyone who interests us on his list?”

“Practically everybody,” said Clements. “Ray and Phil Chakiros, Trevor Waring, Chess Hardstaff, Bruce Potter, Narelle’s husband—he bought one the day before he was killed. All Remingtons, except the Chakiros’s guns, they’re Brnos.”

“You’ve missed out one on our list. Max Nothling.”

“No, he doesn’t own one. At least he didn’t buy a Twenty-two from Ted Hart.” Clements looked at Baldock; they beamed like juveniles as they held out their nugget: “But his wife Amanda bought two, a Remington and a Tikka. Plus a full set of „scopes. For five years running, till she gave up the game two years ago, she was the Country Women’s small-bore champion. Ted Hart, who saw her in action, said she could shoot the balls off a bull at two hundred yards.”

“The bull’d like that.” Malone looked at Baldock. “You must’ve known that, Curly.”

Baldock was embarrassed. “Of course I did! But I never give it a thought. Jesus, why would a woman like her wanna shoot Sagawa?”

Malone glanced at Clements, feeling their thoughts click into the same gear. Then he said slowly, “Maybe Sagawa wasn’t the target at all.”

II

“Why did you ask the Potter woman?”

“I wanted to see Max squirm. He knows it was because of her that I meant to shoot him.”

The Hardstaffs, father and daughter, were alone for a few moments, beyond earshot of the party crowd on the lawns. The Nothling homestead, east of the town and back in the slight rise of hills to the north, was another colonial relic, so beautifully restored that it looked better than it had in its original state. It had been featured in House and Garden and Vogue Living; the National Trust had placed its seal on it. No one ever mentioned the pioneer family, bankrupt and now forgotten, who had built it; sometimes even Max Nothling was not mentioned, because it was more often than not referred to as the “second Hardstaff property.” Amanda was a Hardstaff, make no mistake about it. Her and Max’s only child was registered as Chester Nothling-Hardstaff and he would inherit both this and his grandfather’s property, the Hardstaff name carried on.

“Unlucky Mr. Sagawa.” Chess Hardstaff didn’t say, Poor Mr. Sagawa. Sympathy, like forgiveness, did not come easily with him. “I don’t understand how you made such a mistake.”

“It was not an easy shot, not at that distance. Just as I pressed the trigger, Sagawa stepped in front of Max.” She said it so coolly that she could have been discussing a loose shot in some weekend competition. She regretted the death of Kenji Sagawa, a harmless little man who had paid her the proper respect on the few occasions they had met, but it was something that was distinctly apart from the anger and contempt she still felt for her husband. Later, she might feel guilt; but not now.

“You’re sure she’s not making you squirm?”

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But I’ll never let her see it.”

“Were they together last Monday night? Max hasn’t even mentioned her. Matter of fact, he’s said hardly a word to me since that night. She could have been with him out at the cotton farm.”

He looked across the lawns to Narelle Potter standing beside a liquidamber. The garden lights had just come on and she was standing in the glow of one of them. She was a good-looking woman, he had to admit, but no man was paying court to her now; certainly not his son-in-law, who had removed himself to the far side of the lawn and had his back to her. “Where was she?”

“He must have dropped her off somewhere. I’d been following them, but I lost them—” Amanda stopped, aware of his stern disapproval. “I know. It’s embarrassing and shameful, spying on one’s husband . . .”

“I don’t know why you didn’t just kick him out, then divorce him.”

“And have everyone learn I’d lost my husband to the town bike? That’s what you men call her, isn’t it?”

“I use a more old-fashioned term.”

“Don’t be so bloody pompous, Dad!”

He was suddenly aware of the tension in her; he had never seen her like this before. He wanted to comfort her, put a hand on her arm or round her shoulders; but he hadn’t done that with her, or her sister, since she was a small child. It struck him, with shame, that he couldn’t express sympathy properly even to his own daughter.

“I haven’t thanked you for what you did last Monday night,” she said.

They hadn’t discussed the murder till now; he wondered why she had chosen this awkward moment. Was she planning some spectacular confession? He hoped not. Confession was only good for the souls of those who heard it, it gave them a feeling of superiority without feeling sinful about it. All it gave the confessor was trouble.

“I had to do something. When Max rang me . . .”

He had been at home in Noongulli, listening to a Bach concerto before going to bed. He preferred the work of composers of the first half of the eighteenth century; the orderly architecture of their music suited his temperament. Then the phone rang and the night fell into disorder. It was his son-in-law ringing from the office at the cotton gin in a state of panic.

“But why call me, Max? Ring the police.”

“No, no! I know who shot him—it was Amanda!”

“What the hell are you saying? Just a minute.” He went across to the player and turned off the music. Then, unhurriedly, he went back to the phone. “Amanda? You’re not drunk again, I hope.”

“For Christ’s sake, Chess! She’s been following us—following me! She must have thought Sagawa was someone else—”

“Who?”

“Never mind that, Chess! Just come and help me—it’s your fucking name that’s in danger, not mine!”

“Where’s Amanda now?”

“I don’t know! For Chrissakes, hurry!”

Chess hung up, went out and got into his Mercedes and drove fast but with steady control into Collamundra and out the other side to the cotton gin. As he drove he thought of the madness of what he was doing, but, as always, he thought he could control it. Just as long as Max did not fall apart.

Nothling was waiting for him, the dead Sagawa lying between the Ford LTD and the Cressida. Max’s panic seemed to have subsided, but there was still more blubber to him than bone.

“He’s been shot in the back—the bullet’s still in there. They’ll trace it to her gun, won’t they?”

“I don’t know. I’m not experienced in police procedure—you’re the government medical officer.” He looked down at the inert form of the Japanese. He felt more anger than anything else, an intense annoyance that something as stupid as this had happened. But, of course, it had happened before . . . “What are we going to do with him now I’m here?”

“I’ve been thinking—”

Hardstaff looked at the darkened office cottage. “Were the lights on when he was shot?”

“Yes, he was expecting me—”

“Go and put them on again. If someone drives past and sees three cars parked here and no lights, they’ll wonder what’s going on. If the lights are on in the office they’ll assume we’re having some sort of meeting.”

“But it’s risky—”

“Do it!”

Nothling turned and went into the office and switched on the lights. When he came back he said, “We have to hide the fact that he’s been shot. We can take the body somewhere, out to the river, perhaps, and I’ll try and extract the bullet, then we can throw the body in the river—Jesus Christ, what am I saying?”

Hardstaff said calmly, “You are proposing a way of getting rid of incriminating evidence against your wife and my daughter.” He looked towards the cotton gin, a huge, black angular hill against the stars. “Isn’t there some way we can get rid of the body in there? All that machinery—it must have its destructive uses. Machinery usually does.” Unconsciously he had spoken like a Luddite, a thought which would have horrified him in a saner moment.

Nothling stared at him, his nervousness suddenly chilled by the cold calm of the older man. “Christ, you beat everything, Chess!”

“Am I right? That’s all you have to tell me. You know the workings here better than I do.”

Nothling looked towards the gin, said nothing for at least half a minute, then turned back to Hardstaff. “Yes, there is a way. We could hollow out one of those modules that are ready to go into the feeder first thing tomorrow morning . . .”

It had taken them twenty minutes, working quickly but methodically, to bury the body and then re-pack the cotton around it. They were left with a quantity of cotton equal to Sagawa’s bulk; Hardstaff, his mind even now acute to irony, wondered if Archimedes, turning from water, had considered such a principle. Nothling gathered up the surplus cotton and dropped it on a bundle of sweepings in the annexe.

They walked briskly back to their cars. “What time did you get here?” Hardstaff asked.

“I’m not sure. About nine, I think.”

Hardstaff looked at his watch. “It’s ten fifteen now. Go home, find Amanda and tell her what we’ve done and impress on her that the two of you have been home all evening. Is your housekeeper home tonight?”

“No, she’s away for two days in Bathurst, her sister’s sick. What about yours?”

“She’s in town at the films . . . All right, you leave first. I’ll follow. And Max—” He could have been starting another political campaign; but, of course, it was a campaign, if not political. “Get a grip on yourself. You’re the GMO, you’ll examine the body tomorrow morning when they find it. If that feeder back there works the way you say it does, there should be no need for an autopsy. Good night.”

“Will you talk to Amanda?”

“Not unless she speaks to me first about what’s happened.”

Nothling had got into the LTD and driven away, going too fast and almost clipping the gates as he passed through them and out on to the main highway.

Hardstaff waited till he saw the LTD’s tail-lights disappearing eastwards. Then he went into the office, went through Sagawa’s desk and found the diary with Nothling’s name marked in it for a meeting this evening. He took out his handkerchief, wiped where his hands had rested on the desk; then, on his way out, wiped the light switch where Nothling would have touched it. He did the same with the interior of Sagawa’s car, just in case Nothling had sat in it with the Japanese.

He went out, got into the Mercedes and pulled away towards the driveway that led out of the farm. He had just turned on to the gravelled track when he saw the headlights turning in from the highway. His foot lifted for a moment, then he pressed it down again, switched his own headlights on to high-beam and went down the driveway towards the approaching car as fast as he dared. He went by it, spattering gravel, bounced over the cattle-grid at the gates, swung hard right on to the highway and headed west towards the town, home and safety.

He had, however, miscalculated; which was so unlike him. As a political boss he should have allowed more for human weakness; or anyway, for his son-in-law’s weakness. Max Nothling had gone straight home, but it had taken him till the next day to tell Amanda what he and her father had done to cover up her crime. Instead, that Monday night he had got drunk, blind paralytic drunk, and next morning he had been in no fit condition to respond to the police call when the body was discovered. Dr. Bedi had done the autopsy and then, slowly, everything had started to unravel.

Now here was Hardstaff on the lawns of his daughter’s home, calmly discussing with her how and why she had murdered an innocent man whom she had mistaken for her husband’s lover; the lover who now stood no more than thirty paces from them.

Then he was aware that Amanda had said something that he had missed. “What?”

“I said, why did you kill Mother?”

It was the first time in seventeen years she had asked him that. He had expected to be shocked or frightened by the question, coming from her; instead, it was almost like the breaking of a boil, one he had kept hidden for so long. It was not a matter of conscience, he had never been troubled by such a weakness. There are just some secrets that, even in the most secretive of men, are cancerous.

“She was sleeping with Frank Kilburn,” he said.

“And he never said anything? Did he know it was you who did it?”

“I presume so,” he said calmly: Kilburn, too, was now dead and no longer to be feared.

“But why didn’t you just divorce her?”

“Amanda, my dear—”

He raised a hand, but then it stopped in mid-air of its own accord. As if she understood, she raised her arm and put her wrist within the lock of his fingers, felt them close on her with what she knew was love. Max Nothling, watching from a distance, wondered at the gesture of affection, of intimacy, between the two people he feared and hated most.

“My dear—” There was no hint of tears; he was not capable of them. “Pride. You and I both killed for pride.”

III

Malone was aware of the momentary hush as he and Clements appeared at the party. As they got out of the Commodore and joined Lisa and the Warings, alighting from the Mercedes, he felt the sudden chill come across the lawns from the crowd of fifty or sixty who were congregated between the swimming pool and the artificial-turfed tennis court. Faces turned towards them, small satellite dishes ready for any message the outsider cops might have brought with them. Then Max Nothling, face flushed from an early start to his drinking, came towards them.

“Welcome, welcome! I trust you and your colleague are off duty, Inspector? Oh, this is Mrs. Inspector Malone? How can anyone so charming be married to a cop?”

“We’re not married,” said Lisa, giving him what Malone recognized as her cut-your-throat smile. “He’s just my parole officer.”

Nothling recognized the smile for what it was; he showed some true charm by graciously retreating. “I apologize, Mrs. Malone. I’m not always the best of hosts, am I, Ida?”

“You do all right, Max,” said Ida, adding her own touch of graciousness. “What’s the champagne this evening, Aussie or French?”

“French for you ladies, local stuff for the natives. May I offer an arm to you both?”

He took the women away and Waring said, “He spreads more bullshit than a yard full of Herefords.”

“He’s as nervous as a bull that’s just about to be turned into a bullock,” said Clements.

“You haven’t come to arrest him, have you? Not at his own party?”

“No,” said Malone.

Waring, about to move away to greet another guest, turned back. “Who have you come to arrest?”

“No one,” said Malone. “Not yet . . . Before you go, Trev. How’d your meetings with the Japanese turn out?”

“I see them over there. Why don’t you go and ask them?”

“No, Trev, I’m asking you.”

“I don’t know that it’s any of your business, Scobie. But if you must know—they’re not selling. They are staying on. They set a price we just couldn’t meet.”

“So they’re not worried about the anti-Jap feeling?”

“Evidently not. But then, all that far away in Japan, they don’t have to suffer it, do they? It’s the consuls of empire who cop the spears in the back.”

Malone grinned. “You haven’t become anti-imperialist, have you?”

Waring smiled, the first time since getting out of his car. “Lawyers have to believe in empires, of one sort or another. Otherwise we’d all finish up just working for Legal Aid.”

As he walked away, Dr. Bedi came floating towards them, shimmering like a green-and-gold butterfly in another sari. She carried a small tray on which was a flute of champagne and two glasses of beer. “Your wife told me you were both beer drinkers.”

“Are you a hostess?”

She put down the tray when the two men had taken their beers, then held the champagne flute in the long, elegant fingers which had none of the plumpness of the rest of her. “No, I’m just standing in for the moment. Lady Amanda has just gone into the house with her father.”

“Lady Amanda?”

“A slip of the tongue. That’s what the nurses at the hospital call her. Don’t quote me.”

“How are the jockeys? Recovering?”

“Some of them are going to be out of action for quite a while. I believe they are going to sue the Turf Club for not policing the track properly—it’s the Age of Litigation, sue anyone and everyone. We in the medical profession know all about that.”

“They’re not going to sue the Aborigines?”

“What’s the point? There’s no money there.”

“Dr. Bedi, if we come to you to make a statement about the Sagawa case, will you do it?”

She lifted her flute, looked at it as if it were a test-tube. Then she drained it in one gulp and said, “No. All I’m going to say is what was in the autopsy report.”

“But that was signed by Dr. Nothling.”

“Precisely.”

“We could report you to the medical ethics council, or whatever it is.”

“I don’t think it would be worth your time and trouble, Inspector. You are not going to solve the murder that way.”

She raised the flute again, seemed surprised to find it empty, then turned and walked away, the sari fluttering about her like wings that couldn’t be lifted to bear her away to somewhere where she would feel more at home. Because, Malone thought, I don’t think she’ll ever really be at home here in Collamundra.

The crowd had turned away from watching the two detectives and were intent on enjoying themselves. These people looked on themselves as the salt of the nation; Malone, grudgingly like a true city type, had to concede their right to their self-esteem. A great part of the country’s export wealth still came, after almost two hundred years, from the efforts of these men and women on the land. But, like the Veterans Legion, they no longer had the political clout they had once had. The trouble was that the new rulers, the city bankers and entrepreneurs and developers, were going bankrupt and so, said the men and women on the land, was the country. Serves it right, they said, never loudly but emphatically. They, too, might go bankrupt eventually, but they would never starve. They would kill the fat lamb, slaughter the unsold beef, eat the grain the Wheat Board could no longer afford to hoard. All they had to do was stave off the banks when the time came. In the meantime they looked prosperous, kept a more watchful eye on the dry sky than on the banks and discussed the proliferation of taxes; the diminishing of subsidies; the price of wool, grain and cotton; and exchanged what gossip had sprouted since their last get-together. They discussed everything but the Sagawa murder, but occasionally some eyes would glance towards Malone and Clements, as if the grit of conscience had got under their lids.

“Well,” said Malone.

“Well, what?”

“Well, there’s no point in putting it off. I think we’d better go in and talk to Hardstaff.”

“What, about Lady Amanda?”

“We don’t have any hard evidence on her—yet. If she’s as smart as I think she is, she’ll have got rid of her gun.”

“She hung on to it after she’d shot Sagawa, at least till last night when she took the shots at you. Maybe she’s held on to it to have another crack at you.”

“Why me? Why not you?”

“Privileges of rank, mate. What do we do? Go into the house uninvited?”

“I think the invitation said it was open house, at least for the elite. We won’t have to break the door down.”

“That’s good. I didn’t bring the sledgehammer.”

IV

Inside the house, in the large study-library, Amanda had just told her father what she had done last night. He was aghast, was shocked, a reaction so strange to him that for a moment he felt physically ill.

She saw how pale he had suddenly become. “Sit down, Dad—you look as if you’re going to faint. I didn’t mean—”

“No, I’m all right.” He pulled himself together, settled his stomach with a dose of cold humour: “Are you going to make a habit of it?”

“Don’t joke. Last night I thought it would be a solution—”

He interrupted brutally: “Killing a policeman? A solution? You were either drunk or mad!” Even in his own ears he sounded like the father of old, the one who had never had any encouragement for his children because he had never known how to express it without embarrassment. He retreated at once, not wanting to sever the tenuous bond that had been woven in the past twenty minutes: “No, you’re not mad. But you must have been drunk?”

It was almost a plea for her to say yes; and she obliged: “I’d had too much to drink, more than I usually do. I was all of a sudden afraid of him, he’s so—so tenacious. He’d never give up on trying to solve who killed Ken Sagawa, not the way the others gave up on Mother’s killing.” She hadn’t meant to be cruel and she hurriedly said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s all right, I didn’t have anything to do with that. It was your grandfather—I don’t know whom he spoke to or what he said, but the police all at once stopped looking for whoever killed her. At least here in the district.”

“Malone is outside now. I saw him arriving as we came in here.”

“I don’t understand why you invited him.”

“I think you invited him.”

He was puzzled. “Me?”

“I mean that part of you that’s inside me. We’re alike, Dad, more than you know. Or perhaps you know it now. You used to invite your political enemies, the ones who wanted to kill you—politically anyway—you used to invite them to your parties at the national conference. It was almost as if you were betting that if you were close enough to them, you could see the knives coming. Inspector Malone isn’t going to go away just because I turn my back on him.”

He had to admire her courage, even if it was reckless; after all, it was only a repeat of what he had done himself, a recklessness born of arrogance. He felt proud of her, in a mad sort of way. Then he decided it was time to start campaigning: “Did you use the same gun?”

She nodded. “The Tikka.”

“That wasn’t smart. You should have used another gun, that would have confused them—” He was about to say he was disappointed in her; but that would have sounded like the old days. “We’ll have to get rid of the gun. Where is it?”

“There, in the rack.”

He went to the rack against the one wall not lined with books, where a dozen rifles and shotguns were stood like billiard-cues. He took out the Tikka. “I’ll get rid of it. Put it away somewhere till I’m leaving.”

He paused and looked at a framed photograph on a shelf above the gun rack. A much younger Amanda and Max stood arm-in-arm, smiling at the camera with genuine happiness; her figure had hardly changed over the years, but Max had not then become fat, was big but muscular and handsome. He thought it odd that the photo should be placed immediately above the weapons and he wondered who had put it there and when.

“Dad,” she said, “don’t put yourself at risk for me. Please.”

“Amanda—” He wanted to touch her again, but he was holding the gun with both hands. “Let me handle it my way. There’ll be no risk, but if there is, whatever I do, don’t interfere. I’m the boss, remember that. There’s young Chester to be considered. I’m expendable now—” It would have rocked his enemies to their heels if they had heard him say that. “But don’t worry. We’ll come through this all right.” Then someone knocked on the closed door.

V

When Malone entered the house with Clements he saw Lisa at the far end of the long hall that ran right through to the rear. She was with Ida and he recognized what they were doing: the females of the species sticky-beaking in another female’s lair. Lisa turned, saw him and raised her hand; her thumb and forefinger were linked in the circle of approval. This will do me, hurry up and make Commissioner. But one look told him no Commissioner would ever be able to afford this house, not an honest one.

A mixed-blood Aboriginal girl in a white smock came down the hall carrying a tray loaded with steaks and sausages for the barbecue outside. “Where can I find Mr. Hardstaff and Mrs. Nothling?”

She jerked her head backwards. “They’re in the library. The fourth, no, the third door down.”

They walked down the hall, past the Rees, the Drysdale and the Whiteley hanging on the walls, and knocked on the third door down. There was no answer, but Malone sensed, rather than heard, the movement behind the door. He turned the knob; at least he and Clements were not using the sledgehammer. The door swung back and the first thing he saw was Hardstaff putting the gun back in the gun rack.

“Returning a borrowed gun, Mr. Hardstaff?”

There was a moment’s silence; then Hardstaff, not looking at his daughter, said, “Yes. You seem to make a habit of barging in on other people’s privacy, Inspector.”

“People expect their privacy to be respected, but they don’t seem to appreciate that without law and order they wouldn’t have much privacy.”

“This is a law and order intrusion, then? A nice distinction.”

“If you like. Can we see you a moment? Alone, preferably.”

“This is my house, Inspector,” said Amanda, “not my father’s.”

“I appreciate that, Mrs. Nothling, and I apologize. But we’d rather talk to your father alone first. Then, if he wishes, we’ll call you in.”

She looked at her father, who, his hands now empty, the gun back in the rack, put a hand on her arm. “It won’t take a minute, Amanda. Go out and take care of young Chester.”

His expression didn’t change; but his message was clear. She hesitated, then she nodded and went out of the room, closing the door behind her. Clements took out his notebook and Hardstaff gestured at the large desk behind him.

“If you’re going to make notes, Sergeant, make yourself comfortable. I’m sure my son-in-law won’t mind. There’s a dictionary there if you need it, and a thesaurus.”

Clements looked at Malone, shrugged and went and sat down behind the desk. Malone said, “Don’t waste your wit on us, Mr. Hardstaff. We’re not in the mood for it.”

Hardstaff sat down, suddenly feeling as old as he had this morning when he had been with Fred Strayhorn in the Noongulli woolshed. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. For all I know, you may be a Doctor of Philosophy. Look at these books.” He waved a hand at the walls. “Most people take my son-in-law for a drunken buffoon. He’s read all of those, or most of them. At one time he used to quote them to me—Plato, de Montaigne, even Machiavelli. He used to say I could have taught Machiavelli a thing or two. I took it as a compliment. We did compliment each other occasionally in those days. But not any more. Nor do we quote anything to each other any more. A pity. He had wit, but he drowned it in Chivas Regal. That men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains. I’m not sure, but I think that’s from Othello.”

“Are you a reformed alcoholic?” said Clements straight-faced.

Hardstaff looked at the big man as if he had not expected a whit of wit in him. Then he smiled. “No, Sergeant. I’ve always known when to call a halt. Well, almost always.”

“Were you drunk the morning you strangled your wife?” said Malone.

Hardstaff looked at him, hurt, as if Malone had done something ungentlemanly. “That’s a low blow, Inspector. Why do you ask it?”

“We have two people who are willing to go into court and swear that what you told the police seventeen years ago was totally untrue.”

“Fred Strayhorn? Who is the other one?”

“No names, not yet.”

Hardstaff closed his eyes, as if looking for memory on the backs of the lids; then he opened them. “Ruby Dawson. Ruby Mungle, as she now is.”

Malone went on, “Then there’s the Sagawa murder. We know now—” They didn’t know; but you never told the suspect what you guessed. Machiavelli might not be quoted in the Police Department, but he had his disciples there. “We know it wasn’t Sagawa who was supposed to be shot.”

“Who was it then?”

“You’d know that better than we would.” He stopped being a fast bowler, bowled a wrong „un: which is another word for a lie. “Your Mercedes passed another car as you drove away from the cotton gin office around ten thirty last Monday night. You had your lights on high-beam, so the driver couldn’t see you, but he recognized the car.”

Hardstaff shook his head. “No, Inspector. On high-beam you can see nothing of what’s approaching you. I’ve been blinded too often by fools who drive on our roads on high-beam, who never dip their lights when you approach them.”

“That answer’s too pat, Mr. Hardstaff. Have you been practising it?”

Hardstaff knew he had made a mistake; but he showed no sign of it. “I think on my feet. When you’ve stood on as many campaign platforms as I have, you have to be quick. I’m an old-time political animal, Inspector, not one of these latter-day wimps who just want to talk to a television camera and not an audience.”

“Then it must have been your daughter’s Mercedes. It was observed earlier in the night standing off the highway just up the road from the entrance to the gin. We understand she was a champion shot. Those are her guns?” He nodded at the rack.

“Not all of them. Some of them are her husband’s.” He began to feel the ground shifting beneath his feet. He had never been a romantic, though he had never thought the end of the road would be at a cliff’s edge.

“Does he own a Twenty-two?”

He was tempted. He had betrayed other men, it was part and parcel of the political life; but they had been sent only into obscurity, not to prison. “No. The heavier guns are his.”

Clements got up from behind the desk and took the Tikka from the rack. “When did you borrow this from your daughter? This is the one, isn’t it?”

Hardstaff nodded. He was resigned now; all that could be saved was pride. “Last Sunday.”

“Why? Don’t you have guns of your own?”

“Yes. I just wanted to try that one. My own are Winchesters.”

“We’re confiscating it as evidence,” said Malone. “Write out a receipt for it, Russ.”

“Evidence for what?” But he knew he was just putting off the inevitable.

“Evidence for charging you or your daughter, or both, that you murdered Kenji Sagawa and that you attempted to murder me.”

“I thought you were investigating the murder of my wife?”

“Oh, we’re sure you did that, too. But that’s a case for the local District, not us. We’ll turn over what we’ve dug up and they’ll charge you, I’ve no doubt about that. But the Sagawa case is our pigeon. We’ll charge you and probably your daughter—that will depend on our questioning of her—”

Hardstaff interrupted: “Can they try someone for two murders at once, murders that are unconnected?”

Malone caught a glimpse of which way Hardstaff was hoping to go. “No, I think the Sagawa case would take precedence, it’s the more recent. Then when you’ve served your time for that, you’d be re-arrested and tried again. But that’s unofficial advice. You’d better talk to Trevor Waring on that. He’s out in the garden—do you want us to bring him in?”

Hardstaff shook his head. He knew he was beyond the help of lawyers; that is, if pride and Amanda were to be saved. All at once he wished for a sudden fatal heart attack; but he had the constitution of a Clydesdale, he was doomed to live too long. But not long enough to be charged with the murder of Dorothy: he would be dead in prison long before he had served the sentence they would give him for the later murder.

“No, there’ll be time for him later. Yes, I shot Mr. Sagawa and I attempted to shoot you last night.”

“Why? I mean, why did you kill Sagawa?”

“I don’t believe I have to give you a motive.”

Malone had not really expected an answer; but he had had to ask the question, Clements would have had to make a note of it. He looked at Clements, whose face was blank. Both knew Hardstaff was lying, but all at once they had no desire to contradict him. But, again, something had to be said for the notebook: “We think you’re lying, Mr. Hardstaff.”

“Prove it.” The old man’s smile showed none of his teeth; it was the sort of smile that his defeated political enemies knew so well.

“You’re protecting your daughter,” said Clements, but made no note of the question.

“Aren’t you going to make a note of that, Sergeant? No, I don’t think so. You don’t want to prolong this case any more than I do. All the law ever wants is its pound of flesh. Perhaps you two want more than that, but you’ll never be thanked for it. I confess to killing Mr. Sagawa. Leave it at that.”

“We still want to talk to your daughter,” said Malone doggedly.

“No. I can’t forbid you to do that—” He smiled again, a little less sardonically, almost whimsically. “Not so long ago people did what I told them, at least the people around here and in the Party. But you’re both Left-wingers, aren’t you?”

“I think we’re middle-of-the-roaders.”

“No place for an intelligent man to be. Someone once said that the middle of the road was occupied only by the white line and dead armadillos. I believe he was an American. Here it would be the white line and dead wombats . . . no, leave my daughter alone. You’ve got your pound of flesh. It’s old and leathery, but it’ll do for the purpose.” He stood up, surprised at how weak his legs felt. “Shall we go now?”

Malone and Clements looked at each for a long moment, each waiting for the other to make the decision. They were just two men; rank meant nothing at this moment. Then Malone said, “Hugh Narvo is outside, Russ. Go and get him. He and Curly Baldock can do the charging, it’s their case.”

Clements went out of the room. The old man and the detective stood looking at each other in silence; they came from different worlds, more than just age separated them. Then Hardstaff said, “You’ve chosen the best way out, Inspector. For all concerned.”

“No,” said Malone. “I’ve chosen the easy way out.”

VI

Two days later Malone and Clements drove out of Collamundra in the Commodore, heading east for Sydney and the punters who might have no respect for them but never thought of them as outsiders. Lisa and the children had left on yesterday’s plane and Malone had been at the airport to see them off. Ida and the Waring children were there and Trevor Waring had arrived ten minutes before the plane was due to depart.

“I’m glad it’s over,” Lisa had said. “The murder case, I mean. But who would have thought he would have done it? How did you and Russ manage it?”

“Luck. An essential talent for a cop.”

He kissed her, then the children. Maureen was as loquacious as ever, glad to be going home to civilization and five TV channels. Tom was still wearing his stockman’s hat, still determined to be a tomeroo, now reciting bush ballads that Tas had taught him, still droving cattle across the river of his dreams. Claire was out of love, returning to Jason or Ben or Shane, whoever had been the crush of a fortnight ago. Malone waved goodbye to them as they walked out to the plane and understood why Chess Hardstaff had pleaded guilty to the wrong murder. The hardest part to believe was that the arrogant, hard old man had had that much love left in him.

As Malone went to get into the Commodore to drive back to the police station, Waring came across to him. “I’ve seen Chess. He’s still refusing to offer any defence.”

“I think you’ll just have to accept it, Trev. You can’t win „em all, not if your client wants to be a loser.”

“He’s never wanted to lose before. He’d have killed to have won.” He didn’t appear to have remarked the irony of his words; he seemed bemused by the stubborn silence of Hardstaff. “The district will never get over this.”

“Have you talked to Amanda and Doc Nothling?” He had left the police questioning of them to Hugh Narvo. Pontius Pilate, he thought, had nothing on me.

“Not yet. I rang Amanda, but she refused to talk to me.”

“What about the doc?”

“He came in this morning.”

“How was he?”

“In a state of shock, I think. I got the feeling he knew more than he wanted to tell me, but I couldn’t get anything out of him. He’s asked Anju Bedi to take over for him at the hospital for a few days. I don’t think anyone ever thought it was going to end up like this.” He looked in a state of shock himself. “Not Chess. How long will they hold him over at Cawndilla?”

Hugh Narvo had thought it wise to move Hardstaff from Collamundra to District HO at Cawndilla. “That’s up to you, Trev. If you can get the magistrate to grant bail, he could be out tomorrow.”

“Will you oppose bail?”

Malone held out the hands that had washed each other; but Waring didn’t recognize the gesture, a strange lapse for a lawyer. “That’s up to Hugh Narvo and the locals.”

“I suppose you must feel pretty pleased with yourself?”

He looked for malice, but Waring’s face was as bland as when he had first met him. “Not really,” he said and left it at that.

Waring shook hands and Malone watched him till he had got into the Mercedes and backed it out of the small parking lot. He drove away, followed by Ida and the children in the Land-Rover. As she went out the airport gates Ida waved to him. There was something forlorn about the gesture and he wondered how much longer the Waring marriage would last.

He was about to get into the Commodore when the Mercedes coupé pulled in beside him. Young Chester Nothling-Hardstaff, wearing a hat with a school band round it, a school tie circling his neck, got out, said “good morning” politely and went round to the back of the car and opened the boot. Malone hesitated, looking across the top of the Mercedes at Amanda.

“You’ve just missed the plane.”

“I fly Father’s plane, I have a pilot’s licence. Take the bags over, darling,” she said to her son. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The boy suddenly lost his politeness, looked belligerently at Malone, then slammed down the lid of the boot, picked up two suitcases and went across to a side gate beyond which were parked several light aircraft. A rifle in a canvas case was slung across his back.

“He’s going to find it very rough at school for a while,” said Amanda.

“Especially if he arrives carrying a gun.”

“He’s in the school cadets.” Her voice had iron filings in it.

“Where does he go?”

She named a school in Sydney, one of the State’s oldest and most exclusive. “His grandfather and his great-grandfather went there. He’ll survive.”

“Because he’s a Hardstaff?”

“Yes.” The pride was still there, despite the battering it would have taken over the past two days. “Your husband didn’t come out to see you off?”

“Don’t be so casual, Inspector. Ask the direct question. Where is Max? I don’t know. He moved out of our house on Sunday night. We are separating. There will be a divorce when all—when all this is over.” For just a moment her voice faltered.

“Are you staying on in Collamundra?”

“Of course!”

“Sorry. I should’ve known.” He had to admire her. “Like you said about your son—you’ll survive.”

“Yes, Inspector. Yes, I shall.”

She was challenging him; but the case was over for him, there was no extra time to be played. But he had to have the last word: “Thanks to your father.”

He got into the Commodore, smiled at her through the open window, then drove out of the parking lot. In the driving mirror he saw her still standing by the Mercedes, staring after him, stiff and unyielding as an iron post, pride, arrogance and confidence in her invulnerability still intact. But time, as it had with her father, might eventually catch up with her. By then, however, Malone would be retired and there would be no satisfaction in it for him.

That evening he and Clements had a beer in the bar of the Mail Coach with Hugh Narvo and Curly Baldock. The others in the bar were quiet, looking sideways at the four policemen, not hostile but puzzled, as if not sure what the next step would be. They hoped none of them would be called for jury duty at Chess Hardstaff’s trial and some of them were already dreaming up reasons to be excused, the Rural Party members of them looking on it as reverse cronyism. I’ll bet I’m not the only Pilate in town, thought Malone.

“What will you do with Ruby Mungle’s statement?” Clements asked.

“One thing at a time,” said Narvo. “Curly and I have already had a word with Wally. He’ll explain to her—not everything, but just enough. I don’t think she’ll mind. If she had testified against Chess for that old murder and he’d got off, she might’ve finished up back in the blacks’ camp. Or I would’ve had to recommend that Wally be transferred. You know how things can go.”

“What about Amanda?”

“We’ll keep an eye on her, that’s all we can do.”

“Will you put in a report about her to District?”

Narvo took his time tasting his beer; he looked at Baldock over the top of his glass. Then he looked back at Malone. “I think we’ve made enough waves, don’t you?”

“My name’s Pontius,” said Malone, smiling. “What’s yours?”

Curly Baldock, bald pate glistening under the lights, raised his glass. “Here’s to you two. We’ll know where to come next time around.”

“No, thanks,” said Malone and Clements together.

Later the two of them had dinner with Sean Carmody in the hotel dining-room. “I sent a truck in for Fred Strayhorn and had him out to lunch, after the carnival had gone. He’s moving into one of the spare rooms till he finds something to buy. I think I may enjoy his company. He sent his regards.”

“Was he surprised the way things turned out?”

“Scobie, he’s like me, we’re of an age, maybe I’m a few years older. As far down the track as we are, there’s a line from a Latin orator and poet that fits us both. I am beyond surprise, but not beyond feeling. The trouble is, with Chess being as old as us, I don’t know whether to feel sad or angry. There are a couple of more lines from the same poet. I shall go quietly, merely shutting my eyes. The poet, incidentally, cut his wrists when he found everything stacked against him. Has Chess done the same?”

“Not as far as we know,” said Malone innocently and Clements, mouth full of sherry trifle, merely nodded.

Then this Tuesday morning, when the two detectives had come downstairs to check out, Narelle Potter, face pale and strained under her make-up, no bounce to her at all, all the hip-swagger gone, had been behind the tiny reception desk. Malone had signed the bill, promising she would be paid by the end of the week.

“Will you be back?” she said.

“I don’t think so, Narelle. You won’t want us back, will you?”

“No.” She had that frankness that the virgin and the whore share; at least with men. “Not on official business, anyway. Maybe you’ll come out next year for the Cup meeting and the ball.”

“Maybe.”

She shook hands with them; she held Clements’s hand for a moment. “Russ, you have a lot to learn about women.”

Clements glanced at Malone, then back at her. “What guy doesn’t, Narelle?”

And now, driving out past the bronze Anzac with his bayonet at the ready to be shoved up their rear, out past the silos and the railway siding and the last of the used-car lots, Clements said, “How do you think Amanda Nothling feels about her father?”

“Do you mean is she grateful or conscience-stricken or what?”

“I dunno. That’s the question.”

“If I think of an answer, I’ll let you know.”

But he knew, in his heart, that in all probability neither of them would ever raise the question again. Not unless Chess Hardstaff, in a last-minute change of mind, pleaded not guilty and left the Sagawa case wide open again. But that was an improbability.

They passed the cotton gin and the farm, the harvesters still there in the vast fields, the foam of cotton almost gathered up now. Clements put his foot down and they drove east, towards the mountains and the city and the lesser sky, away from Collamundra and the never-ending plains and the crumbling edge of a changing world.

THE END