I knew that, sooner or later, I could be questioned about my actions that night; so I decided to memorise and record the time sequence. We left the restaurant at ten-thirty– eight. At ten-fifty I picked up a taxi on the rank at Circular Quay. At eleven-ten I was dropped at the gate of Cassidy’s house. There were no pedestrians in sight. The only vehicles were a red station wagon parked about fifty yards down the street and a cream combi van directly opposite the gate. I could see no light or movement within the van; but it was the most obvious spot for a surveillance team.
Marco Cubeddu opened the gate and bolted it behind me. Once inside the house, I explained my mission: to clear out Cassidy’s safe and deposit the contents in a bank safe-deposit. I would need pillowcases to pack the stuff and transport it to Rose Bay on Cassidy’s speedboat. Marco had a better idea. There were several old sail-bags in Cassidy’s boathouse, relics of the days when he had sailed with the Squadron. They were larger, stouter and more natural-looking than pillowcases. After all, I didn’t want to look like an amateur house-breaker carrying his loot.
Marco would not witness my access to the safe. He would not see the contents. He would simply accept a note of instruction in my handwriting. He would drive me to Rose Bay in the speedboat, help me to unload, then drive back and winch the craft into Cassidy’s boathouse. Thereafter, anyone who wanted access to Cassidy’s papers would have to come to me. Marco Cubeddu and his wife would remain as custodians of the property and its remaining contents. It was a simple operation, almost risk-free.
Marco brought me the sail-bags-big, heavy sacks of green oilcloth, closed by drawstrings. He lined each one with a sheet and showed me how to draw the corners together at the top so that at first glance the fabric would look like crumpled sailcloth; then he went off to winch down the speedboat and make her ready for a swift departure.
Once again I locked myself in Cassidy’s bedroom, opened the safe and began emptying the contents, shelf by shelf. I worked fast but carefully, glancing briefly at each pile of documents as I stacked it into the sail-bag. My finical lawyer’s conscience kept reminding me that if ever I were examined on the transactions of this night, the first questions asked would be what had I abstracted and what had I finally delivered to the officers of the court? The proper practice was to have a witness, who listed every item at the moment of transfer. There was no time for such nicety, I had to be packed and gone by midnight.
One item did give me pause: Cassidy’s pistol. I was just about to pick it up when I remembered one of my elementary lessons in forensic law: weapons, like people, have criminal histories; make sure you don’t muddle the history by indiscreet handling. I picked up the gun with a pencil, wrapped it carefully in one of Cassidy’s handkerchiefs and stowed it on top of an album of pornographic pictures.
On the lowest tier of the safe there were two locked drawers, one large and one small. I fumbled through Cassidy’s keys until I found the two that fitted. The small drawer was full of jewellers’ packages of precious stones: diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies. I did not need the handwritten weights and descriptions to assure myself that these were fine-quality gems, worth a great deal of money. I folded the packages into another of Cassidy’s handkerchiefs and wedged them between two bundles of letters.
The larger drawer contained the real surprise packet: two flat envelopes of transparent plastic, heat-sealed and full of white crystalline powder. Each envelope was stamped with an elephant, which I seemed to remember signified heroin, and the symbol K.50, which had to be half a kilogram. I had no means of proving what the powder was unless I opened the envelopes, but if it were pure heroin its street value was astronomical. But for Cassidy to have held it here in his own house seemed, at first blush, a madness beyond belief. However, it was a madness that put me, too, in instant jeopardy. I could justify my possession of documents for at least as long as it took me to list and study them. There was no way in the world I could justify the unreported possession of a kilo of scheduled narcotics. Loomis would have me handcuffed and charged before I could say Charles Parnell Cassidy.
So, it seemed I had Hobson’s choice: leave the stuff for someone else to find, or hand it over first thing in the morning, with loud protestations of ignorance and virtue. Loomis would be very happy about that. He would pat me on the head, give me a big rosy apple and sit me at the top of the class. Then, on clear evidence of a drug connection, he would swear out a warrant for the seizure and delivery of every scrap of paper in my possession – right down to the toilet rolls – and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.
Then a new thought hit me. Perhaps he wouldn’t do that at all. He was a very downy bird, our ‘Call-me-Rafe’ Loomis. He might be quite happy to bury the plastic bags six feet deep with Cassidy himself, and even happier to embroil me in a little game of now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t.
Conclusion? Not to rush to any conclusion. Every damned item in those sail-bags was tainted anyway. So I borrowed some more of Cassidy’s handkerchiefs, wiped my fingerprints off the envelopes, packed them into the sail-bags and locked the empty safe. Then, on Cassidy’s notepaper, I wrote a note for Marco Cubeddu:
To Whom It May Concern
On the evening of the 18th February, in my capacity as executor of the estate of the late Charles Parnell Cassidy, I visited his residence, opened his safe with the keys which had been given to me in London and took possession of documents and other items. All these items have been transferred to the custody of a bank, pending probate of Mr. Cassidy’s will. Marco Cubeddu and his wife remain, until my further instructions, legal custodians of the premises and their contents.
Martin Gregory
I explained to Marco that he should not present the note unless he were asked for it and that he should not volunteer any information beyond what was requested by a police officer. Marco reminded me stiffly that he was a man from the Barbagia, the high secret country of Sardinia, where a stranger is hard put to prise even the time of day out of the locals.
I apologised for my lack of politeness and commended him for his discretion. We drank a Scotch together and then lugged four bulging sail-bags down to the boathouse. As we unshackled the slipway cable and let the big Riva slide the last metre into the water, my watch showed five minutes before midnight.
The Riva is a beautiful craft, a highly polished wooden speedboat, with a lethally large engine under the hatch. It is built in Italy and is rarely seen in Australia because of the high import duties levied on it. It starts with a roar, takes off and guzzles fuel like a jet aircraft. Marco told me this one was a gift from Marius Melville to Charles Cassidy – taxes and duties all prepaid of course.
Rose Bay was just around the corner. We had at least thirty minutes to kill before our rendezvous with Laura Larsen. Marco asked whether I would like a quick run around the southern fringes of the harbour. I told him I would like nothing better. He headed out into the channel and opened the throttle.
I watched him as he drove the sleek, beautiful craft through the choppy water. He was another man; tall, defiant, a black Ulyssean silhouette against the moon. He took us at a fast run past the Opera House and under the span of the Harbour Bridge. As we came about I asked him to slow down so that I could watch the lights on the shoreline. We could talk then, too.
I asked him: ‘You’re a mountain-man from the Barbagia. Where did you learn to handle a boat so well?’
‘On the waterfront in Cagliari.’ He was flattered by my interest. ‘I had an uncle there who ran a couple of tuna boats. Then I got a job on a smuggling run to Tunis – twice a week; cigarettes, watches, whatever was going. She was big and fast – thirty knots – and she was owned by a grosso pezzo in Palermo. You had to have good nerves for that game. Then somehow Mr. Melville heard of me and asked me to skipper his boat, the Serpente d’Oro, which was berthed in Porto Cervo. She was a fast machine, too; four crew, eight passengers, twenty-five knots. We cruised her in the summer and chartered her in the off months between Tunis, Morocco, the Balearics, Corsica and Sicily…’
‘What sort of charter?’ I tried to make the question sound ingenuous. He shrugged and gestured widely.
‘Anybody and everything! Runaway lovers, Friends of the Friends, political agents, cigarettes, guns. It wasn’t my business to ask. I made the rendezvous. I picked up passengers and consignments. I delivered them – sometimes at sea, sometimes at out-of-the-way ports. I paid cash. I collected cash. It was a good life; because Mr. Melville’s arrangements always worked. I never once ran into the Guardia di Finanza. I never once heard a shot fired – not in three whole years. That’s how I was able to emigrate to Australia. No convictions, no black marks from the police. I love the sea. You are not hemmed in. You can always disappear over the horizon.’
‘Did you enjoy working for Mr. Cassidy?’
‘At first, yes. He was very like Mr. Melville. They thought the same way, talked the same way. But later, when he became ill… Boh! He changed. He began to lose vigour. He tried to balance things. He would not plunge forward any more. I should not say this perhaps; but he needed a son. He needed you, Dottore. It is sad that you were separated so long.’
‘Yes. It was sad. But he was very attached to Miss Pat. Apparently she was a great help to him.’
He cut the throttle and let the nose of the craft settle in the slack water. Clearly he was ready to talk. It was as if our conspiratorial act had given me a new status in his eyes.
‘…I mean no disrespect to the dead; but I never understood what Mr. Cassidy saw in that one. She is beautiful, of course, like a doll. She is graceful and clinging.’ He made a faintly sexual gesture as he searched for the word. ‘She is sinuosa, like a vine twisting and turning round a tree. She must have satisfied him in bed, because Mr. Cassidy was a potent man who needed much sex. But – she didn’t belong. She brought strange people to the house. Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, types like that…’
‘Did you know she had a child by Mr. Cassidy?’
He hesitated over the answer. At our first meeting he had denied all knowledge of the relationship. Finally he said, ‘I thought it possible. It was not my business to discuss it, outside the family. Now, of course, you are family. So we can talk openly.’
‘Yes, I am family. So, it would seem, are Miss Pat and her daughter.’
‘Boh!’ The exclamation was full of contempt. Marco was old Europe. Whatever was done outside the matrimonial bed was a trifle. Whatever was born outside of it had no legal existence. ‘They are connected, yes, but they are not family. Oil and water don’t mix.’
‘But Mr. Cassidy obviously trusted her.’
‘Too much, I think.’
‘Why do you say that, Marco?’
‘Before he went away, he decided to leave the keys of his safe with her. When he told me of it I was offended and angry. I told him that if he could not trust me, his man of confidence, he should not trust a foreign woman. Besides, I could not control what she brought in or what she took out. I was not prepared to remain in his service if anyone else had access to the safe during his absence. Mr. Cassidy understood my anger and agreed. So the safe remained locked until you arrived.’
‘But Miss Pat came and went at will during that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘She slept where?’
‘In Mr. Cassidy’s room.’
‘In spite of his promise to you, he could have left her a key.’
‘Nevertheless, I can swear she did not open the safe.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I had glued four hairs around the door of the safe. They were almost invisible. One might have been noticed, but not all. They remained unbroken until you yourself opened the safe. So Mr. Cassidy did keep faith with me… But why are you worried? Is something missing that should be there?’
‘I have no way of knowing, Marco. I’m just a cautious man.’
‘Better so,’ said Marco drily. ‘One lives longer.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Twenty-five minutes past twelve. Time to go in.’
He gunned the engine, swung us round in a wide, foaming arc and headed in towards the Rose Bay jetty. As we neared the shoreline he trained the spotlight on the parking lot behind the jetty. I could see the grey Mercedes, parked with its nose towards the sea. Its lights flicked on and off three times. Marco tossed the fenders overside and eased the Riva against the landing stage with scarcely a creak of the pilings. We moored her briskly, fore and aft, then hefted the heavy sail-bags and set off down the jetty. It was as well there were no witnesses, because paper weighs a lot more than nylon; and, with one bag over each shoulder, we were staggering rather than walking.
By the time we reached the car Laura had the boot open and was sitting at the wheel with the engine running. She did not get out. She was simply a vague profile behind the heavily tinted glass. Marco and I stowed the bags in the boot. I slammed the lid. We exchanged a brief handshake. He set off at a brisk trot down the jetty. I got into the car. Laura Larsen had it moving instantly.
Just before we pulled out into New South Head Road, she asked, ‘Where to?’
I gave her Paul Langlois’ address. She nodded curtly and moved into the traffic lane.
I asked her: ‘Any problems?’
‘None.’ She was terse and withdrawn. ‘After I left you, I called Mr. Melville in Zurich. I gave him your message.’
‘I asked you to telex. I have reasons for wanting a record of the communication.’
‘My shorthand was confused. It was easier to report verbally. However, I told him what you wanted. He did send a telex in reply.’
She thrust a folded paper at me and switched on the dashboard light so that I could read it.
‘For Gregory. Your position as executor clear and unprejudiced. Your personal position more complicated. A good hotel has a Gideon Bible in every room. Read and ponder Genesis 2, verses 16 and 17. Until we meet, as now we must – Melville.’
‘Satisfied, Martin?’
‘You kept your promise. Thank you.’
‘You’ll notice I’m still keeping it – not asking any questions.’
‘Thank you for that, too.’
Those were the last words we exchanged until we had delivered the sail-bags at Paul Langlois’ house. She did not come inside with me, but waited in the car until I had seen the bags sealed and accepted a receipt. Then, as we drove off, she asked the very reasonable question: ‘What do you want to do now?’
If I had given her a straight answer I would have said: ‘I’m as lonely as a shag on a black rock. I’m dog-tired and deep-down scared. I want to forget what I am and who I am, take you back to my room and make love to you.’ Instead I told her: ‘I’d like you to drop me off at the Town House. Then I’m going to pour myself a large drink and read Gerry Downs’ article – and, of course, Genesis 2!’
‘The Town House. Very good, sir!’
‘Why are you angry with me, Laura?’
‘Because you’re a fool – a stiffnecked, wooden-headed, bloody fool!’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You rifled Cassidy’s safe tonight. That’s a statement, not a question.’
‘You’re guessing.’
‘No. You had Marco Cubeddu with you. I’ve known him for years.’
‘I’ve placed Cassidy’s papers in custody of a bank. I had a right and a duty to do that. Where’s the problem?’
‘You’ve opened the door to Bluebeard’s chamber. Now you know what’s inside it. Soon, other people will know that you know. What do you think that buys you? A lot of enemies and maybe a bullet in the head. You’re an innocent abroad, Martin! You don’t know a fraction of what goes on in this State. You know even less about Cassidy’s private and business life.’
‘But you know all about it!’ I was angry now. My patience was rubbed raw. ‘Who the hell are you, anyway? Who’s your boss and why doesn’t he mind his own business?’
She didn’t answer. She turned the car off the main road into a tree-lined street, parked in a pool of shadow, then slewed round in her seat to face me. When, finally, she spoke, her voice was tinged with weary sadness.
‘The stuff you brought ashore tonight and whatever else Cassidy put in your hands before he died could get you killed. It could get your family threatened or kidnapped. That’s why Marius Melville has taken them under his protection in London and Switzerland.’
‘You call it protection. Couldn’t it equally be a threat, a kind of custody?’
‘It could be. It isn’t.’
‘I know him like the palm of my hand: how he thinks, how he works, how he waits, yes, even how he strikes. I’m probably the only one in the world who knows him like that – and manages to retain his trust.’
‘Then you’ve been lying to me, haven’t you?’ Angrily I began to mimic her: ‘“Mr. Melville didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask. I’m paid to pass messages…” Now you tell me you’re the one in all the world who knows him best. So what does that make you?’
‘His daughter,’ said Laura Larsen flatly. ‘His only daughter, his only child.’
The blandness of the admission shocked me more than the fact itself. I asked a simple, silly question: ‘Your name – Larsen… ?’
‘I was married and divorced. It suited me to have another name than my father’s.’
‘And what is his real name?’
‘Melitense. The name signifies “a man from Malta”; in fact, he was born in Palermo. When he became an American citizen he changed it to Melville.’
‘Why are you telling me this, at one-thirty in the morning?’
‘Because you’re going to find it out anyway from Cassidy’s files. Because it’s important that you trust me.’
‘And because, suddenly, I’m a threat to your father and he wants to buy my silence!’
‘You’d be very wise to sell it, Martin! For your family’s sake, if not your own.’
‘Don’t you see – can’t he see – that I have nothing to sell? I don’t own those documents. They’re part of a deceased estate. I have to dispose of them in accordance with the wishes of the testator.’
‘Cassidy gave you the option to sell –’
‘Only the microfiches. And how would you know that anyway?’
‘He wrote to my father and told him.’
‘He left me free to sell or hold. Whichever I do, there are legal consequences.’
‘Martin, Martin!’ She reached out and grasped my hands. ‘You’re still not hearing me! You’re talking the language of the law!’
‘It’s the only one I know, goddammit!’
‘Then, goddammit, you’d better learn a few others very fast! Street talk! Triad talk! Il gergo dei bassifondi… That’s where Cassidy operated: the low quarters, the other side of the river. That’s where your paperchase is going to lead you. And if you don’t learn how to survive there, you’re dead!’
‘Is your father threatening me?’
‘No. As of now, you’re still family.’
‘That’s nice!’
‘I’m talking about the others, the rival groups: Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese Yakuza, the political terrorists, Irish and Arab, the rogue unions, the big international traders who dealt with Cassidy. For all of them now, you’re a walking disaster. The threat you represent will be doubled when they read Gerry Downs’ newspaper. Do you think the Government or the police are going to protect you? The hell they are! Who’s left, Martin? Only Marius Melville, Mario Melitense.’
It was then that I understood quite clearly that I had crossed the Rubicon. I was in barbarian country. All the rules of peace and war had changed. The language was gibberish. Even the gods were alien.
I don’t know how long I sat, in silence, staring out at the tufted blossom-trees, with starlight shining through their branches and deep pools of shadow lying beneath them. I saw a cat slinking past, a small feral creature in the jungle of suburbia. I heard a mopoke, making his lonely, two-note call above the distant hum of traffic. He was a real bush creature, surviving precariously a long way from home. Then a human sound woke me out of my reverie. Apropos of nothing at all, Laura Larsen said softly, ‘With the shadow on your face, you look just like Charlie Cassidy.’
‘So… ?’
‘Nothing. For a while, just a little while, I thought I was in love with him.’
‘Was he in love with you?’
She smiled then and I remembered Miss Owl-Eyes, whom I had met a thousand years ago on Flight QF2. London, Bahrain, Singapore, Sydney.
‘No, he wasn’t in love, but he could give you the wonderful illusion that he was. And when you found he wasn’t, you still didn’t mind.’
‘That’s a nice epitaph for any man.’
‘I hope I don’t have to write one for you, Martin.’
She looked so sombre and woebegone that I couldn’t be angry any more. I reached out and drew her towards me and kissed her. She responded eagerly and we sat, clinging together awkwardly, like adolescent lovers, in the front seat of the car. Then, abruptly, she thrust me away.
‘Enough, please! We’re not children any more. You’ve got the police in your hotel. I’ve got my father’s security staff in mine. Call me in daylight and tell me you trust me and you still want me in bed and I’ll tell you how I feel… Fair?’
‘Fair enough! But don’t blame me if I remember I’m a married man with a wife and family at risk. I’m sorry I stepped out of line.’
‘I’m glad you did. It proves you haven’t been writing sonnets all your life, or legal briefs either. Shall we go, Mr. Petrarch?’
And so, as Sam Pepys might have put it, I came solitary to bed in the Town House. Before I slept I skimmed through ‘Call-me-Rafe’ Loomis’ list of suspect companies and Gerry Downs’ scandal piece. I confess they made insipid reading for one who, tomorrow, would read the naked truth in the secret memorials of Charles Parnell Cassidy.
Then, as any Christian gentleman should when overnighting in a sinful city, I opened my Gideon Bible and read Genesis 2, verses 16 and 17:
‘And this was the command which the Lord God gave the man: Thou mayest eat thy fill of all the trees in the garden except the tree which brings knowledge of good and evil. If ever thou eatest of this thou art doomed to death…’