Bleak Spring. Jon Cleary
lived here on the ridge had been shipowners or importers. Devon House, headquarters of Shahriver Credit International, was the largest house in the street, an English Georgian residence given a colonnaded verandah across its front as a concession to the southern sun. A spiked railing fence separated it from the street; a discreet brass plate beside the big oak door was the only hint that business was conducted inside the mansion. It was not a bank that invited small-time depositors or offered chargefree cheque accounts.
Malone and Clements, having taken the receptionist by surprise, were shown into the office of the managing director. The receptionist, a Chinese girl whose English was as affected and precise as that of a bad elocution teacher, said, ‘We have two police officers here, Mr Palady. They had no appointment.’
‘That’s all right, Kim.’
Palady rose from behind his big desk. He was short and thin, black-haired and sallow-skinned, further monotoned in banker’s grey. It was impossible to tell his nationality; the roots of his family tree could have stretched from Constantinople to Cathay. He had a soft silky handshake and a voice to match. He would not have had a clue how to run a suburban bank branch, but one had the feeling he could rip off a million or two in added fees from even the smartest entrepreneur. Still, his smile was practised enough to make the two detectives feel not unwelcome, though Malone doubted they would be asked to stay to lunch in the boardroom.
‘Mr Palady, we’re investigating the murder of one of your depositors, Mr Will Rockne.’
‘The name doesn’t ring a bell, Inspector.’
‘He had five and a quarter million dollars deposited here. I don’t want to sound a smart-arse, Mr Palady, but how much do you have to have in your bank before a name rings a bell?’
Palady smiled; he had been offended by the best, so a smart-arse Sydney cop could be suffered. ‘I am new here, Inspector, only a few weeks in your country. I still have to acquaint myself with all our depositors. At the moment, like all banks, we are concerned only with those clients going bankrupt or reneging on loans.’
‘You have your share of those?’ said Clements, making notes.
‘Not as many as other banks.’ He smiled again, smugly.
‘Where did you come from, Mr Palady?’ said Malone. ‘You said you’ve just arrived here.’
‘From Kuwait. I was there all through the Iraqi occupation. Our board thought I needed a rest cure.’
‘Where are your board?’
‘In Curaçao, the Netherlands Antilles.’
‘Your board’s in Curaçao,’ said Clements, ‘but your head office is in Abadan?’
Palady seemed to look with new respect at Clements; up till now he had hardly glanced at the big man, as if treating him as Malone’s office boy. ‘Our board is international. Curaçao is safer at the moment than Abadan.’
‘I’m sure you’ll feel safe here in Sydney,’ said Malone. ‘Now, could we see someone who would know of Mr Rockne?’
‘Certainly.’ Palady spoke into his intercom. ‘Kim, would you ask Mr Junor to come in? . . . You say Mr – Rockne? – was murdered, Inspector?’
‘It’s in the morning papers.’
‘Ah, I never read such items. By the time I have read and understood what your politicians are doing, I have no stamina for matters such as murder and rape. I saw enough of that in Kuwait, performed by experts. Ah, Harold, come in.’
Harold Junor was English, an ex-rugby forward, ruddyfaced and flustered, who looked as if he had just come out of a ruck without the ball; the Chinese scrum-half had told him there were two police breakaways waiting to tackle him, with or without the ball. Told why the police were here he said in a loud voice, ‘Ghastly! I read about it this morning – I knew it was our Mr Rockne, it’s not a common name. Ghastly! Do you want me to take the gentlemen out to my office, Walter?’
‘There’s no need, Harold. I should like to acquaint myself with our Mr Rockne, dead though he may be.’
Malone could hear echoes in his head; but Palady’s phrasing was not literary, as Bezrow’s had been, but hinted of the pedantry of someone whose English was not his native tongue. Palady was stroking his grey silk tie, which was no softer than his hands. It struck Malone that he was feline, a description he had never applied to a man before.
‘Where did we acquire him, Harold?’
Junor seemed to wince: he was a rugby forward, blunt and head-on, but he would never have acquired a client. ‘I think he was recommended by another client.’
‘Would you know who the other client was?’ said Malone.
‘Oh, I don’t think we could tell you that,’ said Junor, and Palady nodded appreciatively. ‘Not without the client’s permission.’
‘Would you ask him?’ said Malone.
Junor looked at Palady, who left him in no-man’s-land. ‘Well, yes, if you insist. Yes, we’ll do that.’
‘Now.’
‘Now?’
‘I don’t know what merchant banking is like, Mr Junor, but murder is handled better if you can beat it from going cold on you. The murderer has about thirty-six hours’ start on us at the moment and I’d rather he didn’t get any further ahead.’
‘But why do you need to talk to our client?’ said Palady.
‘Because, Mr Palady, the starting point for any murder case is the victim. The next step is who knew him and why.’
‘Of course. Elementary. Go ahead, Harold, call your client, see if he wishes his name to be used.’
Junor went out of the room and the two detectives and Palady sat watching and smiling at each other. The room showed its colonial heritage. The metal ceiling pictured cream Aborigines hiding among cream English trees; the half-panelled walls were of cedar no longer available. Colonial prints hung on the regency-striped upper halves of the walls: ships at anchor in Sydney Cove, St Philip’s Church, the original still standing just up the street from this house. There were no prints of Kuwait or Abadan or Curaçao.
Junor came back, smiling apologetically. ‘I’m afraid I could not raise him. No answer.’
‘Keep trying, Mr Junor. I’ll leave you my card. In the meantime we want Mr Rockne’s account frozen.’
‘Oh, no trouble at all there. Frozen it is, as of now. But we’ll need a piece of paper, a court order or something. Will there be any claimants?’
‘I’m sure there will be. If not his family, then someone else. Five and a quarter million isn’t usually left in limbo, is it?’
‘There is no limbo in a bank,’ said Palady, the smile still at work. A feline smile, Malone thought, and wondered if he had ever seen a Persian cat smile. Cheshire cats were said to smile, but Palady came from further east than there.
‘We’ll get a court order and I’ll send someone here to look at the account. I take it that the five and a quarter million wasn’t all in one deposit? And you’ll be able to trace where the cheques came from?’
Neither Junor nor Palady looked at each other; but the current that passed between them was palpable. Palady said, ‘That may be something that Mr Rockne wouldn’t have wanted.’
‘I’m afraid it’s too late to ask him. In the meantime keep trying with the man who recommended him to you. It was a man?’
Junor’s smile was the sort he would have given a referee who had just awarded a penalty against him, right in front of the goalposts. ‘Yes. Yes, it was a man. We don’t deal very much with the ladies. They don’t appear to have the money, not in this country.’
‘They’re working on it,’ said Malone, whose wife