Pride’s Harvest. Jon Cleary
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the long drive, half a mile at least, from the front gates; an avenue of silky oaks had lined the smoothly graded track and the fences behind them had had none of the drunken lurch one found on so many of the properties as large as this one. The gardens surrounding the house were as carefully tended as some he had seen on Sydney’s North Shore; an elderly Aborigine stood unmoving in the midst of a large rose plot, gazing at them with stiff curiosity like a garden ornament. Trees bordered the acre or so of garden: blue-gum, liquidambar, cedar and cabbage tree palm, though Clements knew only the name of the liquidambar. On one side of the house was a clay tennis court and beyond it a swimming pool. The house itself, though only one-storeyed, suggested a mansion: there was a dignity to it, an impressive solidity, that told you this was more than just a house. This was where tradition and wealth and, possibly, power resided. Its owner was not to be taken lightly.
‘Not bad, eh?’ Clements said. ‘I think I might’ve liked being a squatter. A rich one.’
‘You’d have buggered the sheep. I don’t mean literally. Russ, you couldn’t raise a pup even if it gave you a hand. Lassie would have turned up her nose at you and gone home. Come on, let’s go inside and see what we can get out of Mr Hardstaff.’
He had seen Hardstaff on television, but he was not prepared for the presence of the man in person. He fitted the dignity of his home; it was a proper setting for him. Dignity is not an Australian characteristic, the larrikin element is too strong in the national psyche. Hardstaff stood in the middle of his living-room, a heavily elegant chamber, and looked at the two larrikin intruders.
Malone introduced himself and Clements and was greeted by, ‘You might have telephoned me first to let me know you were coming.’
‘We slip up sometimes on politeness,’ said Malone; and looked at the Police Minister. ‘It’s Mr Dircks, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Dircks. ‘I think Mr Hardstaff has a point. You shouldn’t come charging in here, you don’t have a warrant, do you?’
‘No, sir. I wasn’t aware we were charging in. You’re the Minister, you’d know we’d get nowhere if we stuck to protocol all the time.’ Oh crumbs, he thought, there goes the Malone tongue again. He glanced to his right and saw Clements looking around as if seeking a way out of the room before the roof fell in.
Dircks’s face reddened, but Hardstaff was not going to have a Police Department row in his home. ‘Let’s start again, Inspector. Why did you want to see me? Sit down.’
Malone and Clements lowered themselves into armchairs. This was a man’s living-room, leather and tweed and polished wood; there was no chintz or silk. Brass glinted at various points around the room and the paintings on the walls were bold and challenging, though not in any modern style: de Kooning or Bacon or Blackman would have finished up in the marble-topped fireplace. The challenge was within the subject of the paintings: a hold-up by bushrangers, a horse-breaker trying to tame a buck-jumper. There were, however, vases of flowers on side tables around the room, the only soft touch, like that of a ghostly woman’s hand.
Clements had taken out his notebook and Hard-staff gave him a hard stare. ‘You are going to take notes?’
‘Only if necessary.’
‘Will it be necessary?’ Hardstaff looked back at Malone.
‘I don’t know, Mr Hardstaff, not till I start asking the questions.’ He plunged straight in, freezing though the water might be: ‘Can you tell us where you were Monday night, the night Mr Sagawa was murdered out at the cotton gin?’
‘Jesus!’ said the Police Minister. ‘What sort of question is that?’
‘A routine one,’ said Malone. ‘It’s normal police procedure in cases like this. Where were you, Mr Hardstaff?’
Hardstaff had shown no expression at the question. His long handsome face could turn into a stone replica of itself; he turned his head slightly and, in a trick of light, his pale blue eyes seemed suddenly colourless. A classicist might have described him at that moment as a Caesar in his own museum. But Malone was no classicist, just a cop who had learned to read stone faces, no matter how faint the script.
‘I was at a meeting of the Turf Club. I’m the chairman.’
You would be, thought Malone: you’re probably chairman of everything with more than two members in this district. ‘Where was that held?’
‘At the Legion club. From seven o’clock till nine.’
‘And after that?’
‘After that I went to my daughter’s home, the other side of town. I was there about an hour, I suppose. Then I drove home.’
‘Alone?’
‘Of course.’ He didn’t attempt to explain why of course he would drive home alone.
‘What sort of car do you have?’
‘A Mercedes, last year’s model. A 500SEL.’ He did not say it boastfully, but as if mocking Malone’s questioning of him. He looked at Clements taking notes. ‘Got that, Sergeant?’
‘Colour?’ said Clements.
‘Beige, I think they call it. I don’t have a good eye for colour, I’m colour-blind.’
‘Does that apply to people, too?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Dircks sat up in his chair. Hard-staff had left his drink in the study, but the Police Minister had brought his with him and now the ice rattled in his glass like dice. ‘That’s enough of that sort of insult, Malone! The interview’s over!’
My bloody tongue again, thought Malone. But Hardstaff’s air of arrogance, his apparent resentment that the police should interrogate him without making an appointment, acted on Malone like a burr in his pants.
Hardstaff did not appear disturbed by the question. He looked at Malone with new interest, as if the detective were an adversary who might prove hard to put down. Weak opponents bored him. Without looking at Dircks he said, ‘It’s all right, Gus. Perhaps the inspector has some point to his question?’
Malone saw that Hardstaff suddenly had some respect for him. ‘Yes, there was a point to it. I’ve heard that there is some strong anti-Japanese feeling in the district.’
‘Not from me, Inspector. I brought the Japanese investment in here. Mr Dircks will confirm that. He’s one of the partners in South Cloud.’
Malone saw Clements’s ballpoint suddenly slip, scratching across the page of his notebook. Then the big hand was steady again, waiting to make a note of Dircks’s reply.
‘I didn’t know that, Mr Dircks,’ Malone said.
‘It’s in the records. You’d have seen it if you’d looked at the books of the company.’ But Dircks sounded as if he wished the connection hadn’t been mentioned.
‘We’ve only just started. There’s a lot we still have to look into. Have you visited the cotton farm lately, Mr Hardstaff?’
‘No, I have no financial interest in it.’
‘Did you know Mr Sagawa?’
‘Yes. He came to dinner once. And he came out once or twice to tennis parties we had. He was an enthusiastic tennis player. He was enthusiastic at everything, come to think of it. Everyone liked him.’
‘Except the person who murdered him.’
‘Christ, you’re blunt!’ said Dircks, a politician never known for his subtlety in parliament.
Malone stood up, ignoring the Minister’s remark. ‘Did you know anything about Mr Sagawa other than that he was enthusiastic and popular?’
The other three men were now on their feet. Hardstaff said, ‘No, I don’t believe I did. Perhaps the other Japanese out at the farm,