Dragons at the Party by Jon Cleary Page A

expression that didn’t sit well on him; Special Branch were not supposed to deal in rumours. They might inspect them, but never spread them. “That crowd who call themselves January Twenty-Six were supposed to have invited him. We talked to them, that guy Dallas Pinjarri and a couple of others, but we got nothing out of them. You know what a darky’s like when he d oesn’t want to tell you anything.”
    Nagler had his colour prejudice; Malone knew some whites who could be just as inscrutable as any darky. “Is Pinjarri still in town? He comes and goes. The last time I heard of him he was up in the bush, Moree or somewhere, doing a bit of stirring.”
    “I could find out—”
    “No, leave it.” Malone didn’t want Homicide pushed aside; this was still their case, two murder jobs. “Russ, how’d you go on the hotel check?”
    “A blank so far. I’ve had the boys go through the guest list of every hotel and motel in the city and up as far as Chatswood. The trouble is, I can’t draw on the local stations. Every cop in Sydney seems to be on special duty for the bloody celebrations.” He had his own sense of priority, he would rather solve a murder than salute a flag. “Every hotel and motel is full, been booked out for months. He’d have had trouble getting in anywhere.”
    “Unless he’s staying with some friends,” said Nagler. “Pinjarri or someone like that.”
    “Maybe,” said Malone. “But we’ll keep checking the pubs. Try the ones that still keep two or three rooms open—they’ve got to do that under the licensing laws.”
    “I was hoping you wouldn’t suggest that,” said Clements. “That means every bloody pub within a radius of fifty miles.”
    Malone looked at Nagler. “Do you have trouble with the bludgers in Special Branch, sergeants who never want to work?”
    “I’m a sergeant,” said Nagler. “I bludge all the time.”
    They all grinned, feeding on their sense of humour to keep them going. Malone led them down out of the building and across the road to Kirribilli House. The demonstrators were still behind the barriers further up the street, but they were quiet this morning; perhaps, thought Malone cynically, some of them had just come from church where they’d been praying for a better shot next time from the assassin. Police cars were parked on both sides of the street, but there were no Commonwealth cars. That meant Canberra had decided to take Sunday morning off, to leave the Timoris to their own devices. Of which, he thought, there would be many.
    He stopped to be interviewed by two TV newsreel reporters and half a dozen radio and press reporters. He had nothing to report, he said, except that progress was being made.
    “You’ve got a lead on the terrorist Seville?” said one of the TV reporters, a pretty girl who was dressed as if she had stopped by on her way to a barbecue or a yachting picnic. “Are you hoping for an early arrest?”
    “Oh, we’re always hoping for an early arrest,” said Malone and grinned at one of the older press men standing in the background. That man knew the score and, an honest reporter, never expected too much of the police. “We’ll let you know when anything further turns up.”
    “Are you getting any co-operation from the Timoris?” said the old reporter.
    “Couldn’t ask for more, Greg,” said Malone and knew the reporter didn’t believe him. “I’m going in now to talk to them. A charming couple.”
    Madame Timori, with all the charm of a Paluccan cobra, attacked him at once. “Back again, Inspector? We were told the case was to be closed. Poor Mr. Masutir—he would have hated all this fuss over him.”
    She wiped a dry eye with her handkerchief. She was imperial, or liked to think of herself as such; exile had gone to her head, which had been newly set and blow-dried. She was still not beautiful, her eyes were too small and cold, even on this hot morning, but there are some men who rarely look above a woman’s