Pride's Harvest by Jon Cleary Page A

resided. Its owner was not to be taken lightly.
    â€œNot bad, eh?” Clements said. “I think I might’ve liked being a squatter. A rich one.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œWe slip up sometimes on politeness,” said Malone; and looked at the Police Minister. “It’s Mr. Dircks, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes,” said Dircks. “I think Mr. Hardstaff has a point. You shouldn’t come charging in here, you don’t have a warrant, do you?”
    â€œ 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 buckjumper. 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 Hardstaff gave him a hard stare. “You are going to take notes?”
    â€œOnly if necessary.”
    â€œWill it be necessary?” Hardstaff looked back at Malone.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œJesus!” said the Police Minister. “What sort of question is that?”
    â€œA 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 Cæsar 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.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œAt the Legion club. From seven o’clock till nine.”
    â€œAnd after that?”
    â€œAfter that I went to my daughter’s home, the other side of town. I was there about an hour, I suppose.