Free Follow the Money by Peter Corris Page B

low. His wife had said how much he loved to win and hated to lose and he was acting the part now for all he was worth.
    ‘Have a drink,’ I said. ‘Find Malouf and we’re home free.’
    He gulped at the drink and almost choked. ‘How can you say that? What if he’s dead?’
    ‘Do you think he’s dead?’
    ‘I hope so. If you . . . we . . . can prove that then those vicious bastards should leave me alone.’
    It was interesting to watch him coming out of his state of fear. As soon as he saw a possibility of personal safety his spirits rose. May Ling, I noticed, had dropped out of the equation; I had never been in it.
    It was warm in the room and I slipped out of my jacket and reached to hang it over the back of the chair. It fell with a thud. Standish had finished his drink and was on the way to the kitchen for a refill. He picked up the jacket and the pistol dropped into his hand. He stared at it, looking more frightened than ever.
    ‘You think you need this?’
    I took it and put it back in the jacket. ‘It’s just for show. What you need to do is pull yourself together. Go back to work and your own place. If Wong or Houli gets in touch, play for time.’
    ‘I thought you might . . . what will you be doing?’
    ‘What you hired me for originally—trying to find Malouf. You said you’d get some money.’
    He gave me a thousand dollars in hundreds. Strange to say it seemed to make him happier.

I scouted the area, no sign of anyone watching the apart- ments. There’s a rule in investigation that holds true about half the time—like most rules: test the weakest link. As things stood that was Rosemary Malouf. She’d gone to water after a question or two and had summoned support. The more I thought about it the more it seemed as if this was the place to probe.
    Houli was one of those who’d given weight to the theory that Richard Malouf had serious problems by claiming he’d won a lot of money from him. Rosemary Malouf had identified the body. What was the connection between those facts? It was hard to see them as collaborators. From what I’d experienced at Houli’s hands it was more likely he’d intimidated her, was controlling her in some way.
    A ride in a near-empty bus is good for contemplation and speculation. Suppose Malouf was alive and his apparent death had been contrived somehow. By whom? Houli or Wong, or both? Why, and how it went wrong, allowing that this supposition was correct, were the questions.
    I looked through my notes and clippings again and rang Prospero Sabatini.
    ‘Hardy, about time I heard from you. What’s been going on?’
    ‘Quite a few things, which I could tell you off the record. Nothing at all on the record.’
    ‘Bloody hell. All right. At least you got in touch. Fill me in.’
    I told him as much as I thought I should, still not mentioning Standish, but bringing Freddy Wong and Selim Houli into the picture as well as Chang and Ali.
    ‘You might talk to Chang without telling him who put you on to him,’ I said. ‘You might get something interesting.’
    ‘Might, might, might. Might doesn’t write stories. You say you’re still thinking Malouf could be alive. That’s the crux. Anything solid there?’
    ‘Not really, and that’s where I need your help.’
    ‘You haven’t built up much credit.’
    ‘Yes or no?’
    ‘Go ahead, ask.’
    I reminded him that in one of his articles he’d mentioned that Malouf’s wife had left their home in Gladesville.
    ‘That’s right, she couldn’t handle the media pressure. The time I talked to her I told her it wouldn’t last much longer but she didn’t listen.’
    ‘Do you know where she went? That’s what I’m asking.’
    There was a silence at the end of the line and I could imagine what he was thinking. What’s he up to and what’s in it for me? When it came, his response surprised me.
    ‘She’s very vulnerable, Hardy.’
    I almost said I knew, but remembered that I’d edited my meeting with her