Autumn Maze by Jon Cleary

which is a corporation in itself, had taken them up; or rather, the Casements allowed themselves to be taken up, for, though Irish, they had been gentlemen and ladies long before the colonials had learned how to handle a full teacup or an empty compliment. Theirs had been old money when the later fortunes of other colonists were still just dreams based on mortgages.
    â€œDid he appear to you to take drugs?”
    â€œWhy do you ask me that?”
    â€œYou’re an observant man.”
    Casement shook his head, turned away and looked out through the big window behind him. The glass here did not extend from floor to ceiling; Casement wanted some privacy, did not want to be spied upon by someone with binoculars. Still, the view was breathtaking. A container ship was passing under the Harbour Bridge, its decks half-empty; exports this year were still down, the foreign debt steady on the graph like a dead man’s heart signature. He was too old to be distressed by election results, though he had been disappointed when the Coalition had, as every cliché-ridden columnist put it, snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. The country would continue to go downhill under Labor; he could not bring himself to believe that men from the wrong side of the street could run a country. He turned back to the two detectives, glad of his age, glad that, though born rich, he was not starting life over again.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be asking me about Rob. I took as little notice of him as I could. I tolerated him because of his father and because of my wife. I didn’t like him at all.”
    â€œThat’s an honest opinion, Mr. Casement.”
    â€œYou make it sound as if you haven’t heard too many honest opinions this morning.”
    â€œYou could say that. But we’re used to them, aren’t we, Russ?”
    Clements had been taking notes in his peculiar shorthand; he looked up and smiled. “It’s the other opinions that help us more than the honest ones.”
    The shrewd eyes abruptly showed amusement as Casement remembered the Eighties. “I wish there had been more honest opinions a few years ago.”
    â€œDid you have a visitor at home last night?” said Clements.
    â€œWhy do you ask?”
    â€œWe’re trying to find out how the murderer got into the building. The security is said to be pretty tight.”
    â€œIt is. Or it has been up till now. Except—” He stopped, “I haven’t thought about it before. It could be better down in the basement, in the garage. The service lift comes up from there. Yes, Alice?”
    Mrs. Pallister had silently opened the door from her office without knocking, stood there like a headmistress. “Time to leave for your luncheon. Your ten minutes are up, Inspector.”
    Malone had an elaborate look at his watch. “Doesn’t time fly! Well, thank you, Mr. Casement. Maybe we can come back when you have more time.”
    â€œTelephone first,” said the Wicked Witch.
    â€œNo, no, Alice. Let them come whenever they wish. I’m interested in how Inspector Malone and Sergeant Clements will proceed from here. Anything for a change,” said Casement and sounded wistful.
    At the door Malone paused. “Are you related at all to Roger Casement?”
    â€œThe traitor? Or the patriot, depending on your point of view? You know something of Irish history?” Casement seemed surprised that a cop should know anything of history outside of police files.
    â€œA little. My mother was Irish-born and my father likes to think he was. At least he says he was conceived in Ireland.”
    Casement smiled. “No, I’m not related to Sir Roger, although I’ve always admired him. Honour is always to be admired, don’t you think?”
    â€œHonour and justice don’t always mix. Any cop will tell you that. The British hanged Sir Roger, they said that was justice.”
    â€œWell, let’s hope justice