Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [55]
MacAllister grunted. ‘I’ve got to go. The plumber’s here flashing his crack all over the bathroom and charging me for the view.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Eight. Be ready.’ MacAllister began singing Oh Jackie Boy, the books, the books are calling and hung up the phone.
Jack felt a sense of relief and was a little surprised by it. Was he more worried about the cops than he was willing to admit?
In the morning, traffic kept them within the city limits for over an hour. Parramatta Road was a nightmare. Busy swearing, MacAllister missed the turn onto the Hume Highway and had to wind slowly through a selection of low-slung, rain-wet suburbs until he found it again. The scenic route: potholed roads, greasy front yards grey with exhaust fumes, and droopy awnings over the shops. Time took its time around here. Rent was cheap and so were the businesses: hot chips and chicken rolls, Halal butchers, Vietnamese grocers, Macedonian accountants with bilingual signs. Jets flew regularly overhead, low enough to hit with a tennis ball. People were either stuck in their cars, on the trains, or unemployed. Go West, Young Man!
Traffic loosened up a little once they were on the highway, but MacAllister still strained along at seventy kilometres an hour. His car of choice was a white, 1988 automatic Volvo. In terms of distance, it had been around the world two hundred times and probably had one more noisy lap in it. In terms of style, it was always going nowhere at Mach 2.
It began to rain again. The water on the road peeled off the tyres like glue, curling in small perfect waves.
‘See the paper this morning?’ said MacAllister. His tone was cool, on the serious side. He nodded towards the back seat. ‘Take a look. Page three.’
Jack stretched around for a copy of the Daily Telegraph. He knew what it was going to be about even before he picked it up.
Poet shot in home invasion
by John Ecclestone
AN ACCLAIMED POET was shot dead in his Potts Point apartment yesterday after an attempted burglary, say local police. Edward Kass, 72, was found slumped over his kitchen table at approximately 4.30 p.m. with a bullet wound to the head. The intruder, whose name has not been released by police, was also found dead at the scene. Ian Douglas Durst, 43, arrived at the Kass apartment during the attempted burglary and surprised the intruder, wherein a struggle ensued and another shot was fired, fatally wounding the gunman. The murdered poet’s daughter, Ms Celia Mitten, 46, arrived home with a friend soon after and discovered the gruesome scene.
Police held Mr Durst for questioning but released him a short time later. No charges have been laid. Last year, Mr Durst, a former gynaecologist, was involved in a drug and insider-trading scandal that saw him struck from the medical register.
Edward Kass was the recipient of numerous literary awards for his poetry. His brother, well-known Sydney business entrepreneur Hammond Kasprowicz, was unavailable for comment yesterday.
Jack folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the rear seat.
‘Did you know?’ asked MacAllister.
‘I was there.’
‘What?’
‘I’m the friend. I walked in with Celia Mitten.’
‘Jesus. What were you doing there?’
‘Meeting Kass.’
‘Why?’
‘To get some ideas. Celia came to the shop a few days ago and told me somebody had burnt her father’s books and sent them to him in the mail. A note said more would follow. Something like and soon it’ll be as if you never wrote any books at all.’
‘Christ.’
‘I’ve seen the note but not the ashes.’
MacAllister thought for a moment. ‘And you’re getting hold of the same books for Kasprowicz?’
‘You got it. She thinks it’s him.’
‘Have you asked Kasprowicz about it?’
‘He denies it, says I’m crazy, but won’t tell me why he wants them.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Not sure. But even his own daughter wouldn’t put it past him. Apparently Kass didn’t mind a bit of Mrs Kasprowicz on the side, once upon a time. I suppose that kind of thing can put a strain on sibling relations.’
‘Jesus, these people! You don’t know who’s paying and who’s drinking!’
‘I’m sure there’s something