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wishing he knew more of history beyond the Middle Kingdom. The history of this country where he sat now had begun only yesterday. “Do Australians do much political assassination?”
    â€œAll the time,” said Les Chung, who knew nothing of the Middle Kingdom, but knew even the footnotes in the history of his adopted country. He was not a man to put his foot into unknown territory. “But only with words, not with bullets or knives. To that extent they are civilized.”
    â€œWhat a wonderful country,” said Wang-Te and sounded almost wistful.
    IV
    Out in the lobby Malone said, “Let’s go across the road and look at that place—the Sewing Bee?”
    They crossed the road with the traffic lights. Traffic was six deep across the roadway stretching back several hundred metres; a drive-by, random shooting in this congestion was not even a theory. They walked up to the row of shops opposite the huge block of Olympic Tower. The footpath still had its late-night crowd, mostly young; groups moving slowly with arrogance and loud voices, challenging with their shoulders, high on group courage. One of them shouldered Clements, an oldie, and the big man grabbed him and swung him round.
    He shoved his badge in the youth’s face. “You wanna try that again, son? Just you and me, not your army?”
    The youth was as tall as Clements, but half his weight. He wore a baseball cap, peak backwards: it seemed to accentuate the blankness of his face. He had stubbled cheeks and chin and a mouth hanging open with shock. His big eyes flicked right and left, but he was getting no support from his six companions. They had no respect for the police badge, but Clements, despite his age (Jesus, he must be middle -aged!), looked big and dangerous.
    At last the youth said, “Sorry, mate. I slipped.”
    â€œWe all do that occasionally,” said Malone. “Let him go, Assistant Commissioner. He’s only young and not very bright.”
    Clements let go the youth and walked on beside Malone. “Assistant Commissioner?”
    â€œYou think kids are impressed by a senior sergeant? He’ll live for a week on how he tried to push an assistant commissioner out of the way.”
    â€œI hope none of the seven Assistant Commissioners get to hear of it.”
    The entrance to the rooms above the shops was between a pinball parlour and a shabby coffee lounge. They climbed the narrow stairs and came to a long lighted corridor that ran along the back of the half a dozen offices. They passed the Quick Printery; R. Heiden, Watch & Jewelry Repairs; and Internet Sexual Therapy. They came to the open door of the Sewing Bee.
    The alterations centre had two rooms side by side, both with windows opening on to George Street. Sam Penfold and Norma Nickles were in the main room with a woman with close-cropped hair and a belligerent expression, as if she blamed the police for breaking into her establishment.
    â€œThis is Mrs. Rohani, the owner,” said Penfold. “We called her and she’s come in from Kensington.”
    â€œAnything stolen?” Malone asked.
    â€œYes!” Mrs. Rohani had a softer voice than Malone had expected; breathy, as if every word had to be forced out. “He took my strongbox, twelve hundred dollars. Out of my desk. He forced the drawer open.”
    Malone scanned the room. Clothes hung on long racks, queues from which the flesh-and-blood had been squeezed; dresses, jackets and trousers waiting to see The Invisible Man . There were four sewing machines, all with that abandoned look that equipment gets when its operators have gone home. On a wall was a big blow-up of a Vogue cover, circa 1925, like a faded icon.
    Malone looked back at Penfold. “Any prints on the desk?”
    Penfold in turn looked at Norma Nickles, who said, “There are prints everywhere, but I dunno whether they are his. Mrs. Rohani has four girls working here and clients come in all day,