The High Commissioner

by Jon Cleary

  “Superintendent Denzil and Sergeant Coburn.” Sheila had regained her composure; she had learned her lessons well as a diplomat’s wife. “From Scotland Yard.”

  “Special Branch,” said Denzil, and gave a purple tone to the word Special: he was not a hoi-polloi policeman. He was a squarish man running a little to weight; every so often he seemed to become conscious of his belly and would tuck it in, like a man trying to hide the error of an indulged life. Bright blue eyes in his red face gave him a false impression of cheeriness; the wide, thin-lipped mouth told the truth. He’d arrest his own mother, Malone thought, if it meant promotion. Despite the warm evening he was dressed in a tweed suit, a regimental tie, with stripes that went ill wilh his red face, hung on his broad chest. He had a gruff fruity voice, full of a false bonhomie that could trick an unwary prisoner. “Someone took a shot at you, sir. We’ll have to put a stop to that.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” said Quentin, and Denzil looked at him, as if not certain whether the High Commissioner was being ironic or not.

  “The constable tells me he found nothing over in the gardens. But Sergeant Coburn is going over just to double-check.”

  I bet the uniformed boys love working with you, Malone thought.

  Coburn nodded and went out of the room. He was a young man, tall and thin, his face all bone and dark intense stare. He looked as if he might never laugh, but that might be because he was always with Denzil. He had one eyebrow that sat much higher than the other, and Malone suspected he would never get far in the Force: he would always look quizzical of his superiors.

  When the door closed behind Coburn, Denzil said, “Mrs. Quentin tells me you are from Australian Security, Mr. Malone. Have you been in touch with anyone else at Special Branch?”

  “Mr. Malone only arrived to-night from Australia,” Quentin said quickly.

  Denzil nodded as if that were no excuse at all. “Did you have any suspicions that something like this might happen to His Excellency? Was that why you were sent over, Mr. Malone?” He smiled mechanically, his big white teeth appearing between the thin lips like a blank illuminated sign. “I’m looking for some sort of lead, you understand.”

  Malone looked at Quentin. “I think I’d better have a few words alone with the superintendent, sir.”

  Quentin stared at him; for a moment Malone expected to see the pleading look again, and suddenly felt resentful. Don’t ask any more favours; you’ve had your lot. Then Quentin took his wife’s arm.

  “We’ll be in the study.”

  The Quentins went out of the room, but they took none of the tension that Malone felt with them. He moved to the door, made sure it was closed, then turned back to Denzil. Why do I have to reveal everything to this bastard? Why couldn’t they have sent a man with some charity?

  “I’m not a security man,” he said flatly, and wondered what Quentin was saying to his wife in the room next door. “I am a detective-sergeant in the New South Wales Police Force. I’m here to arrest the High Commissioner on a charge of murder.”

  Denzil didn’t even blink. “That’s rather awkward.”

  The British understatement: who does he think he is, Noël bloody Coward? “Yes, it is, rather.”

  “Care to tell me more about it?”

  From the room next door Malone thought he heard a cry; or perhaps it was his imagination. If there had been a cry Denzil gave no sign that he had heard it The ormolu clock struck the half-hour and he turned his head and looked at it reproachfully. Then he looked bade at Malone.

  “Will you be asking for a court warrant?”

  Malone shook his head. “He’s coming quietly, without a fuss.”

  “There’ll be a fuss if to-night’s affair gets into the newspapers.”

  “He doesn’t want it in the papers.”

  “For personal reasons?”

  Malone kept his temper. He was all at once utterly weary, drained empty by the long day and the unexpected climax of the night. He had been saddled all evening with the unaccustomed burden of secrecy and deception, and that too had exhausted him. He was in no mood to humour a Scotland Yard man who seemed so full of himself as to be careless of other people’s reactions to what had happened. Steady, Malone, don’t start any intra-Commonwealth incidents.

  “There’s a conference on. You must have known that?” The sarcasm was thick, real Australian scorn, but he didn’t care.

  Denzil gazed at him steadily, then nodded. He put a finger to his ear, screwed the wax in, and said, “What’s the murder charge?”

  Malone told him. Denzil sucked on his bottom lip, turning his face away so that he looked sideways at Malone; the angle at which he held his head gave him an expression of disbelief, and Malone felt the temper rise in him again. “We’ve got all the facts, Superintendent—”

  “I’m not disbelieving you, Sergeant I’m just wondering—”

  “When I’m taking him back?” Malone backed down, putting himself in the other policeman’s place. Then he told Denzil about Quentin’s request and Leeds’s agreement to it. “I’ve just got off the phone to my Commissioner—”

  “It’s highly irregular, I must say.”

  Malone took a chance. “I should think that in Special Branch you’d be used to a lot of stuff that’s highly irregular.”

  For the first time Denzil really smiled, a genuine grin that was so unexpected Malone at first didn’t believe it: Denzil had borrowed it from someone else, had tacked it on like a false moustache. Malone was reminded of Flannery’s warm sincere grin, and knew how spurious that had been. But Denzil’s smile did seen genuine; and just as unexpectedly he put out his hand. “We’ll keep it quiet, Sergeant”

  Malone shook the firm beefy hand. “Nobody knows about this except you, me and him. Unless he’s just told his wife—” He glanced towards the wall that separated the living-room from the study. What emotions were boiling there? There was no sound from the next room. Christ, it’s like being next door to a crypt! He looked back at Denzil, who had stopped smiling now: the man was not entirely insensitive. “Do you have to tell anyone else?”

  Denzil hesitated only a moment. “Murder isn’t my job. Unless it’s a political murder. I don’t think I have to tell anyone, Sergeant. Not for a few days, anyway.”

  “We’ll be gone by the end of the week. After that you can tell anyone you want – just give me time to get him back to Sydney.”

  “And then the wolves get at him?” Malone nodded. There was a tap on the door and Denzil moved towards it Before he opened it he stopped, looked back and smiled again, still a genuine grin. “I did know there was a conference on.”

  “Sorry,” said Malone.

  Denzil waved a hand, then turned and opened the door. Sergeant Coburn stood there and just behind him was Quentin. “Nothing over in the gardens, sir.”

  “I’m afraid this will mean having a man with you all the time now, sir,” Denzil said.

  “In addition to Mr. Malone?” Quentin said.

  “We’re responsible for you – at least while this conference is going on. Mr. Malone has explained the nature of his duty with you.” He paused a moment, and Quentin nodded. “But I’m afraid Sergeant Coburn will have to stay with you.”

  Quentin glanced at Malone, almost as if looking for the latter’s approval, then shrugged. “If you say so. But I don’t want a word of this to get out—”

  “I understand,” Denzil said. The bonhomie had gone from the fruity voice. “I think we can keep everything quiet, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Quentin, but looked anxious rather than gratified. The publicity had begun: to-night to this policeman, to-morrow to the world. He pulled nervously at his moustache, as if wanting to tear off part of the disguise he had worn for so long. In a way, Malone thought he’ll probably be glad to get back to his own identity.

  Five minutes later Denzil had gone and with him Coburn, who would be back again first thing in the morning. The uniformed policeman had taken up his post outside the front doo
r. Joseph had locked the doors and windows, like someone shutting up the house before going away on a long holiday, and had retired to his room in the basement of the house. No one other than the policeman outside seemec to have heard the shot, or if they had they were diplomatically minding their own business. Or perhaps they had just thought it was a passing car back-firing. Whatever had been their reactions, no one had come out into the square to inquire what was going on. This was embassy territory and all the embassies were playing the diplomatic game: always remain neutral till you find out who is holding the gun.

  Quentin and Malone stood in the living-room; their exhaustion was mutual, they were like men who had escaped from a shipwreck. Only one of them had hope and he tied to share it with the other, like a stale crust: “They won’t try again,” Malone said. “Not now. They’ll know Scotland Yard will be on the lookout for them—”

  “I told my wife.” Quentin poured himself a drink with hands that shook. He looked at Malone, who shook his haad in puzzlement “It was like committing a second murder. I feel like Bluebeard.”

  Malone was tired. He had to shift the focus of his attention; he was like a man with double vision. “The murder? Oh, yes.” He made a gesture that was meaningless; he was so weary he could hardly control his hands. “I had to tell Denzil—”

  “You don’t have to excuse yourself – what’s your first name?”

  “Scobie.”

  “I once read a book by a Russian. It said that after a while your gaoler becomes a sort of relation. So you won’t mind if I call you Scobie when we’re alone?”

  “Call me anything you like if it relieves the strain.”

  “Nothing is going to relieve the strain, Scobie, believe me. Nothing at all. Least of all this.” He looked at his glass, then drained it in one gulp. He coughed, shook his head and managed a smile that was like a scratch on his face. “I’ll never take to drink. Even if there were time.”

  Then Lisa came to the door. “Mr. Malone, Joseph has lent you a pair of Mr. Quentin’s pyjamas, and I’ve put some books beside your bed in case you want to read. There’s also a new toothbrush. We’ll pick up your things from your hotel to-morrow.”

  “Miss Efficiency,” said Quentin. “One day I’m going to find a flaw in you, Lisa. Not to gloat over. Just so that I won’t feel so damned inefficient myself.”

  Lisa smiled. “I’m full of flaws. Women, if they want to, can hide them better, that’s all.”

  “You should teach us men the trick,” said Malone, and wondered why he had spoken, not for himself, but for Quentin.

  Lisa looked at Quentin. “You’re quite worn out. Is there anything I can get you?”

  Quentin shook his head. “Has my wife gone to bed?”

  “I think what happened to-night has upset her. I said good night to her, but she didn’t seem to hear me.” Traces of exhaustion, like faint smudge marks, showed on her own face; the night had bruised them all, but in different ways. And suddenly Malone was grudgingly thankful for the assassination attempt. It would provide an excuse for the atmosphere that would surely be in the house to-morrow. “I hope you both feel better in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Lisa,” said Quentin, and he was too tired to keep the irony from his voice. Malone looked quickly at Lisa, but she too was tired: she had missed it.

  Quentin said good night to them both and trudged up the winding staircase out of the hall. Lisa stared after him, a thin crease between her brows suddenly spoiling the cool beauty of her face. Is she in love with him? Malone wondered; and hoped not. Quentin could not go on killing women, physically or emotionally: no man had that amount of destruction in him. But even as he thought it Malone knew he was wrong: there was no limit to the destruction in any man.

  “What’s happened to him, Scobie?” Malone had told her his name earlier in the evening, but this was the first time she had used it. I’m becoming one of the family, he thought, I’ve got to get back to Sydney before they start mixing their blood with mine. “All of a sudden he looks so worn out.”

  “That conference is a load on his back.” Malone was an experienced liar. Sometimes as a policeman you had to lie more than the criminal; it was often the only way to the truth. “And being shot at doesn’t always raise the adrenalin.”

  She looked at him, the crease disappearing from her brow. “I think there is more buried in you than you allow to show.”

  “Flaws?”

  “No. Well, maybe. But something else. Whatever it is, you hide it very well.”

  “It’s environment. The—” His tired careless tongue almost said The Police Force; he caught it just in time. “The Public Service is no place for an extrovert.”

  “A pity. It could do with some life in it.” She smiled at him, accepting him now. “One doesn’t think of a security agent being a public servant. Or a civil servant, as they call them here. Do you have a number like James Bond?”

  He shook his head. He would like to know her better, but not to-night; he was wishing she would go. “My boss has no head for figures.”

  She sensed his tiredness, began to walk up the staircise ahead of him. “I’ll see you at breakfast. Are you talkative at breakfast?”

  “Not usually,” said Malone, and wondered who would be talkative at all to-morrow.

  In his room a pair of blue silk pyjamas had been laid out on the bed. He picked them up, rubbing the smooth material against his rough palms. He had never paid more than thirty shillings for a pair of pyjamas in his life; what was the point of spending money on what you wore in bed? When he had someone in bed with him, someone to impress, he wore nothing at all: as far as he knew, silk had never improved a man’s virility. Maybe I’m too crude and simple, he thought. I should have tried some of this luxury long ago.

  He felt the sheets; they too were much better quality than he was accustomed to. He cleaned his teeth with the new brush that stood in the glass on the basin in one corner of the room. He noticed that Lisa, or Joseph, had provided toothpaste, shaving brush and razor, after-shave lotion, tissues. He picked up the after-shave lotion, something he had never used, and smelled it. He grinned at himself in the mirror: if Lisa or Joseph had decided that this was his smell, he liked it. Simple and sharp: they had decided he was not the sophisticated, languorous type.

  He got undressed, put on the pyjamas and got into bed. He lay back exhausted, lying in more luxury than he had ever experienced in his life before, yet knowing sleep was not going to come easy. He looked at the books Lisa had put on the bedside table: The Art and Practice of Diplomacy, a novel by Patrick White, a detective story by Ross Macdonald. She was taking no chances on his taste; or was she subtly poking fun at him? It didnt matter anyway; even as he looked at the titles the words blurred before his gritty eyes. He put the books back on the table and turned out the light.

  The room was completely dark; the thick curtains made a night blacker than anything outside. Somewhere a car growled, then its exhaust coned off like a bray of triumph: some lover going home after an unexpected conquest. A plane went overhead, whistling like an exhausted beast: people looked down on the diamond-patterned city, began to prepare for the reunion, for the first step into a new life. In another room in the house Quentin and his wife lay in each other’s arms; but they were deaf to the world outside, blind to the darkness. Nothing was as black as their own small world.

  Malone rolled restlessly on his back, feeling the silk of the pyjamas against his skin like a woman’s touch. Why had he accepted the job? Why hadn’t he found some excuse that would have kept him at home? What was going to be achieved by taking back Quentin for a murder that everyone but a malicious old man had forgotten? Well, not forgotten; but didn’t care about any more. Freda Corliss had been dead a long time, would be no more than bones now; and bones by themselves never asked for revenge. And if they could speak, what would they say? Leave him where he is, he is of more use to the world in London than mouldering in Bathurst gaol for the rest of his life. Would the dead Freda
say that? Maybe not. She had been German Jewish, and both the Germans and the Jews had long memories when it came to deeds against themselves.

  Malone had never had any sense of vocation as a policeman. It was a job: he could have been a salesman, a bus driver, even a bookmaker, just as easily: the fulfilment of justice had never been one of his ambitions. He had always respected the law; that perhaps had been a reaction against the revolutionary sermons of his Irish father. Con Malone had never got over the disgrace of his son’s joining the police force; even when Scobie had gone from uniform into plain clothes, Con Malone had not wanted to be seen with him in certain company. Scobie’s father had always been on the side of the underdog; he had always refused to believe that some underdogs might also be criminals. Sure, there were bad boys; but who had made them bad? The law – or inore specifically, the police. Con Malone had believed in the essential goodness of man – and with Irish logic had contrived to ignore the fact that a policeman was also a man. Including his own son.

  So justice, respect for the law, the need for a certain conformity in society, had never been subjects for discussion in the Malone house. Eventually Scobie had left home, gone to live in a flat at King’s Cross, where nonconformity was the way of life but where a man, no matter how poor or how much an underdog, had the luxury of privacy. Could build his own ethics, shape his own ambition, decide whether there was a God and how he wanted to meet Him when the time came. His mother came once a week, like a social worker, cleaned the flat, sprinkled holy water on the floor just inside the front door, and went away leaving a new holy picture, like a visiting card, each week on the dressing-table. Once he had left his handcuffs at home and she had propped the holy picture up against them, as if to exorcise him from the evil that possessed him.

  Con and Brigid Malone would say to leave Quentin where he was. There would be no lack of sympathy for his dead first wife, even though she was German and Jewish: their xenophobia and bigotry never extended to the dead. Nor would they deny that he had committed a mortal sin in killing her. But at times the Irish, the most impractical of people, could be more practical than anyone but the most primitive savage. But then again it was an Irishman, with an Irishman’s long memory for revenge (one with the Germans and the Jews: his mother and father wouldn’t like that), who had reopened this case and wanted it brought to its right, legal conclusion. And bound by law, there was no escape for Malone, just as there was no escape for Quentin.