by Jon Cleary
“I was asking Miss Pretorious how predictable they might be.”
“Not predictable at all.” Larter was a short slim man with horn-rimmed glasses and an Antipodean face: narrow cheek-bones, bony jaw, wide thin-lipped mouth and eyes that had retreated beneath brows that seemed always on the verge of frowning: the Australian sun and climate were beating out a new image. “Mr. Quentin told us what happened last night. I don’t think we can be too careful. What do you think, Sam?”
Edgar had been smiling at Lisa, only half-attentive to what was being said. Unlike Larter, a dedicated type, he would look for fringe benefits to his job; admiring beautiful women would be one of them. He was a large dark man who would run to fat easily; he lived under the strain of theting, playing squash twice a week, doing his 5BX exercises every morning; he had already begun to age in the face with the effort of staying young. He turned away from Lisa reluctantly.
“If they were game enough to try it once, they’ll be game enough to try it again. The Eastern Asians, the ones with some Chinese blood in them, they don’t give up easily. The Chinese invented patience.”
“You think the Chinese might have been responsible for this?” Despite what Sheila had said about his restless night, Quentin looked calm and in control of himself. There was just a hint of tiredness about his eyes, but that was the caste-mark of a diplomat, something he shared with the successful in all other professions. The greyness of last night had gone from his face and this morning he looked handsome, distinguished and a man to be trusted with one of the world’s major problems. Christ, thought Malone, our country hasn’t turned out many statesmen; why has this one got to be wasted?
“They’re the ones I’d lay my money on,” said Edgar, being more specific with his bet than Malone had been.
“Don’t lay any money on anyone, Sam,” said Quentin. “The field is wide open. Sometimes I think we are a generation too late, that things must have been much simpler in the thirties. Dictators have their advantages. At least you know whom you’re dealing with.”
“We don’t want another Hitler,” said Larter. “Least of all an Asian one.”
“We’ll get one eventually, Phil. You can be sure of that Dictators are like volcanoes. They keep recurring and no one has yet found a way of stopping them. Maybe not in our time, but some day there’ll be another Hitler. I’m sorry to be so pessimistic so early in the morning and on such a beautiful day.” He looked up at the sky, bright and cloudless: a high-flying plane glittered like a tossed gem. “In the mean-time shall we go and try to preserve peace a little longer?”
“If things go as they did yesterday, we may do just that.” Larter was all dedication, full of a nervous energy. But looking at him, Malone had the feeling that Larter would enjoy an unsuccessful conference just as much; all he wanted was the opportunity to bargain and argue. “Preserve peace, I mean.”
Quentin looked at Malone. “Joseph tells me he’s taking you shopping. I hope I haven’t been the cause of your spending more than you’d intended.”
You have, thought Malone; but said, “No, sir. I just don’t want to be too conspicuous. I make too good a target.”
Larter said incredulously, “You’re expecting them to shoot at you?”
Malone saw Quentin smile; somehow it took away the irritation he had felt at Larter’s question. “No. But a security man should never be obvious. Back home—” He gestured at the suit; then wondered how conspicuous he had been back there. It had never worried him before: somehow policemen in Sydney, even the plainclothes men, expected to be recognised. Australians, it was said, had a sharper nose than anyone else for coppers. He just hoped that out of his environment he was not so recognisable. He looked back at Quentin. “I’ll be at Lancaster House in an hour. I’m sure Sergeant Coburn will see you’re all right.”
Coburn nodded, still serious and intense even though he was out from under the shadow of Denzil this morning. Then Quentin turned and led the way back into the house. Lisa went with the men, Edgar sticking close by her elbow; and Malone was left to himself. He picked up the newspapers that lay on one of the wrought-iron chairs. The headlines were the usual miserable chant that seemed to-day’s litany: war, floods, drought accidents; it seemed there might be a certain avoidance of woe in illiteracy. He found the stories on Viet Nam: men had thed in a Viet Cong raid while a delegate at the conference was quoted as being “hopeful.” He turned to the back pages, the refuge of those who couldn’t face the disasters of the front pages. But they were no more encouraging. The tennis correspondent dolefully complained that another Australian was expected to win Wimbledon; the cricket correspondent demanded to know why England had no fast bowlers; the boxing correspondent reported that yet another British heavyweight had been yet another gallant loser. Everyone had their problems. Including himself.
“Do you always look so worried when you’re on a case?”
He folded the newspapers and put them back on the chair as Sheila Quentin came out on to the patio. “Often.”
“Why are you a policeman?”
“My dad used to ask me that. But he used to be venomous about it. I was never able to give him a satisfactory answer. I don’t think I could give you one. It’s a job, it pays me enough, and, well, it’s interesting.”
“And soul-destroying?”
“Sometimes.”
She stared at him for a while, as if debating whether to query him further. Then she looked down towards the small garden and the dwarf trees. “I wish we had a real tree here. In our garden in Canberra we had some beautiful trees. I’ve always loved trees, ever since I was a child. We lived in the country and I had a favourite tree, a coolibah, that I used to sit under and dream about what I’d do when I grew up.”
“I didn’t think coolibahs grew in the bush down around Perth. They’re a tree from the eastern States.”
She still wore the sunglasses, but he knew that her eyes had looked sharply at him from behind the dark panes. “Where did you learn about trees?”
“When you’re a policeman you pick up lots of useless information.”
“How did you know I came from the West?”
“I took it for granted. There wasn’t much on you in the file on your husband, just that he’d married you in Perth.”
“You have a file on him?”
“That thick.” He measured with his fingers.
“Would I be allowed to read it?”
He shook his head. “It wouldn’t help any. And it might make you fed worse. In any case, it’s officially secret.” But he wanted to know more about her: “Are you from New South Wales? Or over that way?”
“No, I’m from the West. This coolibah was brought over by my grandfather. I suppose he was like me, sentimental about trees.”
He stood up. He wondered what would happen to her when Quentin was finally taken from her. There was an intensity about her that sometimes showed through the calm exterior, a passion that might be a weakness as much as a strength. The sort of passion that could lead to despair, to suicide by hanging from a tree. Christ, I’m getting morbid, he thought.
He was relieved when Joseph, dressed for the street, as debonair and distinguished-looking as an ambassador, came to the door. “The taxi is waiting, sir.”
“Well, here goes.” He felt inside his jacket to make sure he had his travellers’ cheques. “I didn’t expect to come all this way to be camouflaged.”
“You might enjoy it. It’s fun sometimes.” Then Sheila Quentin bit her lip: all the years of camouflage could not have been much fun for her husband.
Malone excused himself and went out to buy a suit that would not make him so conspicuous. Flannery had pledged him to secrecy; he wondered if the dark suit could be charged to expenses on that account. He wondered, too, how you charged the expenditure of yourself. Involvement was not something you entered under petty cash.
II
At the bottom of St. James’s Street the newspaper poster announced in a jagged scrawl: Saigon Bo
mb Kills Dozens. Beside it the vendor did a little jig, glad to be alive on such a beautiful day and with something going for him in the 2.30 at Kempton Park. In Cleveland Place the raincoated tourists, suspicious of the London weather, and the red-coated Guardsmen, suspicious of the tourists, eyed each other like shy children at a party; a tourist raised his camera and a Guardsman almost imperceptibly stiffened, as if he feared he was going to be asked to dance. A Foreign Office man went by, umbrella at the trail, the gay carnation in his buttonhole contrasting oddly with the grave grey mask he wore as a face. Malone looked out of the taxi at it all, drinking in London like a teetotaller suddenly addicted.
Stable Yard in front of Lancaster House was busy with the coming and going of black limousines as the taxi drove into it. A huge Austin Princess swept by like a Victorian dowager on her way to a funeral; the taxi skipped out of its way like an urchin. A Mercedes 600 pulled away, bearing an African who was a long way from home: he didn’t have to worry what the taxpayers thought. A Labour Cabinet Minister went by in a Vauxhall: he didn’t want the boys back at Transport House to think he had got big in the head. A rank of Rolls-Royces was parked along one side of the yard, their radiator grilles as ascetic and aloof as the faces of the more intellectual bishops. The taxi crept along the front of them, pulled in under the thick-pillared portico and Malone got out. He looked at the meter, felt in his pocket and pulled out the exact fare.
The driver stared at it. “Gawd help the Vietnamese. They’ll never get any flaming aid from you, will they, mate?” And he drove off furiously, making a Rolls shy back into its pew as it prepared to pull out.
Malone went up the steps, showed his pass to the attendant on the door and moved on into the crowded vestibule. Quentin had obtained the pass and it had been delivered to Malone just before he had left the house with Joseph. He was marked on the pass as a Special Assistant, but Quentin had warned him it would admit him only to the outer halls of Lancaster House and not to the conference room itself. That had satisfied Malone: if Quentin was not safe in the conference room, safe from assassination and safely in custody, then he was not secure anywhere.
The first man he saw above the bubbling of heads was Quentin himself, coming down the broad stairs that faced the entrance. Edgar, Larter and a couple of other men were with him, but Quentin gave the impression of being completely alone: not only alone but lonely. He walked down the stairs with certain tread, but he was blind and deaf to everything in the high-ceilinged hall. His face was closed to the lively, gossiping world about him. He looks like a man in shock, Malone thought, one all ready for execution.
Then Quentin looked across the heads of the crowd and saw Malone. For a moment the eyes seemed to flinch; then the whole handsome face opened in a smile. He came down the last of the steps, losing Edgar and the others, and pushed through the crowd to Malone.
“I hardly recognised you.” He looked at the dark blue wool-and-mohair suit, the blue silk knitted tie, the cream silk shirt, the black town brogues. “You’ve been throwing your money away, Scobie. All on account of me, too.”
Malone shook his head. “It won’t be wasted. I’m always being asked to be best man at other fellers’ weddings.”
“It’ll go well at funerals, too,” said Quentin, then shut his mouth as if he could have bitten off his tongue. Then he shrugged. “I’m getting morbid.”
“I can’t help you,” said Malone with real regret. Then he glanced about the big high-ceilinged Staircase Hall, at the coloured imitation marble walls, the rich red carpeted stairs running up to the balconies with their tall grey columns, the intricately patterned ceiling itself. “They certainly knew how to live in those days. It would make a great Police Headquarters. I must tell Flannery when we get back.”
Quentin screwed up his face at the mention of Flannery, but he made no comment on him. Instead he said, “I sometimes wonder if it’s an appropriate place to debate the fate of men dying in paddy-fields. Marble halls and foxholes somehow don’t complement each other.” He nodded at a white marble bust just by him. “I don’t think the old Duke of York here approves. Every morning I come in here that smile of his seems to get more disapproving.”
Malone looked around at the chattering crowd: white, black, brown and yellow faces swam in a moving abstract pattern. “For all we know, there’s a killer or two here. I don’t think you’re any safer than those fellers out in the paddy-fields.”
“My fate’s already decided, isn’t it?” Quentin said; and turned away as Larter came up behind him. “How long do we have, Phil?”
Larter looked at him with concern. “Are you all light this morning, sir?” Quentin gave him a curious stare. “I mean, you don’t seem to be concentrating too well. It was you who suggested the fifteen-minute break.”
Quentin bit his lip. “Have I been that obvious this morning?”
Larter hesitated, then nodded. “You mentioned Indonesian history twice, when you meant Indo-Chinese history. I’m wondering, sir – perhaps we should tell them what happened last night?”
“Why?”
“Well, it might explain—” Larter took off his glasses and suddenly looked remarkably young, an undergraduate who had no confidence that he would ever get his degree. He fumbled with his glasses, then put them on again slightly askew; he straightened them, his thin angular face half-hidden behind his nervous hand. He was a junior diplomat, but he had not yet learned how to be diplomatic with his boss. “I mean, sir, you were not exactly in command of the conference this morning, not like the other days. If the other delegates were told what happened, they’d understand why you were—” He gestured, a flapping motion that suggested he had lost the bones in his wrist. He’ll never make a top diplomat, Malone thought; he might know a hell of a lot about nations and history but he knows nothing about people. “I mean, they were looking to you yesterday—”
Quentin did not take offence at Larter’s awkward criticism of him. The man has almost too much charity, Malone thought; and once again found himself wondering about Quentin as a murderer. “I’ll do my best to win back their confidence, Phil. In the meantime, what happened last night is still classified.”
Larter hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, sir.” He turned to Malone. “We expect to break for lunch at one o’clock.”
“I’ll be here,” said Malone, recognising that Larter was trying to salvage some of his lost dignity by acting authoritatively. He felt a spark of resentment, but doused it at once. He was already involved enough here in London; he did not want further complications by battling with Larter. He smiled, taking the other man by surprise: Larter still had a lot to learn about the small arms of diplomacy. “Sergeant Coburn and I will see that His Excellency gets back for the afternoon session.”
He had just seen Coburn standing at the foot of the stairs, staring intently at everyone who passed within ten feet of Quentin. He excused himself from Quentin and pushed his way through the crowd towards the Special Branch man. He was some yards short of Coburn when a hand gripped his arm and pulled him up short. He swung quickly on one foot, his fist balled to hit the assassin; and Jamaica said, “You’re a touchy sort of guy. Are you always so aggressive?”
Malone looked down at the dark hand still clutching his arm. “You’ve got a pretty hefty grip there. Where did you get it? Shaking hands for the State Department? Or putting the squeeze on non-co-operative countries?”
Jamaica’s face stiffened and his grip tightened; then he dropped his hand and smiled. Negroes’ smiles are a trap, Malone thought: they always look twice as bright and friendly as those of anyone else. “Like they say, if you want honest criticism, always ask your friends.”
“Are we friends?”
“Maybe not on a personal level. But our countries are supposed to be.”
“What can I do for you then – on an international level?”
“You’re a snotty bastard, aren’t you?” Malone shrugged, and Jamaica stared at him hard. “Have you got something against me because I’
m coloured?”
“Now you’re being personal.”
“You don’t blame me for asking, do you? You Australians have an official government complex about colour.”
“I don’t go along with everything our government does or thinks. I once got drunk with a West Indian cricketer. He was much darker than you. But he had better manners.”
Jamaica smiled again. “I think I’d like to have met you ten years ago. In the ring, with or without gloves.”
“Why not now? We could find a gym somewhere.”
“I’m too soft. I’ve been living the white man’s life too long.”
Malone looked at him curiously. “Who’s being critical of America now?”
Jamaica smiled wryly, nodding his head; something that could have been pain dulled his dark eyes. “A slip of the tongue. Don’t tell the President.”
Malone himself was guilty of the gift of too much charity. Too often in the past he had stopped himself just in time from being burdened with a prisoner’s confidences because he had suddenly felt sorry for the man. Now all at once he forgot his antagonism towards Jamaica and said, “Look, Jamaica, what can I do for you?”
Jamaica recognised the change of tone in Malone’s voice. He seemed to relax; his eyes came alive again. “I saw you talking to Madame Cholon last night at the reception. What do you know about her?”
“Nothing at all. She latched on to me, not the other way around.”
Jamaica raised an eyebrow. “She seemed to know a lot about you.”
Malone grinned. “All the girls like to boast that.”
Jamaica did not return the grin. “I’d be careful, Malone.”
“You said that last night. What’s going on? What do you know about her?”
Jamaica said nothing for a moment, his dark face stiff as if he were debating with himself; then he shrugged and appeared to relax. “Nothing, nothing at all.” He nodded across the room towards Quentin, now turning to go back up the stairs with Larter, Edgar and his other advisers. “How’s it going in the conference room?”