The High Commissioner

by Jon Cleary

  She pressed a Band-aid on to his chin, then stepped back. “There. Let’s hope this is the last time I have to play nurse to you.”

  She had driven the MG back from Fothergill’s. She had not said much, as if shock had taken all the words from her; but by the time they had reached home she had got over her shock and become calm and efficient again. Denzil had been angry rather than shocked and had promised to have Pallain in custody by morning; instead of going home to Bromley he had gone back to the Yard and, for all Malone knew, was still there. Malone’s own anger and shock had now drained out of him: he was too weary for either. He might feel differently in the morning but for now he was content to sit here and be ministered to by Lisa.

  “Why isn’t a man like you married? Is it because of your job?”

  He was about to say that most policemen married; then he remembered she did not know he was a policeman. In less than a week his life had become a masquerade; Quentin had endured such a situation for twenty-three years, but already he was tired and frustrated by it. He wanted to talk frankly to this girl, tell her about himself and ask her about herself, but he couldn’t. In the shank of the night, the time for revealing secrets, he had to remain dumb. Suddenly, feeling selfish and personal, not Detective-Sergeant Malone, policeman, but Scobie Malone, human being, he hated Flannery, Leeds, even the sleeping man upstairs. He had become everybody else’s property, sealed and classified as Top Secret.

  “That’s about it,” he said. “But why isn’t a girl like you married?”

  “I just haven’t met the right man. No, that’s a lie. I did meet him, but he preferred someone else.” She emptied the bowl of water into the sink, rinsed it and wiped it. She did it all with a brisk thoroughness, as if she were as much at home here in the kitchen as she was in an office, at an embassy reception or in an expensive gambling club. Malone remembered a fellow detective, who had married one, telling him that Dutch girls were among the best housewives in the world. Lisa put on some coffee, set out two cups and saucers, got out cream and sugar, then at last stood still and looked at Malone across the kitchen table. It was her time for telling secrets and the puzzlement at herself was sketched in her face; she blinked her little girl’s blink. “I don’t know why I told you that last bit. I’ve never told anyone else.”

  “Where did it happen? Here?” Was it Quentin, the man on whom all her concern was concentrated? He felt the stab of jealousy more than the wound in his knee. I’m weak and light-headed, he thought: I’m not the sort who falls in love as quickly as this. I’m not looking for love; all I want is some comfort and sympathy, flavoured with Arpège and Dettol. Thus does the cautious man try not to commit himself; and he knew it. He was already committed too much to this house.

  “No, back in Australia,” she said, and he was surprised at his own relief. “He was a lecturer at the university. Physics. He was looking for a girl he could read like a formula, someone he could solve and pigeonhole. I wasn’t her.” She smiled again, at herself as much as at him; he could sense there was still some pain left in her. “Do I sound bitchy?”

  “It’s permissible. I don’t think being in love calls for any sort of honour. Afterwards, I mean.”

  “All’s fair in love and war? I don’t know if that’s true.” She poured the coffee and they sat down opposite each other. “I think if that were so, sooner or later there’d be a sour taste. Even for the winner.”

  “The other girl, the winner – were her tactics fair?” An hour ago someone tried to kill me and now ten thousand miles from home, at two-thirty in the morning, I am sitting in another man’s kitchen discussing love with a girl I hardly know. Whatever happened to Scobie Malone, the detective with the dull routine life?

  “Oh, I think so. He was the one who wasn’t fair. She didn’t even know about me till he had made up his mind which one he wanted. Men can be rats, can’t they?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said, and wondered what she would think of Quentin who had killed the woman he did not want.

  “I don’t think you’d be a rat.” She put down her cup and looked at him across the table. Her lips were wet from the coffee, glistening in the light, and suddenly he wanted to kiss her. He went to lean towards her and pressed his bruised ribs against the table; he caught his breath, but she didn’t seem to notice. She looked at him soberly and without coquetry; once again he cursed the fact that he could not read women. He did not want to read them like a formula, but it would be a help to have some inkling of what they meant when they said, “I’m glad you weren’t hurt to-night.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Three hundred and twenty, plus the twenty-five stake money you gave me.” Malone laid the money on the glass table next to the Rice Bubbles and the marmalade. “It was your lucky night, if it wasn’t mine.”

  Quentin took five five-pound notes and pushed the rest back to Malone. “It’s yours, Scobie. No—” He held up a hand as Malone went to protest. “No argument, please. It’s worker’s compensation, if you like. You ruined a good suit last night.”

  “That wasn’t all I ruined. I had a good set of nerves till I landed in this country.” He held out a stiffened hand and exaggeratedly jerked it. “Ever seen nerves of quivering steel?”

  Quentin didn’t smile. “I didn’t want you to go last night, you know that. If you’d left it to Denzil—” He broke off, began to butter some toast with the abstracted air of a man who had no intention of eating it; it was just something to do with his own nervous hands. “What did Denzil say when you told him what had happened?”

  “Told me to go home by the first available plane.”

  “What about Lisa?”

  Malone, too, began to butter some toast; but then he chewed on it, manufacturing a long pause before he said, “She was pretty upset. For your sake more than mine, I think.”

  “That’s not true. She’d have been concerned for you.”

  “Well, all right, she was.” He did not want to reveal too much of what had passed between himself and Lisa last night, mainly because he was not sure if there had been any hint of committal on her part. “But I was incidental. You’re her real worry. As you said last night, you—” Then he stopped. He had been about to accuse Quentin of ruining the lives of the women in his life. But even though Quentin had accused himself of the same thing last night, it was not Malone’s place to add the charge. Frankness could be taken too far. Whatever else he was, Quentin was still the ambassador. At least till the week-end.

  “What did I say last night?”

  “Nothing.”

  Quentin looked steadily at him for some moments as if debating whether to press the question. Then he said, “Scobie, promise me one thing. From now on leave this business to Denzil and his men. You stick to the job you came over for. Do that and nothing else.”

  “If I was to do that properly, you and I would be on our way to the airport now. Is that what you want?”

  There was a swish of cloth and Sheila, auburn hair glowing above her green housecoat, came out on to the patio. “I’ve just seen Lisa! John, have you heard what happened last night?”

  “Sit down, darling.” Quentin pushed out a chair for Sheila and she sank down on to it. The mornings don’t treat her kindly, Malone thought; she turned to look at him and he saw the cracks that had multiplied since yesterday. Quentin said, “Scobie thinks we should get on a plane right away for home. What do you think?”

  “Scobie?” Sheila looked from one man to the other. Men always arrived at first-name terms ahead of women, especially Australian men, but this was an intimacy she obviously hadn’t expected between her husband and his captor.

  “We’ve become old friends,” said Quentin. “A common enemy does that.”

  Sheila looked as if she were about to weep; then she sat up and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She was holding a small green bedside clock and she set it down on the table. “I’ll have Joseph send this out.” She looked at Malone. “I bought this for my husband on our fir
st wedding anniversary. He never wears a wrist watch and I got tired of him waking me every morning to ask the time. It didn’t go off this morning. For the first time in twenty-two years.”

  Everyone is telling me their secrets, Malone thought. Who else in this house wants to confide in me? Joseph, the cook, the daily help?

  Sheila was regaining control of herself: somehow she even seemed to smooth some of the lines out of her face. She nodded at Malone’s grey suit, even managed to smile. “Joseph must be disappointed in you, Scobie – may I call you Scobie?”

  “If you like,” Malone said, and wished she would not. When it came time to give evidence against Quentin he did not want to look around the court and have his objectivity upset by the sight of too many people who called him by his first name. “Joseph thinks I’ve reverted to type.”

  “You’d better wear one of my dark suits today,” Quentin said.

  “No, thanks—”

  “I understand your feelings, Scobie,” Quentin said, and Malone all at once realised that the other man did understand. “But it’s not a question of tying in your identity too much with mine. I don’t want you to put yourself in my shoes, figuratively or otherwise. It’s a question of protection, your protection. The less you stand out in that crowd at Lancaster House this morning, the better for you. And for me,” he added unsmilingly.

  Sheila had just noticed the money on the table. “What’s all this?”

  “Scobie’s luck wasn’t entirely out last night. He cleaned up at Fothergill’s.”

  “This has been quite a trip for you, hasn’t it?” Sheila said to Malone.

  “Don’t think I’ve enjoyed it.” Then he looked from one to the other. “No offence.”

  Quentin smiled. “I’m beginning to wish I’d met you years ago.”

  Malone shook his head. “That wouldn’t have done you any good. The best thing would have been not to have met me at all.”

  “If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else,” said Sheila, all the light dying out of her again. “The only consolation is that John has been able to make use of the time. Not just for himself, but for his country, too. But I think we knew it couldn’t last.”

  Then Lisa came to the door. “Mr. Faber, from the American Embassy, is here. He’s in the drawing-room. And there’s a phone call for you, Mr. Malone. From Sydney.”

  Quentin and Malone rose together. “Each to get his instructions,” Quentin said with a dry smile.

  “Are the Americans instructing you what to say?” Malone asked in surprise.

  “They’re trying. So are the British, the French, the South Vietnamese. Even the Chinese have had a go at me. All very polite, subtle and gentlemanly, though. Your friend, Mr. Flannery should come over here for a couple of weeks. He might learn something.”

  “I don’t think he’d be interested in politeness, subtlety and being a gentleman. They’ve never been vote-catchers, not in Australian politics.”

  “He’s talking about the Premier of New South Wales, Lisa.” Quentin seemed to have forgotten that Lisa did not know Malone’s real identity; she was his private secretary, privy to all his secrets. But now that he realised he and Malone had made a slip by talking about Flannery in front of her, he was not panicked into a fumbling cover-up. “But don’t quote him in your memoirs.”

  Lisa looked at Malone with a warm sympathy that surprised and pleased him. The mood between them of last night still survived. “Mr. Malone got into enough trouble last night. I wouldn’t want to make it worse for him.”

  Malone smiled his thanks and, still limping a little from his sore knee, followed Quentin into the house. A thin balding man was waiting in the drawing-room; Malone could see him through the wide open doors. Larter was with him and both of them had the pinched look of pessimists who had not slept well. The conference had started to go badly and they had no confidence that it would go well today. Quentin went in to them, closing the doors: the man with no future at all, he was the one with the air of confidence.

  Malone went on to the study, closing the door after him, his own conference in camera was about to begin. Leeds was on the line, sounding a little impatient. “Aren’t you out of bed over there? How are things going?”

  Malone was surprised to find himself hesitating. What was the matter with him? He had been about to lie, to tell Leeds there was nothing to worry about. Forcibly he reminded himself he was working for Leeds, not for the patriotic man in the next room. “Not too well—” he said, and told Leeds of the bomb explosion and the attempt on his own life.

  He heard the curse on the other side of the world. “The bomb explosion story is in all the morning papers here – but I didn’t even connect you with it!” That’s good, Malone thought; then perhaps no one else has. “Get on the first plane, Scobie! I don’t care what happens to him – it might be better all round if he were assassinated. God forgive me for saying so – and don’t you quote me to anyone!” There was silence for a moment, then in a much quieter voice Leeds said, “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Malone was glad the line was so clear; he could not have argued over ten thousand miles of static. “Believe me, Commissioner, I don’t want anything to happen to me. But Mr. Quentin is the important one. If I put him on a pane today, the conference here would fold up to-morrow.”

  Again Leeds cursed; he sounded as if he were at the end of a long and frustrating day. He’s lucky, Malone thought: I’m just beginning mine. “International politics aren’t our concern. We’ve been handed a murder warrant and it’s our job to see it’s carried through.”

  Malone noticed he had used “we.” He said, “I’m doing that, sir. He isn’t making any attempt to get away from me – and I don’t think he will. Once this conference is over, he’ll come back with me. It just means a few days’ delay, that’s all. A week after twenty-three years isn’t much, sir.”

  “Don’t start sounding like a defence lawyer pleading for an adjournment.” Leeds’s voice was tart. “And what happens to our case if he doesn’t last till the end of the conference?”

  Malone took a risk, asked to be sent to a bush beat again. “You just said it, sir. If he is – assassinated—” He paused; he could hear the murmur of voices in the next room; Quentin laughed. “If he is assassinated, won’t that solve everything?”

  There was a long silence over the line, then Leeds said, “Scobie, are you getting too friendly with this man?”

  Malone hesitated. “I could be, sir. But I’m doing my best to stay objective.”

  “You don’t sound it.”

  Malone took another risk: “I’m not entirely convinced he did murder his wife.”

  “If you were lack here, Sergeant, that would get you taken off the case right away! Damn it all, I hate the way this thing has been done, everything wrapped up and laid in our laps, but the facts are there, the facts are there! You checked and reported on them before you left here.”

  “I know that, sir. And the facts could still be right. But I’d like to double-check.”

  Leeds’s voice was firm. “Sergeant, you have a warrant to bring him back for murder. See you do that – and let the jury decide whether he’s guilty.”

  “Do we stay on, then, till the conference is ended?”

  Leeds sighed, his voice no longer firm. “All right. But be careful. Of yourself, I mean.”

  Malone put down the phone. He could still hear the murmur of voices in the next room; someone sounded a little angry, but he couldn’t tell whose voice it was. Out in the square there was a clamour of bells as a fire engine went by: disaster, he had learned long ago, was always just around the corner. But what would come to save Quentin? I want him to be saved, Malone told himself with some surprise. Not just from the assassins, but from Flannery, too. And that also surprised him: that Flannery should have replaced justice in his own mind. Why am I so sure that he didn’t kill his first wife?

  Then the door opened and Joseph came in. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I
didn’t—”

  “It’s okay, Joseph. It looks as if I’m going to have to borrow one of Mr. Quentin’s suits today.”

  “Yes, sir. May I just wind the clock first?” He crossed to the mantelpiece, began to wind the ormolu clock. “I saw your dark suit in your room. I took the liberty of laying out one of Mr. Quentin’s, just in case. You had an accident, sir?”

  “In a way. I was almost knocked down by a car.”

  Joseph shook his head, tut-tutted. “London traffic, it is a stampede now. When I first came here, drivers were so polite. Even taxi drivers occasionally pulled up to allow one to cross the street.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “You mean when I first came here, sir? 1956. I got out of Budapest during the rebellion.”

  “Were you a butler in Budapest?”

  Joseph smiled, the first genuine look of humour Malone had seen on the bland sallow face. “Butlers went out when the Communists came in. No, sir, I was only a waiter.” Then his pride came to the surface: “But at one of the best hotels. The Duna. You wouldn’t know Budapest, sir?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Malone grinned, unashamed of his small world. But he would have to buy an atlas when he got back to Sydney. “Do you like it here?”

  Joseph finished winding the clock, gently closed the glass face and looked about the room. “I like being among good things, sir. I was born poor, but I have aristocratic tastes. If one cannot be rich, the next best thing is to be a butler.”

  “A Hungarian saying?” Malone had met one or two Hungarian refugees in Sydney, cynical men who seemed to have had little faith in human nature.

  Joseph smiled again. “I know what people say about Hungarians, sir. If you have a Hungarian for a friend, you don’t need an enemy. All sorts of remarks like that. But most of the worst remarks about Hungarians were made by other Hungarians. It is a national sport.”