The High Commissioner

by Jon Cleary

  “We have a version of it in Australia. It’s called Always Knock The Aussie. Have you ever thought of going out to Australia?”

  Joseph was too good a butler to wrinkle his nose. “Not really, sir. It is so – remote, is that the word?”

  Malone grinned. “It’s good enough. I’ve heard worse.”

  He went out into the hall and Coburn, face stiffly set in its on-duty mould, was standing in front of the big mirror adjusting the knot of his purple knit tie. Unexpectedly he grinned at Malone and said, “My girl is a very gear type. She bought this in Carnaby Street and insisted I wear it this morning. If the Super sees me in it, I’ll be back on the Chelsea pub beat, chasing up the queers.”

  “Your girl’s got taste. It goes with your eyes.”

  “You mean the bags under them? What with her and the Super, I never get enough sleep.” Malone led the way up to his bedroom. Coburn, showing a capacity for relaxation that Malone had not suspected, sprawled in a chair, one leg hung over the arm. “They nearly did you last night? Denzil phoned me this morning at seven o’clock, gave me a rundown. You were lucky.”

  Malone nodded, slipping out of his grey trousers and pulling on Quentin’s dark blue ones. “What about Pallain? Did Denzil say if they had checked on him?”

  “He’s staying at a hotel in Queen’s Gate. We’ve had a tail on him ever since he left the Yard last night. He didn’t move out of his hotel all last night.”

  “I could have sworn that the car that tried to crumple me was the one he drove yesterday morning. A red Mini.”

  “There must be fifty thousand red Minis in Britain. It was probably a rented job. It’ll never be returned and some time next year or the year after it’ll be found in a quarry somewhere. By then this crowd will be out of the country. I don’t understand why they tried to do you. Do you know something you shouldn’t?”

  Malone shrugged. He sat down on the bed and debated whether his old comfortable brown shoes would go with Quentin’s suit, decided they wouldn’t and reluctantly began to pull on the black ones he had bought yesterday. He would be crippled by this evening, but he would be a sartorially correct cripple. He longed for the old days when no one had cared how he was dressed, just so long as he was dressed. “I don’t know. I’m puzzled about this bloke Jamaica. Who’s he working for?”

  “We’re still trying to check on him. So far we’ve got nothing other than what Denzil said he told you last night, that he exports Thai silk or something from Bangkok. The Old Man went back to the Yard last night after he left you and phoned our embassy in Bangkok. They checked for him. Jamaica has a registered business out there.”

  “Doesn’t Denzil ever sleep?”

  “Sometimes. He’s a stiff-necked old sod, he should never have come home from his outpost of Empire, but he’s a worker, all right. And he works us”

  Malone stood up, pulled on Quentin’s jacket. He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably: Quentin, not the suit, was beginning to fit too tightly. “We’ve all been working these last two days. But we haven’t got very far. What about Madame Cholon?”

  Coburn stood up, spreading his hands. “Thin air. But one thing worries me – what do we do with her when we do find her? This is supposed to be a free country, a democracy and all that. You can’t deport foreign visitors because you think they might be up to something. If she has no record, if her visa is okay, now she’s here there’s nothing we can do about her.”

  “You can keep tabs on her, see she stays out of mischief.”

  Coburn shook his head. “You don’t really think she’s the one who’s been taking pot shots at you and Quentin. She might be running the show or mixed up in it somehow, but she’s not the one doing the dirty work.” He looked at his tie again in the mirror, shook his head doubtfully, then turned back to Malone. “Have you considered the possibility that Jamaica is working with her? He was the one who got you to go out last night. She didn’t turn up, and I gather as soon as the Old Man put in an appearance Jamaica disappeared.”

  “He didn’t know where we were going to park the car.”

  “You could have been followed from here. Maybe they hadn’t intended going for you there in the garage – that could have been just an improvisation.”

  Malone smiled sourly. “I didn’t think assassins went in for improvisation. But somehow I don’t know about Jamaica – he strikes me as a loner. Next time I see him, if there is a next time, I might try a bit of strong-arm stuff on him.”

  Coburn grinned. “Don’t try it in public. Nowadays you can knock down a white man and that’s good clean British fun. Knock down a coloured bloke and it’s racial prejudice. We’d have trouble getting the charge smothered.”

  “Do you have any racial prejudice?” He wondered how Coburn would have treated Jamaica.

  Coburn shrugged. “I try to tell myself I haven’t. But I find I get a bit tired of having to lean over backwards if a bloke is coloured. I know it’s harder for him, but when he forgets he’s coloured, then I’ll forget it, too.”

  “Well, Jamaica’s colour is incidental with me. I’d just like to know who he is and I wouldn’t care if he was zebra-striped.”

  Coburn had been carrying a brown-paper parcel. Now he unwrapped it and brought out a gun. “Do you have one of these?”

  “No.” Malone had left his pistol behind in Sydney because he had not wanted to explain to the British Customs why he was bringing a firearm into their country. And he had never expected to have any use for a gun in London.

  “Denzil sent this. It’s a Smith and Wesson .38 Special Airweight. We’re not supposed to carry them, but on certain jobs they issue them to us. Here’s a shoulder holster to go with it – the gun’s held in by this spring.”

  Malone hesitated a moment before he put out a hand and took the gun and holster. The situation was serious enough with the attempts on his own and Quentin’s life, but, divorced from his usual surroundings, he still had a feeling of incredulousness, as if everything was not quite real. But now the gun, as guns always were, was a proof of reality. He took off Quentin’s jacket, slipped on the holster, put the gun in it and redonned the jacket. The fit was even tighter now.

  “The gun is loaded,” Coburn said, “and here’s some extra ammo. If you have to use the gun, make sure you remember all the details. The Home Secretary will want a full report. In triplicate.”

  “I’ve never yet fired a gun in anger. I just hope I can when the time comes.”

  Coburn opened the door and Joseph was standing there, a pair of dark blue socks in his hand. “I forgot the socks, sir—”

  Malone pulled up a dark-blue trouser-leg and showed a length of light brown sock. “I’ll be okay, Joseph.”

  Joseph rocked slightly on his heels, but didn’t fall over. “Perhaps if you didn’t sit down, sir—?”

  Malone grinned. “I’ll stay on my feet all day. Don’t worry, Joseph. I won’t let the High Commissioner down.”

  He and Coburn went down the stairs. On the landing Coburn stopped for a moment and looked at his tie in a mirror. “Why did I have to fall for a bird who has to be always with it?”

  “Better a bird than a butler,” said Malone. “At least you get some return for your pains.”

  Quentin, Larter and Edgar were waiting for them in the hall. Malone looked around for the man from the American Embassy, but he had gone. “We’re late,” said Larter reproachfully; he was too aware of time ever to be a good diplomat. “It creates a bad impression if everyone has to wait on the chairman.”

  But Quentin’s smile at Malone and Coburn brushed aside Larter’s waspishness. “We’ll try a little diplomatic immunity and get Ferguson to break the speed limit. That’s a nice tie you’re wearing, Sergeant.”

  Coburn’s face crumpled in embarrassment. “I thought it might have been a bit bright, sir—”

  “Nonsense. We can all do with some cheering up. I’ve been trying to persuade Mr. Larter and Mr. Edgar to wear carnations in their buttonholes.”

 
“That’ll be the day,” said Edgar, and winked at Malone. “They’d have me investigated back in Canberra as a security risk. You might even be given the job, Mr. Malone.”

  “Eh?” Malone for a moment had forgotten his cover. “Oh, yes. If ever I am, I’ll give you a clearance.”

  “Shall we go?” said Larter: nobody would ever be investigating him.

  There was a black Wolseley drawn up behind the Rolls-Royce at the kerb outside. Coburn got into the police car beside the plain-clothes man driving it, and Malone got into the front seat of the Rolls beside Ferguson. The two cars moved off, the policeman on the corner saluting the Rolls as it went past. It was a fine summer morning, the sky cloudless, the sun flashing like a silent barrage from the windows on the west side of the square. Three or four children played in the gardens where the assassin had waited the night before last: a small boy put a gun to his shoulder and a young girl screamed and fell dead. Pigeons fell like ripe grey plums from the trees, a shifting windfall on the green grass. Two nannies crossed the road, pushing prams ahead of them like portable thrones. The cars went round the square and joined the traffic going up Grosvenor Crescent towards Hyde Park Corner. Malone looked out, suspecting every vehicle that went past, moving his upper arm nervously against the hidden gun.

  “Relax, sir. I don’t think they’ll have a go at him again in broad daylight.” The glass partition behind Ferguson’s head was closed; he and Malone rode in their own compartment. “But you were lucky yesterday, you know. I mean that you didn’t catch up with that joker with the bomb.”

  Malone looked at him sharply. “How did you know I had anything to do with that?”

  “Put two and two together. You were chasing a bloke when I dropped you off and you got into that taxi – twenty minutes later there was a bomb explosion not more than a quarter of a mile from Australia House—” He grinned, exposing false teeth that were too small and perfect for the rough frame of his face. “A chauffeur gets a lot of time for reading. I read half a dozen detective books a week.”

  “You said anything to anyone?”

  “Not a word, sir. You don’t hold these sorta jobs very long if you can’t keep your trap shut, you know. If Mr. Quentin wants me to keep mum, then mum I’m gunna be.”

  “You have a lot of time for him, haven’t you?”

  “They don’t come any better. He’s a prince, you know?”

  Malone glanced back into the rear of the car. The prince sat staring out the window, his grey handsome face slack and tired-looking: his princedom was at an end, he was about to be removed from the ladder of succession. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he had felt a stab of pain; when he opened them he was looking straight at Malone. The two men stared at each other; then Malone turned back to gaze straight ahead as the car went down Constitution Hill past the Palace. Maybe the assassin’s bullet would have been better after all: it was too cruel to see a man dying by degrees.

  They pulled up in front of Lancaster House. Malone got out and a man came forward with a rush. Malone’s hand went inside his jacket, clutched the gun; but the man was curious, not threatening. “Aren’t you Scobie Malone? Detective-Sergeant Malone, from Sydney?”

  Malone hesitated, withdrawing his hand. He nodded curtly, aware of Quentin and the others getting out of the car behind him. He moved away, drawing the man with him. “Who are you?”

  “Jim Locke. I’m with the Sydney Morning Herald.” His thin dark face, disfigured by huge black eyebrows, was drawn tight by suspicion: he scented a story, one that should have been announced by the Press officer at Australia House. “You’re a bit off your beat, aren’t you?”

  Malone was saved from stammering when Quentin came up beside him. “Something wrong, Scobie?”

  Locke’s eyebrows went up. “’Morning, sir. I was just asking Sergeant Malone why he’s over here—”

  “He’s on holiday,” said Quentin. “And while he’s in London he’s staying with me. We’re old friends. I think he’d like to forget he’s a policeman for a week or two. Isn’t that right, Scobie? You forget it, too, Jim. Let him have a bit of peace.”

  Locke was persistent: “But when I saw him here—”

  “We never get these sort of conferences back home, you know that. He’s just widening his education.”

  “It would make a nice little sideline story.”

  “Spare me,” said Malone, recovered now. “The boys back on the squad would give me hell. Do me a favour and I might be able to do you one some day.”

  Locke shook his head. “I don’t expect ever to be back on police rounds. That’s dull stuff after this. Well—” He mumbled a few more words, then edged away.

  Quentin watched him go. “You’ll have to learn to think quicker on your feet, Scobie. That could have been awkward for both of us.”

  “Do you think he’ll print anything?”

  “If he intends to, he’ll be back to pump you again. He’s not a gossip writer. He’s a journalistic snob, only interested in the big stuff. You heard what he said about police rounds being dull. If he only knew, eh?”

  He went on into the big mansion, nodding affably to the photographers, a man in control of himself and any situation he might have to face. The exhausted, defeated man Malone had seen in the car only a few minutes ago had disappeared. Larter and Edgar followed him, and Malone and Coburn brought up the rear.

  “I saw you go for your gun when that cove came up to you,” Coburn said. “You’ll shoot in anger, all right. There’s your mate!”

  Malone looked back over his shoulder, expecting to be accosted by the newspaperman again. But Coburn pulled his arm. “No, over there. Just going into the Press room.”

  Malone turned his head quickly, just in time to see Pallain turn back at the entrance to a side room and smile at him.

  “The sod,” said Coburn. “Sometimes I wish I was in the K.G.B. instead of Special Branch.”

  “K.G.B.?”

  “The Russian secret police.” Coburn looked at him curiously. “Don’t you Aussie security coves know about them?”

  For the second time in a couple of minutes Malone had to try and cover up. His brain was turning to blancmange; there had been a time when he could think quickly on his feet. “I think I must have cracked my head last night. I’m not too bright this morning. And initials always confuse me. I thought the K.G.B. might have been some English government outfit. You’re as bad as the Yanks now for initials.”

  “Ah, yes, but then we make up some nursery name out of the initials. Like Neddy and Nicky. All our headline writers can’t forget the influence of their nannies.”

  Malone grinned: Coburn was more of a rebel than he had expected. “Why do you wish you were in the K.G.B.?”

  “They don’t have to worry about minor things like proof of guilt. Suspicion is good enough for them. Grab ’em and lock ’em up, that’s their motto.” Coburn glanced up at Quentin, Larter and Edgar on the main balcony; they were just about to enter the conference room. “Our boy is safe for the next couple of hours. Shall we go and bait your mate?”

  Pallain, still standing in the doorway of the Press room, smiled as they approached him. “Mr. Malone, how are you? You don’t look well this morning. It’s the English climate. It doesn’t agree with me, also.”

  Malone introduced Coburn, and the latter said, “I understand the climate in Saigon isn’t too healthy just now.”

  Pallain’s smile widened. His teeth were not good, uneven and slightly yellow, and the smile was not pleasant. “English policemen are becoming sardonic, more like the French. I noticed it with your superintendent last night.” He looked up at the doors of the conference room which were just being closed. “Well, there they go. The optimists.”

  “You don’t think they’ll get anywhere?” Malone said.

  “Do you?”

  “Anything is worth a try. Or do you find war easier to write about?”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Malone. I am all in favour of peace. But talk r
arely achieves it. Only force. That’s a nasty cut on your chin.”

  “I’d like a little talk with the bloke who did it,” said Malone. “A little forceful talk.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t help you.” Pallain looked from one to the other. “I can’t get out of my hotel for policemen watching me. They should watch you instead of me.”

  He smiled again, bowed his head slightly and turned and went into the Press room.

  “I’d like to throttle that bastard,” said Coburn. “With my purple tie. What’s the matter?”

  Malone had been looking about the now sparse crowd still in the vestibule and on the upper balconies. “I wonder where our mate Jamaica is this morning?*’

  II

  “I am expecting Mr. Jamaica any minute,” said Madame Cholon. “But you should not be calling from Lancaster House, Jean-Pierre. It is too risky.”

  “I have the Press room to myself,” said Pallain at the other end of the line. “And who’s to know whom I’m calling?”

  “The lines might be tapped.”

  “In Moscow or Washington, yes. But not here. The British would consider it too much trouble. They have enough bother getting their phones to work ordinarily.” She heard him chuckle maliciously; he had inherited his French father’s hatred of the English. “I have been talking to your Australian friend this morning, Mr. Malone. He doesn’t look well. Pham Chinh must have upset him last night. Has the car been disposed of?”

  “Yes. What about Quentin?”

  “Worried looking.” There was a pause; then: “There isn’t much time left. You must be worrying too.”

  “Don’t start analysing me, Monsieur Pallain!” But she was worried; there wasn’t much time left. She slammed down the phone. Her hands were trembling and she could hardly see for fury. Even as a child she had never taken kindly to criticism; she knew that when she had turned fourteen her mother had been only too relieved to let her go to the brothel in Cholon. There, in her first year, she had scratched the faces of several men who had complained of her lack of technique; by the end of her first year she had the best technique of any girl in the house, but some of the men were still afraid of her temper and chose more placid girls. In the twenty years since, she had improved her status and her fortune, had become sophisticated, had learned to command. But the fury of the child was still in her and it would always be her weakness. She knew it and hated it, but there was nothing she could do about it.