The High Commissioner

by Jon Cleary

  Malone nodded. “You owe me seventy pounds.”

  Both the Quentins looked at him curiously. “Seventy pounds for a first class air ticket to Sydney?” Quentin smiled. He was relaxed, enjoying this free moment at the end of the day. It was almost as if his personal fate no longer concerned him; when he left here Saturday he would only be going away for a long week-end. A life’s end, Malone thought; but Quentin was still smiling. “What is it, bargain week?”

  “I already had three hundred and twenty pounds of your money.” He remembered the fiver he had given to the derelict; he must have been really light-headed last night. But that was going to be his last act of charity till he got back to Sydney. He had read somewhere that charity was the overflow of pity; you poured out your pity and experienced relief and a sort of sweet suffering. Well, he had suffered all right, but not sweetly.

  “I told you that was your money!” Quentin had stopped smiling. His voice was sharp, irritable; he sounded like an ambassador speaking to a junior official with whom he was losing patience. Well, maybe that’s the way it should be, Malone thought. But I’m beginning to lose my own patience, too. And don’t forget it, mate: I’m the one with the real authority.

  “Not any more,” said Malone stubbornly, cutting bonds deliberately and with a quiet savagery.

  Quentin stared at him, all at once sensing an antagonism that hadn’t been in Malone before this. Something like hurt crossed his face, as if he had been betrayed. You shouldn’t trust anyone so much, Malone said silentiy, almost with malice; I trusted you and I know exactly how you feel, except that I’m not hurt. But he was and he knew it, hurt deeply. He suddenly resented Quentin’s look of having been betrayed.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Malone?” Sheila stood behind Quentin’s chair. She had turned round from the drink cabinet, naturally and without premeditation; but now it seemed to Malone that they were both arrayed against him, defenders drawn together against the enemy, him. “Something’s troubling you?”

  He wanted to laugh at that, but he had never been able to manage the sound of sour humour: he knew he would only sound like a bad actor. He took another taste of his drink, coughed because he had drunk it too fast, then said, “Which one of you killed Freda?”

  Then there was a knock at the door and Lisa opened it. “Superintendent Denzil and Sergeant Coburn are here, sir.”

  Quentin had been staring at Malone. There was no expression at all on his face now, it had turned to grey lava. Behind him Sheila had put out a hand and clutched his shoulder; Malone could see the bone of her knuckles, like white abscesses. They both looked suddenly old; and just as suddenly Malone was stricken with pity again for them. He turned away from them, unable to go on looking at them, and said to Lisa, “Did the Superintendent want to see me or Mr. Quentin?”

  Lisa hadn’t taken her eyes off the Quentins; the room held a triangle of fixed stares. Out in the hall Denzil coughed impatiently; he wasn’t accustomed to being kept waiting, not even by High Commissioners. Malone stood up and moved towards Lisa; there was much more that he wanted to ask the Quentins, but it would have to wait. He remembered the simplicity of other murder cases: the long questioning without interruption, the non-involvement, the feeling of authority that came from working in your own environment. “You’d better bring them in,” he said, and for the second time in this house sounded authoritative. The first time had also been with Lisa and she seemed to remember it. She looked at him with the beginning of resentment; then she smiled and nodded. She was still on his side, but he knew without doubt whose side she would be on when the truth came out. She was a woman; they were always prepared to excuse the betrayal of trust; they were used to it. She looked back once more at the stiff and silent Quentins, than she pushed the door wide open and looked into the hall.

  “Would you come in, Superintendent?”

  The first thing that Malone noticed was how tired Denzil looked. Most of the colour had faded from the red face and for the first time Malone remarked the scar above the sandy eyebrow. The thin lips were tensed and the beefy hands were pressed firmly into his jacket pockets, not casually but as if they were anchored there to prevent them from slashing nervously at the air. He took them out of his pockets as he said good evening to the Quentins, then shoved them back in again. Behind him Coburn, also tired, looked more quizzical than ever, as if he did not believe what Denzil was telling Malone and the others:

  “We’ve found your Mr. Jamaica. His body was in a rented car outside the Chinese Government’s office in Portland Place. He’d been garrotted.” Denzil realised his mistake and looked at the two women. “Sorry, lathes. I didn’t mean to be so blunt.”

  “I think my wife and Miss Pretorious should be excused.” Quentin had stood up when Denzil and Coburn had come into the room. He had regained his composure, had somehow even managed to force some colour back into his face; once again Malone was amazed at the man’s resilience. He ushered the two women towards the door, gently pushing Sheila who said nothing but was reluctant to go. As she went out of the door Sheila looked at Malone, but he turned his face away. Why the hell do I feel I’m in the wrong? he thought. Pity was a virus; it weakened you. Quentin stood in the doorway looking after Sheila; she was out of Malone’s sight, but he guessed that some glance of warning, despair, something, must have passed between them; he saw the reflection of it in Quentin’s face, even though the man was in profile to him. Then Quentin, once more the High Commissioner, turned back into the room.

  “Do the Chinese know about this?”

  “If they do, sir, they haven’t told us,” said Denzil. “We were very lucky – the body was found by a uniformed man on the beat there. Sergeant Coburn went up there and took the car and the body back to the Yard.”

  “He kept falling into my lap every time I turned a corner,” Coburn said to Malone; then saw Denzil’s sharp look of disapproval. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Do you think the Chinese did it?” Quentin asked.

  “Hardly, sir. Not right outside their own place. No, he was planted there. And I think you can guess by whom. Why, I don’t know.” He was tired enough to admit some ignorance: “I don’t understand women too well at the best of times. I’m afraid the working of an Oriental woman’s mind is just beyond me.”

  “You’re sure Madame Cholon’s responsible?” Malone said.

  “Do you have any other nominations?” Denzil sounded weary, not sarcastic. Malone hesitated, then shook his head. Denzil went on, “We haven’t even been to see the Chinese yet, sir. I talked it over with the Assistant Commissioner, told him what you wanted, to keep everything out of the papers. He doesn’t feel we can go on covering up things for too long – especially in a case of plain murder like this. We’ve put a D notice on it for the time being.”

  “What’s that?” Malone asked.

  “Defence security notice for the benefit of any newspapers if they get on to the story. It will hold them for a while, but once they’re on to it they’ll start asking awkward questions. And we’ll have the Americans to consider. I suppose Jamaica was still an American citizen.”

  “Are the papers likely to get on to it?” Quentin said.

  “Not right away, unless someone gives them a tip. But they’ll be on to it in a day or two. We can’t just dump Jamaica in the river and forget all about him.” Denzil looked at the drink cabinet. “It would be nice if we could.”

  Quentin had recovered almost completely, enough to catch Denzil’s hint. He looked at Malone, not telling him what to do but as if asking a favour. Malone poured two Scotches and handed them to Denzil and Coburn.

  “We shouldn’t,” said Denzil, “but it’s been a long day. Your health, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Quentin, and avoided Malone’s eye. “Now, about the Chinese. If they don’t already know, do you have to tell them? I mean immediately?”

  Denzil sipped his drink; he appreciated good whisky and the High Commissioner’s stuff was better than one got in some embassies.
“Strictly speaking, no. The body was found in the street, not on their property. If we speak to them at all, it will only be out of courtesy or curiosity. I think we can contain ourselves on those two counts for the time being, sir. How long do you want?”

  “I’d like a year.” Quentin smiled, a little embarrassedly, as if he had made a joke in bad taste. He was bankrupt of time, for himself and the cause of peace. “But twenty-four hours will do. The conference will be over to-morrow, Saturday morning at the latest.”

  “How’s it going, sir?”

  “Not too well, I’m afraid. But one keeps hoping—” But his voice was already that of a hopeless man: he was slowly turning blind to the future.

  Denzil finished his drink, smacked his thin lips. “That is excellent whisky, sir.”

  “Compliment my butler. He knows where to get all the best stuff.” Quentin had no illusions about Joseph’s love of the sybaritic life. “He tells me I’m the only non-Scot in London who gets that particular whisky.”

  “Trust a Hungarian to have the best contacts,” said Denzil. “Well, sir, we can keep this other matter quiet till Saturday, if you wish it. It might give us more time to find out who Jamaica really was. I wonder if I might borrow Mr. Malone for a while?”

  Malone could see his own surprise reflected in Quentin’s face, but he said nothing, left it to Quentin to reply: “Of course. I’m not going out to-night I’m expecting one or two delegates to drop in to see me.”

  “Sergeant Coburn will stay here. Just in case.”

  “You think there might be another attempt on my” – Quentin seemed to stammer – “ my life?”

  “I think we have you pretty well sheltered now, sir. If you don’t go out other than going to the conference tomorrow, they’ll have to get into the house to get at you. And there’s no chance of that, short of them putting on a commando raid. You won’t mind if Sergeant Coburn looks over your visitors to-night? Discreetly, of course.” He looked at Coburn and managed a smile that though weary, had some warmth in it. “He doesn’t wear very discreet ties, but otherwise he’s very circumspect.”

  Coburn fingered his purple tie and grinned. “I’ll tell my girl she’s subversive, sir.”

  Denzil continued to smile; the two men seemed to have found a new relationship. “Just see no one subversive gets in here to-night.” He looked back at Quentin. “You’ll be safe enough, sir. If the conference finishes to-morrow, that should be the finish of all our troubles, too.”

  Let’s go before you put your foot in it again, Malone thought. He led the way out of the room into the hall, wondering why Denzil wanted to take him out of the house to-night. He glanced up and saw a movement of yellow at the top of the stairs: Sheila had been wearing a yellow dress. But when he stopped and looked steadily up at the landing he saw nothing; he could feel Sheila Quentin watching him, but he could not see her. It disturbed him, suddenly reduced her to an ordinary criminal level. He turned back, saw that Coburn was standing alone as Denzil had a last word with Quentin. He moved towards the sergeant

  “Keep an eye on Mrs. Quentin, too.” He kept his voice low. “See she doesn’t go out of the house. If she tries it, tell her you’re acting on my orders.”

  Coburn was either tired or conditioned: he showed no surprise. “You think they might try getting at her?”

  “They could. Everyone’s a target now.”

  “What about the secretary?”

  He might as well go the whole way with the interpretation Coburn had put on his words. “Yes, they might even try it with her. Keep ’em all in the house.”

  “What if Quentin wants to go out?”

  “Tell him the same. He can’t go out till I get back.”

  Coburn looked doubtful, fumbled with his tie again. “I’m not used to giving orders to High Commissioners. But if you say so—” He shrugged. “You Aussies are bloody informal, aren’t you?”

  “That’s us,” said Malone. “Jack’s as good as his master every time.”

  “My name’s Fred. Whoever heard of a master named Fred?”

  “What about Fred the Great?”

  “A German. Freds never get anywhere in England.”

  Malone had enjoyed the short nonsense with Coburn; he was smiling as he followed Denzil out of the house. There had been bloody little to smile at since he had arrived in London; any small joke now seemed to give double its value. A police car was parked by the kerb and the uniformed policeman from the beat was talking to the driver. Denzil stopped on the steps of the house and looked at Malone.

  “I had to get you out of the house. Didn’t want to talk in front of Quentin. I’m afraid I had to spill your little secret to the Assistant Commissioner to-night. I mean why you’re really here.”

  Malone stopped smiling. “What did he say?”

  “Shocked, naturally. He’s a bit old-fashioned,” said Denzil, and Malone almost smiled again. “Said he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been a foreigner, but not a Commonwealth ambassador.”

  “I’m taking both of them, Quentin and his wife, out of here Saturday afternoon. We’ll be back in Sydney Monday morning. Can the Assistant Commissioner control his shock till then?”

  “Don’t be rude about him, son,” said Denzil. “We’ve been leaning over backwards for you two Aussies all the week. Allow us a few old-fashioned reactions.” Malone apologised, and Denzil nodded, even raised a hand and patted Malone’s shoulder. “I know it’s been no easier for you. This is when I’m glad I haven’t got long to retirement.”

  “You’re lucky,” said Malone, thinking for the first time ever of the pleasures of retirement. No responsibilities, no involvement, nothing; but all that was thirty years away. He brought himself back to the present. “What now?”

  “I’m on my way up to the American Embassy. I may be barking up the wrong tree, but I think they may be able to help us about Jamaica. I thought you might be interested?”

  He’s not a bad old bastard, Malone thought. “Thanks, sir. I’d like to come.” There were more questions he wanted to put to the Quentins, but suddenly he wanted more time. He wanted to be less abrupt, less the inquisitor: he wanted to know why, not what.

  The uniformed policeman saluted as they got into the car.

  “Anything been happening?” Denzil asked.

  “Nothing, sir.” It was the young policeman who had been on duty two nights ago when the attempt to shoot Quentin had been made. He had caught a summer cold and it had accentuated his lisp. He sounds more like a Boy Scout than a copper, Malone thought. “Things are vewy quiet.”

  “There’ll be some visitors to-night. Stay on this side of the square, check everyone who goes in. But be discreet.”

  “One always has to be discweet a wound heah, thir. It isn’t an easy beat.”

  Denzil nodded, got into the car after Malone and they started off. “I’ve never understood why so many educated Englishmen lisp. Even some of our generals do, and they sound like Boy Scouts.” Malone smiled in the darkness of the car. “That young fellow back there is one of the toughest forwards in the Police rugby team. You’d never think it to listen to him. Do you Scots ever lisp, Muir?”

  “No, sir,” said the driver. “I come from Edinburgh. We speak the best English in the British Isles.”

  Denzil looked at Malone. “Well, let’s see what sort of English this American speaks. He’s a new man, haven’t met him yet. Just hope he isn’t a Southerner. Can’t understand them at all.”

  “Maybe he won’t want to talk at all. Presuming, of course, that he knows something about Jamaica.” Malone thought of the dark Southerner from Georgia who would never talk again. He felt nothing approaching sorrow or grief, but the old feeling was there again: death, even that of a Stranger, always chipped something out of him.

  “That’s quite possible. That he won’t talk, I mean. I’m afraid the Americans still don’t trust anyone but themselves.”

  Don’t let’s mention the word trust again to-night, Malone thought. Someh
ow it had become obscene.

  The car drew up outside the huge embassy in Grosvenor Square. Malone got out of the car and looked up at the block-long face of the building. It reminded him of a fort, one built for Cinerama; the Americans were entrenched behind it, waiting to be besieged by the perfidious English. Across the road in the gardens the bronze Roosevelt stood serene, impervious to the treachery of the British, the dung of the pigeons and the spittle of visiting Republicans. Big American cars stood at almost every parking meter, tanks from Detroit. Grosvenor Square was now American territory.

  “The only place in London where I feel a foreigner,” said Denzil. “Well, let’s try our luck.”

  Most of the embassy staff had gone home, but the man Denzil wanted to see was still in his office. A porter checked them in, a Cockney as concerned for the security of the United States as for that of the Mile End Road; Denzil eyed him as if he were a traitor, but said nothing. A second porter led them through a maze of corridors till they came to a door that said: Investment Counsellor.

  The man in the office was not a Southerner and spoke English that had only a faint transatlantic accent. “I’m Ed Royston,” he said, rising to meet them. He had that courteous charm that Malone found so unexpectedly in so many Americans; people thought of Americans as brash and loud, but some of them had the best manners in the world. Royston was one of them. “I got your phone message, Superintendent. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Denzil came straight to the point. “I understand you are the new C.I.A. man here, Mr. Royston.”

  Royston obviously thought that was not a very polite remark. He sat back in his chair, propping one leg up on the knee of the other. He was a man in his late thirties, with dark crew-cut hair, a nose that had been broken and eyes that could become as opaque as frosted glass. They were opaque now. “I’m afraid you’re in the wrong office, sir. All I do is advise Americans where and how to invest their money in Europe.”

  “Is that still official government policy?” Denzil said, still sure of himself. “I thought President Johnson was trying to stop the dollar drain.” He looked around the office, at the charts on the walls, the leather-bound books on the shelves, the stacks of the Wall Street Journal and The Financial Times on a tilted reading bench against one wall. “You have a neat cover here. Your predecessor was a telecommunications engineer. I had a little trouble communicating with him, too.” He smiled and looked back at Royston. “Don’t let’s waste time, Mr. Royston. I’d like some information about a man named Jamaica, first name unknown.”