by Jon Cleary
“She’s all right!” Coburn’s relief made him look comical; the quizzical eyebrow twitched excitedly. “Ferguson’s just come back. He took your wife home, sir.”
Quentin sagged visibly; Malone stepped close to him to catch him as he fell. But the older man hadn’t lost all his strength; again the control came back. He straightened up, managed to smile. “Lisa, will you go up and tell Mr. Larter I’ve gone home. Tell him I felt a bit off-colour.”
Lisa stared at him. She loves him in some way, Malone thought; but felt no jealousy. “Hadn’t I better come home with you? In case Mrs. Quentin—”
Quentin pressed her arm comfortingly; she might have been the one despairing and he the one with confidence at what the world had to offer. “We’ll be all right, Lisa.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Malone; and Quentin looked at him as if to protest. “I have to, sir.”
Quentin hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. He looked at Lisa and smiled wearily, resignedly. “You see, Lisa? Mr. Malone won’t let anything happen to us. Go upstairs and enjoy yourself. There are a dozen Second Secretaries wanting to talk to you.”
She grimaced, then looked at Malone. “Call me if you think I’m needed.”
She went up the stairs, brushing past the first of the Second Secretaries who tried to speak to her. Quentin stared after her, then turned as Malone said to Coburn, “I’ll go back with His Excellency. You’d better stay here and keep an eye on Madame Cholon and our mate Pallain.”
“Be a pleasure,” said Coburn.
“And would you keep an eye on Miss Pretorious?” Quentin said.
“That will be even more of a pleasure,” said Coburn. “And, sir – I’m glad Mrs. Quentin is okay.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Quentin seemed surprised at the personal note Coburn had introduced. It was almost as if he had begun to feel himself cut off from public sympathy; he had already closed the gaol gates. “That’s very kind of you.”
Coburn, having offered his sympathy, now seemed embarrassed. He gestured awkwardly, then turned quickly and went up the stairs almost at a run. Quentin said, “Why am I surrounded by decent policemen? Aren’t there any bastards left?” He was getting closer to home, becoming more Australian: even the vowels had slipped a little.
Malone grinned, also embarrassed now. They went out through the vestibule and met Denzil as he came up the front steps. “I’ve just come from the American Embassy, sir. I’m afraid I have some bad news—”
“This is the day for it, Superintendent Can’t it wait? I have to get home to my wife at once.”
Denzil said, “Could I ride with you, sir? This is important”
He gestured to the police car that had brought him to follow the Rolls-Royce. The three men then walked across to the Rolls and Ferguson opened the door fpr them. “Mrs. Quentin is at home, sir. She’s all right. Just seemed a bit upset—”
“Better hurry then, Ferguson.” Quentin jumped into the car and gestured impatiently for Malone and Denzil to follow him. “You’ll have to forgive me, Superintendent but I’m worried about my wife—” Denzil murmured a word of sympathy, but it seemed abstracted. Quentin for the first time seemed to become aware that Denzil, too, was worried. “What is it?”
“It’s your butler, sir. Joseph Liszt.” Denzil suddenly seemed embarrassed; it was not easy to tell an ambassador his security arrangements were lax. “I’m afraid he is an agent For both the Russians and the Chinese.”
“Joseph?” Quentin shook his head: it was hard to tell whether he was surprised at what he had been told or disgusted for having allowed himself to be duped. But his second question was tinged with surprise: “Both the Russians and Chinese?”
“I gather the Russians didn’t know he was working for the Chinese.”
“Where did you get this information?”
“From Royston at the American Embassy. It had just come in from Washington. Evidently Jamaica had cabled it to C.I.A. headquarters yesterday. They de-coded it, took some time about their decision, then sent it back to Royston to pass on to us.”
“But why all the rigmarole?” Malone asked. “Why didn’t Jamaica come straight to you? Or go to Royston direct?”
Denzil shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s the way security organisations work. There is as much red tape and inter-department jealousy as in any other Civil Service set-up. I don’t know whether Jamaica didn’t want Royston bossing him or whether he was under instructions not to tell us anything till Washington had vetted it and okayed us—” He shrugged again and sighed. It had been different in Kenya years ago; trust had been a man-to-man thing. “In the spy game nobody trusts anybody else, even your allies. Anyhow, the delay has been only something over twenty-four hours. We can still pick up this man Liszt. Is he at the house to-night?”
“He should be,” Quentin said.
“I don’t like him being there alone with Mrs. Quentin,” Malone said. “I wonder if he made the phone call?”
Quentin shook his head. “Why would he call her? No, I’m not worried about him – not as far as my wife is concerned, I mean. He’s a spy – God, why didn’t I check closer on him! I’m sorry—” He looked at Denzil. “I’ve been pretty lax. But there’s never been even a hint of anything suspicious until these past couple of days. I should have been suspicious then, I suppose. But there’s been this other thing—”
Malone didn’t feel this was the time to talk about the ancient murder. “What were you going to say about Joseph and Mrs. Quentin?”
“Oh, yes. Well, I don’t think he’d harm her. He’s a cold fish, but I think he had a lot of time for my wife. And for me, too, I think. Whatever else he’s done, I don’t think he would harm us personally.”
Then the car was drawing in before the house in Belgrave Square. Malone, sitting on the jump-seat, was first out. Instinctively he looked quickly around; the night was dark enough to hide a dozen assassins. Quentin was next, hurrying across the pavement and up to the front door. He fumbled with his keys, then pushed back the door and went into the house. Malone and Denzil, still on the pavement, heard him calling for Sheila, his voice echoing in the hall.
“I don’t have a warrant for this fellow,” Denzil said to Malone. “I’ll have to phone the Yard and have one sent. But do you have your gun?”
Malone patted his armpit. “I don’t think he’s the violent type.”
“You never know. When a man’s faced with years in prison, he might try anything.”
Yes, thought Malone. And a woman, too: if she were faced with years in prison, would she try suicide? He felt suddenly cold inside. He crossed the pavement on the run, went up the steps and into the hall as Quentin, trembling like a crazed man, came stumbling towards him.
“She’s not here! And neither is Joseph!”
III
Madame Cholon dismissed the African Embassy car that had brought her home and let herself in the front door. She felt apprehensive, and the unaccustomed anxiety began to manifest itself as a rising fury. When Pham Chinh came into the hall to meet her she snarled at him. “Is she here?”
He nodded towards the drawing-room. “In there.” He was both puzzled and afraid; too much had gone wrong in the last few days. “I didnt know whether to let her in—”
Madame Cholon waved a curt hand of dismissal and went by him and into the drawing-room, still wearing her mink stole over her ao dais. The night was warm, but she still felt the chill of the English summer; now, unaccountably, she felt even colder. She stopped just inside the door, drawing the stole round her, as Sheila Quentin rose to meet her. Sheila wore a green silk evening coat buttoned high to the neck; it gave her a slightly Oriental look, but for the auburn hair above it. The two women stared at each other for a while in silence.
Then Madame Cholon snapped, “I hope what you have to say, Mrs. Quentin, is important. I was enjoying myself at the reception—”
“What I have to say won’t take ten minutes,” said Sheila, and drew back the sleeve of her coat to
look at her watch. “A little less.”
Madame Cholon turned to Pham Chinh, who stood in the doorway staring uneasily at both women. “You may go, Pham.”
“I’d rather he stayed with us,” said Sheila. “If he was concerned with you in the attempts on my husband’s life, then he must stay.”
Madame Cholon stood half-turned away; she stiffened and looked over her shoulder at Sheila. “Accusations like that can get you into trouble. Your country has laws—”
“And yours doesn’t?” Sheila smiled, but there was no humour in her. Her face was stiff and white, and the smile was no more than a tensing of muscles; the hazel eyes seemed to have a tinge of yellow in them, adding to her look of illness. She no longer gave the impression of being tall, looked even a little stooned: she looked old and defeated and ready to the. But not just yet: some spirit was still alive in her: “From what Joseph told me, I don’t think you care about the laws of any country.”
“Joseph?” Madame Cholon’s voice was icy; it gave her away. “Who is he?”
“Our butler. Our ex-butler now. When he called me at the reception he didn’t say where he was, just that he was leaving the country. So I think he must have been at the airport then.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She would Iphone the bank in Zürich first thing in the morning, have than stop the cheque. But the money was not the important thing. Another attempt on Quentin’s life had failed, this time through treachery: the man must bear a charmed life. She shivered as the fury began to increase in her.
Sheila shook her head wearily. “Don’t waste our time, He told me everything. It’s hard to forgive him for going as far as he did. But in the end he couldn’t go through with it You see, madame, you overlooked one thing. There are people who have respect, even affection for my husband. I don’t know what it is that Joseph feels, but it stopped him from murdering my husband. And me, too, I suppose. Because the bomb would have killed both of us there in the bedroom. It was ingenious, having it in the alarm clock. My husband would have set the time of his own death. And you would have been miles away, safe from suspicion. I just wish I had had your forethought. No, I don’t,” she said, and sounded horrified at what she had heard herself say. “I never meant to kill anyone. Not Freda.”
“Who?” The woman was crazy. “Who is Freda?”
“No one you’ll ever know.” Sheila regained some control. She smiled again, once more without any humour. “You didn’t have to kill my husband, you know. That’s the irony of it. The conference is a failure, didn’t you know that?”
“I don’t believe it!” She was trembling now, her face turning ugly.
Sheila bent down and picked up a black handbag from the couch beside her. It was a large bag, one that did not go with her evening wear. “I went home when Joseph phoned me. Somehow I couldn’t believe him. But I found the clock, took the back off it to make sure.”
Madame Cholon’s curiosity at this strange woman was too much for her. “Weren’t you afraid of being killed?”
Sheila shook her head. “That intrigues you, doesn’t it? No, I didn’t care. If it had gone off, it would have solved a lot of things. But it didn’t And then I got my idea. If I had thed, you would still be alive. Still able to make more attempts on my husband’s life—”
“I wouldn’t be interested in him,” Madame Cholon snapped. “Not if the conference has failed!”
“Perhaps. But there would still be the attempts you did make to kill him. I believe in justice, Madame Cholon – perhaps I’m a little late—”
Outside in Avenue Road Coburn sat in the police car that had followed Madame Cholon from Lancaster House. “I wish I knew why the bitch left the reception in such a hurry. Try the Yard again, get them to phone the Super at the Australian High Commissioner’s house, ade him does he want me to barge in on her.”
The detective beside the driver got through to Scotland Yard on the radio. Coburn sat in the back of the car, frustrated and worried by a sense that something was about to happen that could and should be stopped. Once more he wished for the freedom that the K.G.B. enjoyed. He looked at his watch: Ten-twenty-four . . .
Sheila opened the black bag. “My one regret is I did not say good-bye to my husband. But that would have ruined everything—” She was crying now, the tears running down her face, killing her beauty, killing her. “I had twenty-three years, and not all of us have that much happiness. In a way it was a sad sort of happiness, but it was enough—”
Madame Cholon felt the fear suddenly take hold of her. She lunged towards Sheila, screaming at the top of her voice for Pham Chinh to help her. Sheila now had her hand in the bag; she snatched it out and showed the small leather-cased clock. She fell away from Madame Cholon, wrenched the case open and fumbled with the alarm release.
“Twenty-five past ten!” Sheila was hysterical now, swaying and moaning, holding out the clock like an offering. “I’m sorry, Freda—”
Coburn heard the scream. He fell out of the car, was half-way across the road when the windows of the front room of the house blew out in a red explosion.
Chapter Twelve
“The shock will wear off,” Quentin said. “But I’ll always go on missing her.”
Malone said nothing, having only awkward words that would have embarrassed both himself and Quentin. The small restaurant, dark and a little shabby, in which they sat was a long way from the glittering style of Lancaster House; but Quentin himself had suggested it and Malone was glad. Somehow it suited the mood that he knew would close in on both of them as soon as they met.
“I’m going to Malaysia,” Quentin said. “There are several Colombo Plan teams there and I’m joining one of them.”
“What will you do?”
Quentin smiled, catching the critical surprise in Malone’s voice. “You forget I was once a surveyor. I’m qualified, and I was a good one. At least I thought I was,” he added. The old air of confidence had gone, and with it gone he looked older. “I’ll need some toughening up to plod up and down some of those jungle roads. But it should do me good.”
“Have you seen the Prime Minister – I mean again, since that time when you first got back?”
“No. I think it would have been too painful for both of us. When I saw him three months ago, handed in my resignation and told him the truth about everything, he didn’t take it very well. Oh, he wasn’t angry or anything like that. Disappointed – but perhaps that wasn’t it, either, it was more than that Anyhow I couldn’t face him again. I wrote him and he was the one who fixed this Malaysia job for me. But I don’t think we’ll meet again. He’s an old man—” He stirred his coffee, looked down at it for a few moments. With his head tilted forward the grey hair showed one or two streaks of white; the once tight skin now looked wrinkled and slack on the bones of the face. “Too old to have time to forget recent disappointments.”
Flannery had been disappointed, too, but for different reasons. The morning after Sheila’s death Malone had phoned Leeds, told him what had happened and asked for a few more days. Quentin would be wanted by Scotland Yard for routine questioning on the attempts on his life and the death of his wife, Madame Cholon and Pham Chinh. It would be hardly possible for him to leave London at once.
Malone had also told Leeds about Sheila’s confession. “I believed her, sir. It may or may not have been an accident, but I do believe she was the one who killed Freda Corliss. Quentin had nothing to do with it, except as an accessory after.”
“Do you have any sworn statement?”
“No, sir. It was just verbal.” He didn’t tell Leeds that at the time of Sheila’s death he still had not made up his mind what his own statement would have been when he finally appeared in court.
There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then at last Leeds said, “This could solve a lot of things, Sergeant.”
“I’ve thought of that, sir.” Malone was relieved that the Commissioner had suggested it. It would not have done for a detec
tive-sergeant to argue for turning a blind eye to legal justice.
“All right, tell Quentin we’d like him home by next weekend. But stick close by him, Scobie.”
“I’ll do that sir,” said Malone, thinking not as a policeman but as a friend.
“In the meantime I’ll see the Premier,” Leeds said. Than he permitted himself a personal comment, betrayed by the ten thousand miles between himself and his junior officer: “He’s going to be disappointed if it works out the way I hope.”
“Yes, sir,” said Malone, careful not to say too much. “But I hope it does work out.”
A week after that Quentin and Malone left London for Sydney. Among others Denzil had come to the airport to see them off. He took Malone aside. “We’ve found no trace of that butler chap, Joseph. He could be anywhere in the world now.”
“What about Pallain?”
“We had nothing on him. All we could do was offer him a polite hint to leave the country. Which he did.”
“I hate the thought of both of them getting away.”
“You can’t catch them all.” He looked around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard, then said, “I had a call from your Commissioner—”
“He told me he would be phoning you.”
“Sounds a decent chap. Asked me if I could forget what you had told me about the High Commissioner and that business of twenty-odd years ago. Evidently they are going to forget it out there.”
“That’s the idea, sir. They accept now that Mrs. Quentin was the one who killed the first wife. There are very few people who know why I came to London. The warrant I have is made out in the name of John Corliss, so even the records will show nothing. Proving that John Quentin is John Corliss – what good will it do now?”
“What about your State Premier?”
“I gather he didn’t like the idea at first. But he’s too shrewd to go through with bringing it out into the open now. The papers back home have made Mrs. Quentin into something of a heroine. A woman finds her husband is to be killed, goes looking for the killers herself—”