The High Commissioner Page 11

  The Hillman, still trailed by the taxi, was going down Constitution Hill, past the Palace, past the statue of Queen Victoria under her fluttering canopy of pigeons with their droppings of lese-majestie, down The Mall, up round the exploding fountains of Trafalgar Square and into the chaos of the Strand. Truong Tho looked at his watch again: in the roar of the traffic he could hear both its ticking and that of the bomb. The time was one-fifteen. They were running late.

  At last Pham Chinh pulled the Hillman into the kerb in Aldwych. The car had stopped near a theatre: posters proclaimed that a funny thing happened on the way to the Forum. Tho got out, holding the briefcase as if he expected it to shatter apart in his hand. He straightened his hat, wishing it didn’t sit so far down on his ears, and did up all the buttons of his black jacket. He nodded to Pham Chinh, walked back down Aldwych, waited for the traffic to pass, then crossed the road and began to walk along the Strand towards Australia House. Walking carefully like a man in a minefield, the briefcase held primly away from his leg, he looked what he was supposed to be: a timid junior official from a foreign embassy. He glanced again at his watch: ten minutes before the bomb was due to go off.

  He walked quickly round the curve in front of Bush House, pulling up sharply and catching his breath as three young girls came hurtling out of a doorway in a skirmish of skirts. One of them brushed against the brief-case, flashed a smile of apology at him and went on, oblivious of how close she had come to death. He stopped, feeling the sweat break on him, and glanced back in the direction the girls had gone. And saw the Australian security man, the first man to get out of the Rolls-Royce last night, following him.

  He blinked, blinded by sweat and shock. A file of street musicians went by, inching along the kerb; they were playing “When the Saints go Marching In”. He saw the name on the big drum carried by one of the men: The Happy Wanderers; and wondered what they had to be happy about. Passers-by were stopping to listen to the music, tapping their feet in time to the infectious beat. One of the musicians came towards Truong Tho, a box held out, a smile on his blunt weatherbeaten face: “Good luck to you, sir.” Tho stared at him, all terrified suspicion now: the file of musicians seemed to be closing in around him, their music getting louder and threatening.

  Suddenly he lunged at the man with the box, pushing him aside. He felt the man clutch at him, but he had gone past him, knocking aside the man playing the trumpet: a note went sour in the middle like a wail for help. He ran across the road, dodging the shrieking, hooting traffic, the brief-case still held primly in his hand. He made the opposite side of the road, flung a glance back over his shoulder and saw Malone running through the traffic after him.

  He ran down a side street. Ahead of him he could see the river and the tall masts of a ship; he wondered if it was the Discovery, if Pham Chinh would be almost there yet. His hat fell off and a man shouted after him, but he kept running. The narrow pavement was busy with people coming up from the Embankment; he darted out between two parked cars and ran down the middle of the road. Somewhere he heard a clock strike and pigeons flew over the tops of the buildings like smoke from a blast. He was panting, the black jacket tight about his heaving chest, and he could feel the sweat running down his face. The brief-case was a great weight, almost breaking his wrist, but he daren’t drop it. He was less than a hundred yards from the river; he would fling it far out into the water, let it explode harmlessly there. He darted another look back over his shoulder, saw that Malone was gaining on him, and increased his speed.

  He ran down the middle of the street, between lines of gawking pedestrians, like a marathon runner at the end of his run; some youths urged him on, then yelled encouragement to Malone, the runner-up. It was a scene from a comedy film, all the spectators looked for the hidden cameras. But there were no cameras and the comedy was black.

  Truong Tho swung right at the bottom of the street, down a sloping crescent. The ship on the other side of the Embankment way the Discovery; Pham Chinh had to be there! He hurtled down the slope, desperate now, the muscles in his arms were already flexed for the throw that would get rid of the brief-case. He came out on to the Embankment, still on the run, was half-way across the busy road when he saw the black Hillman a hundred yards away coming towards him.

  He drew in a sigh of relief at the moment the other car, coming from the opposite direction, hit him. He felt the sharp pain in his back, then he went up in the air. He seemed to fall slowly, taking an age; he saw the brief-case still held in his hand below him, the gold initials J.Q., flashing like the igniting spark of an explosion.

  Then he hit the ground on top of the brief-case.

  Chapter Six

  “They seem to be getting desparate.” Quentin drummed his fingers nervously on the desk in front of him. “But who the hell are they? And why me? Why not one of the others?” Then he shook his head. “No, I shouldn’t have said that. That’s only wishing disaster on someone else.”

  Again the charity: Christ, Malone thought, does he always think of the other man first? Or was it guilt: was he making up for the one life he had taken years ago? But you couldn’t ask a man that. “There was no way of identifying him. He was blown to smithereens. It was just sheer luck no one else was hurt.”

  “You were lucky you weren’t closer.” Quentin’s fingers still drummed on the desk. “Don’t get hurt on my account, Scobie. That’s the prospect that worries me as much as any. You didn’t come to London for that.”

  Malone grinned, trying to ease the atmosphere, to take some of the tension out of the other man. “I’m already hurt. These new shoes are killing me.” He eased his feet out of them and wiggled his toes. “All right?”

  Quentin nodded, then smiled, relaxing a little. “Do you have a lot of friends?”

  Malone looked puzzled. “Quite a lot. Too many, maybe. Then they become acquaintances more than friends. You spread yourself too thin, never spend enough time with one or two of them to get to know them properly.”

  “Do you regret that?”

  “What? Not having one or two close mates? I think so. Maybe it’s one of the penalties of being a copper.”

  “Are you getting to know me?”

  “As a friend? Or as a prisoner?” Malone was cautious.

  “I can’t ask for the first. And I don’t really want to know as the second. No, just as a man.”

  Malone paused before he shook his head. “No, you still puzzle me too much. I still don’t understand – well, never mind.”

  “No, go on.”

  Again Malone paused a moment. “Well, I don’t understand how you could have killed your wife. But don’t quote me – I’m off duty, I’m not talking as a policeman.”

  “Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?”

  Once more Malone hesitated. “I might. But I’ll warn you – I don’t think any jury would. Not after twenty-three years. They’d want to know why you waited all that time to make that sort of plea.”

  Quentin considered what Malone had said, then slowly nodded his head in agreement. He took another tack in the conversation: “I’ve never had a close friend. Before the war I was too – well, shy, I suppose. A real bushwhacker, thinking everyone in Sydney was out to take me down. Then after – after what happened to Freda—” He stopped and his eyes went blank; his face tightened as if he had suddenly been hit by migraine. I wonder how often he’s thought of her? Malone wondered; and waited while the other man was racked by memory. Then the eyes cleared: “After Freda, I couldn’t risk having friends.”

  “You didn’t need them. You had Mrs. Quentin.”

  Quentin nodded. “But sometimes a man needs more than a wife. I would have liked a son.” He didn’t say why he and his wife had had no children, but Malone hazarded a guess: the fewer people inherited the shame of his crime the better. It was as if he had been waiting all these years for the inevitable. But why had he gone into politics, taken the risk of public exposure? “But you can’t have everything. Not many men have a w
ife like I have.”

  “You must have fallen for her quickly. How soon did you get to Perth after you’d left Sydney?”

  Quentin was silent for a while, as if trying to retrace all the movements of so many years ago. “A week, maybe a little more. I went across by train. It was still possible then to travel from State to State without a permit. But you wouldn’t remember all that, you’d have been too young. After the Japs came into the war, you had to prove your journey was necessary.” He smiled: sardonically or with regret, it was hard to say. “My journey was necessary, all right.”

  “When did you meet Mrs. Quentin?”

  Again it was as if he were trying to remember events that had followed what might have been a state of shock. “About a week after I arrived in Perth, I think it was.”

  “When did you think of marrying her?”

  Quentin had been answering the questions as if he were only half-hearing them; but now his brows came down and he looked sharply at Malone. “Why?”

  “I’m just trying to understand you, that’s all. Why you murdered your wife, why you married a stranger only six months later, why you went into politics – you must have known that going into politics, sooner or later you were going to get your photo in the papers, especially in Federal politics. Were you shoving your neck out, hoping someone would recognise you and give you away?”

  “Are you an amateur psychologist, too? You mean I hadn’t the courage to give myself up, but I wanted to be caught?” He shook his head. “If that was the intention, Scobie, it was all subconscious. No, I just drifted into politics. Then I guess ambition took over. First, I was asked to be a spokesman for ex-servicemen. Then I was asked to run for a State seat. A little while after that they spoke to me about Federal politics. I thought about the risks, but by then I’d begun to like public life. When you’ve been shy all your life and suddenly people start taking notice of you, listening to you and asking your advice, it – well, it goes to your head.”

  “What about Mrs. Quentin? She looks as if she enjoys public life now – did she then?”

  “She has always liked it. Without her I wouldn’t have got as far as this.”

  Quentin looked about him. They were in his office at Australia House. The big windows faced east and the late sun was reflected into the large room from the face of St. Clement Danes church opposite; the rich brown of the Tasmanian beam panelling was warm with the silver-gold light. The hum of traffic came up, but it was lulling more than disturbing. It was now seven o’clock and Malone and Quentin had come back here half an hour ago from the afternoon session at Lancaster House.

  Malone waited for Quentin to go on; but the latter seemed to have decided that he had done enough confiding. So Malone said, “Why did you ask if I have a lot of friends?”

  “You look as if you have a gift for friendship,” Quentin said. “Or maybe it’s a gift for charity.”

  Malone laughed, and Quentin looked at him curiously. “I was thinking the same thing about you. About charity, I mean.”

  Quentin smiled. “Thank you. We seem to be developing into a mutual admiration society.” The smile faded. “We shouldn’t. That could only be awkward for you.”

  Malone hesitated, then nodded. “The sooner we get home, the better.”

  Quentin nodded absently, staring at the wide desk in front of him. Then he picked up the newspaper that lay on it. “One thing we can be thankful for, the papers haven’t connected the bomb with me. Not yet, anyway.”

  “When the bomb went off and I saw there was nothing left of whoever he was, I made myself scarce. I got to a phone as fast as I could and rang Denzil at the Yard. He had a man along there within ten minutes.” Malone nodded at the newspaper Quentin held. “You’ll see there that one or two people said the bloke was being chased by another man, but none of them was able to describe me. It pays to be nondescript.” He grinned, wiggling his toes. “And I thought I was the best-dressed man in London today.”

  “If Mrs. Quentin makes any comment on this, we know nothing.” Quentin looked over the newspaper at Malone. “There’s no connection with me, understand?”

  “She’ll make a guess or two. It’s not that far from Australia House—”

  “We’ll still deny it. She has enough on her mind—”

  There was a knock on the door and Lisa put her head round it. “Superintendent Denzil is here, sir.”

  Quentin stood up as Denzil and Coburn came in, their faces stiff and slightly distorted with strain. They were trained to expect and prevent assassinations, but this was their first experience of such an attempt. Lisa stood in the doorway, but Quentin shook his head at her and she went out, closing the door after her. Malone bent down, looking for his shoes; then decided against putting them on and stood up in his stockinged feet. Denzil looked at him, but said nothing: you knew he would let gangrene set in before he would remove his own shoes in front of an ambassador.

  “We’ve made a little progress, sir,” he said to Quentin. “We still don’t know who the dead man was. But thanks to Mr. Malone’s tip, we’ve picked up Pallain. We’re holding him at the Yard now.”

  “What’s he got to say?” Malone asked.

  “He’s all indignation and threats. He’s half-French, half-Vietnamese, I gather, and we’re getting the worst of both. It’s Like dealing with General de Gaulle and Ho Chi-minh on one of their worst days.”

  Quentin smiled, appreciating Denzil’s imagination; it was obvious that he, as well as Malone, had made a mistake in his estimate of the superintendent. “I take it he knows nothing?”

  Denzil shook his head. “Nothing at all.”

  “Who was he visiting at those flats?” Malone’s feet still hurt; he wiggled his toes again, and Denzil looked down, finding them a distraction. Behind him, something like a smile twisted Coburn’s face. “I went into the foyer, but there was no porter there and more than half the flat numbers had no names against them on the board. I watched the lift indicator – he went up to the sixth floor. Then I saw it coming down again and I ducked to the back of the foyer. Then the two Asians came out.”

  “Why did you decide to follow them instead of waiting for Pallain to come down again?”

  Malone shrugged. “I don’t know. Instinct, I guess It wasn’t even a hunch. Maybe I was just trying to find out who else might be in this, where they belonged. It never entered my head they were heading this way with a bomb.” He shivered, suddenly cold. “I’m just glad I never caught up with him! Christ, chasing a bloke to get yourself killed!—”

  Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Denzil said, “Well, we don’t know who the dead man was, nor his mate. But Pallain was visiting someone named Madame Cholon.”

  Malone’s eyebrows went up. “Cholon?”

  “You know her?”

  “Let’s say I’ve met her.” Malone went on to tell of his encounter last night with Madame Cholon. “She keeps cropping up all the time. I was talking about her this morning with a feller named Jamaica.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “I don’t know for sure. He’s at the American Embassy.”

  “We’ll check with him. He might know something about her.”

  “Why not check with her?” Quentin asked.

  “She’d gone, sir, when we got back there. Baggage and all. She could be anywhere. In London or right out of the country. We got a good description of her from the porter. He was back on duty when we got there. He hadn’t seen her go. But he’s a chap with an eye for the lathes and he described her in some detail. Seems she is quite a looker.” He glanced at Malone.

  “She’s a dish, all right,” Malone said. “But I don’t know that I’d want to cuddle up too close to her.”

  Quentin went back and sat down behind his desk. He picked up the newspaper and looked at it again; the front page story on the explosion was illustrated with a picture of the gaping hole in the middle of the Embankment roadway. “It’s hard to believe – why would a woman want to kill me?”

 
; “We don’t know it’s her, sir,” Denzil said cautiously.

  “I know that, Superintendent. I’m just including her in the list of possibilities, that’s all.” He put down the newspaper and sat back in his chair. “I’m just asking a rhetorical question, too, when I say why should she, or anyone else for that matter, want to kill me. I know why. It’s not me personally they’re after. It could have been anyone else who might have got the others listening to him at this conference. It just seems an extreme way of achieving whatever end they’re after. Not only extreme, but crude. Have you any clue who this Madame Cholon is?”

  “Not at all, sir. The porter said he thought the looked Chinese. But I’m afraid that to the ordinary Englishman in the street, anyone with slant eyes is Chinese.”

  “She’s Vietnamese, I think,” said Malone.

  “Of course!” Quentin nodded his head emphatically. “It’s probably not her real name. Cholon is the Chinese twin city of Saigon.”

  “It’s an elementary suspicion,” said Denzil, “but I tend to distrust people who change their names.”

  “Yes,” said Quentin, and glanced at Malone, who chose that moment to bend down and begin to pull on his shoes.

  Denzil appeared not to notice his gaffe, and went on: “I’d like Mr. Malone to come back to the Yard with me. Sergeant Coburn will escort you home, sir.”

  Malone stood up again, wincing as his shoes tightened on his feet. “You want me to have a look at Pallain?”