The High Commissioner Read online

  Quentin shook his head, smiling. “About something that I know would bore you and Lisa stiff. Cricket.”

  Lisa made a face and Sheila said, “Cricket? What on earth for?”

  “When you ask a question like that, it shows we’re doing the right thine staying in here on our own. I just want to forget the conference, that’s all, for an hour or so. Talking about cricket with Mr. Malone might do that.”

  “How do you know Mr. Malone knows anything about cricket?”

  “I know quite a lot about Mr. Malone. We’ve had our confidences, haven’t we?” He winked at Malone and the latter nodded.

  Sheila hesitated, staring at Quentin as if she were still not reassured, then she turned and followed Lisa out of the room. Quentin watched them go and as soon as their backs were turned on him the colour seemed to drain out of his face. Even as Malone watched him he aged visibly; he leant forward a little and by some trick of light his hair turned almost white; every year of the last twenty-three was sketched savagely on his dull grey countenance. Malone felt he sat in a room with a stranger.

  To break the suddenly awkward silence he said, “How did you know I was interested in cricket?”

  Quentin didn’t seem to hear. He sat staring down a-: his hands on the table, watching the trembling fingers. Then he made an effort to regain control of himself. He sat back, taking in a deep breath. “Sorry, Scobie. It’s been a rough day.”

  “I think we ought to go out to the airport to-night and see if there’s a plane for home.”

  “It would be the easiest way, wouldn’t it?” Then he shook his head and said, “How did I know you were interested in cricket? I remembered seeing you play, oh, eight or ten years ago. You played for New South Wales, Sheffield Shield.”

  Malone grinned, wriggling his toes comfortably in his old brown shoes. “Just the once. They belted me all over the field.”

  “I never played cricket. Golf is my game – when I have the time.”

  “I know. That was where they traced the one photo of you that still existed, at Moore Park. You’d won some trophy.”

  Quentin smiled wryly: he had reached a depth of resignation where he could now be amused by his blunders of long ago. “I’d forgotten that one. I burned all the photos we had in the house. There weren’t many – Freda and I weren’t the sort for always standing in front of a camera.”

  “You were planning even then to go into smoke, take up a new identity?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Malone shrugged. “You told me the killing of your wife was an accident Then you do a systematic thing like that. Burning photos, getting rid of all the means of identifying you. That looks pretty muoh like premeditation. You’ll have a hard job convincing a jury it wasn’t.”

  “I’m just naturally systematic. Once it was done—”

  “Once it was done, why didn’t you call the police?”

  “I–I told you last night. Basically I’m a coward. I just ran away.”

  “You’re not a coward and I don’t think you’re systematic, either. That file I have upstairs on you, it’s really thorough. The bloke missed your personality, your personal personality, I mean, but he took you apart politically. You don’t come out of it as a man who plays it systematically. Some of your biggest successes were off the cuff. The compromise you worked out on that trade deal with Indonesia, for instance. I’ve only known you—” Malone paused, surprised. “Geez, it’s only twenty-four, hours! Well, anyway. That’s all I’ve known you, but the last thing I’d say about you is that you’re systematic. You’re cool and you know what you’re doing, but you’re not the sort who goes in for systematic detail. Not like burning photos of yourself after you’ve accidentally killed your wife.”

  Quentin slapped his hand on the table. “Stop it! Who the hell are you—”

  Malone sat silent, knowing he had gone too far. He looked about the room again, ill at ease now, suddenly longing for the cheerless but predictable comfort of his tiny flat in King’s Cross: the roughly made bed, the television set (the bachelor’s comforter), the rows of paperbacks in the small cheap bookcase, the view from the window of the rooftops of Rush-cutters Bay and the six square inches of harbour water: home sweet bloody home.

  Quentin breathed deeply, then he said, “I’m sorry. Actually, I think you’re trying to help me, aren’t you?” Malone nodded slowly. Quentin sighed, almost a hiss of self-pity. “I should be grateful for any help I can get. Sorry,” he repeated.

  The door opened and Joseph came in with a tray. He poured coffee and brandy and set the cups and goblets before the two men. Then he said, “That bomb explosion today, sir. Did it have any connection with what happened last night?”

  Malone looked up suspiciously, but Quentin just said, “Yes, Joseph. But don’t mention it to Madame.”

  “No, sir. May I say I’m glad they didn’t succeed in their purpose?”

  “Thank you, Joseph.” Quentin waited till the butler had gone, then he looked at Malone. “Joseph suspects something.”

  “About me, you mean? I thought he’d accepted me now I’ve got out of my grey suit.”

  “You don’t know what he was like before you came. Ice cold. He set the central heating back ten degrees every time he came into a room.”

  “What do you know about him? I mean, is there ever any check on blokes like him in a job like this?”

  “I gather he was vetted by my predecessor. He’d worked for a couple of years for some lord before he came here. He’s been in this job just over five years now. He’s okay.” Quentin sipped his coffee, then said, “How far did you get at Scotland Yard this evening?”

  Malone told him. “The only thing we’re sure of is that this Madame Cholon is mixed up in it somehow. But who’s she working for?”

  “And who’s this chap, what’s his name, Jamaica? Clio’s he working for?” Quentin sipped his brandy, but he might have been sipping water: he showed no appreciation of it. “I expected some sort of shenanigans to go on during the conference. But nothing like this!”

  “Has Mrs. Quentin said anything to you about the explosion?”

  Quentin nodded. “I told her it had no connection with me. She doesn’t believe me, I know that, but I’ve got to keep up the pretence.” He took a deep swallow of the brandy. “That’s been the story of my life too long now. Keeping up a pretence. I’m tired of it, Scobie. I think, selfishly, I’ll almost welcome gaol when we get back home.”

  “Selfishly?”

  “It will be over for me. But what about my wife? When they shut the door on me, it won’t be shut on her too. What will she do? Change her name, go away somewhere and start another life? Continue the cycle of pretence, of awful bloody deception?” His voice cracked a little; he put a hand up to his temple. Malone leaned forward, ready to catch him as he collapsed; but Quentin closed his eyes and sat rock-steady in his chair, and slowly the pain went out of his face. He opened his eyes and looked at Malone. “It would solve a lot, wouldn’t it, if they did kill me here in London?”

  Malone was silent for a moment. He looked across the symbols of gracious living, the silverware, the fine lace, the aromatic brandy in the goblets, at the man who talked of the advantages of a violent death. “For you, maybe. But what happened to everything you told me about last night? You being the possible saviour of this conference, buying peace, all that?”

  Quentin didn’t answer at once. Then his voice was mildly sarcastic: “In my political career I’ve had a great many voices of conscience. Opposition members, editorial writers, once even the Archbishop of Melbourne got into the act Now my gaoler has his say.” Malone put down his glass and went to stand up, but Quentin raised his hand. “Sit down, Scobie. I apologise.”

  “I didn’t ask for this job and I didn’t ask to be taken into your confidence. If you want to talk to me, expect some answers back. That’s the only way you and I are going to get on.”

  “I know that, Scobie, and my apology is sincere. I’m just not used to the si
tuation. Oh, I don’t mean being under arrest. I mean you and me. I’m the senior man and, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re very junior – at least you would be if you had anything to do with Canberra.”

  “That’s the beauty of States’ rights,” said Malone, unsmiling. “We still have some independence. You can’t put me anywhere on the Canberra ladder.”

  “That’s right. But I’ve been ten years either a Minister or in this job, an ambassador. How many juniors do you think I’ve had to criticise me to my face in that time? Oh, behind my back, yes, scores of times. But not to my face, Scobie. You have a very special position. Have you noticed the look of disapproval Joseph wears?”

  “I thought it was a natural look with him.”

  Quentin smiled. “It is, probably. It is with all butlers, I suppose. Butiers, floorwalkers at Harrods, members of the staff at Buckingham Palace. The real British Establishment. But Joseph’s disapproval has increased since you moved in. We’ve never had a junior public servant staying with us before, living as one of the family. Even Phil Larter and Sam Edgar were a bit surprised when they saw you having breakfast with us this morning. You and I have a very special relationship. The others are not the only ones who have to get used to it. So have I.”

  Malone relaxed, picked up his glass again. “Okay, it’s my torn to apologise. But don’t forget one thing – I was sent here to arrest you, to take you back home for murder. That’s my job and that’s my only job. Your position as High Commissioner and what you’re doing at this conference is no real concern of mine. It’s not what I’m paid for. It’s the way our Constitution works, but the States don’t reckon world peace is any of their business. I don’t subscribe tc the idea, and that’s one of the reasons I took up your case with my boss last night. But I’ll still get it in the neck if I lose you. The law is the law and it has first call on you because of what happened to your wife. Your first wife,” he added, suddenly aware of the second wife sitting somewhere in the house, wounded by the shattering of her life. He swallcwed a mouthful of brandy, then said, “So don’t go making yourself an easy target for these killers. Or you’ll find yourself whipped pretty bloody smartly on the first plane back home.”

  Quentin had looked at him steadily all the while he had been speaking. “You’re wasted in the police force.”

  “Nobody’s wasted in the force. Not if he does his job properly.” Then he gestured awkwardly. “That sounds pretty smug. But you know what I mean.”

  “Do you have any ambition to be Police Commissioner?”

  Malone hesitated, then nodded. “Why not? Part of the rumour about you is you might eventually be Prime Minister. Is that your ambition?”

  “You have your tenses wrong. Everything is subjunctive now. Or worse, past tense.”

  “Did you always have ambition – I mean before you killed your wife?”

  Quentin was silent for a moment, trying to remember the emotions of a man he had long buried; then he shook his head. “None at all. I think Freda was the one with ambiiion. At least she wanted security, and the two things go together sometimes.”

  Malone raised an eyebrow. “People who think about security are usually the ones without ambition.”

  “Not Freda. After the time she’d had – she was Jewish, you know. German Jewish.”

  “I thought she’d come from Vienna?”

  “You really know all the facts, don’t you? Or nearly all.” Quentin smiled dryly, without rancour; but the smile also held a hint of a secret. “Vienna was her last stop before she went out to Australia. But she came from Hildesheim in Germany. The Nazis, some Hitler Youth kids, stoned her parents to death in front of her. She landed in Sydney with two pounds in her purse and her mother’s gold wedding ring. You understand now why security was such an ambition?”

  Malone sat gazing at the pale distorted reflection of his own face in the brandy goblet he held: this man across the table from him was also a distorted reflection. “Why did you kill her?” he asked quietly.

  Pain darkened Quentin’s eyes; then he blinked and looked quizzically at Malone. “You haven’t warned me about anything I may say—”

  “Forget it.” Malone put down his goblet and straightened up his chair. “I wasn’t being a policeman then.”

  “What were you being?”

  Malone chewed his bottom lip. “I don’t know. I think maybe I was trying to be your friend. Does that annoy you?”

  “On the contrary.” He took a cigar from the humidor Joseph had brought in with the brandy, looked at it, than dropped it back into the container. “I’ve lost my taste. I’d be wasting a good cigar. I can’t taste this—” He flicked a finger against the brandy goblet; Courvoisier had never been meant to compete against the taste of despair. “I didn’t taste anything at dinner, not even the walnut torte. I ate that for Sheila’s benefit. Was it any good?”

  Malone grinned, but without much humour. “I don’t have much taste myself right now.”

  Quentin nodded sympathetically. “What would you be doing back home now – I mean, if you hadn’t been sent here to arrest me?”

  Malone shrugged: the old life seemed years away. “Arresting someone else, I suppose.”

  “Does that thought ever worry you? Do you sometimes have doubts that you might have arrested the wrong man?”

  “Am I arresting the wrong man now?”

  Quentin shook his head quickly, almost too quickly, as if he wanted to reassure Malone and not offend him; he was like a lonely man who had suddenly found a new friend whom he didn’t want to lose. “No, I’m your man.”

  Well, I have doubts about you, Malone thought; but didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “Well, I’ll just have to make sure you’re on that plane at the week-end.”

  Quentin realised the subject had been changed. He was silent for a moment, as if afraid that he had offended Malone; then he said, “What do you want me to do then? I mean about keeping out of range of these people, whoever they are.”

  “Don’t move a yard without either Coburn or myself being right beside you. It would be a good idea if you could cancel all the functions you’ve been asked to.”

  “That may be difficult. It will raise awkward questions. And it’s bound to cause offence to some people I’m trying to influence. Some of these new nations are like the nouveau riche – turn down an invitation from them and they think you’re being snobbish.”

  “What about the bloke who had all the answers today?”

  “He’d be one of the worst, I think. He’d like to belong to the West, but the Chinese have done some very smart buttering-up with him. Back home I believe he rides around in a Rolls-Royce bought with Chinese money.”

  “How do so many of these so-called uncommitted countries get into this act? What’s Viet Nam got to do with them?”

  “They are supposed to balance the countries that are committed in South-East Asia. When the conference was first mooted, they volunteered. Or one or two of them did, then the rest didn’t want to be left out. Half a dozen of us could have settled something in two or three days. Now there are a couple of dozen and we’re getting nowhere, or practically nowhere. There are too many witnesses if someone makes a mistake. So no one wants to risk going out on a limb.”

  “What about the Chinese?”

  “In theory they are supposed to be only observers. The Americans wouldn’t have them at the table as delegates. But though they just sit there, you can feel them pulling the strings. They’ve got their stooges working for them.”

  “Do you think Madame Cholon is working for them?”

  Quentin mused a moment, then he shook his head. “I’d be surprised if she is. The Chinese Reds are much cruder than we usually think Chinese are, but I don’t think they are as crude as all that. But I’d like to know whom she is working for!”

  “Well, you’d better play it as safe as you can.”

  Quentin nodded, took another sip of brandy he couldn’t taste: his whole life had lost its flavour for ever
. “The only thing I can’t get out of is the reception at Lancaster House Friday night If the conference runs to schedule, that’s supposed to be the farewell party.”

  “Will the conference run to schedule?”

  “If we haven’t got some sort of terms by Friday, schedules aren’t going to mean a thing. Everyone will go home and the war will drag on and we’ll get the blame.” He sighed and put his hand to his head again, as if he had a headache. “I don’t think I’d mind dying very much if my death meant there was going to be some sort of peace. Oh, I’m not being a hero—” He looked at Malone, embarrassed by his own words. “All I’d be offering is a life that’s over anyway. That’s not much of a sacrifice. But if a man has to the by an assassin’s bullet, he would like it to be in a good cause. Not so a war will be prolonged.”

  “How many assassins have killed in a good cause?”

  “They might have been good causes in the killer’s own mind. Who knows–” Then he stopped.

  “Who knows what is in a killer’s mind?” Malone said quietly; not cruelly but curiously. “Yes, I’ve often wondered.”

  Then there was a tap at the door and Lisa looked in. “Someone on the phone for you, Mr. Malone.”

  Malone turned, puzzled. “Me? Is it from Sydney?”

  “I think it’s a local call.”

  Malone looked at Quentin, who said, “Take it in my study.”

  Malone followed Lisa out of the dining-room and down the hall to the study. He picked up the phone, waited till Lisa had gone out of the room, then said cautiously, “Malone here. Who’s that?”

  “Speaking on an international level, your friend and ally.” Jamaica’s voice was soft and hoarse over the wire; Malone had to strain to hear it. “I understand you’re interested in Madame Cholon.”

  “Not just me. Scotland Yard are, too.”

  “You’re working together, aren’t you?”

  “I guess so. But why call me and not them? It’s their country.”

  “Put it down to shyness. I know you. Well, are you interested in the Cholon dame or not?”