by Jon Cleary
II
The door was opened by a butler, something Malone had never experienced in his life before. He had all the appearance of the butlers Malone had seen in films: tall, portly, his aristocratic nose pushed back by a smell not apparent to men with less sensitive olfactory organs. But when he spoke his rich purple voice had a foreign tinge to it, and at once Malone thought he had come to the wrong address.
“Is this the home of the Australian High Commissioner?”
“It is, sir. May we ask whom you wish to see?” Monarchs and butlers, Malone thought: who else has the right to speak in the royal plural?
“The High Commissioner. My name is Malone and I have a special message for him from the Premier of New South Wales.”
The butler looked suspiciously at him, then he stood aside, opening the door wider. Malone stepped into an entrance hall and waited while the butler, like a bishop on his way to the altar, did a slow march towards the rear of the house. Though the hall was only sparsely furnished, Malone was at once aware that he was on the close outskirts of luxury. Through a half-open door he caught a glimpse of a room that reminded him of illustrations he had seen in Vogue, a periodical that had once been delivered by mistake to the Murder Squad and reduced the officers there to a state of depressed inferiority. He turned his head and saw himself in a huge gilt-framed mirror: he looked at the stranger there who seemed so out of place. He shifted his feet nervously in the thick carpet of the hall, feeling as awkward as a three-legged colt. Suddenly he wanted this business of Quentin over and done with quickly. He would come back in his old age and look at London.
The butler came back down the hall with a girl. He stood aside, watchful as an old sea-lion; images kept flashing through Malone’s mind, but he could not see the butler as just a man like himself. The girl came forward.
“I am the High Commissioner’s secretary.” She, too, had a slight accent. Stone the bloody crows, Malone thought, whatever happened to the Australian accent? “What was it you wanted?”
“I have a personal message from the Premier of New South Wales.” He had no such thing; but he had not expected it to be so difficult to get in to see Quentin.
“A letter?”
“No, it’s verbal.”
“I’m sorry, but the High Commissioner is busy. Could you not come to Australia House to-morrow?”
Malone shook his head, trying not to appear too stubborn. He liked the look of the girl: tall, good-looking, blonde, and with a poise about her that he had looked for in the girls he had known and had so rarely found. But he sensed her impatience with him and he was aware of the cold disapproving eye of the butler. “The message is urgent and important.”
The girl looked at the butler, and Malone read the message that passed between them. They think I’m some crank! He was appalled at the idea, remembering his own impatience as a policeman with cranks. His hand moved towards his pocket to take out his identification badge. Then his hand dropped back to his side and he smiled to himself at the situation and his own reaction to it.
“Perhaps if you told the High Commissioner that the message concerns Tumbarumba, he might see me.”
“Tumbarumba?” The girl was now convinced she was dealing with a crank.
“It’s a town, not a disease.” This comes of employing foreigners, Malone thought; and began to feel more xenophobic by the minute. He had always been tolerant of the foreign migrants who had come to Australia, even those he had had to arrest; but now these two foreigners, the girl and the butler, were beginning to annoy him with their attitude towards him. Deep inside him he knew that regardless of their accents, they were only doing their job of trying to protect the High Commissioner from uninvited and unwanted guests. But they were also trying to prevent him from doing his job, one that he wanted finished as soon as possible. He was out of his depth here, in alien territory no matter that his country’s ambassador lived here, and he wanted to be on the plane at once for Sydney, home and an atmosphere where he didn’t have to be so secretive. He said sharply, “Just tell the High Commissioner that I’ve come from Tumbarumba.”
The girl raised an eyebrow, as if recognising for the first time that Malone was accustomed to some authority. Without a word, but with a nod of warning to the butler, she turned and went back along the hall. Malone and the butler stood watching each other in the huge mirror: they were posed in the gilt frame like a tableau titled Suspicion. Then the girl came back.
“This way, Mr.—”
“Malone.”
“Mr. Malone. The High Commissioner will see you.” Her poise had been cracked a little; there was no mistaking the surprise she felt that the ambassador had agreed to see this crank.
She led Malone down the hall, pushed open a door and stood aside. “Mr. Malone, sir, from Tumbarumba.”
“We are not to be disturbed, Lisa,” said the man standing in front of the marble-fronted fireplace. “By anyone.”
The girl closed the door. Malone, feeling more awkward than he had ever felt in his life before, stood watching the man across the room from him. He had checked on newspaper photographs of Quentin; but they had not done the man justice. He was taller than Malone had expected, and slimmer. His thick wavy hair, brushed close to his head, and his military moustache were grey, but somehow they did not add age to his lean high-cheeked face; Malone would have guessed him to be at least five to six years younger than the age that showed against him in the file. The wide sensitive mouth looked as if it knew the exercises of humour, and the dark blue eyes looked as if they, too, could smile with enjoyment. But not now: eyes and mouth were both stiff with suspicion.
“What is it, Mr. Malone?” Quentin’s voice, Malone guessed, would normally have been deep and pleasant. Now it was strained, a little high: the Australian accent was evident, the vowels flattened. “My secretary said you were from Tumbarumba.”
“I’m from Sydney, sir. Detective-Sergeant Malone.” He produced his badge, glad of the opportunity to do so; for the time being there was no longer any need for secrecy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quentin, but I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of your wife Freda.”
Quentin, for all the stiff suspicion in his face, had been standing at ease before the fireplace. Now all at once he seemed to wilt: years piled into his face like grey blood and he looked his age and more. Behind his head an ormolu clock ticked like a bomb; but the bomb had already gone off. The lips, as grey now as the moustache above them, grimaced in a thin smile.
“Tumbarumba – what a password!”
“I had to try something, sir. Your secretary is quite a watch-dog.”
“But not quite good enough. I should have warned her about policemen.” He put his hands together in front of his face and bowed his head like a man in prayer. Malone had seen many reactions to arrest and he had never got over his embarrassment at some of them. He just hoped Quentin was not going to start praying out loud. But then Quentin looked up and his mouth was twisted in the same thin grimace of a smile. “I’ve often wondered what I would say to you when you came. Somehow it was a speech that never got written. And I’m said to be a very good speaker.”
“I’d save it for the trial, sir. I’m supposed to warn you—”
“I know, Sergeant. But anything I may say now won’t help you very much. You wouldn’t be here unless you had a watertight case. You don’t go around arresting ambassadors to keep up your monthly quota, do you?” He smiled without rancour. As quickly as he had wilted he was now becoming philosophical. His voice had deepened, come under control again; the Australian accent was still there but less evident, the vowels were being given their full value. He moved towards a side table on which stood a decanter and glasses. “A sherry? Or don’t you drink on duty?”
“Where I grew up, sir, sherry isn’t considered a drink. It’s something you flavour jelly or trifle with.”
“You are looking a gift prisoner in the mouth, Sergeant. But I admire your sense of occasion. Sherry is for vicars and old lathe
s.” He smiled again, a much warmer smile. He put down the decanter without taking the stopper from it, pulled a long tasselled cord hanging beside the fireplace. When he turned back the smile had waned. “I must have grown up in the same sort of circles as you, Sergeant. A pity I ever left them. I wonder what Tumbarumba is like now?”
There was a knock at the door and the butler opened it. Quentin ordered Scotch, then turned back to Malone as the door closed again. He stared at the detective for a long moment, then he moved to a high-backed leather arm-chair and sat down slowly and a little wearily. He gestured at the room about him, and Malone, looking about him for the first time, saw that it was a small library. Books lined three of the walls: leather-bound volumes, large illustrated books, bright-jacketed novels, sombre-titled non-fiction: Quentin, or someone in the house, had a wide taste in reading. The fourth wall held some sporting prints: spindle-shanked horses straddled hedges, a fighter in long underwear posed behind bare fists and a walrus moustache. On a small desk a woman looked with calm eyes from out of a silver frame: she looked out of place beneath the sporting prints, too much of a lady.
“This is my retreat. A diplomat doesn’t get much time to himself and he needs somewhere where he can lock himself away for an hour or so every day, just so he can be himself. All day and every day, and every night too, almost, you’re being someone else. Mr. Australia, if you like, or whatever country you represent. You need some time each day just so you can check your own identity, make sure there’s some of the original man left.” He sighed and looked up at Malone, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “I’ve spent almost twenty-four years trying to lose the original man. John Corliss, that is. How did you get on to him?”
Malone told him about the political research worker. “I don’t know who gave them the tip-off. It could have been someone who recognised you from years ago.”
Quentin nodded. “It’s been a long wait. Somehow I always knew the day would come. I’ve changed in appearance. My hair went grey during the war, then afterwards I grew this moustache. But you never feel you’re really changed, you see yourself from the inside—”
They were interrupted by the return of the butler with the drinks. “Madame asks will you be long, sir?”
“Not long, Joseph.” Quentin waited till the butler had gone out of the room. He poured himself and Malone a drink each, both of them strong: he seemed to take for granted that Malone was as much in need of sustenance as himself. Malone, grateful for the drink, didn’t contradict him. “When this matter comes out into the open, Joseph is the one who’s going to disapprove of me more than anyone else. There’s no snob like a butler, and a Hungarian butler is the worst of the lot.”
“I wondered about his accent. And your secretary’s, too.” Malone held up his glass, then lowered it. “Sorry. I was going to drink to your health.”
Quentin smiled wryly. “Thank you. I’m glad they sent a man with some sensitivity.” He raised his own glass and they drank silently to each other. Then Quentin said, “Yes, about my secretary. She’s Dutch. A Dutch New Australian. She was out there for seven or eight years. Joseph’s never been there and somehow I gather he’s glad of the fact. I inherited him from my predecessor. I think he still expects to be asked some day to serve witchetty grubs and fried ants.” He sipped his drink, then took a swift gulp, put down the glass and looked up at Malone. “I’m just talking, Sergeant. Putting off the evil moment or whatever it is. What’s the next move?”
Malone told him. “We’d like it if it can be done as quietly as possible. I can get an extradition order from the court here if you insist—”
Quentin waved a long-fingered hand. “There won’t be any need for that. I’ll go quietly, as the saying is.”
“Could you be ready to leave to-morrow?”
Quentin’s chin shot up. “When? Sergeant, don’t you read the newspapers? I’m in the middle of a conference, an important one—”
“I know, sir.” Malone sipped his own drink, hating more and more each minute this task he had been given. He still stood in the middle of the room, feeling as insecure as if he were the one who was being arrested. “But I’m afraid I haven’t been given much discretion in the matter. They want you back in Sydney at once.”
“Who does? The police? Or is it Flannery?” Malone hesitated, then nodded. Quentin barked angrily and went on: “That malicious conniving old bastard! You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?”
“I had it explained to me.”
“Not by him, I’ll bet!” Quentin got up and began to walk about the room, angrily, agitatedly; all his poise had left him, the past had caught him up, was riding his back like a savage monkey. The ormolu clock struck the half-hour Mid was echoed somewhere out in the hall by a deeper note. Quentin stopped, looked at the clock, then shrugged, as if time meant nothing now. But when he spoke again, his voice was still harsh, the flat accent back again. This was the voice he must have had twenty-odd years ago, Malone thought: the original man was always there in the tongue. “He’d be too shrewd to commit himself that far in front of a stranger. You are a stranger to him, aren’t you?”
“Very much so.” And glad to stay that way: Malone took another drink, washing away a taste that had been with him all the way from Sydney.
Quentin turned and looked directly at Malone. “Sergeant, I can’t afford to leave here for at least another four or five days. This conference, you know what it’s about, trying to settle a cease-fire in Viet Nam, it’s much more important than me or Flannery.” He hesitated, then his voice hoarsened: “Or even my dead first wife.”
Malone put down his glass on a nearby table. It was time to show some authority, to get started for home. “I appreciate all that. But it’s not my decision—”
“Whose is it?”
Malone hesitated. “The Commissioner’s, I suppose.”
“Get on to him, phone him. Tell him I promise to come quietly, but I must stay here till this conference is finished.”
“How do you know it will be finished in four or five days?”
Quentin gestured, a motion that already suggested lack of real hope. “If it isn’t – well, Viet Nam then will have about as much future as I have. We’ll both have reached the end of our roads.”
“Why is it so important that you stay?”
Quentin was patient. “I’m Australia’s leading representative at the conference. In the normal course of events it would be our Minister of External Affairs, but he’s still in Canberra ill. None of the other Cabinet Ministers know as much about South-East Asia as I do – some of them know nothing about it. So I was pitched into the job.” There was a note of regret in his voice: Malone couldn’t tell whether he regretted being handed the job or being taken away from it. He looked at Malone, still patient, sounding as if it were a long time since he had talked to an ordinary man in the street: “How much do you know about international politics?”
“Not much,” Malone admitted. “A policeman’s problems are usually too close to home. It’s hard to get any sort of perspective. Or find time to be interested, come to that.”
“That’s the way it is with about ninety per cent of the world’s population. They read the papers, but they don’t really care. A nice juicy murder—” He stopped and shook his head as if he had suddenly been hit a blow. “That’s what they’ll get next week, isn’t it?”
It was Malone’s turn to be patient: “You were explaining to me about this conference.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Well—” He drew in his breath, regained control of himself: his powers of recovery were quick and remarkable. “There are several interests who don’t want a cease-fire in Viet Nam. If this conference could be interrupted, adjourned, even called off altogether, nothing would please them more. I’m not boasting, Sergeant, but I think I’m the one at this conference that the other delegates are listening to. Everybody at it has opinions, but too many of them are waiting for someone else to make the moves that might bring about peace t
erms. For better or worse, I look like being the man. By the end of this week I think I can swing them to some sort of terms for a cease-fire, one that should satisfy both sides. For the time being, anyway. In another year or two they may be back at each other’s throats again. Maybe even America and China will be in there in a full-scale war. I don’t know. But we’ll have bought some more time, thrown the military mind out of step while we try and see if the diplomatic mind can accomplish anything. Diplomacy has been down-graded these last few years since the generals have been given so much say in certain countries. I think it’s time we showed it’s not a dead method of working.” There was a knock on the door, but he ignored it. “That’s what I want to buy from your Commissioner – some time.”
Before Malone could answer, the door opened. “I’m sorry, John, but shall I have Lisa call them and tell them we can’t come?”
The woman who stood in the doorway was the most beautiful Malone had ever seen: the photograph on the desk had not done her justice. Perhaps it had something to do with the way she was dressed; none of the girls he had known back home had ever looked so elegant. She was not tall, but she gave the impression of tallness; she held herself erect, almost with a touch of imperiousness. He could only guess at her age, but he knew she must be in her early forties: she had married Quentin twenty-three years ago. But the erosion of age had not yet got at her, you knew she would look as beautiful as this for another ten years at least. The dark auburn hair, shining like metal; the complexion that looked as if it would be impregnable to the slow ivy-growth of wrinkles; the hazel eyes with their heavy lids: Malone, looking at her, knew she would protect those assets with a fierce pride, fighting age with more determination than most women. Then she smiled at him and the image of imperiousness and pride was suddenly gone, as if it had been no more than a trick of eyesight.
