The High Commissioner

by Jon Cleary

  “Something wrong?”

  “Oh, no, sir. But it is hardly–er–sporting, is it?”

  Pallain had paid in cash, another thing that had not impressed the salesman; and now Truong Tho was waiting ttere in the shadows to commit a deed that the English would probably condemn as also not sporting.

  “He mustn’t miss.” Pham Chinh was glad he was not the one who had to do the shooting; he knew he would have been too nervous to aim straight. “There won’t be a chance for a second shot.”

  Pallain said nothing, but glanced at his watch. The square was deserted but for the occasional passing car or taxi. The tall pale houses gave an impression of being no more than empty shells, despite the lighted windows that showed in one or two of them. The car was parked at the end of Chesham Place where it entered the square; behind them was the German Embassy and across from them was the white portico of the Spanish Embassy. The sound of music came softly from across the road, Segovia in nostalgic mood: someone was homesick for Andalusia. There was the mutter of German voices and two men in white raincoats went by without glancing at the car. London is made up of foreigners, Pallain thought; but there would be one less before the night was out. But then an Australian might not be considered a foreigner; he had never really understood how the Commonwealth worked. Whatever Quentin was, he would be dead to-night, eligible only for the citizenship of the grave.

  Then the big black Rolls-Royce, AUS–1, went past, slowing to turn left into Belgrave Square and follow the one-way route round to the Australian High Commissioner’s house on the south side of the square.

  Chapter Four

  As the big limousine turned left into the square Malone, sitting beside Lisa in one of the jump-seats, glanced casually out at the car parked close to the corner. He saw the two men in the front seat of the car turn their faces away, but not before he had caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel, a fleeting impression like the subliminal images he had once seen tried out on television. His brows puckered, the policeman in him at work. Why should two men, sitting in a parked car late at night, wish to avoid being seen? Then he shook his head and grinned. Leave it to the London bobbies: it was no concern of his.

  “Something amusing you?” Lisa asked.

  “Just thinking what my old mum would say if she could see me now. She’s Irish, been in Australia for over fifty years, but she’s still back in the bogs. Her idea of luxury transport is still a trap with two ponies.”

  “What did she say when she knew you were coming to London?” Sheila Quentin liked this almost naïvely frank man. Too many of the visitors from Canberra brought frankness with them as some sort of primitive weapon designed to bludgeon the crafty, too-superior swindlers of Whitehall. They bored her and irritated her with their rough approach, an approach she knew they worked on from the moment they left Australia, as if determined to prove they were one with the aborigines, an image they were convinced Whitehall held of them. But this new man seemed to use frankness as part of an unwitting charm.

  “Told me to buy a bomb and throw it,” said Malone, and confirmed Sheila’s opinion of him. “She still thinks of herself as an auxiliary to the I.R.A.”

  The two women laughed, but Quentin sat quietly in the corner of the back seat, his eyes closed. Sheila glanced at him, then put her hand on his. He opened his eyes, blinking a little despite the dimness of the car’s interior, then he smiled wearily.

  “Miss something?” he asked.

  “Nothing, darling. We’re almost home.”

  The Rolls circled the square, then glided into the kerb. The chauffeur, a middle-aged man with the build of a middle-weight wrestler and a voice to match, switched off the engine, got out and came round to open the door. Malone got out first, stopped and looked back along to where the parked car had now switched on its high-beam lights. The Rolls and the people getting out of it stood in a cone of light that threw them into relief against the darkness of the square.

  “Hold it a moment,” said Malone, and he would never know what prompted the premonition that something was about to happen. He put a hand against Lisa’s arm to stop her getting out. “Ferguson, get back in and switch on your lights. High beam.”

  Ferguson hesitated at being given orders by this newcomer, then he grunted, went back round the car, got in and switched on the headlights. The beam blazed down towards Chesham Place; a taxi coming out of the street honked in furious protest. The two cones of light, from the Rolls and the Zephyr, met in silent assault.

  Across the road Traong Tho stood among the thick shrubs, his rifle resting on the heavy wire-netting fence. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and when Pallain had switched on his car’s lights as planned he wondered if they were really necessary. He raised the telescopic sight to his eye and in it saw the chauffeur go round and open the door of the big black car. A tall man in evening dress got out, stopped and looked towards Pallain’s car. Then the chauffeur came back round, got in and switched on the Rolls-Royce’s lights. Truong Tho felt his hands begin to sweat and he blinked his eyes, trying to focus them into the unexpected blaze of light. Something had gone wrong, but he did not have time to consider it. Hazily, like figures behind frosted glass, he saw two women and another man alight. He aimed at the second man and squeezed the trigger.

  Malone heard the bullet ping off the top of the Rolls. He yelled at Quentin and the women to duck; then he was running swiftly across the road towards the dark island of: the garden. Malone didn’t see the wire fence. Brought up in a city where all the gardens were public, he plunged towards what he thought was a break in the shrubbery; made too trusting by egality, he was brought up short by privacy rights. He hit the fence and bounced back, sprawling on the pavement. He swore, picked himself up and ran towards the eastern curve of the garden. He heard a screech of brakes on the far side of the square; then he came round the curve of the garden. The Zephyr was gathering speed again, disappearing into one of the streets that came in on the north side of the square. He pulled up, knowing the gunman was now in the car and was gone.

  He made his way back towards the house, limping a little as he became aware of pain in his shin. He heard the thud-thud of heavy boots and as he crossed the road a uniformed policeman came running up to the entrance of the house. The two women had gone inside, but Quentin and the chauffeur stood beside the car, on the lee side from the garden.

  “I heard a shot—” Then the policeman turned with Quentin and Ferguson as Malone limped up to them.

  “The bastards got aways. That car down there must have been waiting for him. And spot-lighting us into the bargain.” He felt blood trickling down his chin and he put up his hand to the cut there.

  “Did he nick you?” Quentin stepped forward, his face full of concern.

  “I ran into some wire. The bloke with the gun was over there among the trees.”

  “I’ll phone the Yard, sir.” The policeman made a gesture towards the front door. “May I use your phone?”

  Quentin nodded and the policeman went into the house past Sheila and Lisa, who now stood in the doorway. Then Quentin looked at Ferguson. “That will be all for to-night, Tom. And don’t broadcast what has happened. I don’t want this to be in the newspapers. Same time to-morrow morning. Good night.”

  Ferguson kneaded the rock-cake of his face, went to say something, thought better of it and touched his cap. “’Night, sir. I’m glad they missed.”

  “So am I.” Quentin smiled wryly; he seemed undisturbed by the attempt on his life. “Let’s hope their aim next time – if there is a next time – is just as bad. And don’t forget – not a word to anyone.”

  The Rolls eased away and Quentin looked at Malone. “We’d better see to that cut on your face. Oh, and thanks.” He gestured towards the other side of the road; a taxi went by, slowed, thinking he had hailed it, then went on. “You didn’t have to chase that chap—”

  “It was instinctive.”

  “Reflex action? Never let a murderer get away?” T
hen he shook his head and passed a hand across his eyes. “Sorry, Malone. I didn’t mean that.”

  Malone put up a hand and patted Quentin on the back; then dropped the hand in surprise and embarrassment. The two men stared at each other for a moment, snared by the gift of sympathy and the need for it. Christ Almighty, Malone thought, here I go again, everybody’s friend. Then Quentin nodded in acknowledgment of the gesture, saving Malone further embarrassment by saying nothing, and turned and led the way into the house.

  “You’re all right, darling?” Sheila Quentin grasped her husband’s arm. They stood together oblivious of the others in the hall, like lovers meeting after a long separation. Malone saw the anguish on Sheila’s face and felt sick. This woman was going to the when she finally learned what Quentin had done, that she was going to lose him.

  Then Lisa came forward. “You’ve been hurt, Mr. Malone!”

  The next few minutes was a confusion of Joseph, the butler, being sent for hot water and sticking plaster, of both women ushering Malone into the living-room with such solicitude that he felt he should have at least lost an arm, of Quentin bringing him a Scotch.

  “Without Horiicks.” The two men grinned at each other and the women smiled; they could have been a foursome returned from a joyful night out.

  Then the policeman knocked on the door. “Someone is coming from the Special Branch, sir.” He was a young man with a large jaw and a slight lisp; he had an educated accent, appropriate to the diplomatic beat. “They shouldn’t be long. In the meantime I’ll go across and have a look around the garden, just in case he dropped the gun.”

  You’re wasting your time, mate, Malone thought; those boys weren’t the sort to leave anything behind. But he said nothing; he had to keep reminding himself that this was not his territory. The policeman saluted and retired as Joseph, seething with good grace at having to play nurse to a man below his own social station, returned with a bowl of hot water, a bottle of Dettol and a tin of Band-aids.

  “Shall I attend to the gentleman, madame?” he asked Sheila, his tone suggesting he had other and better things to do. He looked completely unperturbed by what had happened outside in the street. Malone wondered if all butlers were so imperturbable. Then he remembered that Joseph was a Hungarian and he wondered how many shootings in the street he had experienced.

  “I’ll do it,” said Lisa, and began to bathe the cu: on Malone’s chin. He could smell the perfume she wore, sharpened by the heat of her fear and excitement of a few minutes ago, and he was uncomfortably aware of her bare shoulders and breast as she leaned close to him. He looked beyond her, focusing his gaze on the room around them. He recognised the two paintings on the walls: a Dobell and a Drysdale: Christmas cards had made him an expert on the more famous Australian artists. The furnishings here were richer than in the other two rooms of the house that Malone had seen. He lay back on the Thai silk cushions of the lounge where he sat; he was being trapped in a quicksand of luxury. He sat up quickly, his cheek bumping against Lisa’s arm, and looked over her shoulder at Quentin.

  “Have you any idea who might have taken a shot at you?”

  Quentin shook his head. He looked worried, but somehow Malone knew that it was not worry for himself: it was almost as if he thought of the assassination as something impersonal. He was not a career man, but he had already become poisoned by the foreign service officer’s resignation: nothing that happened to you must be judged in personal terms. Insult, overwork, attempted murder: it was little to ask for in return for a K.B.E. Policemen, Malone mused, were asked for the same things; but policemen were never made Knights of the British Empire. Quentin’s reward was probably to have been the Prime Ministership, but he had said good-bye to that earlier this evening. If the bullet had struck home, it might have solved the personal problem. But it hadn’t.

  “The important thing is, I don’t think anyone should be allowed to make political capital out of it. If this should have anything to do with the conference – well, that’s why I want it kept out of the papers.” He looked steadily at Malone. “I should imagine you’d want it kept quiet, too.”

  “What’s going on between you two?” Sheila looked curiously from one man to the other.

  “Nothing, darling—”

  “Don’t tell me nothing! Mr. Malone arrives out of nowhere, none of us knows he’s even coming—” She looked at Malone. “It was almost as if you didn’t expect yourself to come here. Where’s your luggage?”

  Malone was held dumb by Lisa’s fingers as she pressed the Band-aid on his chin. Quentin answered for him: “Sheila, we’ll talk about it later—”

  “Darling.” She had calmed down again; she put a hand on his arm. “You might have been killed to-night. Do you blame me for asking what’s going on? Why should something like this happen the very night the – forgive me” – she looked again at Malone – “the mysterious Mr. Malone arrives? I don’t want to pry into government affairs, but why are you two so secretive?”

  Malone, still aware of the closeness of Lisa, his nostrils clogged with a mixture of Dettol and her perfume, sat quiet, waiting for Quentin to answer his wife’s question. Quentin, as if he were avoiding Malone’s stare, looked down into his Scotch and said, “Mr. Malone is a security man. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Secret Service?” Sheila sounded a little incredulous, almost amused.

  Lisa, her medical aid done, stepped back, looked at Malone and smiled. “Somehow one never thinks of Australians as spies.”

  Malone stood up. He went to open his mouth, to tell the truth, get it over and done with; then saw the look (of warning? Or of pleading?) on Quentin’s face. He took a sip from his glass and said almost lamely, “I am not a spy. All I have to do is look after your husband, Mrs. Quentin.”

  “You mean you were expecting something like to-night to happen?” Sheila’s poise began to crack again; something like hysteria bubbled just below the surface of her. She had looked so intact, so self-possessed, that it was now like looking at another person, a relative with a family resemblance. “God, I can’t believe it! Why should anyone want to kill my husband?”

  In the end everything is personal to a woman, Malone thought. Viewed from her angle it meant nothing that her husband was his country’s ambassador, that he was the influential man at a conference which, one way or another, was bound to have influence on the future of world peace. She could only see him as her husband: a wife had no diplomacy when she saw her marriage endangered. Malone looked at Quentin, a doomed man: Flannery was waiting for him in Sydney, someone outside in the London dark with a gun.

  “I’ll do my best to see it doesn’t happen, Mrs. Quentin,” he said, and felt like a man promising to stop a landslide with a shovel.

  Then Joseph knocked on the door. “There is a phone call from Sydney, sir, for Mr. Malone.”

  “We’ll take it in the stuely.” Quentin put down his glass. He looked like a man who had reached the end of his endurance: he was being shot at from near and far, they had got his range.

  “Tell them you need more protection,” Sheila said, then gestured helplessly. “Or ask them to recall you. Anything.”

  Quentin nodded and patted her arm reassuringly. Then he smiled slightly at Malone as he stood aside to let the latter go ahead out of the room. They went into the study, closing the door after them, and Quentin said, “Do you have to tell the Commissioner about to-night?”

  Malone put his hand over the phone. “Scotland Yard will tell him as soon as they learn who I am. You shouldn’t have told your wife I was a security man.”

  “What else could I say in front of Lisa?”

  Malone stared at him for a moment, having no answer; then he took his hand away from the phone and answered the operator. How much simpler the world must have been before Alexander Graham Bell, he thought.

  Leeds came on the line, his voice shredded by static. “Scobie? I’ve seen our friend. He wasn’t happy, but he’s agreed. On patriotic grounds.” Despite the stat
ic the sarcasm came through loud and clear. “When will the conference finish?”

  “It almost finished to-night,” said Malone, and told Leeds what had happened. The line was silent for a while but for the interference; Malone began to imagine that he was listening to the grinding of teeth. “Are you there, sir?”

  Something like a sigh came from ten thousand miles away. “My first reaction is to say bring him home at once. But what comes first? Justice or patriotism?”

  This has probably never happened before and will never happen again, Malone thought: the Commissioner asking a detective-sergeant for advice. Malone looked across at Quentin standing in front of the fireplace. Behind the older man the ormolu clock ticked quietly, like a slow teletype: time was running out, was the message. He looked disengaged, already resigned to the fates, a man already in the dock. Christ Almighty, Malone thought, I’ve just been elected to the jury. Don’t get involved, Leeds had advised; and now had tossed him the rope that could bind him to Quentin.

  “I think we should stay on here, sir,” he said, and committed himself to Quentin. He cursed the Commissioner, cursed Flannery, thought of the simplicity of a murder in Bexley North: that had been his last case, the arresting of a garage mechanic who had killed a man with a tyre lever for sleeping with the mechanic’s wife. An open and shut case with no involvement at all: the mechanic, struck dumb by grief or hate, had never opened his mouth, never even looked at Malone for help or sympathy.

  “Good luck,” said Leeds, safe on the other side of the world. “And be careful. I don’t want someone taking potshots at you.”

  Malone hung up and looked at Quentin. “He left it up to me.”

  “I gathered that. I’m getting more and more in your debt.”

  “I’m a tough creditor,” said Malone, trying not to sound like a liar. “Don’t ask for too much more.”

  II

  When they went back into the living-room Lisa had gone, but two men were there with Sheila Quentin.