Jon Cleary - The High Commissioner

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 off 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 legality, 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 tonight, Tom. And don’t broadcast what has happened. I don’t want this to be in the newspapers. Same time tomorrow 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?” Then 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 die 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 Horlicks.” 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 cut 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 tonight. 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?”