Jon Cleary - The High Commissioner

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 terms. 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.

“I hope you will excuse me for interrupting—”

“Darling, this is Mr. Malone. From Canberra.” Malone looked at Quentin, but the latter had moved forward to take the woman’s hand. “This is my wife, Mr. Malone.”

Malone put out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Quentin.”

Sheila Quentin gave him her hand and smiled again. “And I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Malone. Are you here to stay in London or just visiting?”

“Just visiting,” said Malone, and glanced at Quentin.

“He’s here till the end of the conference.” Quentin was relaxed, almost casual; Malone could have been a minor government official who had called to pay his respects. “He’s been sent with some new advice.”

“Oh? Are you an expert on Viet Nam, Mr. Malone?”

“Not exactly.” Malone wondered what Quentin’s game was, but he decided to play along for the time being. It was a question he would not have dared to offer advice on: when you were arrested for murder, how and when did you tell your wife? “You might say I’m a legal expert. I know how far you can go in the prevention of certain things.”

Quentin’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “We’ll be another ten minutes, darling, no more.”

“Good night, Mr. Malone. Perhaps we’ll meet again before you leave London.” She went out, her long green gown rustling like dead leaves in the quiet room.

The silence lasted for almost a minute after the door closed. Malone had become accustomed to silences; it was remarkable the number of men who remained dumb when you arrested them for a serious crime. But Quentin was not dumb because of his arrest: he was staring at the closed door, obviously wondering what effect his arrest would have on his wife, whether she would be struck dumb or would collapse in loud hysterics. Somehow Malone did not think there would be any hysterics from Mrs. Quentin: there would be something more terrible, a cold rage at himself for what he represented, for what he had done to her husband. He had seen the look that had passed between the Quentins: they were deeply in love with each other. And he knew from experience that a woman in love never saw the merits of justice.

At last Quentin said, “You’re wondering why I didn’t tell her who you really are? I’ve been rehearsing the words on and off for years. Darling, this is the policeman who’s come to arrest me for the murder of my first wife, the one you know nothing about. I’m a politician and a diplomat, Sergeant, supposedly skilled in all the uses of words. How do you deliver such a message to the wife you love dearly?”

Malone shook his head. He had had many awkward and distressing messages to deliver, but never to someone he loved: he dealt in tragedy, but remained outside it: he was like the heroin dealer who lived the good clean life. “I don’t want to have to tell her myself—”

“You won’t have to. When the times comes, I’ll tell her. I’m not a coward.” Then he bit his lip and turned away. “Or maybe I am. Always have been.”