The High Commissioner. Jon Cleary
of car do you have back home?”
“A second-hand Holden.”
“A Holden? What is that?”
“It’s something you don’t drive up to expensive gambling clubs in. Better get someone else, Madame Cholon.” Then he saw Jamaica standing in the doorway watching them, and he nodded. “Ask that bloke. He’s an American. They’re richer than anyone else.”
Madame Cholon looked towards Jamaica. “But he is coloured!”
Malone was not surprised by her reaction. He had heard a Chinese girl in Campbell Street back home in Sydney call an aborigine a dirty black bastard: colour prejudice could run right through the spectrum. All at once he did not like this tiny beautiful woman who seemed so curiously interested in him. He put down his glass on the balustrade and took random aim at her: “You Vietnamese have never bellyached about the colour of American money.”
He knew he had guessed right: she was Vietnamese. She stared at him for a moment, then she said something that was foreign to him but which he well understood: as a policeman he had been sworn at enough to catch the intent if not the words.
“And the same to you,” he said, and walked away from her. He passed Jamaica as he went through the open doors into the main room. The American looked directly at him and he stopped. “Who’s that woman I’ve just left?”
Jamaica looked after Madame Cholon as she went quickly along the terrace and through a doorway into another room. “I was wondering that myself.”
He’s lying, Malone thought. “Let me know if you find out.”
“She’s quite a dish, isn’t she?”
“That’s what she said about you,” said Malone, left him and went on into the room.
Sheila Quentin came towards him. Two hours of diplomatic ping-pong hadn’t touched her; she looked as cool, poised and unmarked as when she had arrived. “We are leaving, Mr. Malone. My husband is feeling very tired. Perhaps you would like to stay on?”
“No, I’m tired, too.”
They began to move across the room. Men flashed quick smiles at Sheila Quentin; the women’s smiles were a little slower. But her own response was warm and quick to everyone; it was a diplomatic smile, but somehow she made it appear sincere.
“Did you bring some bad news for my husband, Mr. Malone?” she said, inclining her head to a huge Nigerian woman, extravagant as an African sunset in her native dress.
“Why?”
“He was quite cheerful when he came home this evening. Confident the conference was going the right way. But now—” She looked up at him. “What sort of message did you bring him from Canberra?”
They were interrupted by two women, a Canadian and a German: Malone stood aside while the three women made arrangements for a committee to clothe the underprivileged of Stepney. Then he and Sheila Quentin moved on. “I think you’d better ask him.”
“It’s as secret as that, is it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And bad?” He hesitated, then nodded. She bit her lip and for a moment there was a hint of strain in her face. “Damn! And everything was going so beautifully.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and was surprised at the depth of sincerity he felt.
“Do you always bring bad news?”
Again he hesitated, then he nodded. “Too often. They think I have the right personality for it.”
“I hate you, Mr. Malone.” She smiled, and he warmed towards her. “But it’s not your fault.”
No, he thought, it’s not my fault. He wondered whom she would hate when she found out whose fault it really was. Then they had reached Quentin and Lisa Pretorious, standing waiting for them just outside the entrance to the main room. Quentin did look tired, a man who had run a long race and had suddenly collapsed at the end of it. The two women looked at him with concern, but he managed to smile.
“It’s nothing. Conferences are like marathon races – you have to wait for your second wind. A spoonful of Horlicks in a glass of Scotch and I’ll be fine.”
The women grimaced and smiled at him; but Malone saw that they were still not reassured. Quentin glanced at him. “Do you ever have need of a second wind, Mr. Malone?”
“The time’s coming up now,” said Malone, and underlined his next words: “I’ll be glad to get home.”
As the Quentins and Lisa went ahead of him out of the big entrance hall Malone looked back. On the other side of the big room Madame Cholon stood by the terrace door watching him, her gaze as cold and steady as that of a marks-man taking aim. Jamaica was moving towards her: his face, too, had the look of a hunter.
II
Pallain sat in the rented black Ford Zephyr. He had learned the advantages of having several passports and driving licences, and the car had been rented in the name of Pierre Martin. He had never liked the risk of using a stolen car on a job; it was always best to stay within the law as much as possible; in a stolen car you always stood the risk of being picked up by a too-observant flic. The Zephyr would be abandoned after they had made their getaway and it could never be traced to Jean-Pierre Pallain. The deposit would be lost, but Madame Cholon was paying for that and fifteen pounds was nothing against the stakes she was playing for.
Pham Chinh, sitting beside him, went to light a cigarette, but Pallain slapped the book of matches from his hand. “Save it,” he said in French. “You can have one later.”
Pham Chinh rubbed a nervous finger down his youthful cheek. He was thirty years old, but he had looked the same age for the past fifteen years: only the eyes had always been old, old and cunning and mean. “It is getting late. Don’t these diplomats ever come home?”
“At least we’re waiting in comfort. Pity poor Tho over there in the gardens.”
He nodded across the square to the dark island of trees and shrubs in its centre. Truong Tho was there, the rifle with the telescopic sight cradled in his arms like a wood-and-metal doll, the guerrilla in the London jungle. Pallain had bought the gun in a shop off Bond Street, where the salesman could not have been anything less than a duke.
“What did you plan to shoot, sir?”
An ambassador: Pallain was sure the man would have approved of the social status of the target. “Deer.”
“With a telescopic sight, sir?”
“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 there 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,