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.”
“Do you still want me to phone the Commissioner? I mean, I don’t want to take you away from this conference if you feel—”
Quentin looked at his watch. “It’ll be almost five o’clock in the morning out there. Do you want to phone him at his home?”
“How soon could I get through?”
“I can get you priority.” He smiled wryly; from now on all jokes would be against himself. “I may not have that privilege much longer.”
Malone checked Leeds’s home phone number from his note-book and gave it to Quentin. The latter picked up the phone and dialled. “This is the Australian High Commissioner at—” He gave his own number. “I want a top priority person-to-person call to Mr. John Leeds at—” He read from the note-book Malone held out to him. “Will you ring me back, confirming and telling me how long it will be?”
He hung up the phone and Malone said, “If the Commissioner okays this, you know I can’t let you out of my sight for those four or five days. Technically you’re already under arrest.”
“I wonder if I could get the P.M. to put up bail for me?” Again he smiled wryly; then he said, “You won’t trust me?”
“Don’t put it like that, Mr. Quentin.”
“I’m sorry.” He looked curiously at Malone. “I have the feeling you’re not enjoying this assignment. Am I right?”
“There’s a lot of police work I don’t enjoy. We’re not all bastards, you know.” Malone held back. He was coming to like this man more than he should. Flannery had been right: He’s not a bad bloke at all.
“I suppose it’s like politics.”
“And diplomacy, too?”
Quentin looked at him, then nodded. “Everything is compromise. Only the saints escape, and they never go into politics or diplomacy.”
“Or police work,” said Malone, and after a slight hesitation both men smiled at each other.
The phone rang and Quentin picked it up. After a few words he looked at Malone. “The call will be through in twenty minutes.”
“I hope for your sake he’s in a good humour at five o’clock in the morning.”
“Not for my sake,” said Quentin, hanging up the phone. “That’s not why I’m asking for the extra time.”
“Sorry,” said Malone, and began to wonder what sort of man Quentin had been twenty-three years ago when he had murdered his wife.
“I have to get dressed now. There’s a reception at one of the African embassies. Do you want to come with me to that?”
“Am I dressed for it?”
Quentin looked at the very pale grey suit, the blue nylon shirt and the green-figured tie that looked like an aunt’s present. “At the risk of offending you, Sergeant, I don’t think you’re dressed for anything in London. Where do you buy your clothes back home?”
Malone grinned: he had been criticised many times before for his lack of interest in clothes. “The first shop I come to. I’ve never been much of a dresser.”
“I admire your modesty, but you certainly speak the truth. Have you ever worn tails?” Malone shook his head. “You’re going to tonight. We’re about the same size, you can wear my spare set. What size shoes do you take?”