The Corners of the Globe (40 page)

Paris stretched around him, benign and sparkling in the afternoon sun. He could see Notre-Dame and the Hôtel Dieu, the Eiffel Tower and the Quai d’Orsay. Somewhere, in the mosaic of rooftops to the south, he could even imagine he saw the roof of 8 Rue du Verger, from which his father had plunged to his death.

Up here, in the clear, wide-horizoned air, falling was far from unthinkable. It seemed almost natural. The pathways his eye detected along lead-ridged apexes were tempting but treacherous. Ahead, along one such route, stood, by his calculation, the chimney-stack immediately above Soutine’s apartment. But where, if it was anywhere in this aerial world, was le Singe’s cache of documents?

Max dropped down onto the apex he had spied out and headed boldly along it. He was immune to vertigo and there was only the slightest of breezes. There was so much open air around him he could almost imagine he was flying again, which only reminded him how much he missed being a pilot.

He reached the base of the next stack. There was no way up it, although he was aware le Singe might know a way. The clod hopping Paris police never stood a chance of seeing the boy, of course, far less apprehending him. And Max acknowledged to himself that he did not stand much more of a chance of finding anything le Singe had hidden up there.

He looked to his right, down one of the slopes of the roof. There was a drop beyond to another roof, sloping away at right angles, with a belly-fronted chimney-stack at its top, below which was a sheer drop into a courtyard. At the base of the stack, bolted to it, was a wooden, louvre-fronted cabinet of some kind. It did not look like a normal feature of a roof. It had been fixed there by someone, for some specific purpose.

Max edged his way down the roof, aware of a hazardous amount of void opening around him. The only way down to the next roof was to jump. Considering the steepness of the slope he was jumping onto, it was a risky undertaking, but he had no intention of agonizing about it. He reached the edge, judged the height and the surface he was landing on as best he could, and launched himself.

He skidded as he hit the roof and started an alarming slide, which he only managed to arrest by grabbing a projecting flue. Risk, he remembered remarking to Sam in a philosophical moment during the war when bad weather had grounded their squadron, began as terror before becoming habit – ultimately an unremarked-upon feature of life. It was the life he had returned to in recent weeks. It was the life he was destined for.

He scrabbled back up the roof to the chimney and moved round it to inspect the cabinet. The door was fitted with a hasp, but there was no padlock. Max opened it.

There was nothing inside, except dust. But Max could see a roughly rectangular patch round which the dust was noticeably thicker. The cabinet was empty, but until recently it had not been.

He had found le Singe’s secret cache. But whatever le Singe had hidden there was gone.

As Max began to clamber his way back towards the skylight high among the Paris rooftops, Horace Appleby settled behind his desk at Secret Service Headquarters in London with the telegram he had just received and considered the message Max had sent him.

CLIENT LEFT PARIS. FOLLOWING TO MARSEILLES. WILL REPORT FURTHER. PLEASE TRANSFER BALANCE MY PRIVATE ACCOUNT TO T J MORAHAN BANQUE WITTVEIN DELAMERE RUE DE RICHELIEU NINETY THREE BIS PARIS SOONEST.

There was no divining the full import of such a message. The client, of course, was Anna Schmidt. Her sudden flight to Marseilles implied Lemmer had ordered her there. But why? Marseilles was a place of arrivals and departures, France’s principal Mediterranean port. What was Lemmer up to? Where might he be going, taking his faithful secretary with him?

Appleby knew he could rely on Max to do everything in his power to find out and to extract from Anna Schmidt the key to Lemmer’s code. How Max’s request to have his father’s money handed over to Schools Morahan chimed with that Appleby could only guess, though it was interesting to see an oblique reference in the cable to Morahan’s real name, the one he had been born with in Belfast in 1872. Thomas James Morahan was a man who had swum in dark waters all his life.

Appleby discarded the telegram and picked up a typed report that lay beside it. This concerned the murder of Travis Ireton the previous day in Paris. Its source, Jefferies, Appleby’s successor in Paris, was presently under suspicion, along with many others, but there was no reason to doubt the factual accuracy of his report.

Ireton’s killer had also injured Count Iwazu Tomura, a senior member of the Japanese delegation. Tomura, it was given out, would soon be returning to Japan, along with his son, Noburo Tomura. Max made no reference to any of this, which was understandable in the circumstances. But he must certainly be aware of it.

Tomura was heading home, doubtless via Marseilles, where Anna Schmidt was also bound. Tomura had done business of some kind with Ireton. With Ireton dead, Morahan was presumably in charge of Ireton Associates. Max was intent on paying Morahan a lot of money as soon as possible. The money had originally belonged to his father. Sir Henry had first met Lemmer in Tokyo
circa
1890. Both men might well have met Tomura around the same time. Everything was connected. Everything was converging. But connected by what? Converging on what?

There was no way to tell. Appleby could only put his trust in Max – and await events.

A TELEPHONE MESSAGE
had invited Sam to Le Lapin Nonchalant, a bar-café at the Gare de Lyon end of the Rue de Lyon. It was seven o’clock when he arrived, golden evening light etching the time on the station clock in sharp shadows. He went in and found Max waiting for him towards the rear, drink in hand.

‘It’s warm enough to sit outside, sir,’ said Sam as he ordered a beer.

‘Better not, Sam. It’d be best for you not to be seen with me.’

‘Heading south?’

‘Marseilles.’

‘On the trail of you know who?’

‘I’ll tell you everything when I get back.’

‘When’s that likely to be?’

‘Hard to say. Days. Weeks. Months. It’s . . . unpredictable.’

‘You’ll watch yourself, sir?’

‘Oh yes. Don’t worry, Sam. I won’t take any unnecessary risks.’

‘None
you
consider unnecessary, you mean. Cheers.’ Sam’s beer having arrived, he took a swig of it. ‘I asked your uncle that question,’ he said, lowering his voice.

‘Ah, right. What sort of answer did you get?’

‘He swore blind he’d never heard of the Farngolds.’

‘Did you believe him?’

Another swig of beer. Then: ‘Nope. Not for a minute.’

‘It’s as I expected, then. I’ll have to find out despite them.’

‘If you want some help . . .’

‘I’ll look elsewhere for it. It’ll be a comfort for me to know you’re safe and sound here.’ Max finished his whisky and signalled to the waiter for another. ‘That really is the biggest favour you can do for me.’

‘Doesn’t sound like much of a favour.’

‘Regard it as an order, then.’

Sam nodded reluctantly. ‘Right you are, sir.’

While Max and Sam were sharing a farewell drink at Le Lapin Nonchalant, George was dressing for dinner at the Hôtel Mirabeau. His bandaged left forefinger was complicating the task of tying his bow-tie enormously and he was grateful for the knock at his door, when it came. His visitor could assist him with the task.

‘
Entrez
.’

Winifred entered briskly, as she always did. ‘Not ready, George?’

‘It’s this damned bandage.’

‘You poor dear. Let me.’

Winifred twisted him round to face the light and came to grips with the tie.

‘Have you thought any more about what Sam said to me, Win?’ George asked quietly as he stretched his neck and studied the ceiling-rose.

‘I have.’

‘And?’

‘There’s nothing to be done. The Tomuras are going home. Commissioner Kuroda has already gone home. There’ll soon be no one left in Paris who knows anything about the Farngolds. When James returns, Mr Twentyman will tell him as much as he can, of course. But it won’t be enough, not nearly enough. And James will have no reason to pursue the matter.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘As sure as I can be. There.’ She patted the fastened tie with satisfaction. ‘It’s done.’

‘Thanks, Win.’

‘There’s no need to thank me, considering what you’ve been through on my account, not to mention the humble pie we’ll both have to eat when we face Ashley and Lydia.’ She smiled at him. ‘You have my full permission to drink immoderately this evening, George.’

While George and Winifred were preparing for dinner at the Mirabeau, Schools Morahan was standing in the kitchen of Malory Hollander’s apartment on the Ile St-Louis, watching her prepare a modest supper for them to share. Eveline, Malory’s co-tenant, was absent attending a party being thrown by one of her Red Cross colleagues.

‘You should have gone too,’ Morahan chided. ‘It might’ve done you good.’

‘Then you’d have had no one to talk to,’ said Malory as she sampled the sauce. ‘And we all know what a talkative soul you are.’

‘There’s not a lot more to be said for the present.’ Morahan leant against the cabinet beside him. ‘We are where we are.’

‘Watertight logic, Schools. That’s always good.’ She banged the drips off her mixing spoon on the rim of the saucepan and laid it down. ‘This’ll look after itself for ten minutes. Fix me a drink, would you?’

The raw materials for a gin and it were to hand. Morahan mixed one for her and topped up his bourbon.

‘Should we drink to Travis?’ Malory asked as she took her glass.

‘If you want.’

‘Max was right, you know. You’re not responsible for what Blachette did. Neither am I. Though thanks to your gallantry, of course, Max has no idea I talked you into sabotaging Travis’s deal with the Germans.’

‘I talked myself into it.’

‘It was the right thing to do.’

Morahan frowned. ‘I guess so.’

‘Agreeing to help Max go after Tomura, on the other hand, might have been a monumental misjudgement.’

‘You can back out if you want to, Malory. Max will understand. So will I. You never needed to volunteer in the first place.’

‘It’s a venture into the unknown. By any rational analysis, it’s madness.’

‘It doesn’t feel like madness.’

‘At some point, it will, believe me.’

He looked at her solemnly. ‘I do.’

‘There’s something I ought to tell you. About the time I spent in Japan. There were . . . complications . . . I’ve never mentioned.’

‘Are those complications likely to help or hinder us?’

‘They might do either. Or both.’

‘You want to tell me about them now?’

‘Not really. I don’t unburden myself easily. These are matters I never expected to speak of to anyone.’

‘Then don’t speak of them. Unless you’re certain you have to.’

‘Most people are eager to be told a secret, Schools. Why are you different?’

‘Maybe I already know too many.’

‘I’m not going to back out.’

Morahan nodded. ‘I know.’

He drank some more bourbon, then added, ‘Neither am I.’

‘We’re truly going to do this?’

‘It seems we are.’

‘Then let’s drink to that.’

Max settled into his seat in the restaurant car of the Mediterranean Express as it drew out of the Gare de Lyon at the start of its overnight journey to Marseilles. There was something to be said for skulking in his sleeping compartment, where no one could see him. But skulking was not in his nature and he was damnably hungry. If he was being followed, he would have been followed onto the train, so hiding himself away would be futile.

Scanning the crowd on the concourse before boarding, Max had caught sight of a figure who might have been Meadows, sole survivor of the group he and Appleby had locked horns with in Oxfordshire. But his memory of Meadows was not clear enough for him to be certain on the point. A fully trained spy would have taken more careful note of Meadows’ features when he had the chance, of course. Max was still in essence an amateur. That, he conceded to himself, probably explained his presence in the restaurant car.

‘
Un apéritif, monsieur?
’

‘Champagne,’ said Max.

Amateur or not, Max had no illusion about the hazardousness of his situation. Anna Schmidt’s abrupt departure for Marseilles and Otto Krenz’s ready provision of the address where she might be found were likely to be pawn-movements in Lemmer’s chesslike handling of his resources. Max was probably going exactly where Lemmer wanted him to go.

But Max was also going where he wanted to go. He had outmanoeuvred Lemmer before and he backed himself to do so again. As a pilot, he had never been one to pay much heed to tactical planning. No dogfight he had ever been involved in had gone better for chalking optimistic trajectories on a blackboard beforehand. A good meal and sound sleep were all he needed to be ready for whatever Lemmer had prepared for him.

‘
Merci beaucoup
,’ he said as his champagne was delivered.

He held the glass before him for a moment, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. They rose and they burst, as bubbles were bound to, for they, like him, were governed by their nature.

MAX EMERGED FROM
the Gare St-Charles into the stridently bright light of Sunday morning in Marseilles. In the course of one night, he had moved from a grudging spring into early summer.

Walking out onto the esplanade in front of the station, he gazed out across the slowly stirring city. Bells were summoning the faithful to the basilica of Notre-Dame on the hilltop ahead of him. A few small boats were moving in the Vieux Port. And a smudge on the horizon, out to sea, he reckoned must be the Château d’If. Max’s knowledge of Marseilles was almost entirely confined to his adolescent reading of
The Count of Monte Cristo
. But he was well aware Dumas would be of little help to him now.

Of more immediate use was the street map he had bought in the station. The Rue du Baignoir was not far away. He could walk along it on his way to the hotel he had booked by cable from Paris.