The Ways of the World (16 page)

‘No?’

Sir Ashley shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘The land my brother needs for this flying school you and he had hopes of establishing … is unlikely to be available.’

‘Oh.’

‘You have a trade you can turn your hand to, Twentyman?’

‘Not exactly, Sir Ashley, no.’

‘Well, I should advise you to find one.’

Sam could think of nothing to say to that. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. He badly wanted not to believe that his hopes for the future were to be dashed.

‘If there’s nothing else I can do for you …’ Sir Ashley glanced dismissively towards the door.

Sam steeled himself. ‘Mr Maxted’s address … in Paris?’

‘You still want it?’

‘If … If you don’t mind.’

‘Why should I mind?’ Sir Ashley stalked to his desk, ripped a sheet of paper from a pad and wrote on it, then handed it to Sam. ‘There you are.’

‘Thank you. I’m … much obliged.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Well, I was just wondering … if you could tell me … what’s keeping Mr Maxted … in Paris.’

‘What’s keeping him there?’

‘Er … yes.’

‘If you want to find that out, Twentyman, I suggest you waste some money I suspect you don’t have by going to Paris and asking him.’

‘Right.’ Sam swallowed a tart riposte. ‘I see.’

‘Do you? I doubt it. Now, you really must excuse me. I have my father’s funeral to arrange.’

For a second, when the alarm clock woke him, Max thought it was early morning rather than early evening. The twilight falling greyly
through the windows of his hotel room could have denoted either. Then where and when and why took urgent hold of his mind and he leapt up from the bed. The time had come to do what he had agreed to do for Ireton. He set aside caution and apprehensiveness as he had done every day of his war service. In his experience, they only slowed a man’s reactions. And speedy reactions could be the difference between life and death. Nothing as elemental as that, he felt certain, awaited him in Auteuil. In all likelihood, it would be as simple an errand as Ireton had predicted. At all events, he would soon find out.

He fastened his shoes decisively, donned his hat and coat and set out.

It was not until the train from Epsom reached Waterloo and Sam stepped out on to the platform that he decided to go through with it. Even then, absolute certainty only descended on him as he threaded his way through the surging mass of homebound commuters filling the concourse. He retrieved the bag he had deposited earlier in the day at the left-luggage office and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had not packed it in vain. He would head for Westminster Bridge when he left the station and reach Victoria in time for a bite to eat before the Paris sleeper was due to depart. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound, Sam,’ he murmured to himself as he went on his way. ‘You’re better off chewing croissants than baking buns.’ Already, he felt better for knowing that he was not going home.

Just as it had for the bustling commuters at Waterloo, so the working day had ended for Corinne Dombreux. She was confident Spataro had spoken to Zamaron by now, but until she had some confirmation of that she would remain anxious and fretful. Urging calm upon herself, she walked slowly home by her normal route.

The black Citroën parked by the kerb outside 8 Rue du Verger had no police markings, but was familiar to her as a model used by the higher echelons of the
préfecture
. This, it seemed to her, could only indicate that Spataro had indeed said his piece.

As she neared the car, the passenger door opened and
Commissioner Zamaron stepped out. He looked sombre and serious, as well he might, considering the coach and horses Spataro’s change of heart had driven through his absurd explanation for Sir Henry’s death. Corinne lengthened her stride and looked hopefully towards him.

MAX TRIED HIS
level best not to look at the clock too often as he waited for Monsieur Buisson in the Café Sans Souci. The establishment was only a short walk from Gare d’Auteuil. Many of its customers were on their way home from wherever they worked. There was a high degree of coming and going. By lingering as long as he already had over his coffee and hair-of-the-dog cognac, Max felt he had made himself more conspicuous than was wise. And his perusal of the copy of
Le Figaro
he had brought with him for camouflage was beginning to feel unsustainable.

Every time the door of the café opened – which was frequently – Max glanced across at the newcomer. Ireton had told him Buisson would be carrying a cardboard map-tube. He would join Max at his table long enough to down a coffee, then leave – without the tube. A few minutes later, Max would also leave – with the tube. It really was exceedingly simple. All Max had to say to Buisson was ‘
Monsieur Ireton vous prie d’accepter ses excuses
.’ Buisson, in all likelihood, would say nothing.

But the clock told Max, when he succumbed to temptation and looked at it, that Buisson was nearly a quarter of an hour late. Much longer and the delay would assume ominous proportions. Max sighed and decided to light another cigarette.

Just as he took out his cigarette-case, the door hinge gave a now familiar squeak. He glanced across the café. And there was Buisson, a portly, middle-aged man with flushed jowls and small eyes peering anxiously from beneath the brim of his hat. He held a briefcase and furled umbrella in one hand. The map-tube was
thrust under his other arm like a swollen swagger-stick. Max rubbed his brow with his left hand, the signal Ireton had instructed him to use. Buisson nodded and moved in his direction.

He sat down with a sigh reminiscent of a slowly deflating bicycle tyre and laid the map-tube on the vacant chair between them. ‘
Bonsoir
,’ he murmured, slipping off his hat to reveal a head of pomaded hair. Max noticed two symmetrical rivulets of sweat working their way down his temples. The sight was nether edifying nor reassuring.

‘
Bonsoir
,’ said Max. ‘
Monsieur Ireton vous prie d’accepter ses excuses
.’

‘
Ses excuses
,’ echoed Buisson. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed his moist upper lip. ‘
Bien entendu
.’ He cast Max a skittering, panicky glance. Then, suddenly, without waiting to order the coffee that would have given his presence in the café a semblance of normality, he stood up, grabbed his hat, briefcase and umbrella and made for the door.

A second later, he was through it and gone. The waiter who had been bearing down on their table shrugged and retreated. Max went ahead and lit his cigarette with studied calmness. He glanced down at the map-tube. There it was, left as agreed. But Buisson’s discomposure could hardly have been less in keeping with the supposed simplicity of its delivery. Something was wrong, something to which the pointer, he sensed, was Buisson’s reaction to Ireton’s absence: ‘
Bien entendu
.’ He understood, apparently. But Max did not.

He finished his cigarette, inspected the bill and laid down enough coins to cover it. Then, taking the map-tube with him, he rose and walked casually across to the coat hooks at the rear of the café. He balanced the tube on one of the hooks while he put on his coat and hat, then retrieved it. He was ready to leave.

But Max had no intention of leaving by the front door. He had already reconnoitred an emergency exit and, though he could not be sure whether the emergency was real or imagined, he had decided to use it.

He slipped through the door leading to the toilets, but ignored the steps leading down to them and pressed on through another
door marked
DEFENSE D’ENTRER
into a decrepit storage room and out of that via a dank and dripping stairwell into a rear courtyard.

There was no lighting. He trod cautiously on the slimy cobbles and reached the corner of the building where an alley led to the street. No one was visible. A car drove slowly past as he watched, the engine labouring. He saw no cause for alarm and moved into the alley.

As he did so, a caped and uniformed policeman stepped into the mouth of the alley and looked straight at him. ‘
Ici
,’ he shouted.

Max turned and ran. He heard the shrill blast of the policeman’s whistle behind him and a percussion of footfalls. The rendezvous at the café had been a trap. He had not walked directly into it, but he was scarcely out of it either.

There was a glimmer of light ahead on the far side of the courtyard. A street lamp he could not see dimly illuminated the exposed flank of a half-demolished building. There was a scalable wall ahead of him and a void beyond it that promised escape. He ran towards it, unable to see what might be in his path, and collided blindly with a cart stowed in the corner of the yard.

Ignoring the sharp pain in his knee where he had struck the cart, he glanced back and saw several milling figures in the alley. He had only seconds to elude his pursuers. He stuffed the map-tube inside his coat, jumped up on to the cart and launched himself at the top of the wall.

It was all that remained of an originally higher wall. The surface was jagged and crumbling. Max found a clawing hand-and-foot-hold and virtually fell over it, descending into a rubble-strewn demolition site. His hat fell off in the process. He could not see it in the darkness and had no time to look for it. He hobbled through an invisible chaos of toppled bricks and other debris to a narrow street where there was at least some light, chanced his arm on a right turn and broke into a jog, suppressing the desire to run headlong for fear of the noise his shoes would make on the cobbles. There were shouts behind him that sounded promisingly confused, but no sound of actual pursuit. He jogged on, favouring the more shadowy side of the street.

He could see a junction with a wider street about fifty yards
further on, but fifty yards was a long way. Sure enough, the police had negotiated the wall and the demolition site before he had covered the distance. There were loud shouts behind him. Torch beams flashed. Whistles shrieked. They had spotted him.

As he reached the junction, a dark saloon car appeared, bursting out of the night from nowhere, headlamps blazing. It swerved across the road and skidded to a halt at the kerbside next to him. Through an open window, a familiar voice addressed him. ‘Get in.’ It was Schools Morahan.

For a second, Max hesitated, then wrenched the rear door of the car open and threw himself in.

The car started away with a squeal of tyres and a surge of acceleration, pushing Max back against the seat.

‘Where … where did you come from?’ he panted.

‘The right place at the right time. There’s nothing I could have done for you if you’d walked out the front door of the café. You’re smarter than you look. And I see you got the package.’

The map-tube was protruding from Max’s coat. He pulled it out and dropped it on to the seat beside him, then nearly fell on to it when Morahan took a sharp left, followed shortly by a right and another right along quiet, poorly lit side-streets.

‘What’s in the tube?’ Max demanded.

‘Couldn’t tell you. Ask Travis.’

‘Did he know he was sending me into a trap?’

‘He had doubts about Buisson’s reliability. Seems he was right.’

‘So, to hell with me?’

‘Not quite. I came to get you, didn’t I?’

‘They could easily have caught me.’

‘But they didn’t.’

Another abrupt left turn took them on to a broad road running alongside a railway viaduct. Morahan seemed to relax. The road was straight and clear ahead, but he slowed slightly and blithely lit a cigarette.

‘No one’s following us. The
flics
who were chasing you were on foot and they won’t have been able to get a car on our tail. You can relax.’

‘Thanks so much.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘Are you taking me to meet Travis?’

‘No. I reckon back to your hotel’s best. See Travis in the morning. You won’t feel so hard done by then.’

‘You want to bet?’

‘If you like.’

It was hard to sustain the anger Max felt for the way he had been manipulated in the face of Morahan’s cool-nerved off-handedness. And, though he would not have admitted as much, he had actually rather enjoyed himself. It was good to be back in action – albeit a very different kind of action from his days in the RFC. He sighed and rubbed his throbbing knee. ‘Who is Buisson?’

‘Something middle-ranking at the conference printing works.’

‘What does he supply – secret documents?’

‘Ask Travis.’

‘Maybe I’ll just keep the tube and see for myself what it contains.’

‘I can’t let you do that.’ Morahan glanced at Max over his shoulder, the shadows inside the car rendering his expression indecipherable. ‘And we don’t want the evening going sour on you, do we?’

MAX WAS ROUSED
the following morning not by the alarm clock but by the telephone. Looking at the clock, he saw it was only just gone seven. The merest trickle of daylight was edging round the curtains. After the evening he had had, it was an awakening he would have preferred to be postponed indefinitely. But the hope instantly seized him that the call related to Spataro, news of whose recantation was overdue. He grabbed the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that you, sir?’

‘What?’

‘It’s Sam here, sir.’

Good God, it was Sam Twentyman. Max sought in vain for a plausible explanation. Surely he could not be calling from London. ‘What? Where are you?’

‘Downstairs.’

‘You’re here? In Paris?’

‘Yes, sir. Arrived on the sleeper a couple of hours ago. Not too early for you, am I?’

Max stumbled down to the lobby with his thoughts whirling. He was still bemusingly exhilarated by his close shave in Auteuil, but he was well aware that the incident illustrated just how duplicitous Ireton could be. He was also troubled by the continuing silence where Spataro was concerned. Sam’s sudden appearance was a complication he would have preferred to avoid. He had not expected his friend to run him to earth, though he knew why he
had. The sad truth was that Sam would soon discover he had had a wasted journey. Max supposed he should have spared him that.