The Ways of the World (25 page)

‘Lemmer threads his agents together as if they are pearls on a string. In a time of war, communications are vital, but also fragile. I believe Lemmer’s principal agent in Russia was a conduit for the overtures he made to Japan. And I believe Pierre Dombreux was that agent.’

‘Dombreux?’

‘There is no better camouflage than to be thought to have betrayed your country to another when in truth you have betrayed them both to a third.’

If Kuroda was right, Max realized at once, Dombreux might have known about the Trust as well as the stolen Chinese documents. ‘You’re suggesting Dombreux confided in my father?’

‘Yes, I am. A triangle has three sides. It is a rule of geometry. Dombreux and his wife. Madame Dombreux and Henry. Henry and Dombreux. We must ask ourselves what passed between them in the months after the Bolsheviks seized power in Russia. Lemmer’s Japanese plan had misfired. Maybe he blamed Dombreux. And maybe Dombreux knew the Bolsheviks doubted
his loyalty. The wolves were prowling at the edge of the wood. Soon they would close in on the dwindling camp fire. He was a frightened man with much to fear. I am not sure which of his masters, if any, he was truly loyal to: Lemmer, the Bolsheviks or
la belle France
. And I am not sure if he was as heartless a husband as he appears to have been. Perhaps he sensed his doom approaching and gave Henry some of his secrets in the hope that they would enable him to protect Madame Dombreux.’

‘If so, it didn’t work, did it?’

‘No. Henry was outmatched. As you are. There is something else I must tell you, Max. It is a hard thing to say. This matter of Count Juichi’s letter and Lemmer’s probable responsibility for its theft is a very serious threat to the Japanese government. An order has been given. A man has been engaged. An assassin. He is a master of his craft.’

‘What has he been engaged to do?’

‘Find Lemmer. Kill him. Retrieve the letter. And kill anyone else who knows what it contains.’

‘I see.’

‘That is why you must speak of it to no one. For there is no one you can trust absolutely. You are a blind man who has crossed the path of a tiger. And a hunting tiger makes no sound. His name is Tarn. I know nothing else about him except his reputation.’

‘Which is?’

‘Formidable.’

‘You think he killed my father?’

‘It is possible. Yet, strictly speaking, it would have been illogical, unless Henry had first told him where Lemmer was hiding. And Tarn has not found Lemmer yet. That much is certain.’

‘Does he work alone?’

Kuroda glanced round at Max in surprise. ‘What makes you ask?’

‘That death threat I ignored was delivered to me by an Arab boy.’

‘A boy? Or simply a slightly built young man?’

‘Hard to say.’

‘There is a rumour that Tarn employs an assistant who could be the person you describe.’

‘Le Singe.’

‘You have been reading the newspapers. Yes. Le Singe. It could be him. Or someone like him.’

‘What would Tarn use him for?’

‘Reconnaissance. Surveillance. Gaining entry to buildings.’

‘But according to the papers he’s an opportunist burglar.’

‘Maybe he is. When Tarn does not need him.’

‘Is Tarn a Frenchman?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Would Ireton know?’

‘It is possible. He knows many things. That is why I have dealt with him from time to time. But I doubt he would be willing to help you. He would consider it dangerous to attract Tarn’s attention. And he would be right.’

They were nearing the southern gate. Kuroda stopped and Max pulled up beside him. They turned and looked at each other. Max lit another cigarette. ‘As my self-appointed counsellor, Masataka, what do you suggest I do?’

‘Leave Paris.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Confront your enemy. He has given you some time – probably not much – to acknowledge his superiority and retreat. If you do not intend to do so, then you must attack him.’

‘But first I must find him.’

Kuroda nodded. ‘So you must.’

‘What chance do you give me?’

‘A slim one. Though no slimmer than the chance that we should ever have met. We can never see the ends of the roads our choices lead us down until we reach them. I chose long ago, as a young Tokyo police officer, to volunteer for special attachment to a foreign police force. I was sent to London and spent a year at Scotland Yard. That is how I came to learn English and to love the writings of Scott and Dickens and Hardy. It is why, after I returned to Japan, I was assigned to investigate the activities of foreign residents in our country. And it is why I find myself in Paris today, standing with you here, in the cold spring sunshine. The future is not written, Max. It is a blank parchment. What I will eventually
read of you on it, or you of me, cannot be known. Until the time comes.’

‘And meanwhile?’

‘Tread softly. But tread swiftly.’ Kuroda laid a hand on Max’s shoulder. ‘That is your self-appointed counsellor’s considered advice.’

MAX SURVEYED THE
thinly peopled breadth of the Place de la Concorde, wondering if he would see the young Arab again. But he was nowhere in sight. Outside the entrance to the pillared and porticoed Hôtel de Crillon, however, Travis Ireton was very much in evidence, smoking a cigarette and gazing about him as he prowled up and down.

‘You made it, then,’ he said, smiling crookedly as Max approached.

‘There was no danger I wouldn’t.’

‘I guess not, though danger’s often where you don’t expect to find it.’

‘Shall we go in?’

‘Sure. But before we do …’

‘Yes?’

‘Back me up in everything I say, won’t you, Max? It’s important we stick to the script.’

‘And what is the script?’

‘You’re a smart fellow. You’ll soon catch on.’

As at the Majestic, there were guards on the door of the Crillon. These were big, burly American guards. Ireton was obviously well-known to them, however. He and Max were admitted without difficulty.

The marbled splendour of the lobby was only outdone by the mirrored and frescoed ornateness of the restaurant, but the Americans had contrived to lay a heavy transatlantic hand on
the hotel’s Parisian elegance. The food being consumed and the largeness and loudness of those consuming it clashed rudely with the surroundings. The very smell of the place was wrong.

Walter Ennis, their host, was a tall, good-looking, middle-aged man who would have looked better still for the loss of several stones of fat which even an expertly cut suit could not disguise. He was flushed and uneasy in his manner, though superficially jovial. His shirt collar strained round a roll of pink flesh where his neck should have been and there was a disagreeable sweatiness to his handshake. Max had the impression the Martini he was drinking was not his first of the day.

They joined him in his choice of aperitif and Ireton managed some deft introductions. He and Ennis, it transpired, had been schoolfriends in Baltimore, but Ireton had not, he shamelessly lamented, followed Ennis’s path to Yale and government service. Ennis himself proffered neatly phrased condolences when he realized whose son Max was.

‘I met your father a couple of times at meetings of our Latin American committee. A real gentleman. I was awful sorry to hear about his death, I truly was.’

Max thanked him and kept a studiously straight face as Ireton explained that it was Max who had proposed the three of them meet. ‘He was insistent, actually, Walter. But evasive about the reason, aside from the fact that it concerns his father.’

It was clear to Max that Ennis did not like the sound of that. But he smiled gamely as they ordered their meals and moved on to a second Martini (or third or fourth, in his case). Ireton piled on the agony by asking Ennis how he thought President Wilson would respond to continued French claims for the Saar coalfields. Ennis’s reaction suggested he felt this was an improper question in such company. Exasperation with his old schoolfriend, fuelled by alcohol on an empty stomach, began to exhibit itself. And Max soon became an additional target.

‘What
exactly
can I do for you, Max? I reckon it’s time you said your piece.’

‘You’re right, Walter. If I’ve delayed explaining myself it’s because the situation’s a little … foggy.’

‘Nothing like sunlight to clear fog,’ said Ireton. ‘We need a few shafts of it, don’t we, Walter?’

‘That we do,’ said Ennis.

‘Then let me supply them,’ said Max, keeping his tone relaxed and unassertive. ‘Firstly, you should know my father’s death wasn’t an accident, as reported in the press. He was murdered.’

‘You don’t mean it.’

‘He does,’ said Ireton. ‘This part I know.’

‘I’m determined to find his murderer and see him answer for his crime.’

Ennis eyed Max queasily. ‘Well, I guess you would be.’

Their lunches arrived at that moment. Ennis had ordered a steak, but his expression implied regret that he had not asked for it to be well done. Blood was evidently not what he wanted to confront on his plate.

‘I found a list of names in my father’s handwriting,’ Max went on. ‘You’re both on it. I thought I’d start by asking why you thought that might be.’

‘Depends what kind of list we’re talking about, I imagine,’ said Ireton.

‘It’s hard to tell. But it’s one of the few clues I have to follow. There are figures on it as well. It almost looks as if you … owed him money.’

Ireton’s eyes widened at this piece of improvisation. Ennis’s complexion darkened a shade. It was closer to red now than pink. ‘I didn’t owe Henry any money,’ he said emphatically.

‘Nor me,’ said Ireton.

‘Maybe we could see this list.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have it with me.’

‘Well, that’s a shame. You’re not giving us a lot to go on, are you?’

‘Would some of the other names he listed help?’

‘They might.’

‘Lemmer.’

Ennis frowned unconvincingly. ‘Lemmer? I don’t think …’

‘You know who he is, Walter. You both do.’

‘No sense denying it, I guess,’ said Ireton, drawing a glare from Ennis.

‘I wondered if you two were in some kind of negotiation with my father … for information about Lemmer.’

‘What makes you think that?’ Ennis asked levelly.

‘Well, I assume the whereabouts of the Kaiser’s spymaster would be of interest to a senior member of the US delegation such as yourself, Walter.’

‘You do, do you?’

‘My father knew Lemmer from the time when they were both in Japan in the early nineties. He was one of very few people familiar with his appearance. That may be what got him murdered.’

‘That’s quite a leap you’re taking, Max.’

‘Were you in discussion with him about Lemmer?’

Ennis glanced at Ireton, who shrugged unhelpfully. He sighed. ‘Travis here suggested Henry might know where Lemmer was and asked if I’d be interested, on behalf of the State department, in buying the information.’

‘Henry asked me to put out some feelers,’ said Ireton. ‘So I did.’

‘Did you express any interest, Walter?’ Max pressed.

‘Of course.’

‘And did you consult anyone else about it?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’m wondering if someone tipped Lemmer off, you see.’

Ennis’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you making some kind of accusation?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I’m not sure I like the direction this conversation is taking.’

‘Sorry about that. But murder’s a disagreeable business. So’s spying, of course. I gather there were people at all levels of every government in Lemmer’s pay.’ Max could have stopped there. But he was conscious of Kuroda’s warning that he did not have unlimited time to play with. ‘Let me throw another name on the list at you. Tarn.’

‘Tarn?’ Ireton looked at him in frank surprise.

‘I don’t know who you’re referring to,’ Ennis declared.

‘No?’

‘No.’ Ennis flung down his fork with a clatter, tossed his napkin on to the table and stood up. ‘You’re going to have to excuse me for a few minutes, gentlemen. Eat on without me. I’ll be back directly.’

As he headed out of the restaurant, Ireton took a sip of wine and frowned at Max. ‘You seem to have got under his skin.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘Maybe because he doesn’t like being accused of treason.’

‘Is that how it sounded?’

‘Wasn’t it meant to? And what was that about Tarn? Where’d you—’

‘Excuse me, Travis.’ Max rose from his chair. Speed was of the essence. It had suddenly occurred to him that he might profit from speaking to Ennis alone. ‘There’s something I have to attend to.’

Max guessed Ennis had gone to the toilets and emerged into the reception area wondering where they might be. But, no, Ennis was standing at the desk directly ahead of him. Max saw the clerk take a key from the pigeon-holes behind him and hand it to Ennis, who turned and hastened towards the lifts.

Max took a slow waltz round a pillar to avoid the American’s eye-line. The lifts were definitely his destination. He must be going up to his room. But why?

As soon as Ennis was out of sight, Max marched confidently across to the desk. Descrying objects at a distance was a vital skill for a pilot in wartime and he was blessed with twenty-twenty vision. He knew which pigeon-hole had contained Ennis’s key and noted the number on the fobs of keys dangling in the holes either side of it as he approached. A swift calculation revealed that Ennis was going up to room 221. Max pulled up as if he had just remembered something, turned and headed for the stairs.

During the early, trivial stages of their conversation, Ennis had bemoaned ‘the slow as a snail elevators’ in the hotel, so Max was not surprised, on reaching the second floor and following the signs, to see the American opening the door of his room and going in. He was clearly in a hurry and Max could hear his heavy, wheezy breathing.

In fact, he was in so much of a hurry that he did not check the
door was closed behind him, merely pushed it to as he entered. The latch did not engage. Max lengthened his stride.

He reached the door, pushed it carefully open and stepped inside. The room was vast, white-panelled and high-ceilinged, with tall windows looking out on to the Place de la Concorde. For a second, Max could not see where Ennis was. He actually heard his voice, barking into the telephone, before he spotted him, stooping over the desk next to one of the windows.