The Ways of the World (33 page)

‘If you had seen what Mr Twentyman and I saw … you would not tread so softly.’

‘Unfortunately, we’re obliged to.’

‘And I will be obliged to tell my uncle’s friends that his murderers may be able to hide behind … diplomatic immunity.’

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘But can you help it, Mr Appleby? That is the question.’ With that, Nadia rose to her feet. ‘I must go home now. There is much to be arranged.’

‘I have a car waiting for you,
mademoiselle
,’ said Zamaron, rising hurriedly himself.

‘
Merci, monsieur
.’ She turned to Sam. ‘You will tell Max what has happened … when he is better?’

‘Of course.’

‘For all you did, Sam … I am grateful.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘This way,
mademoiselle
,’ said Zamaron, ushering her out.

For a moment, Sam found himself alone with Appleby. ‘Brigham definitely visited Nadia last night, Mr A,’ he said. ‘I saw him park the Daimler and go in.’

‘HX 4344?’

‘The very same.’

‘I’ve confirmed it’s his car. Nadia doesn’t know you were spying on her, I assume?’

‘I wasn’t exactly spying.’

‘But she doesn’t know?’

‘No.’

‘You mightn’t remain the knight in shining armour in her eyes if she found out.’

‘You have to squeeze the truth out of Brigham, sir. He’s in this up to his neck.’

‘And four people are dead.’

‘That’s right. There’s Madame Dombreux as well. She obviously
didn’t kill Spataro. You should twist the commissioner’s arm to get her released.’

‘How kind of you to tell me my job, Twentyman.’

‘I didn’t mean to do that.’

‘No? Well, I—’

Appleby broke off as Zamaron rejoined them, wearily rubbing his forehead. ‘
Mon Dieu
,’ he moaned, ‘what a day!’

Appleby caught his eye. ‘What a
week
!’

‘You will interrogate Brigham, Horace?’

‘It won’t amount to an interrogation, I’m afraid.’

‘But …’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘You will need to. The politicians will not want to connect these killings.’

‘I know.’

‘Why not?’ asked Sam.

‘Leave Léon alone, Twentyman. He has enough problems on his plate without being cross-questioned by the likes of you. I’ll tell you as much as you need to know – outside.’

They went down into the courtyard, where Appleby’s car was waiting. He told the driver to take a stroll, while they sat in the back. He obviously wanted no witnesses to what he had to say, which did not strike Sam as promising.

‘Murder’s not uncommon in this city, Twentyman,’ Appleby began, chewing on his unlit pipe. ‘The French are a passionate lot. And the war’s left a good many guns in the wrong hands. Sir Henry’s death really could have been an accident. Madame Dombreux really could have killed Spataro. And the Russians are notorious for score-settling, so Bukayev could be a victim of something in that line. As for Ennis, well, his murder’s hard to explain, I grant you, without imagining a conspiracy to be at work. But Carver will find a way round that, if he’s told to.’

‘And will he be told to?’

‘In all likelihood, yes. To acknowledge the existence of some kind of conspiracy stemming from the presence of past or present German spies within the delegations would be to acknowledge a
threat to the validity of the peace conference. It could even lead to its suspension.’

‘Crikey.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I expect our leaders would move heaven and earth to avoid that.’

‘They would. And they will.’

‘What are you going to do, then?’

‘Question Brigham before he has a chance to hide behind the skirts of the Permanent Under-Secretary. If I can persuade him to give himself away …’

‘Max seems to think he’s a wily operator.’

‘No doubt he is. But I have a few wiles of my own.’

‘I’m sure you do, sir.’

Appleby glanced sharply at Sam. ‘Do you mean to be sarcastic, Twentyman, or is it just your natural tone?’

‘You’d have to ask my old mum for a ruling on that, sir.’

‘Since Max trusts you, I have little choice but to do the same, at least while he’s
hors de combat
. Don’t think that trust is any more than highly provisional, though.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.’

‘If Max doesn’t pull through—’

‘Don’t say that, sir.’

Appleby paused in deference to the sincerity of Sam’s interruption. He sucked on his pipe for a thoughtful moment, then said, ‘I was using Max to do things I’m not free to do for fear of sparking a diplomatic incident. You understand that, don’t you, Twentyman?’

‘I do, sir, yes.’

‘So …’

‘Is there something you want
me
to do for you?’

Appleby sighed. ‘Much against my better judgement … yes.’

SAM HAD READILY
agreed to Appleby’s request, but was not entirely confident of his ability to talk his way into an audience with Baltazar Ribeiro of the Brazilian delegation. He did not lack for nerve, but his appearance and accent often encouraged his social superiors to treat him disdainfully. He would have to tread both boldly and carefully: a tricky combination, to put it mildly.

As it turned out, however, an audience was delivered to him on a plate. When he repaired to the Hôtel Dieu to see whether there had been any improvement in Max’s condition, Burley surprised him with the announcement that Max had a visitor. ‘Brazilian gent by the name of Ribeiro: senior member of their delegation. Not the sort of bloke you turn away.’

Sam went into the room and found a large, smartly dressed man sitting in a bedside chair that was obviously too small for him, gazing anxiously at Max, who was drifting feverishly in and out of sleep and probably unaware that there was anyone with him at all.

Ribeiro’s tanned skin and thick white hair gave him a vigorous appearance, but he was breathing heavily, perhaps because he was upset by the state he had found his old friend’s son in – or perhaps because he felt responsible for it. He was clad in a voluminous green overcoat and was turning a string of rosary beads fretfully in his fingers.

‘Senhor Ribeiro?’ Sam asked.

‘
Sim
.’ Ribeiro turned a pair of rheumy eyes in Sam’s direction. ‘
O que?
’

‘My name’s Twentyman. I’m a friend of Max’s.’

‘You are?’

‘I served under him in the war.’

‘Ah. I understand.’ Ribeiro rose and clasped Sam’s hand in both of his, grinding a rosary bead into Sam’s thumb in the process. ‘This is very bad. I am saddened to see him so ill.’

‘How did you hear about it?’

‘Ah …’ Ribeiro hesitated.

‘Max told me everything,
senhor
. I know you passed him the message from Ennis.’

‘Poor Ennis. To die like that, here, in the centre of Paris. You served under Max in the war, you say?’

‘Yes. Perhaps … we could go somewhere for a quiet word, sir.’

Sam piloted Ribeiro to a cheerless and sparsely populated canteen in the bowels of the building. Ribeiro revealed en route that he had heard of Ennis’s demise on the conference grapevine. The murder of a delegate had a lot of people worried. ‘And they will remain worried, until the authorities can assure them the crime had nothing to do with the business of the conference.’

Naturally, Ribeiro had been rather more than worried, since he it was who had told Max that Ennis would be waiting for him at Notre-Dame. Learning a so-called bystander had been wounded, he had feared the worst. And he had been right to.

‘I blame myself for passing the message,’ he said glumly as they reached the canteen. ‘I should have refused.’

‘Max was glad to get the chance to meet Ennis,
senhor
,’ Sam consoled him. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Ribeiro appeared unconvinced and the coffee the canteen supplied seemed to do nothing to lift his spirits.

‘I wanted to ask you exactly what Ennis said when he called round at your hotel yesterday morning,
senhor
,’ Sam ventured.

‘It was as I told Max. It was not a long conversation. Ennis was frightened, though he would not say what he was frightened of. He only wanted to be sure I would contact Max and—’

‘You asked him what he was frightened of?’

‘Yes. He only shook his head.’

‘Nothing else?’

Ribeiro raised his coffee-cup, but put it down again without drinking. He frowned thoughtfully. ‘“What is wrong, Walter?” I asked. Yes. That is what I said. “What is wrong?” And he shook his head. And I asked again. And he gave me such a tired look. He was weary to his core. “Contingencies, Baltazar,” he said. “It’s the ones you can’t foresee that get you in the end.”’

‘Contingencies?’

‘Yes. Contingencies.’

‘But what did he mean?’

‘I do not know. He would say no more than that. I asked if I could help him. He shook his head again and walked away.’

Contingencies. There had been something about them on Sir Henry’s list. Sam could not exactly remember what. But the word had been there all right.

‘Does it mean anything to you, Mr Twentyman?’

‘No,
senhor
. But it might mean something to Max.’

‘Will he recover? I spoke to a doctor who came in while I was there. He shrugged his shoulders a great deal. It is a habit of the French I do not like. He gave Max
une chance sur deux
. Fifty-fifty, you would call it. Not good.’

‘Not so bad either. He faced worse odds than that every day he flew in the war.’

Ribeiro raised a smile at that. ‘You hearten me, Mr Twentyman. You are better for me than the doctor is for Max, I think. This coffee, incidentally, is undrinkable. Do they sell brandy here?’

‘I’ll ask.’

Sam went up to the counter and enquired pessimistically after cognac. To his surprise, it was forthcoming. The phrase
Contingencies Memo
sprang suddenly into his mind as he watched the serving woman dispense the liquor. Yes. That was the item on Sir Henry’s list. Valuable, like every other item on it.

When Sam returned to the table with the brandy, he found Ribeiro fiddling with his rosary beads again. He looked as if the cares of the whole city were resting on his shoulders. ‘Thank you,’ he said, raising the glass and taking a sip. He set it down again with a heavy sigh. ‘My father, God rest his soul, once told me a happy man is a man without friends. What do you think, Mr Twentyman?’

‘Did your father have many friends?’

‘Oh, yes. And some of them caused him great problems. He had a generous nature. When the rubber boom ended, many of his friends asked him for help. He lent them money, which some of them never repaid. But what do you do when a friend asks you for help? Turn him away? No. Of course not.’

Sam had the distinct impression Ribeiro was really talking about himself rather than his father. Who was the friend he had not turned away? And what had he asked for? ‘You and Sir Henry went back a long way, isn’t that right,
senhor
?’

‘Yes.’ Ribeiro took another sip of brandy. ‘It is.’

‘You tell me if I’ve got the wrong end of the stick, but was there something Sir Henry asked you to do that you regret doing now?’

Ribeiro stared at him in silence for a moment. He went on staring at him as he smoothed down his moustache. Then he said, ‘What did you do in the RFC, Mr Twentyman?’

‘I kept the planes running.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘I know engines,
senhor
. I could tell from the sound of them if there was something wrong before it actually went wrong. It’s a knack. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’

‘And you have it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I must be careful what I say to you. You have good ears. There is a difference between listening and hearing and it seems you know the difference. I cannot speak to you of what passed between me and Henry. It would not be right. But I will speak to Max. After what has happened to him, I must, as soon as he is well enough, which I pray to God will be soon.’

‘Can I tell him what you’ll be speaking to him about?’

Ribeiro nodded solemnly. ‘You can. Tell him I know why Henry was trying to raise so much money. Tell him I know what he was planning to spend it on.’

LIONEL BRIGHAM ENTERED
Fradgley’s office at the British Embassy that evening with the air of one unconvinced that anything Fradgley wanted to discuss could be urgent enough to justify an interruption of his normal Sunday routine. His expression suggested he would swiftly be demanding an explanation from Fradgley for this summons ‘on a matter of the utmost importance’ with a distinct presumption that it was unlikely, in his judgement, to be important enough.

The few members of staff on duty at the Embassy had been unable to enlighten Brigham in the slightest degree, other than to confirm that Fradgley was on the premises. Strangely, however, upon knocking at the door and going on in without waiting for a response, Brigham was dismayed to discover that the room was empty, the chair behind the broad desk untenanted, no one’s eyes but those of the King in a framed photograph on the wall trained upon him.

‘Damn it all,’ Brigham remarked in his bafflement. ‘What the devil’s the fellow playing at?’

‘Ah, there you are.’ Through a doorway in the far corner of the room, leading Brigham knew not where, a figure suddenly advanced, beaming in welcome. It was Horace Appleby of the Secret Service, a man Brigham had done his best to steer well clear of. He regarded the Secret Service as an unwise and unwarranted innovation – a johnny-come-lately to the business of government which he would have preferred not to have come at all.

‘There’s clearly been some mistake,’ said Brigham, with as
much nonchalance as he could muster. ‘I’m here to see Fradgley.’

‘Presently indisposed,’ said Appleby, clamping an unlit pipe between his teeth. ‘But even if he had been here, it’s you and I who’d have done most of the talking. Shall we sit down?’

‘No need. I won’t be staying.’

‘Please, Mr Brigham. Take a seat.’ Appleby subsided into the chair behind the desk and gestured towards the chair facing him.