The Ways of the World (32 page)

‘Do it, Sam. You do not need to tell him.’ She smiled encouragingly.

‘All right, then. I will.’ And he would – in his own way. ‘This help you need, Nadia …’

‘It is about my uncle. He has been missing for more than a week.’

‘Have you had some news of him?’

‘News? Maybe. I do not know what to call it. A man called Brigham—’

‘Brigham?’

‘Yes. Lionel Brigham. He is a member of the British delegation. You have met him?’

‘No. But I’ve heard of him.’

‘He has visited my uncle a few times. And they have met a few more times in other places. I do not know what business my uncle has with him. He has never said. But last night Brigham came to see me.’

‘He did?’ Sam commenced a rapid reassessment of events. Perhaps Nadia’s allegiances were not to be doubted after all.

‘Why are you frowning?’

‘Am I? Sorry.’ He made an effort to relax his features. ‘Go on.’

‘I do not like Brigham. There is something in his eyes. Something … I cannot say what it is.’

‘But you don’t like it.’

‘Are you laughing at me, Sam?’

‘No. Of course I’m not.’

‘First you frown. Then you smile.’

‘Sorry. Just … tell me what Brigham said.’

‘He said he is in contact with people who know where my uncle is. He said they had asked him to give me a message. If I want to see my uncle again, I should go to the railway bridge over the Canal de l’Ourcq at Quai de la Sambre.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Out in the nineteenth arrondissement, near the city walls. I do not know exactly. But I must go there.’

‘Of course. You want me to come with you?’

‘That is the strange thing. Brigham advised me to take a friend. “You may need help,” he said.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

‘He would not explain. He would not explain anything. “Go soon, my dear,” he said. “You should not delay.”’

‘Then we shouldn’t.’

‘But what will we find?’

‘Wondering won’t help you, Nadia. Let’s go.’

Nadia seemed grateful for Sam’s decisiveness. As they hurried out of the hospital, they passed the main enquiries office, where misanthropic functionaries dispensed grudging directions to visitors through a small window. One such visitor was turning away from the window with a disappointed scowl when he heard Sam speaking English and scurried over to buttonhole him.

‘Sounds like you and me are from the same neck of the woods, squire,’ he said in a cockney accent, laying a detaining hand on Sam’s elbow as he did so.

The man was small and scrawny, with skittering, inquisitive eyes. Sam did not like the look of him. ‘Small world,’ he mumbled, endeavouring to disengage himself.

‘Been visiting someone?’

‘Why else would we be here?’ Nadia asked icily.

‘That’s what I was thinking. Expect you’ve heard about yesterday’s shooting. Just along from here, in front of the cathedral. Like the Wild West, they say.’

‘Do they?’

‘Point is, rumour has it the so-called innocent bystander they brought in here with a bullet wound is English. Thought you might be friends of his.’

‘Can’t help you,’ said Sam.

‘Sure about that, squire? Caution understandable, o’ course, but there could be money in it for you. I’m with the
Daily Mail
. Phelps is the name.’ Sam found Phelps’ card had suddenly and magically materialized in his palm. ‘We’re doing a Paris edition during the conference. You’ve probably seen it. Always on the lookout for material. Lord Northcliffe’s given us a generous budget. You could be in for a slice of it if—’

‘We’re not interested.’ Sam thrust the card back into Phelps’ hand and pressed on towards the door.

‘Didn’t catch your name, squire,’ Phelps called after them. But Sam did not respond.

‘Are you really not interested, Sam?’ Nadia asked once they were outside. ‘He probably would pay you well.’

‘Not well enough.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because you can’t put a price on self-respect.’

‘Ah, no.’ She looked at him with what appeared to be genuine admiration. ‘You cannot, of course.’

Sam grinned. ‘Specially when you haven’t got too much of it to start with.’

THEY TOOK THE
Métro to Gare de l’Est, then on to the end of
Ligne
7 at Porte de la Villette. From there they headed along the boulevard that followed the line of the city wall south, with the railway line to their right. The sky was blue and the lying snow a dazzling white, but the east wind cut like a knife. Beyond the railway line was the city’s main abattoir, inactive on a Sunday, but emanating nonetheless a sharp, fetid tang that soured the air.

They reached the Canal de l’Ourcq where it ran in from the east and turned on to Quai de la Sambre. The railway was directly ahead of them. Beyond lay the rear of the abattoir and more bridges linking it with the meat market on the other side of the canal. Several barges were moored along the bank, but the towpath was empty. It was no place for strolling and certainly not for taking the air.

‘Why have we been brought here?’ murmured Nadia as they approached the railway bridge.

‘There’s got to be a reason,’ said Sam. ‘Didn’t Brigham even hint at what it could be?’

‘“If you want to see your uncle again, go there,”’ Nadia replied. ‘That is all he said.’

‘And here we are.’

They reached the bridge and moved into the shadow of the arch. Out of the sun, it was colder by several degrees. Water was dripping from the ironwork above them on to the path and into the canal, where a thin skin of ice had formed along the bank.

Nadia shuddered. ‘There is nothing here,’ she said, her breath clouding before her.

‘There must be.’ Sam looked ahead, then back the way they had come. There was not a soul in sight and not a vessel moving on the canal. It had all the elements of a fool’s errand. But Brigham had surely been in earnest. This was where he had said they should go and this was where they were: the very spot.

‘I thought someone would be waiting for us,’ said Nadia. ‘I even hoped Uncle Igor would be here. But there is no one.’

‘They couldn’t predict when we’d arrive,’ Sam reasoned. ‘Perhaps they’ve watched us approach and will show themselves now we’re here.’

Nadia walked out into the sunlight on the other side of the bridge and gazed around. ‘Where could they be watching from?’

Sam joined her. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, surveying the desolate scene. ‘We just have to wait.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know that either.’ A fear he suspected might be far from irrational suddenly gripped Sam. They had been lured to this place for some reason, even if it was not the reason Brigham had given. Someone could be watching them from any number of vantage points. And that someone could be the man who had killed Ennis and wounded Max. ‘Let’s wait under the bridge.’

‘Why? It’s warmer here.’

‘But it’s also more exposed.’ He grasped Nadia by the arm and led her back into the shadow of the arch.

‘You think this is a trap?’ she whispered, her voice quavering with alarm.

‘I’m probably wrong. It’s just—’

Sam broke off. His eye had been caught by a movement at the water’s edge on the other side of the canal. A bubble, lit by a shaft of sunlight, had come to the surface and burst. As he watched, there came another. These bubbles were rising in a patch of ice-free water around a rope tied to a mooring-ring on the towpath. And the rope was taut. There was clearly something heavy on the end of it, beneath the water.

‘What is it?’ asked Nadia. ‘What are you looking at?’

‘I’m not sure. Wait here.’

Sam took off at a sprint. He wanted to reach the other side of
the canal before Nadia jumped to the same conclusion he had. If it was the right conclusion, she should be spared it if at all possible.

He ran to the footbridge by the city wall, crossed it and raced back to the bridge. It took him only a few minutes to cover the distance. When he arrived, Nadia stared across at him with an anxious frown.

‘What is it, Sam?’ she called.

‘Probably nothing,’ he called back, bending by the mooring-ring and tugging at the rope. But it was not nothing. A shape stirred in the murky depths of the water. Peering down, Sam made out what looked like a large, bell-shaped sack. He could not simply pull it to the surface. It was too heavy. He heaved at it unavailingly for several seconds, then gave up.

‘I am coming over,’ Nadia called.

‘No. Stay there.’

‘I am coming over.’ And, so saying, she set off.

‘I hope this isn’t what I think it is,’ Sam muttered to himself. Looking along the towpath, he saw an iron ladder fixed to the bank just beyond the bridge. If he could drag the sack as far as that, he would be able to come to grips with it.

He untied the knot round the mooring-ring, took the weight of the sack and looped the rope around his waist so as not to lose his grip, then started walking backwards along the path.

It was slow progress and Nadia had overtaken him by the time he had reached it. She said nothing to him, her face gripped by a dawning realization she clearly could not bring herself to express. Instead, she grasped the rope and pulled along with him.

She lost her footing at one point and fell against him, but assured him through gritted teeth that she was all right. They set to again and eventually reached the ladder, where Sam tied the rope to the top of the stile.

There was nothing to be gained by delay, reluctant as he was to take the next step. It either was what he feared or it was not. Bracing himself against the chill of the water, he climbed down the ladder.

He winced as the freezing water seeped inside his boots and trousers. It was above his knees by the time he was able to reach the
sack. He took out his penknife, opened it and stabbed a hole in the material, then sawed upwards to create a slit.

A large bubble of air emerged. As it reached the surface, Sam was enveloped in a foul stench. He coughed and spluttered and, glancing up, saw Nadia cover her mouth and nose. Then he looked down at the sack again and saw something white and swollen flop out through the slit.

It was the head of a man.

‘
I’M VERY SORRY
for your loss, Miss Bukayeva,’ Appleby said, in a gentler tone than Sam was used to from him.

‘
Moi aussi, mademoiselle
,’ said Commissioner Zamaron.

They were in Zamaron’s office at the Préfecture de Police, surrounded by his art collection and enveloped in an atmosphere of sombre diligence. Several hours had passed since the discovery of Igor Bukayev’s body in a sack weighed down with rocks, suspended in the Canal de l’Ourcq. The deceased had been taken to a mortuary, where a pathologist was attempting to determine the cause of death.

Nadia had maintained rigid control of her emotions since her initial horror at what she and Sam had found. She spoke quietly and formally and generally avoided eye contact. The only signs of her inner turmoil were the constant clasping and unclasping of her hands.

She and Sam had explained what had led them to the canal without any need of misrepresentation, although Sam had naturally omitted to mention meddling with Brigham’s car. The facts appeared to speak for themselves. Lionel Brigham of the British delegation to the peace conference was implicated in the murder of Igor Bukayev and quite possibly in the murders of Sir Henry Maxted, Raffaele Spataro and Walter Ennis.

The enormity of the allegations against Brigham was clearly a factor in the solicitous but non-committal attitudes of Appleby and Zamaron. Officially, the Paris police still regarded Sir Henry’s death as an accident and Corinne Dombreux was being held by them as a suspect in the murder of Spataro. As for Ennis, they were looking for a killer who had had the audacity to strike from their
own headquarters. All in all, Sam reckoned Zamaron was a man with several headaches and no aspirins.

Zamaron had an additional difficulty where Brigham was concerned, as he was at pains to explain to Nadia. ‘All the officials the British have brought here have diplomatic immunity,
mademoiselle
. I could not even question Monsieur Brigham without the agreement of …’ He turned to Appleby for clarification.

‘The Permanent Under-Secretary,’ Appleby dolefully specified. ‘He’d need a lot of persuading.’

‘And forgive me,
mademoiselle
, but it would be …
comment dirait-on ça?
… it would be your account against his for what he said when he visited you last night.’

‘Assuming he admits visiting you at all,’ said Appleby.

Sam said nothing. He had not told Nadia – and he did not want to – that he had been in Little Russia the night before. He would have to tell Appleby, though – as soon as possible.

‘He knows the people who murdered my uncle,’ said Nadia with quiet gravity. ‘You must make him tell you who they are.’

‘We’ll try, miss,’ said Appleby.

‘Can
you
question him?’

‘I certainly intend to. But I can’t force him to answer my questions.’

‘Unless the Permanent Whatsit says he must?’ suggested Sam. ‘Is that the size of it, Mr A?’

Appleby glowered at him. ‘How succinctly you put it, Twentyman.’

‘This must be dealt with at the political level,
mademoiselle
,’ said Zamaron. ‘I will refer the problem to my superiors, who will refer it to their superiors at the Ministère de Justice. There are the Americans to be also considered in the matter of Monsieur Ennis.’

‘Any progress there, Léon?’ Appleby asked in a tone that suggested he assumed there had not been.

‘
Non
. How the man who shot Ennis entered and left this building is still … without explanation.’

‘You seem to be telling me, gentlemen,’ said Nadia, ‘that there is nothing you can do.’

‘
Non, non
. We will investigate all the circumstances of your
uncle’s death,
mademoiselle
. We will seek witnesses. We will search for clues. And we will provide you with protection.’

‘I’ll get as much as I can out of Brigham, miss,’ said Appleby. ‘You have my word on that.’