The Ways of the World (47 page)

‘Who’s rumoured to be his employer, Masataka?’

‘No one knows. But you and I could hazard a guess.’

‘Lemmer.’

‘It may be so. Ultimately, that is. Presumably, Lemmer would have engaged his services through intermediaries. Tarn must have known what le Singe was doing, remember, but it did not help him find Lemmer. One may see the strings on the puppet, while the hand pulling the strings remains invisible.’

‘Still, it’s surely no coincidence that the word was written in the language of the country where Lemmer and my father first met.’

‘You think Farngold – whoever or whatever it is – connects Henry with Lemmer?’

‘I think it may.’

‘And how will you find out if it does or not?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Maybe you will never know.’

‘Maybe I won’t.’

‘Then consider well the wisdom of abandoning your search. You are young. Life lies before you, with all its pleasures and fulfilments. You deserve to enjoy it. Why not allow yourself to do so?’

‘Because I don’t like giving up before I have to.’

‘No.’ Kuroda patted Max on the arm, almost paternally, as if imparting some resigned reflection on Sir Henry’s behalf. ‘And you will not give up, of course.’

They parted at the Pont des Invalides, where Kuroda crossed the river, heading for the Quai d’Orsay. Max watched him go, a tall, thin, courtly figure, moving at his own pace though the Parisian afternoon. His advice was sound. Max had accomplished more than could reasonably have been expected of him. He had defied the odds. He had won.

But he had no sense of victory. Nadia had escaped. Lemmer was unscathed. And le Singe’s message still pointed to an untold truth. He could not simply walk away.

No one was lying in wait at the Mazarin this time. But still the reception clerk had a surprise for him. ‘There is a parcel for
you, Monsieur Maxted.’ He lifted it out from beneath the desk.

It was about the size of a shoe box, wrapped in brown paper and fastened with string. Max’s name was written on it in large capitals. There was no address. It had not come through the post.

‘When was this delivered?’

‘A couple of hours ago,
monsieur
.’

‘Who by?’

‘He did not give his name. He said you would be expecting it.’

‘“Expecting it”. He said that?’

‘
Oui, monsieur
.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Er …
quelconque
; ordinary. He was … well-dressed. Not young. Grey-haired, with a beard. And glasses. He spoke quietly. You know him?’

THE PARCEL HELD
money: lots of it. The bundles of banknotes spilt out on to the bed in Max’s room at the Mazarin and he gazed at the heap in astonishment. It amounted to thousands of pounds, as far as he could tell, though there were more US dollars and French francs than sterling. Lemmer had told the reception clerk Max would be expecting to receive it. But he had not been, of course. He had not foreseen this, not remotely.

His first thought was that it was a crude bribe. Then it came to him. It belonged to his father. It was Sir Henry’s stockpile of money from the safe-deposit box at the Banque Ornal – and now, with bizarre appropriateness, delivered to his executor. The gesture was pure Lemmer. He had not wanted the money. He had wanted the documents the box held. Now he had them, Max was welcome to the cash.

There was no explanatory note. Max sifted through the bundles in search of one, though he felt sure he would search in vain. Lemmer trusted him to understand the message. The money had been wrapped in a sheet of newspaper: Max pulled it free from beneath the bundles and cast it aside.

As he did so, he noticed that someone had ringed in bright-red ink an advertisement on what was the back page of the previous Sunday’s edition of
Le Petit Journal
.

The phrase
Discrétion absolue
had been underlined in red as well. It might mean nothing. A sheet of newspaper was a sheet of newspaper, a marked advertisement nothing out of the ordinary. But did anything really mean nothing in the world of Fritz Lemmer? Max doubted it. He doubted it very much.

He locked the money in his suitcase and headed out.

There was no queue at the counter of the Pharmacie Claverie. A mild-mannered man in a white coat faced Max across it with a smile that contrived to be both welcoming and discreet. ‘
Bonjour, monsieur. Vous desirez?
’

‘
Bonjour
. I, er …
Je m’appelle Maxted
. James Maxted.’

‘
Ah, Monsieur Maxted
.’ The pharmacist seemed to know the name. ‘
Attendez un moment
.’ He bustled off into a room behind him, reappearing a few seconds later with a small dark-brown bottle in his hand. ‘
Votre ordonnance
.’ He passed it to Max with a broadening of his smile.

‘
C’est … pour moi
?’

‘
Oui, monsieur
.’

‘
Mais …
’

‘
C’est tout, monsieur
.’ The pharmacist nodded emphatically, not to say dismissively. ‘
Merci beaucoup
.’

Max did not examine the bottle until he was outside, though it felt suspiciously light. Sure enough, there were no pills inside, just a plug of cotton wool and, beneath it, a tightly folded piece of paper.

It was a page torn from a railway timetable, showing services from Paris to Melun, a place he had never heard of, via numerous other places he had never heard of. The column listing the timings for one of the services – the 11.35 departure from the Gare de Lyon – had been outlined in red.

As Max set off back along the quai towards his hotel in Paris, pondering how to respond to what he did not doubt was an invitation from Lemmer, a very different kind of invitation was being considered by his mother in the drawing-room at Gresscombe Place in Surrey.

‘Would you care to explain why you told us nothing about this, Mother?’ Ashley asked snappishly.

‘Ashley is head of the family now,’ put in Lydia, quite unnecessarily, since Lady Maxted was well aware of his status.

‘I’m bound to ask
when
you intended to inform us,’ Ashley continued. ‘But for the letter I had from Fradgley telling me the French police had changed their minds about how Pa met his death and my subsequent telephone conversation with Mellish, we might still be in ignorance of these appalling events. We were horrified to learn that James had actually killed a man – in the London flat, of all places. Such shocks aren’t good for Lydia in her present condition.’

‘Have you been to the flat?’ asked Lydia. ‘What state is it in?’

‘Is it your unborn child you’re concerned about?’ Lady Maxted responded. ‘Or the redecoration bill?’

‘What we’re concerned about, Mother,’ said Ashley, with heavy deliberation, ‘is limiting the damage to our family’s reputation that James may have caused by involving himself in such … mayhem.’

‘He killed an intruder in self-defence. And the French police are evidently satisfied, based on what Mr Fradgley has written to you, that the intruder in question murdered Henry. I’m bound to say that we should all be grateful to James for what he has achieved. Don’t forget he also saved Mr Brigham’s life.’

‘But to shoot a man through the head,’ gasped Lydia. ‘It’s … too awful for words.’

‘Then spare yourself the distress of finding any words, my dear. Many men shot other men through the head in the war. We regard them as heroes and rightly so. James has done what he swore to do. I for one am proud of him.’

‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me what had happened as soon as you heard of it from Mellish,’ Ashley complained.

‘I knew how you would react. It was an emergency. I needed a calm atmosphere in which to address the matter.’

‘Calm atmosphere? What the—’

‘And I had George to advise me.’

‘This isn’t good enough, Mother,’ Ashley declared, in something
close to a shout, adding a slap of his hand on the arm of his chair for emphasis. ‘It really isn’t.’

‘Where is James now?’ Lydia demanded.

‘He’s gone back to Paris.’

‘Why?’

‘He said there were some loose ends he wanted to tie up.’

‘Loose ends?’ spluttered Ashley. ‘Hasn’t he caused enough trouble?’

‘He seems to think not.’

‘Good God Almighty. He’s insufferable, completely insufferable.’

‘Did he say anything about the executorship before he left?’ asked Lydia.

‘The executorship?’ Lady Maxted affected a vagueness of tone calculated to rile her daughter-in-law.

‘Yes. The executorship.’

Lady Maxted paused theatrically, then said, ‘As a matter of fact … I don’t believe we spoke of it.’

‘More money than either of us has ever seen before,’ said Max a few hours later, opening the suitcase in his room at the Mazarin to show Sam Sir Henry’s hoard of cash.

Sam whistled in disbelief. ‘And more than I’ll ever see again. That’s for sure.’

‘Lemmer certainly has his own way of doing things.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘It means you’ll go after him. Just like you always went after the Boche pilots who had the biggest reputations. It’s in your blood.’

‘If I go after him, it’ll be to learn the truth – the whole truth – about my father.’

‘Understood, sir. Still, it’s a pity.’

‘What is?’

‘The flying school. I’m sure we could have made a success of it.’

Max smiled. ‘We still can. You’re wrong about never seeing this much money again, Sam. Legally, it belongs to my brother, but he can go hang. I intend to salt it away so that you and I can start that
flying school eventually. Ashley’s never going to give us those fields at Gresscombe, so we’ll need to buy land as well as planes when the time comes.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir? I mean—’

‘As I recall, we were both sure it was a good idea when we talked it over at the Rose and Crown. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’

Sam looked aghast. ‘Changed my mind? ’Course not. But … all this money. I, er …’

‘Let me worry about the money.’ Max clapped Sam on the shoulder. ‘I can’t predict how long it’s going to take me to do what I have to do, Sam. The question is: are you willing to wait? You could always look for another partner.’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you, sir?’ Sam grinned. ‘I’ll never find anyone else I’d want to go into business with who’d actually be willing to go into business with me.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘It’s the truth, sir. So, like my girl said to me before I went off to war: “I’ll wait for you.” But unlike her, I mean it. Anyway, I’ve got a job until this conference ends, haven’t I? The way they’re going, I reckon they could still be here come Christmas. And Paris is definitely one up on Walthamstow. The way I see it, I’m sitting pretty.’

‘Good man.’ Spontaneously they shook hands, confirming the renewal of their bargain. ‘I doubt you’ll see much of me for quite a while after tonight, Sam. You appreciate that, don’t you?’

‘I do, sir.’ Sam knew better than to ask any questions about Max’s pursuit of Lemmer. And Max liked him all the more because of it. ‘You’ll take care, won’t you?’

‘Of course. When did I ever not?’

‘You don’t want me to answer that, do you, sir?’

‘Absolutely not. Now, to more serious matters.’ Max pulled several notes out of a bundle of French francs and slipped them into his pocket, then closed the suitcase and locked it. ‘It’s time to go and get roaring drunk, I think, don’t you?’

APPLEBY WAS SLEEPILY
aware of his train’s arrival at the Gare du Nord early the following morning, but he intended to doze on for an hour or so before emerging into the Parisian dawn. He distinctly recalled telling the steward so and was therefore none too pleased to be roused by a persistent knocking at the door of his cabin. ‘Go away,’ he bellowed. ‘
Va-t’en!
’ But it did no good. Eventually, he hauled himself out of his bunk and opened the door.

‘Good morning, Appleby,’ said Max, beaming in at him. His voice may have been gravelly, but his chin had the smoothness of one who had already bathed and shaved. ‘Can I buy you breakfast?’

They adjourned to the station café. Neither, it transpired, had much of an appetite. Coffee and his pipe satisfied Appleby’s needs. It was coffee for Max too, supplemented by brandy. ‘Hair of the dog,’ he explained, without elaboration.

‘Are you leaving Paris already?’ Appleby asked, nodding to the suitcase Max was carrying with him.

‘Maybe. I don’t actually know.’

‘It’s too early for riddles.’

‘I’ll keep it plain and simple, then. How did your meeting at HQ go?’

‘Not well, thanks to your exploits. My ears are still ringing from the reprimand.’

‘Sorry about that.’

Appleby grunted. ‘It can’t be helped.’

‘Ah, but perhaps it can. I have a proposition for you.’

Appleby’s gaze narrowed. ‘Go on.’

‘Lemmer wants me to work for him.’

‘
What?
’

‘He came to see me while I was laid up at the Hôtel Dieu. Turned up at my bedside in the middle of the night, masquerading as a doctor.’

‘Are you joking, Max?’

‘No. I didn’t tell anyone about it at the time because I didn’t think they’d believe me. But it was him. Softly spoken, mild-mannered man. Beard and glasses. Professorial air.’

Appleby nodded slowly in amazement. ‘So they say.’

‘He offered me exciting and lucrative employment.’

‘As a spy?’

‘Something in that line. He said I’d enjoy the work.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I told him to go to hell.’

‘So I should hope.’

‘But now …’

‘Yes?’

‘He’s contacted me again since I came back to Paris. Indirectly. The offer’s still open. You could even say he’s made payment in advance. The suitcase contains the money he found in my father’s safe-deposit box. Lemmer wanted the documents that were in it, of course, not the money. He’s returned it to me as a gesture of good will. I was hoping you’d agree to bank it for me. In an account where it can be held for the duration.’