The Ways of the World (7 page)

‘I don’t. Yet. But perhaps we should speak to Madame Dombreux before we make our minds up.’

‘Absolutely not. Give her the slightest encouragement and she’ll be trying to blackmail us.’

‘With what?’

‘I don’t know.
Billets doux
Pa was stupid enough to send her, perhaps.’

‘But—’

‘Listen to me very carefully, James. I don’t want any word of this – any breath – to reach Mother.’

‘Neither do I, if Zamaron’s version of events is correct.’

‘It’s obviously correct. Fortunately, no one has any interest in bringing those events to public attention. Appleby and Fradgley are trying to avoid embarrassing our delegation here. And it sounds as if this fellow Zamaron has been told to help them do that. So, we must do everything we can to cooperate with them. Don’t ask any challenging questions. And don’t look down your nose in that way you have that implies you don’t believe a single thing you’re being told.’

‘Look down my nose? I never—’

‘If you want to make yourself useful, think of something we can tell Mother that will go some way towards accounting for what happened to Pa without mentioning this Dombreux woman.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘You’d better. Pa’s left us a truly horrible mess to clear up. It can be done. But only if we stick together. I need your support, James. Your loyalty to our family.’ Ashley looked round at
him as he traversed the next landing. ‘Can I be assured of it?’

‘Of course you can.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’

No doubt he was. But Max was aware that their definitions of family loyalty did not necessarily coincide. In the end, Max would abide faithfully by his definition, not Ashley’s. He understood himself well enough to know that it could be no other way.

POLICE HEADQUARTERS ON
the Île de la Cité was a massive old mansarded building facing Notre-Dame. It was so noisy and crowded that it was hard to tell who among the gabbling, form-flapping throng might be police officers, complainants or suspected criminals. Max for one was glad of a guide through the maze of narrow corridors and echoing stairways. It was clearly not Appleby’s first visit to the premises. The several greetings he exchanged along the way suggested he was a regular caller.

This was confirmed when they reached the relative haven of Commissioner Zamaron’s office. He was a small, wiry, moustachioed man, with a mop of suspiciously dark hair and a policemanly combination of affability and perceptiveness. Disarmingly, he and Appleby were on first-name terms – ‘
Bonjour, Horace
,’ and ‘Good morning, Léon,’ no less.

Appleby had alerted them to Zamaron’s supposed connoisseurship and it was immediately apparent. Paintings covered the walls – landscapes, still lifes and portraits in contrasting styles. Were they payments in kind for favours done? Max wondered. He could not resist whispering to Ashley, ‘I expect he keeps the nudes at home.’ Ashley pretended not to hear him.

There had been a telephone call for Fradgley from the Embassy, Zamaron reported in his very passable English. Fradgley took himself off to return the call.

That left Zamaron to offer Max and Ashley coffee, condolences and his personal assurances of discretion and dutifulness. ‘Horace has told you what I believe occurred,
messieurs
?
Très bien
. We do
not need to speak more of it. A tragic accident is a tragic accident. Everything is arranged. The, er …
travail administratif
… has been dealt with.’

‘He means the paperwork’s in place, gentlemen,’ said Appleby. ‘When will they be able to take Sir Henry’s body back to England, Léon?’

‘Whenever you wish. Tomorrow?’

‘That would suit us very well,’ said Ashley. ‘We’re very grateful for your … expeditiousness.’

‘Think nothing of it.’

‘The paperwork,’ Ashley pressed, ‘will include a death certificate, I take it?’

‘But of course. One has already been sent from the Mairie to the Embassy. No doubt Monsieur Fradgley is being told of this by his office.’

‘And what does it state as the cause of death?’

‘The cause of death?’

‘French death certificates don’t necessarily specify one, Sir Ashley,’ said Appleby with a smile.

‘Really?’ Max put in.

Appleby’s smile broadened. ‘Really.’

‘Sir Henry’s possessions – those found on him – I have here.’ Zamaron opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bulging manilla envelope. ‘You will want to have them.’

‘Indeed,’ said Ashley gravely.

‘I regret I must ask you to sign a receipt.’

Zamaron’s doleful expression implied his regret was genuine. Max could not but admire the man’s delicacy. It was only marginally sullied by the impression that he was enjoying himself rather a lot.

Zamaron handed the receipt to Ashley, who held it out for Max to see. It was printed in French, naturally. Their father’s possessions had been listed in abominable handwriting, also in French.
Un portefeuille. Une montre. Un mouchoir. Une paire de boutons de manchette. Une épingle à cravate. Un peigne. Une chevalière. 41fr
.

‘You should check it’s all there,
messieurs
,’ said Zamaron, when neither showed any inclination to do so.

Max sat forward and slid the contents of the envelope out on to the desk. There they were, each item instantly familiar: the leather wallet, the silver pocket-watch, the monogrammed handkerchief and cufflinks, the tie-pin, the humble comb, the signet ring. They were Sir Henry Maxted’s props and accessories that he had carried around the world.

‘All present and correct,’ said Max quietly.

‘Count the money, if you would be so good,
monsieur
.’

Max sighed and counted. Forty-one francs there were. He turned to Ashley. ‘Will you sign for it or shall I?’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Ashley. He had reddened slightly and his eyes had moistened, as if the sight of his father’s effects, arranged on a police-station desk, had moved him more deeply than viewing the old man’s corpse on a mortuary slab. There was something in that, Max would have agreed. He could not really have explained why.

Ashley signed on the dotted line and Max loaded the items back into the envelope. An awkward silence loomed. Zamaron looked at Appleby and Appleby looked at Max. Ashley blew his nose. Zamaron made a meal of folding the receipt. And Max decided to put a toe into some untested waters. ‘You collect art, commissioner?’

‘I do, Monsieur Maxted, I do.’ Zamaron sounded pleased by the question and allowed himself a self-satisfied glance around his walls.

‘Is there any of Spataro’s work here?’

Ashley stiffened, but remained silent. Zamaron, meanwhile, appeared blithely undismayed. He was on first-name terms with his favourite artists as well, it soon transpired. ‘I cannot show Raffaele’s paintings here. They are too—’

‘Explicit?’

‘
Non, non
. They are too big. Raffaele, he … paints on a grand scale.’

‘But he does paints nudes, doesn’t he?’

‘Er, sometimes. Not always. He is … versatile.’

‘And something of a ladies’ man?’

Zamaron leant back in his chair and gazed studiously at Max. ‘He is Italian, Monsieur Maxted. He has a reputation, like many of
his countrymen. But it was my understanding that you and Sir Ashley did not wish to enquire deeply into—’

‘We don’t, commissioner,’ Ashley interrupted, with a glare at Max. ‘We don’t require any more information than we already have. Isn’t that so, James?’

Max shrugged. ‘Yes. Of course. I was just—’

The door rattled open and Fradgley came in, sparing Max the need to complete his sentence. ‘I’m pleased to say that all the documentation we require to facilitate the collection of Sir Henry’s body from the hospital is now to hand, gentlemen,’ Fradgley announced, looking every bit as pleased as he claimed to be. ‘There is a reliable firm of undertakers we customarily use in such situations as this. They can arrange everything and deliver the deceased to the Gare du Nord to be carried on the train you elect to travel home on.’

‘They’re thinking of tomorrow, Fradgley,’ said Appleby.

‘That should present no difficulty. The documents are waiting at the Embassy and the undertakers will be available at your convenience.’

‘Excellent,’ said Ashley.

So it was, in its way, thought Max. The Paris police and the British Embassy were surpassing themselves in the cause of a speedy resolution to the awkward matter of Sir Henry Maxted’s fatal fall. It was hard not to be impressed. And it was equally difficult not to ponder what chances the truth had of making itself heard amidst all this speed and efficiency.

‘Is there anything else I can do for you,
messieurs
?’ Zamaron enquired, in a tone that presumed the answer would be no.

‘One point does occur to me,’ said Max in the same instant that Ashley opened his mouth to speak.

Ashley rounded on him. ‘What?’

‘It’s simply that there’s no key among our father’s possessions, commissioner.’

‘No key?’ Zamaron frowned in puzzlement.

‘Well, I’m merely wondering how our father gained entry to the apartment building on Friday night. I assume it’s locked at night.’

‘For heaven’s sake, James,’ spluttered Ashley, ‘haven’t we—’

‘
Non, non
,’ Zamaron cut in. ‘Monsieur Maxted asks a good question. The building is locked at night,
oui
. The concierge, Madame Mesnet, assures me of this. But she is forgetful. She likes to take a drink. She may have forgotten to lock the door. Or else Sir Henry had a key, given to him by Madame Dombreux, which slipped from his pocket when he fell and was … not noticed on the pavement.’

‘Yes,’ Max conceded. ‘I suppose one of those explanations must be correct.’

‘You’re satisfied on the point, then?’ Ashley asked, glaring at him.

‘Yes. As far as one can be.’

‘Good. Well, I’m sure Commissioner Zamaron is a busy man. I think we’ve taken up enough of his time, don’t you?’

ASHLEY WAS CLEARLY
seething with irritation at Max – all the more because he could not express it – when they left Police Headquarters and travelled to the British Embassy. There the atmosphere was calm and orderly, hushed, it struck Max, almost ecclesiastical.

Fradgley had Sir Henry’s passport and his travel-hardened leather suitcase, packed with his belongings from his room at the Hotel Majestic, waiting in his office for them to collect. More crucially, he had a tranche of documents – permits of one kind or another, some in duplicate, some in triplicate, and the terse but essential death certificate. From an administrative viewpoint, nothing now stood in the way of Sir Henry’s posthumous repatriation to his homeland.

Fradgley suggested they should repair promptly to the undertaker he recommended in order to arrange the next stage in the process. To this they readily agreed. Appleby explained he would not be accompanying them. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you, gentlemen.’ They did not argue.

As he left, Appleby said, looking at Max as he spoke, ‘If you do find you need me, I can be contacted via the security office at the Majestic.’

Ashley hardly seemed to be listening. But Max was.

Their business at the undertaker’s was handled with sombre efficiency. Monsieur Prettre,
entrepreneur de pompes funèbres
of the fourth generation (with the daguerreotyped likeness of his
great-grandfather casting a faded gaze over his shoulder) assured them of his best and swiftest attention. He saw no reason why they could not take their father home on Tuesday’s noon train. He suggested they telephone him later to confirm everything was in order.

Through gritted teeth (it seemed to Max) Fradgley offered them lunch ‘at the Embassy’s expense’ after they had left the undertaker’s. If this was intended as an acknowledgement of the service Sir Henry had rendered his country over the years, Max reckoned it erred on the side of paltriness.

The conversation over lunch was as dull as the food. Handshakes afterwards on the pavement outside the restaurant marked, Max assumed, the end of their dealings with Fradgley, but it transpired he was assuming too much.

‘I’ll be at the Gare du Nord tomorrow to see you off, gentlemen,’ the wretched man announced. ‘And to ensure there aren’t any last-minute hitches. You can’t take any chances with the French.’

Ashley interpreted this as a further indication of the lengths the Embassy was going to in order to smooth their path. If anyone’s path was being smoothed, Max thought it more likely to be Fradgley’s. But much of Ashley’s anger at him for asking unhelpful questions at unhelpful times had dissipated, so he chose not to offer this interpretation.

A somewhat testier version of the discussion they had had on their way out of 8 Rue du Verger ensued as they walked back to the Mazarin through the dank grey afternoon. But Max was well aware it would have been testier still a few hours earlier.

‘You don’t seem to appreciate, James, just how helpful these people are being.’

‘Oh, I do, Ashley, believe me.’

‘Then why must you keep provoking them?’

‘I thought they might think it odd if one of us didn’t query a few things.’

‘What is there to query apart from Pa’s sanity? How he can have put himself in such a situation is beyond me.’

‘
La femme fatale
. I believe it’s an old story.’

‘Well, it’s not a story we can allow Mother to hear.’

‘I agree.’

‘Then act as if you agree. And apply your mind to the problem of what we’re going to tell her.’

‘I will.’

‘Good. Because we don’t have long to think of something.’

They assuredly did not. Max claimed, accurately enough, that a walk would help clear his mind on the subject. He left Ashley at the door of the Mazarin with a tentative agreement to dine together later. Ashley had telegrams to send, to the undertaker in Epsom their family used and to their mother, alerting her to the imminence of their return. There was plenty to keep him busy.

There was plenty to occupy Max too, though it was not exactly what he had led his brother to suppose. As soon as he was out of sight of the Mazarin, he headed for the river. He was going back to Montparnasse.