The Ways of the World Page 10

  The secretary began speaking, presumably to Ireton, though she did not use his name. ‘I have a Mr James Maxted here … That’s correct … Yes … Sure.’ She offered Max the phone without further explanation. He took it.

  ‘Travis Ireton?’

  ‘The same. You’re the son I met at the Ritz?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Terrible shame about your father.’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘You want to meet?’

  ‘I was hoping to. I—’

  ‘We should, I agree. But I’m spread thin today. Can you come to the office at … six thirty?’

  ‘I can, yes.’

  ‘We’ll talk then. Put Malory back on, would you?’

  Whether Malory was the secretary’s Christian name or surname was unclear. Max handed the phone to her and she began taking notes on a pad, contributing little more than ‘Yes’ and ‘Uh-huh’ as the conversation proceeded.

  It took Max a minute or so to realize that she regarded him as a matter satisfactorily dealt with. His farewell nod was barely acknowledged.

  Appleby’s mood had not improved following Max’s departure from the Majestic. His conviction that the young man had stolen a march on him was only one reason. The other was the telegram he had received shortly afterwards. He had not anticipated a peremptory summons to the godhead in London and was annoyed with himself on that account alone. He should have foreseen such a development. The Maxted affair, he concluded over a contemplative pipe, was going to require a greater share of his attention than he had so far devoted to it.

  A knock at his door heralded the arrival of Lamb, the most intelligent and reliable of his operatives. He was young and moon-faced, with the mild demeanour of a bank clerk. But a keen brain ticked away inside his head. He was perfect for this line of work, taking quiet pleasure from the invisibility of his achievements and requiring little in the way of overt praise.

  ‘Is there a flap on, sir?’ Lamb disingenuously enquired.

  ‘I have to go to London. A flying visit, I hope. I want some surveillance put in hand in my absence. This fellow.’ Appleby slid a photograph culled from RFC records across his desk. ‘James Maxted. Younger son of the late Sir Henry Maxted.’

  ‘Ah. The faller.’

  ‘As the mighty can sometimes become. We have to pick up the pieces. Maxted’s staying at the Mazarin in Rue Coligny. Tail him from there. Stick with him wherever he goes, but stay out of sight. I’ll want as much detail as possible.’

  ‘You’ll have it, sir.’

  ‘If he gets into any trouble …’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  Appleby deliberated for a moment, then replied. ‘Don’t intervene.’

  With time on his hands, Max decided to see his father off at the Gare du Nord. He did so in his own way, having no wish for a further exchange of angry words with Ashley. There was a side-entrance to the station for goods and mail. And it was there that he witnessed the arrival of a hearse bearing the name Prettre et fils, pompes funèbres. It was discreetly managed, with a full half hour to spare before the departure of the noon train to London. Monsieur Prettre had been as good as his word.

  After seeing the coffin unloaded and wheeled into the station, suitably draped, on a trolley, Max went round to the front of the building. He had spied out a café on the other side of the street, from where he could watch taxis come and go.

  He did not have to wait long for one to discharge Ashley. He was accompanied by Fradgley, who looked flustered and fretful. Max amused himself by attributing Fradgley’s distracted appearance to the fact that only one of the Maxted brothers was with him. But he was aware that his amusement would rebound on him if he accomplished nothing by remaining in Paris.

  He watched the station clock move slowly towards noon, calculating that Fradgley’s reappearance would tell him when the train had left.

  Then, to his surprise, he recognized someone else clambering out of a taxi: Appleby. And the fellow was carrying a travelling bag, as if intent on taking the train to London himself.

  Max could scarcely credit that such was Appleby’s intention. But noon passed and the train left. He knew that because Fradgley emerged on to the forecourt at five past the hour – alone. There was no sign of Appleby.

  After Fradgley had boarded a cab and vanished, Max left the café and set off southwards on foot, turning over in his mind the mystery of Appleby’s sudden departure. It was far from reassuring to know that Ashley would have Appleby’s company for the next seven hours. In his efforts to persuade Ashley that their father really had been murdered, Max had revealed more than he wanted Appleby to know. He could not rely on his brother to keep such information to himself. But there was absolutely nothing he could do about it now.

  IRETON WAS WAITING for Max when he arrived at 33 Rue des Pyramides that evening – waiting, indeed, at the head of the stairs, with a glass of whisky in his hand and a broad smile on his face. He breezily conferred first-name terms on their acquaintance while ushering Max into his offices.

  ‘Malory’s a wondrous manageress of my affairs,’ Ireton explained as he poured Max a Scotch and persuaded him to sample an American cigarette, ‘but she can be a little stern, especially in the a.m., if you know what I mean.’

  ‘It’s good of you to see me.’

  ‘Not at all. Your father’s death was a terrible waste. I want you to know most particularly how sorry I am.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We could have done this at the Ritz or the Crillon.’ Ireton led Max through to an inner office, where a fire was blazing. There were armchairs arranged around it. ‘But I thought you’d value some privacy.’

  ‘That was considerate of you.’

  ‘Do the police have a theory to account for what happened?’

  ‘Nothing I’d dignify with the word “theory”.’

  ‘That so?’ They sat down and Ireton went on smiling, but was frowning slightly now as well, as if unsure quite what to make of Max. ‘Well, it was a damn shame, however it came about. Do you have any ideas yourself?’

  ‘I believe my father was murdered, Travis.’

  ‘You do?’ The frown deepened.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. Well, that’s …’ Then the frown lifted. He spread a hand expressively. ‘That’s what I surmised, Max. Henry wasn’t an accident-prone man. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if you were set on buying the police’s cockamamie version of events, but since you’re not …’

  ‘You know what their version of events is?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You’re well-informed, I must say.’

  ‘I make it my business to be. Matter of fact, it is my business to be.’

  ‘“All your needs in post-war Paris”. It’s a broad remit.’

  Ireton chuckled. ‘As broad as it’s long. What do you need, Max?’

  ‘Evidence of who murdered my father and why.’

  ‘Which you think I can supply?’

  ‘I don’t know. But then I don’t know what dealings you had with him.’

  ‘No. I guess not.’ Ireton took a long draw on his cigarette. ‘What I do is a little hard to define. You could say I trade in the commodity that most of the delegates and journalists and speculators and hangers-on who’ve gathered here spend most of their time trying to lay their hands on. Information. Timely information. By which I mean they hear it from me before it becomes common knowledge. For that advantage they’re willing to pay. That, simply put, is my business. Your prime minister took himself and his senior advisers off to Fontainebleau last weekend to thrash out a new policy on the peace treaty. A lot of people who weren’t there wanted to know what they’d settled on before it was made public. They turned to me. And suffice to say they weren’t disappointed.’

  ‘How did you pull that off?’

  ‘It’s what I do, Max. It’s my living. Has been for a good many years. I go wherever information is most in demand. Just now that’s Paris, luckily for me.’ He broke off
to tong some coal on to the fire. ‘Though I’d be grateful for more springlike weather. Paris au printemps, hey? This isn’t what I had in mind, let me tell you.’

  ‘Isn’t there a shortage of coal in the city? My hotel’s cold as charity.’

  ‘Oh, yes, there’s a shortage.’ Ireton grinned blithely. ‘But I think better when I’m warm, so scrimping’s out of the question. So it should be for you. I bet you dreamt of creature comforts like a roaring fire when you were a POW. I bet you reckoned you were owed them for laying your life on the line for your country.’

  Max did not deny it, though the truth was that he had volunteered less for patriotic reasons than for the chance it had given him of flying on a daily basis. He had missed that in the camp rather more keenly than a glowing hearth.

  ‘I saw some action in Cuba in ’ninety-eight,’ Ireton went on. ‘I realized then that I had no gift for self-denial. My talents lie elsewhere.’ He pitched the butt of his cigarette into the fire and lit another. ‘And I believe we should all make the most of our talents.’

  ‘About my father, Travis …’ Max engaged Ireton eye to eye as he accepted a second cigarette. The time for sparring was over. ‘What exactly were your dealings with him?’

  ‘OK.’ Ireton relaxed into his chair. ‘Cards on the table. Naturally, I buy information as well as sell it. I’m a broker. People come to me because I enable them to trade anonymously. The governments or organizations they work for wouldn’t necessarily approve of what they’re doing. It isn’t illegal, but it could be regarded as unethical, even disloyal. My discretion is one of the things I charge for. It’s one the things I’m known for. My clients rely on it. You understand? It’s not a trivial matter.’

  ‘Was my father a client of yours?’

  ‘He might have been.’

  ‘As a buyer or a seller?’

  ‘How would you feel if I said Henry was active in the information market?’

  ‘Incredulous. He would never have betrayed his country.’

  ‘Betrayal’s a strong word. Most of the material I deal in falls well short of earth-shattering. Henry was in regular contact with the Brazilian delegation. The other South American delegations – Bolivia, Ecuador, Peru, Uruguay – would all like to know more about Brazil’s negotiating tactics. And vice versa, of course. The outcome of this conference isn’t going to be affected in the slightest way by trading small amounts of such information.’

  ‘Are you saying that’s what my father did?’

  ‘Would it be so terrible if he had?’

  Could it be true? Max was aware that his incredulity was founded on his knowledge of his father’s character. But he could not help wondering if his knowledge amounted to anything more than a set of conventional – and quite possibly false – assumptions.

  ‘It would be terrible if it led to his death.’

  ‘Nothing Henry worked on was important enough to get him murdered, Max, it truly wasn’t.’

  ‘What was, then?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  Ireton fell silent for a long, thoughtful moment, then said, ‘To share my suspicions with you involves letting you know more about my activities than is frankly wise, considering you and I are barely acquainted. I’d like to help you, largely because I liked and admired Henry and reckon he’d probably want me to help you. But I can’t allow myself to be swayed by sentiment.’

  ‘What would sway you?’ There had to be something, Max reckoned. Otherwise why would Ireton have agreed to meet him in the first place?

  ‘A demonstration of your trustworthiness, Max.’ Ireton nodded for emphasis. ‘That’s what I need.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘A small service I’d repay with my confidence in you. I’m always happier if both sides have a bargain to honour.’

  ‘And this service is?’

  ‘The collection of an item from a man I’d prefer not to meet face to face. A simple matter. It shouldn’t cause you any difficulty.’

  Words were cheap, of course. Max was not blind to the possibility that he was being led on. Ireton might have nothing of value to disclose and see this as a way of solving a bothersome problem. ‘Why not send one of your associates? Morahan, for instance.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you met Schools earlier, didn’t you? Well, I could send him, but that wouldn’t tell me whether you’re the sort of person I can rely on, now would it? Look at this from my point of view, Max. It’s a question of establishing your bona fides. I have to be sure of you. I can’t proceed unless I am. You’ll be taking a risk, of course. You only have my word for it that I can help you discover who may have murdered Henry. But you’re not a stranger to risks and I don’t believe for a moment you mean to shy away from this one. So, shall I tell you the name of the man I want you to meet and where and when I want you to meet him – or not?’

  SIR HENRY MAXTED had come home. He reposed that night in the library at Gresscombe Place. The delivery of his body in a stout oak coffin had been efficiently managed by the local undertaker. It had taken place late in the evening, at the conclusion of a lengthy journey from Paris that had left Ashley exhausted and fit only for bed.

  Lydia was by contrast feeling far from sleepy. Her curiosity about her brother-in-law’s reasons for remaining in Paris had thus far been held in check. Now, in the privacy of their bedroom, she proceeded to bombard her heavy-lidded husband with questions.

  ‘Surely he understands there will be a price to pay for defying you in this manner, darling?’

  ‘Oh, he understands. He just doesn’t seem to care.’

  ‘Doesn’t he care about the good name of his own family? Or his father’s reputation?’

  Ashley’s answering sigh converted itself into an irrepressible yawn. He had informed Lydia earlier, during a snatched quarter of an hour alone together, of the French police’s theory concerning Sir Henry’s death. To his mother he had offered only their official bafflement, having despaired of inventing any plausible alternative. ‘James has convinced himself Pa was murdered. He says he means to bring the murderer to justice.’

  ‘He wasn’t murdered, though, was he?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But, if he was, it will have been for some scandalous reason we’re all better off not knowing about. Pa made a prize fool of himself in Paris and suffered for it.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we have to suffer for it as well, darling. Think of your poor mother.’ Lydia was not in fact thinking of her mother-in-law at all, but even to Ashley she did not care to reveal the full extent of her callousness.

  ‘James said he was determined to uncover the truth at all costs.’

  ‘How typically perverse of him. As if the truth were all that mattered.’

  ‘I felt sure my say-so regarding those fields he needs for his flying school would suffice to keep him in line.’

  ‘You left him in no doubt that he’d forfeit the land if he went on with this?’

  ‘I made it very clear to him. It had no effect.’

  ‘How can he be so indifferent to his own best interests?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d blame the war, but he’s always been the same.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll come back for the funeral?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow? I doubt it. I shall cable him with the details in the morning and leave it to him.’

  ‘His absence will be so embarrassing, darling. How will we explain it?’

  ‘We’ll say he’s ill. What other excuse can we offer? Cutting his own father’s funeral is a damn poor show.’

  ‘And raising a stink in Paris will only make matters worse. What can we do to bring him to heel?’

  ‘Nothing. But don’t worry unduly. I’m assured by those who know that his enquiries will hit a brick wall. Eventually, he’ll be forced to admit defeat.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then?’ Ashley ineffectually stifled another yawn. ‘He’ll come home, I suppose. With his tail between
his legs.’

  In the few minutes between turning off the light and his descent into slumber, Ashley was visited by a frisson of doubt concerning his professed certainty that James would fail in his quest for the truth. The fellow was too stubborn and resourceful to be written off. Appleby, who had travelled with Ashley from Paris to London, had pooh-poohed the grounds for suspicion James had presented to Ashley. (‘This list sounds like something and nothing to me, Sir Ashley. Your brother is wasting his time.’) But, upon reflection, Appleby had perhaps overdone the pooh-poohing. And the reason he had given for being on the train – a ‘family emergency’ – was rather too pat for comfort. Should Ashley have been more guarded in what he said? It was a worrying question, since he found it difficult now to recall just what he had said. Damn Appleby and James, he thought. And with that he plunged into a deep sleep.

  At that moment Lady Maxted was standing beside the trestle-mounted coffin in the library, gazing down at the death-masked face of her late husband. Part of his head was concealed by a thick white veil, to spare her the sight of his fatal brain injury. What remained visible were recognizably the features of Sir Henry Maxted, but Henry the man was gone, lost to her entirely.

  She had displayed as much disappointment at the news that James had remained in Paris as she had judged Ashley and Lydia would expect. And she had allowed Ashley to give an obviously inadequate account of what he had accomplished there. Altogether, she had played the part of the meek and pliant widow quite shamelessly.

  From the pocket of her dress she took the telegram James had sent her that morning. She unfolded it and reread the message. Will remain in Paris until possible to report true version of events. Then her gaze returned to the never-again-to-open eyes of Sir Henry Maxted. ‘He has pledged himself for you, Henry,’ she murmured. ‘He will not let you down.’

  At the same moment, glumly installed with a pint of Bass in a smoky corner of the public bar of the Rose and Crown, Walthamstow, Sam Twentyman pulled from his pocket the telegram he had also received from Max earlier that day. He reread the message for the umpteenth time. Delayed in Paris for indefinite period. No address was supplied for a reply.