The Ways of the World Page 17

  ‘Of course I do. But he’ll do as he sees fit. He always has and he always will. I’m proud of him for that. He has my full confidence. In everything he does.’ She looked Brigham in the eye. ‘Is that plain enough for you?’

  SAM HAD NOT returned from his sightseeing when Max set off to meet Morahan. Max slipped a note under his door explaining that the night on the town he had suggested might not be possible after all. Sam would understand. He was an understanding fellow.

  The evening was colder than the day. There were flecks of snow in the flurries of rain that fell from the moonless sky. Max set a stiff pace to Rue des Pyramides to warm himself, trying not to wonder what it was like to face a second night in a police cell with no certain way of knowing that anyone in the outside world knew of your plight. Such was Corinne’s dire situation. He had her to seek justice for now, as well as his father.

  Morahan was waiting for him at Ireton’s offices, as agreed, but Ireton himself was nowhere to be seen. Malory was on station, however. She and Morahan were drinking cocoa in an atmosphere bordering, somewhat bewilderingly, on the cosily convivial.

  Malory’s secretarial role extended, it soon became apparent, to a keen appreciation of all the business of Ireton Associates. The smile with which she accompanied her favourable comment on Max’s new hat was unmistakably mischievous. ‘It makes you look like a real gentilhomme, Mr Maxted,’ she said.

  ‘We weren’t the only ones expecting to see you,’ Morahan observed, with a glance through the window.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have a friend. He’s in a doorway on the other side of the street.’

  ‘What?’ Max moved towards the window to see for himself, but Morahan signalled for him to stay where he was.

  ‘No sense in letting him see you’re on to him. He’s probably been with you for a couple of days.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. I—’

  ‘What’s ridiculous is how easy I expect you’ve made it for him. The question is: what do we do about it? He looks English to me.’

  ‘How can you possibly tell that?’

  ‘The shoes. And the way he stands. Leaning without slouching. One of Appleby’s men, I’d guess. I assumed we’d walk to the Bristol. It’s in the Place Vendôme. But I can fetch the car and take a detour if you think we need to lose him.’

  Max sighed. ‘There’s no point. Appleby knows I’m going to see Kuroda. He actually advised me to.’

  ‘Ah. Take the shadow along, then.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘You know what they say, Mr Maxted,’ trilled Malory. ‘You can be sure you’re going in the right direction when people follow you.’

  It was easier for Max to obey Morahan’s instruction not to look behind him for a glimpse of Appleby’s man thanks to the pace he had to walk at in order to keep up with the giant American’s loping stride. Morahan was a reassuring presence, with his vast build, his air of confidence and a voice that rumbled within him like a ship’s engine. Max had taken him for an underling of Ireton’s, but now, as they talked, he was not so sure. Perhaps theirs was more in the way of a partnership.

  ‘Has Travis explained Kuroda’s background to you, Schools?’

  ‘I wouldn’t work with Travis if he didn’t tell me what I needed to know.’

  ‘And how long have you worked with him?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘Where did your paths first cross – Cuba?’

  ‘Good guess.’

  ‘You know him well, then?’

  ‘Better than most.’

  ‘Can I trust him?’

  Morahan chuckled. ‘I trust him.’

  ‘That’s not quite what I asked.’

  ‘It’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Tell me, did you ever meet my father?’

  ‘Yuh, I met him.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘I thought he had the look.’

  ‘The look?’

  ‘A lot of guys his age fold their hand and leave the table. Quit while they’re ahead, is how they’d put it. Something dies in them then. A light goes out. You can see it gone from their eyes. It never comes back. But Henry still had it. He hadn’t left the table. He was still in the game.’

  ‘That’s good, is it?’

  ‘It’s the only way to be.’

  The hushed and somnolent atmosphere of the Hotel Bristol hardly suggested it was serving as the headquarters of one of the peace conference’s most important delegations. According to the newspapers Max had forced himself to read, Japan had been eased to the sidelines by the recent establishment of the Council of Four. It no longer had any say in the really important decisions, which were taken by Wilson, Clemenceau, Lloyd George and Orlando behind closed doors. The reaction to this of the leader of the Japanese delegation, Marquis Saionji, was unknown. He eschewed all public utterances.

  If Masataka Kuroda proved equally tight-lipped, Max and Morahan were likely to have had a wasted journey. But unannounced or not, they were courteously received by a tiny hand-wringing functionary. He explained that Commissioner Kuroda (the title suggested he was indeed a police officer) was ‘elsewhere’. Mention of Sir Henry’s name and Max’s relationship to him prompted a telephone call to the elsewhere in question. The functionary reported that Kuroda could not leave where he was – but they were welcome to join him there.

  It was a large neo-classical house near Parc Monceau. The hefty bodyguards on the door suggested to Max that this was where Marquis Saionji was resting his venerable bones while in Paris, although no one said as much and they were not encouraged to ask.

  Kuroda received them in the library, surrounded by shelf-loads of leather-bound tomes lit by one oil lamp and the flickering glow of a well-banked fire. He was unusually tall for his race, thin to the point of emaciation and impeccably dressed, more like a courtier than a policeman. He could have been any age between fifty-five and seventy with his narrow face, solemn eyes, close-cropped grey hair and incipient stoop. He was standing when they entered and made no move to sit down. Nor did he invite them to do so. Max had the impression the library was not his customary domain in the house. Perhaps he was not expected to receive visitors there at all.

  He offered Max his condolences in a stiff and formal fashion, without any hint that he knew Sir Henry personally. He and Morahan had clearly met before, something the American had omitted to mention, although Max suspected he would have justified that on the simple grounds that he had not been asked. Kuroda enquired after Ireton – his pronunciation rendering Morahan as Mohan and Ireton as Iton – as well as a Miss Hollander, whom Max belatedly identified as Malory. Kuroda was particularly insistent that his good wishes should be passed on to her. Morahan explained that Ireton had recommended him to Max as a bodyguard, though whether Kuroda was entirely convinced by the explanation was unclear.

  ‘You are Sir Henry’s younger son, Mr Maxted?’ he asked, the effect of his attention being suddenly turned on Max rather like that of a torch being shone in his eyes. ‘You were a pilot in the war?’

  ‘Yes. I was.’

  ‘To soar above the ground of the enemy. This must be a wonderful thing.’

  ‘It would be more wonderful if the enemy weren’t also soaring.’

  To Max’s surprise, Kuroda laughed. ‘Ah. Good. Yes. You are right. And you are here to discuss … a soaring enemy?’

  ‘In a sense. I found your name on a list in my father’s handwriting. I wondered if he’d discussed anything important with you.’

  Kuroda frowned. ‘Not directly. But a certain matter was broached through an intermediary.’

  ‘Can you tell me who that intermediary was?’

  Kuroda glanced at Morahan, who gave a nod of consent. ‘It was Mr Ireton. Though he did not say he was speaking to me on Sir Henry’s behalf. I deduced it from the subject Mr Ireton raised with me and from the fact that I heard no more from him about it following Sir Henry’s death.’

  ‘Was the
subject … Fritz Lemmer?’

  ‘Ah.’ Kuroda sounded rather more surprised than he looked. ‘You know about Lemmer.’ (He was Lemma to him, of course.)

  ‘I do.’

  Kuroda nodded. ‘He was the subject, yes.’ Another glance at Morahan seemed to draw a favourable response. ‘Mr Ireton said he represented someone willing to sell information that would enable the buyer to locate Lemmer. Sir Henry, I concluded, was the seller.’

  ‘I believe he may have been murdered to silence him about Lemmer, Mr Kuroda.’

  ‘This is as I surmised. You blame Lemmer himself?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Kuroda nodded thoughtfully. ‘An invisible opponent is the hardest to judge. Is he cleverer than we think or not as clever as we fear? It has taken me nearly thirty years to measure the cleverness of Fritz Lemmer.’

  ‘And how do you rate him?’

  ‘Dangerous, Mr Maxted. Very dangerous. He lays traps for the unwary. Those who pursue him become his prisoners.’

  ‘Was my father his prisoner?’

  ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘Could he have been responsible for my father’s murder?’

  ‘Of course. But in general he kills no one unless their death serves a purpose. And I see no purpose in Sir Henry’s death.’

  ‘If he knew Lemmer’s whereabouts …’

  ‘Then it would be simpler for Lemmer to alter his location. And I have reached the conclusion that the secret of his success is not the complexity we see … but the simplicity he sees.’

  ‘You were presumably keen to acquire the information Travis offered you.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I assured him I would outbid all other interested parties.’

  ‘You blame Lemmer for an assassination attempt against the Tsarevich in Tokyo in 1891?’

  ‘It was not in Tokyo, Mr Maxted. The Tsarevich was in Kyoto at the time. He was due in Tokyo the following day. But he never visited the capital. After the attack, which he was lucky to survive, he returned directly to Russia. The visit was a chance for Japan and Russia to settle their differences. Instead, it only deepened them. Without that attempt on his life, there might have been no war between Japan and Russia in 1904. Then no humiliating defeat for Russia, no revolution simmering in her cities, no Bolshevik takeover, no massacre of the Tsar and his family. Lemmer rears consequences as others rear canaries. He enjoys their plumage. Yes, I blame him for that. For all of that. Others think I am mistaken. They believe the assassination attempt was organized by Japanese reactionaries. And it was. But Lemmer was behind it. One of those reactionaries worked for him. I know which one, though I cannot prove it. I hope to, one day. But I have been hoping for a long time.’

  ‘And Lemmer’s been a thorn in your side ever since then?’

  ‘He has been a thorn in the side of many.’

  ‘Have you ever met him?’

  ‘No. He left Tokyo before I obtained any evidence to suggest he had organized the assassination attempt. Sir Henry knew him, of course. They were fellow diplomats. He told me what he could about him. But it was not much. Lemmer is a highly secretive man.’

  ‘Did you see anything of my father while you were both here in Paris?’

  ‘I met him once only. I wish now I had seen more of him. But my duties for the delegation are quite demanding.’ Kuroda smiled thinly. ‘You would be surprised at the trouble young men of high rank can get themselves into when sent abroad to represent their nation.’

  ‘Then there’s the added burden of a seventy-year-old head of delegation who brings his twenty-year-old mistress with him,’ Morahan remarked.

  Kuroda’s smile grew thinner still. ‘You are misinformed, Mr Morahan. My lord Saionji does not celebrate his seventieth birthday until later this year.’

  ‘When you met my father,’ Max pressed on, ‘did he mention Lemmer?’

  ‘No. If he had … I would have advised him to be very careful.’

  ‘And did you discuss Travis Ireton’s offer of information with anyone?’ This was the crux of the issue. And Max did not doubt Kuroda would know it was.

  ‘I have no way of knowing how many spies Lemmer has who still work for him, Mr Maxted. I cannot be certain who may be such a spy or who may not. The Emperor has sent more than fifty people here to negotiate for him. If you ask me is a spy of Lemmer among them, I answer yes. If you ask me how many there may be, I say I do not know. A man who reveals a secret to someone he cannot trust is a fool. I am responsible for the security of the Emperor’s delegation. I cannot afford to trust anyone.’

  ‘That sounds like a no,’ said Morahan.

  Kuroda nodded. ‘It was intended to.’ He looked at Max. ‘You suspect someone heard of Mr Ireton’s offer of information, calculated that Sir Henry was the source and determined to silence him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another nod. ‘I agree. You should suspect anyone Mr Ireton discussed the matter with. Including me. Unless, of course, you trust me. Then and then only can you believe me.’ He smiled. ‘Have you any more questions, Mr Maxted?’

  ‘Just one. When you met my father, did he mention the box of secret documents stolen from the head of the Chinese delegation while he was in Tokyo?’

  A slight narrowing of his gaze was the only hint of surprise on Kuroda’s part. And it might not have been surprise at all. ‘No. He did not.’

  ‘Between ourselves, Masataka,’ said Morahan, ‘did your people steal that box?’

  ‘If we had, we would not admit it. If we had not, we would know that our denial would not be believed.’

  ‘That sounds like a yes-no-maybe.’

  Kuroda nodded. ‘It was intended to.’

  IT WOULD HAVE been easy for Max to dismiss the meeting with Kuroda as pointless. Certainly, he had learnt little he did not already know. But the strangest thing had nonetheless happened. He found he believed every word Kuroda had said. No responsibility for Sir Henry’s death could be laid at his door.

  Morahan seemed to feel the same. ‘For a man who speaks mostly in riddles, he makes himself remarkably plain.’

  ‘He told no one. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘Ask Travis. I’m to report to him tomorrow morning at nine. You should join us.’

  ‘But you know already, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s Travis’s show. You’ll have to let him run it. Your shadow’s still with us, by the way.’ They were walking south-west along Rue de Monceau. The night was cold and quiet. The wind had dropped. There were few other pedestrians. Glancing back, Max saw only splashes of lamplight and dark shapes between. ‘If you want something done about him, let me know.’

  ‘What sort of something?’

  ‘Nothing fatal.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I’ll bear your offer in mind.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Morahan took to the Métro at Alma station, leaving Max – and his shadow – to carry on to the Mazarin without him. Irritated by the assumption Appleby and Morahan seemed to share that he was ill-equipped to deal with such surveillance, Max headed along Rue de Bassano, turned left at the first opportunity and covered thirty yards or so, then spun on his heel and marched smartly back. There was a man, damn it, moving towards him, who adroitly crossed the street and melted into the darkness as Max approached.

  ‘Going my way?’ Max called after him. ‘Maybe we can walk together.’

  There was no response. And there was nothing to see. Max went after him, but all the doorways he checked were empty. The fellow was smart, no question.

  Max made his way back to the corner of Rue de Bassano, where he stopped, lit a cigarette and waited for him to reappear. He did not. There was a sound far off that could have been a footfall, then another, resembling a stumble of some kind. Even shadows evidently had to watch their step in the dark. But he did not show himself.

  ‘Hello?’ Max called, walking slowly towards the sound.

  Again, there was no response. No
thing stirred. There were no more footfalls.

  Then a door opened a short distance ahead of Max. In a brief spill of light, a portly, heavily clad man emerged, trailing a tiny dog on a lead. The door closed behind them and they pottered off in the direction the sounds had come from.

  As Max watched, they proceeded along the street, the man emitting occasional squeaks that were presumably comprehensible to the dog, the dog snuffling occasionally in response. They paused at a lamp-post for the dog to urinate, then moved on. If they passed anyone lurking in a doorway, they did not appear to notice.

  ‘To hell with this,’ Max muttered, throwing down his cigarette. He headed back once again to Rue de Bassano. And he did not look over his shoulder.

  There were two messages waiting for Max at the Mazarin, which was two more than he was expecting. Both surprised him in their different ways. The first he opened was addressed to him in handwriting he recognized as Sam’s.

  Sir,

  I’m going with someone who’s anxious to meet you to a nightclub called Le Sagittaire. We’ll wait for you there. The hotel can direct you.

  Sam

  According to the reception clerk, Sam had left about an hour before, accompanied by a woman he described under questioning as ‘Slavic’. It had to be the young woman from Bukayev’s bookshop. There were simply no other candidates, though how Sam had fallen in with her he could not imagine.

  The second message had been telephoned in. It was from Kuroda. The time recorded on it by the clerk suggested he had made the call very shortly after they had parted.

  M. Kuroda asks you to meet him in Parc Monceau – near the west entrance – at 11.15 tomorrow morning.

  Max put to the back of his mind the mystery of why Kuroda wanted to meet him again and headed straight out, armed with directions from the clerk, who permitted himself a meaningful twitch of one eyebrow when he described Le Sagittaire as très animé.

  It was a basement establishment close to the Champs-Elysées, full of noise, smoke and couples of varying ages and races. A band was playing music Appleby would definitely not have approved of, though those dancing to it definitely did. Sagittarius himself was depicted in a vast mural, reflected in an equally vast mirror on the wall facing it. There was a palpable air of permissiveness about the place. Black men were wrapped around white women, white men around black women. Some of the men were old enough to be their partners’ grandfathers. And some of the women, it struck Max, were probably not women at all. Ashley, he felt sure, would have been appalled.