The Ways of the World Page 23

  The car was a sleek black Daimler, parked just round the corner from the Mazarin. Brigham proposed they drive down to the Seine. ‘It’ll be quiet by the river,’ he said.

  He filled the brief journey with an account of the funeral he had attended but Max had not. Irony, and something more sinister, clung to his words.

  Max remembered a day he had tried hard to forget, when he had returned home from Eton one hot Saturday afternoon in the summer of 1907. The house had been filled with silence, the staff nowhere to be found. He had called a general hello in the hall. There had been no immediate response. Then Brigham had appeared at the head of the stairs, looking less well-groomed than usual, and had come down to greet him. ‘Your mother’s resting,’ he had said. And that was all he had said. She had joined them on the terrace a short time later, her normal imperturbability mysteriously mislaid. ‘You should have told us when you’d be arriving, James.’ Yes. He should have. He really should. And he only wished he had.

  A later remark of his father’s had alerted Max to the most disturbing of all possibilities. Sir Henry had been reminiscing about life in Japan. ‘Your mother found her first Japanese summer a great trial,’ he had said. ‘I took pity and sent her to spend the second with friends in Kashmir.’ The remark had ticked away in Max’s mind like a time-bomb. It only required simple arithmetic to calculate that a child born in the spring of 1891, as he was, must have been conceived in the summer of 1890 – the summer of his mother’s sojourn in Kashmir.

  Brigham drove to the river bank beyond the Palais du Trocadéro and stopped near the Pont d’Iéna. The Eiffel Tower stretched up into the night sky on the opposite bank. He snapped open a cigarette-case and offered Max a smoke. Max pointedly expressed a preference for his own brand. Brigham declined the chance to take offence and they both lit up.

  ‘Damnably cold for the time of year,’ said Brigham, coughing over his first draw.

  ‘Perhaps you’re going down with flu,’ said Max. ‘There’s a lot of it about.’

  ‘Yes. It carried off poor old Sykes. But I don’t think it’ll get me. You needn’t worry.’

  ‘I shan’t.’

  ‘It’s actually yourself you should worry about. I’ve heard what you’ve been up to, James. You’re playing with fire.’

  ‘Where have you heard what I’ve been … “up to”?’

  ‘There’s more gossip circulating in this city than French francs. I asked around. And learnt you too are asking around. You should let Henry rest in peace. That’s the sincere advice of someone who wishes you to come to no harm.’

  ‘Meaning you?’

  ‘Your mother would never forgive me if I let you stray into trouble for lack of a word to the wise.’

  ‘Did she ask you to deliver this word?’

  ‘No, no. Though only because, I sensed when I met her, that she feared you’d ignore any pleas emanating from her.’

  ‘And you think I’m likelier to heed a warning from you?’

  ‘I’m concerned for your welfare, James. I always have been. You’re out of your depth here. I very strongly urge you to—’

  ‘Give it up?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly. Give it up.’

  ‘At whose hands do you think I might come to harm, Brigham?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t say. Specifically. It’s just that I know you’re mixed up with Appleby. And he’s Secret Service. That’s dirty and dangerous work. I expect he has you running all manner of risks on his account. If you got yourself killed, he could disown you just like that. As he undoubtedly would.’

  Max paused long enough to encourage Brigham to believe he might be about to give ground, then said, ‘Pardon me for asking, but why should that matter to you?’

  ‘As I told you, I—’

  ‘We’re nothing to each other as far as I’m aware. You’re a sometime friend of my mother’s, that’s all. I neither need nor desire you to be concerned about me.’

  ‘But I am. And there it is.’ Brigham looked round at Max. ‘I think you know why.’

  ‘I’d be interested in knowing why you’re so anxious for me to leave Paris.’

  ‘Because it’s a hazardous place to be asking the kind of questions you’re asking. Henry should never have allowed himself to become involved with Corinne Dombreux. He was courting disaster and he duly met with it. I don’t want to see you make the same mistake.’

  ‘You don’t think his death was an accident, then?’

  ‘I think it’s best to say it was. For everyone’s sake. Especially yours.’

  ‘When did you last meet my father, Brigham?’

  ‘Some weeks ago. I bumped into him at the Quai d’Orsay. I’d probably have seen him more often if I’d been staying at the Majestic, but the place is such a madhouse I’ve found an apartment to rent near by. We were both on our way to meetings. There was no time for more than the briefest of words. I regret that now, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I gather there was an … incident … at the Crillon earlier today. Walter Ennis has gone missing.’

  ‘Are you acquainted with him?’

  ‘Slightly, yes. Just as I’m acquainted with scores of members of other delegations. I’m on more committees than I can count.’

  ‘What about Travis Ireton? Are you acquainted with him?’

  ‘Ireton?’ Brigham made a show of deliberating on the point. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve heard the name, but … I can’t say we’ve ever met.’

  ‘He didn’t approach you a couple of weeks ago asking if you’d be interested in buying some information from him?’

  ‘Information about what?’

  ‘If he approached you, you’d know.’

  ‘Quite. But he didn’t.’

  ‘Ennis is a friend of his.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Perhaps Ennis approached you. On the same subject.’

  ‘No. He didn’t.’

  ‘If that’s so …’

  ‘It is, I assure you.’

  ‘Then I’m curious. You seem to have some insight into what led to my father’s murder. How did you gain that, if not from him or Ennis or Ireton? Did someone else put you in the picture?’

  Brigham meticulously stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. He peered through the windscreen at the caped figures of two policemen on bicycles who rode slowly round the car and turned on to the bridge. Max found himself watching them as well. One of the policemen glanced back at the car as they took the turn. ‘Since that mad anarchist took a pot-shot at Clemenceau, the French have been nervous as kittens that there’ll be some fearful outrage to sully their management of the conference. They’re suspicious of everything. I shouldn’t really be here, talking to you. It could be hard to explain, if I was called upon to do so.’

  ‘It was your idea.’

  ‘So it was.’

  ‘What’s the answer to my question?’

  ‘No one put me in the picture, James. I merely made judicious enquiries. Good God, I’ve been in this game for nearly forty years. I know how to find things out. It requires tact, caution and connections developed and nurtured over decades. You’re clearly deficient in every one of those departments. That’s why you’re in such danger. You’re brave and determined, which is admirable. But it’s not enough. In your situation, it may even be a disadvantage. Do you sail?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have a share in a villa near Cannes. I keep a boat down there, scandalously underused. A local man looks after it for me. You could go and stay in the villa, if you like. Take the boat out. Enjoy a Provençal spring. Relax. Pamper yourself. My friends would be delighted to meet you. I might even join you there, if this conference ever ends.’

  Max hardly knew what to say. The man’s nerve was quite something. ‘I’m not going to Cannes, Brigham. Or anywhere else. I’m staying here until I find my father’s killer.’

  ‘Or until he finds you?’

  ‘The cards must fall where they will.’

  �
�What a fatalistic young man you are.’

  ‘It’s what I’m resolved to do.’

  ‘As an act of filial piety?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘The statement does you credit. But it’s misplaced piety, as I think you’re aware. It would seem perverse in the extreme to lose your life seeking to avenge a father who isn’t actually—’

  ‘Don’t say another word.’ The force of Max’s interjection succeeded in silencing Brigham. Max turned to face him, though he could see little of his expression in the dim light that reached them from the nearest street lamp. ‘I promise you this, Brigham: if I learn you were responsible in any way for my father’s murder, however indirectly—’

  ‘That’s preposterous. I had nothing to with Henry’s death.’

  ‘If I learn that, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?’

  ‘What? You can’t—’

  ‘Be serious? Oh, but I’m being deadly serious. I want you to know that. It’s not an idle threat. I can’t be bought off or adopted as some kind of pet. I mean to finish what I’ve started. I mean to punish those who brought my father down. If you’re one of them, I advise you now: do your worst before I do mine.’

  ‘James, you’ve completely—’

  ‘I’ll bid you goodnight, Brigham. I’ll walk back to the hotel, thanks. I need some fresh air.’

  With that, Max yanked the door open and hopped out of the car. He slammed the door violently behind him and strode away across the street without a backward glance. If Brigham was his enemy, he was glad of it. Proof, one way or the other, was all he needed. Proof. And then he would act.

  MAX DID NOT walk back to his hotel, as he had told Brigham he would. He headed for Little Russia. The explanation he advanced to himself was that he needed to confirm Nadia was safe and well. She might have news of her uncle, or of something else that would aid his search for the truth. But he would not spend the night with her. His encounter with Brigham had left him emotionally ragged. That the fellow might be his father was a sickening possibility he had long done his level best to disregard. He wanted nothing of Brigham’s. He could not, would not, acknowledge any tie, least of all of blood.

  The bookshop was in darkness, but a light was burning in the room above. Max rang the bell and stepped back to let Nadia see him from the window. A lace curtain twitched, though she did not show herself. But, a few moments later, he heard a movement in the shop. And then the door opened.

  She looked pale and anxious. ‘Max,’ she said, smiling as if it was an effort to do so.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Ah, no.’ She lowered her voice. ‘A friend of my uncle and his wife are here. It is …’

  ‘Awkward?’

  ‘They will ask you many questions, Max. And they are not … discreet people. It is better, I think, if you do not come in.’

  ‘I understand. Is all well?’

  ‘Nothing has changed. I wait to hear. But I hear nothing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do …’

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Come again soon. Last night …’ She looked deep into his eyes. ‘I need you.’

  ‘You know where to find me. I’ll say goodnight.’

  ‘Spokoynoy nochi, Max.’ She blew him a kiss and slowly closed the door.

  Max took a long detour on his way back to the Mazarin, walking himself into a state of exhaustion on the cold and empty streets of the night-time city. It was the only way he could be sure of sleeping, with so many doubts and questions swirling in his mind.

  In Sir Henry Maxted’s old room at the Majestic, Sam was already sound asleep. Insomnia had always been a mystery to him, a good night’s rest no more complicated than a bed to climb into. It did not even have to be a particularly comfortable bed, though this one was certainly that.

  He had not been surprised to hear nothing from Max that evening, concerned though he was about him. No news was in a sense good news. He did not doubt Max would be in touch when he could. The war had only served to reinforce Sam’s innate pragmatism. What would be would be.

  By the same token, he did not dream much, generally waking with no memory of how his sleeping mind had occupied itself. But that was not to be the case when he came to himself on Saturday morning, with a shaft of grey morning light falling across the coverlet.

  He had dreamt of le Singe, or his subconscious version of le Singe: a small, spry, dark-skinned boy dressed in ragged army fatigues, standing before him, on tiptoe it seemed, ready to dodge or spring, and pointing at him with one steady forefinger, smiling as he did so, his teeth a yellow crescent across the umber of his round, simian face. There was something white in his other hand: a stick of chalk, perhaps. The sight fleetingly transformed him into one of the teachers at Sam’s old school in Walthamstow. Then there was a blur of motion. Le Singe was a crouching figure in a window. And then he was gone.

  Sam sat up and rubbed his face. The dream stayed with him, refusing to leave his mind. He looked at his alarm clock. There was still half an hour to go before the time he had set the alarm for and he wondered what had roused him. The chill air, perhaps. It was desperately cold in the room.

  He glanced across at the window and saw that it was open. The stay was hanging free, though he felt sure he had secured it the night before. It had not fitted properly, though. It might have worked itself loose. He lumbered over and closed it, shivering in the chill. As he did so, he noticed a mark on the sill outside: a white cross. Had it been there before? He could not say for sure. He reopened the window and rubbed the cross with his finger. He was left with a smear of chalk on his skin.

  Then he turned and started with astonishment. On the wall above the bed, while he had lain asleep, someone had chalked a message.

  At the Mazarin, Max was woken by a telephone call from the lobby. Sam was downstairs, sounding breathless and perturbed. Could he come up? Max, his thoughts still fuddled by sleep, slurred out his consent and struggled into his dressing-gown.

  He had hardly done so when Sam was knocking at the door. ‘What the devil’s the matter?’ Max demanded as he let him in. ‘And what time is it?’

  ‘Bacon-and-egg time, sir, but there’s something I have to tell you before you tuck into breakfast. Take a look at this. I copied it down off the wall of my room at the Majestic. Your father’s old room, as it happens.’

  ‘My father’s room? What are you—’ He broke off as Sam handed him a piece of paper and read the message written on it.

  TELL HIS SON I NOT KNOW WE KILL HIM

  AND GIVE HIM THIS – HX 4344

  Max reread the message when Sam had finished recounting the events of the night. It seemed clear le Singe had paid him a visit. It was no dream. The chalked words on the wall and the open window proved that.

  ‘He must be double- or triple-jointed, sir. You’d need to be able to swing from pipes and railings like a monkey from creepers in the jungle to get to the window of that room. And I reckon he’s been before. That cross on the sill is his mark. It was the first night since Sir Henry’s death that there was a light in the room. His first chance, as he saw it, to send you this message.’

  ‘He seems to want to tell me he didn’t know murder was part of the deal. Fine. It’s his boss I’m after, anyway. But if le Singe has a conscience, it could mean he’ll give us some more help. If we can only make contact with him.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘What did you do with the writing on the wall?’

  ‘I rubbed it out sharpish, sir. We don’t want anyone else to get the benefit of it, do we?’

  ‘No, we don’t. Good work, Sam. Now, these letters and numbers. What are they supposed to mean?’

  ‘Looks like a car registration number to me, sir. HX is the code for central London.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘I thought everyone knew that.’

  ‘’Fraid not, Sam. It’s an inexplicable gap in my education.’

  ‘I checked the cars
in the garage before I left. They were all brought over from London and most have HX in front of the number. But 4344 ain’t among ’em.’

  ‘And what would it mean if it were, eh?’

  ‘I was hoping you might have some idea, sir.’

  ‘Maybe I do.’ Max tapped his front teeth thoughtfully. ‘Brigham’s rented an apartment, so he’s not staying at the Majestic. His car wouldn’t be in the hotel garage.’

  ‘Who’s Brigham, sir?’

  ‘A senior member of the British delegation. And a nasty piece of work to boot. Our man, quite possibly. He took me for a drive last night and advised me to leave Paris in the interests of my health.’

  ‘What was he driving, sir?’

  ‘A Daimler. His own, I suspect.’

  ‘Get the registration number, did you?’

  Max gave Sam a pained smile. ‘Incredibly, it never occurred to me.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘But it doesn’t matter. Appleby can tell me where Brigham’s staying. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out if he’s driving HX 4344. I’ll go and see Appleby straight after breakfast. Do you want to join me for a bite here?’

  ‘Kind of you, sir, but I’d better hotfoot it back to the Majestic. I have to put the mechanics through their paces this morning.’

  ‘All right. You go. Thanks for bringing this to me so promptly, Sam.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, sir. About le Singe …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s a weird one and no mistake. I really thought I was dreaming when I saw him. And it was like he knew I’d think that. He wasn’t worried a bit. He seemed … calm. Calm as a pail o’ milk.’

  ‘Would you know him again?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s a breed all to himself.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll call again.’

  ‘If he does, I’ll be ready for him.’

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘I will. You too, sir.’

  Max grinned. ‘Don’t I always?’

  After Sam had gone, Max bathed and shaved hurriedly, then went down to breakfast. He was halfway through a bowl of porridge and a silent rehearsal of what he was going to tell Appleby – he had already half-convinced himself Brigham’s Daimler would turn out to be HX 4344 – when a clerk materialized at his elbow.