The Ways of the World Page 37

  ‘What is the surname?’

  ‘Farngold.’

  Max wandered out into the open expanse of the Esplanade des Invalides, thoughts whirling in his head. Farngold. Suddenly, the name had meaning – significance. It was not – it had never been – merely the pseudonym Sir Henry had used for renting a safe-deposit box at the Banque Ornal. It was a door, opening on to a hidden world. Like a row of dominoes, the consequences of the discovery toppled in Max’s mind. Sir Henry had appointed him as his executor not only because of what the box contained, but because of the name it was held under. Lemmer had guessed he would use the name because they shared the knowledge of its importance. Farngold. Written by le Singe in Japanese, a language he surely neither spoke nor wrote. But Japan was where Sir Henry and Lemmer had first met. And that was where the secret must have been spawned, nearly thirty years in the past. Farngold. It was the answer, if only he knew the question.

  Max was not optimistic that Corinne would ever have heard Sir Henry mention the name Farngold, but he certainly intended to find out. They had arranged to meet for an early lunch at La Closerie des Lilas in Boulevard du Montparnasse. Max arrived shortly before 12.30 and bagged a prime table.

  As he waited for Corinne, he leafed through the café’s copy of Le Figaro. His eye was taken by an article on an inner page under the headline Le Marquis Saionji et la maîtresse indiscrète. As far as he could glean, Ohana, the ‘très jeune’ mistress of the ‘vénérable’ head of the Japanese delegation to the peace conference, was embarrassing her ‘vieux protecteur’ with her lack of reticence and might be to blame for Japan’s exclusion from the new all-powerful Council of Four. Max wondered if this explained Kuroda’s absence from the Quai d’Orsay. If so, he was not to be envied. Silencing a loose-tongued geisha did not sound like an easy task.

  Absorbed in the effort of translating the article, Max was surprised by the sudden appearance at his table of a meek, tubby, balding, placid-featured man in a tight-fitting suit that looked to have seen better days. ‘Monsieur Maxted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Miette. I am a neighbour of Madame Dombreux. I work near by.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Madame Dombreux asked me to give you this.’ He handed Max a letter. ‘Please excuse me.’

  With that Miette was gone, leaving Max to open the envelope bearing his name and to read the letter it contained.

  My dear Max,

  I have set off early for Nantes. By the time Monsieur Miette delivers this to you, my train will have left. I am so sorry to disappoint you. I could not bear to exchange farewells with you. I feel it is better to go now, before the little courage I have deserts me. You should stop looking for answers. There must always be some that elude one in this life. Go home. You have avenged Henry. That is enough. Leave the past behind. Make a future for yourself, as I will try to do for myself.

  Corinne

  Glancing down, Max noticed that there was something else in the envelope. He slid it out on to the table.

  Mellish’s card. Corinne wanted him to understand clearly that he would not hear from her again. She had made her decision and was going to live by it.

  Despite what Corinne had said in the letter, Max hurried from the café to the Gare Montparnasse. He scoured the concourse and the waiting-room. There was no sign of her. And a clerk confirmed a train for Nantes had left half an hour previously. She was gone.

  It took a visit to 8 Rue du Verger to convince himself of the fact, though. ‘Partie, monsieur,’ Madame Mesnet insisted. ‘Partie sans espoir de retour.’ She had gone. And she was not coming back.

  MAX HEADED NORTH, back towards the Quai d’Orsay. He had no particular destination in mind. What he should do next he could not decide. He forced himself to address the question: was Corinne right to draw a line under what had happened and seek a new start in life elsewhere? Quite possibly, he could not deny. The clue he was following now was faint and perhaps illusory. Farngold might be just a pseudonym after all.

  But he did not believe that. And it was not in his nature to let such uncertainty rest. He might be forced to eventually. Until he was, though …

  He crossed the river at the Pont de la Concorde, then struck west to the Plaza Athénée, reasoning that Sir Henry might have talked about Farngold to his old friend and confidant, Baltazar Ribeiro.

  They informed him at the desk that Ribeiro was in the hotel, but busily engaged with a working lunch in a private room. Max prevailed upon them to send a message in, requesting a few minutes of Ribeiro’s time. He said he would wait outside.

  ‘Max!’

  Ribeiro emerged at a half-charge into the frail spring sunshine on the Avenue Montaigne and beamed at Max as if seeing him was the best thing that had happened to him all day, as perhaps it was.

  ‘I have been worried about you,’ Ribeiro declared, breathing heavily. ‘It is a relief to see you looking so well.’

  ‘I’m sorry to call you out of a meeting, Baltazar. If the matter had been less urgent …’

  ‘Does this concern Herbert Norris?’

  ‘You’ve heard about him?’

  ‘Of course. I knew him. He was the British delegation’s representative on the shipping committee. It is rumoured that he was implicated in Henry’s murder. Is it true?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’ Max was aware he owed Ribeiro a fuller explanation of events than he currently had the energy or inclination to supply. ‘I’d like to be able to tell you everything I’ve learnt, Baltazar, and I will, but I simply don’t have the time at present. What I wanted to ask you now was whether my father ever mentioned to you someone called Farngold.’

  ‘Farngold?’

  ‘F-A-R-N-G-O-L-D.’

  Ribeiro frowned, then shook his head. ‘No. I do not think so. It is not a name I remember.’

  ‘You remembered Lemmer.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But not this name. It is important, yes?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘So, it has not ended with Norris?’

  Max shook his head. ‘No. It hasn’t.’

  Max headed for the Mazarin because, for the moment at least, he could think of nowhere else to go.

  He was barely aware of his surroundings as he approached the hotel and as a result nearly walked into the car door that opened across his path when he was only a few yards from the entrance.

  Frank Carver glared out at him from the rear seat of the vehicle. ‘I’d like a word with you, Mr Maxted,’ he said grimly.

  Max sighed. He felt tired and dispirited and in no mood to fend off questions from Carver. But it seemed he had no choice in the matter. ‘I can’t help you,’ he said simply.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. Get in and we can talk while Joe drives us around town.’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘I can’t force you to. But I’ll keep after you if you don’t, getting grouchier all the time. So, why not do us both a favour and climb aboard?’

  The drive was a circular tour of the 8th arrondissement. Their discussion had its circularities too. Carver was convinced Max knew more than he was willing to admit about Sir Henry’s involvement with Lemmer’s network of spies. He also blamed Max for Lemmer’s possible acquisition of a document – the Contingencies Memorandum, obviously, though he never referred to it as such. And he suspected Max of working for or with Ireton in some unspecified capacity. Max made it as clear as he could that he had only ever acted in pursuit of the truth about his father’s death. He was not responsible for all that had flowed from that.

  ‘It’s over, Carver. Tarn’s dead. So’s Norris. I’ve done as much as I can for my father. And there’s nothing I can do for you.’

  ‘Why’d you come back to Paris, then? Why are you still in contact with Ireton?’

  ‘I’m not. I went to his office this morning to thank Morahan for saving the life of my friend, Sam Twentyman. And I came back to Paris to see Sam.’

  ‘Bull. You’re up to something. The French may have decided to
close the book on this, but I can’t afford to. There are too many unanswered questions.’

  ‘I agree. But I don’t have any of the answers to give you.’

  ‘Why do I find that so hard to believe?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe you’re too cynical for your own good.’

  ‘If I learn you’re holding out on me …’

  ‘You won’t, because I’m not.’

  ‘No? Well, for as long as you stay in Paris, I’ll assume you are. So don’t think you’ve seen the last of me. I’ll be watching you. Waiting for that false move I bet you’ll make in the end.’

  Silence fell between them. The car drove on slowly along the Champs-Elysées, approaching the Rond-Point for the second time. A few moments passed. Then Max said, ‘Can I get out now?’

  MAX SET OFF south along Avenue d’Antin. He had only covered twenty yards or so when a car pulled in beside him. Fearing Carver had changed his mind and wanted to ask him some more questions, he put his head down and kept on walking.

  ‘Max!’

  It was not Carver’s voice and not his aggressive tone either. Max turned round to find himself looking at the overcoated and smiling figure of Masataka Kuroda, standing by the stationary vehicle.

  ‘Can I walk with you, Max? I was waiting for you at your hotel. We have been following you.’ He nodded to the car. ‘Did you enjoy your tour with Mr Carver?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Max returned Kuroda’s smile and shook his hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Masataka.’

  ‘You also, Max. Shall we walk?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s.’

  Kuroda said something to his driver in Japanese and the car started away. He and Max fell in together and carried on along the avenue.

  ‘I assume Yamanaka told you I was looking for you earlier.’

  ‘He did. And that you had something you wanted to be translated.’

  ‘He did the honours.’

  ‘Farngold.’

  ‘That’s right. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘I cannot say it does. May I see … the piece of paper?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Max took the scrap of wallpaper from his pocket and unfolded it for Kuroda to look at.

  Kuroda squinted at the writing for a few seconds. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘Very strange. May I ask where it came from?’

  ‘My flat in London.’

  ‘Ah. Where you killed Tarn?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Of course. His death is a blow to those in my government who hoped he would eliminate Lemmer. It has caused consternation. They hired the finest archer, only for an arrow to sprout from his chest.’

  ‘I was lucky, Masataka, that’s all.’

  ‘All? You should not speak so lightly of luck, Max. I am more glad than I can say that you survived. I expected to hear of your death, not Tarn’s. Luck is a gift from the gods. You should be grateful for it.’

  ‘I am, believe me.’

  ‘It gives you a chance to extricate yourself from the intrigues surrounding Lemmer. Those who authorized the hiring of Tarn are shamed by his failure. Those opposed to such extreme action are therefore in the ascendant. While they remain so, you would do well to leave the fray.’

  ‘But what if there’s more to be discovered?’

  ‘About Farngold, for instance?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Who wrote the name?’

  ‘I didn’t see it done.’

  ‘Was it le Singe?’

  ‘It seems unlikely he’d know how to write anything in Japanese.’

  ‘Unlikely, but not impossible. There is a rumour that he has been employed to enter hotels and offices used by various delegations in order to examine documents and memorize their contents. It seems he may have what is called a photographic memory. It is even possible that the burglaries he is supposed to have committed were intended to distract attention from the real purpose of his activities. If this is true, he may be capable of reproducing a word he had seen written in Japanese without understanding what it means.’

  ‘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.

  MALADIES INTIMES. Guérison rapide peu coûteuse.

  Con
sultations gratuites par docteurs-spécialistes.

  Discrétion absolue. Pharmacie Claverie, 24 Boulevard de Sébastopol, Paris.

  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.