The Ways of the World Page 38

  ‘I’m bound to ask when you intended to inform us,’ Ashley continued. ‘But for the letter I had from Fradgley telling me the French police had changed their minds about how Pa met his death and my subsequent telephone conversation with Mellish, we might still be in ignorance of these appalling events. We were horrified to learn that James had actually killed a man – in the London flat, of all places. Such shocks aren’t good for Lydia in her present condition.’

  ‘Have you been to the flat?’ asked Lydia. ‘What state is it in?’

  ‘Is it your unborn child you’re concerned about?’ Lady Maxted responded. ‘Or the redecoration bill?’

  ‘What we’re concerned about, Mother,’ said Ashley, with heavy deliberation, ‘is limiting the damage to our family’s reputation that James may have caused by involving himself in such … mayhem.’

  ‘He killed an intruder in self-defence. And the French police are evidently satisfied, based on what Mr Fradgley has written to you, that the intruder in question murdered Henry. I’m bound to say that we should all be grateful to James for what he has achieved. Don’t forget he also saved Mr Brigham’s life.’

  ‘But to shoot a man through the head,’ gasped Lydia. ‘It’s … too awful for words.’

  ‘Then spare yourself the distress of finding any words, my dear. Many men shot other men through the head in the war. We regard them as heroes and rightly so. James has done what he swore to do. I for one am proud of him.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me what had happened as soon as you heard of it from Mellish,’ Ashley complained.

  ‘I knew how you would react. It was an emergency. I needed a calm atmosphere in which to address the matter.’

  ‘Calm atmosphere? What the—’

  ‘And I had George to advise me.’

  ‘This isn’t good enough, Mother,’ Ashley declared, in something close to a shout, adding a slap of his hand on the arm of his chair for emphasis. ‘It really isn’t.’

  ‘Where is James now?’ Lydia demanded.

  ‘He’s gone back to Paris.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He said there were some loose ends he wanted to tie up.’

  ‘Loose ends?’ spluttered Ashley. ‘Hasn’t he caused enough trouble?’

  ‘He seems to think not.’

  ‘Good God Almighty. He’s insufferable, completely insufferable.’

  ‘Did he say anything about the executorship before he left?’ asked Lydia.

  ‘The executorship?’ Lady Maxted affected a vagueness of tone calculated to rile her daughter-in-law.

  ‘Yes. The executorship.’

  Lady Maxted paused theatrically, then said, ‘As a matter of fact … I don’t believe we spoke of it.’

  ‘More money than either of us has ever seen before,’ said Max a few hours later, opening the suitcase in his room at the Mazarin to show Sam Sir Henry’s hoard of cash.

  Sam whistled in disbelief. ‘And more than I’ll ever see again. That’s for sure.’

  ‘Lemmer certainly has his own way of doing things.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It means you’ll go after him. Just like you always went after the Boche pilots who had the biggest reputations. It’s in your blood.’

  ‘If I go after him, it’ll be to learn the truth – the whole truth – about my father.’

  ‘Understood, sir. Still, it’s a pity.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The flying school. I’m sure we could have made a success of it.’

  Max smiled. ‘We still can. You’re wrong about never seeing this much money again, Sam. Legally, it belongs to my brother, but he can go hang. I intend to salt it away so that you and I can start that flying school eventually. Ashley’s never going to give us those fields at Gresscombe, so we’ll need to buy land as well as planes when the time comes.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir? I mean—’

  ‘As I recall, we were both sure it was a good idea when we talked it over at the Rose and Crown. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’

  Sam looked aghast. ‘Changed my mind? ’Course not. But … all this money. I, er …’

  ‘Let me worry about the money.’ Max clapped Sam on the shoulder. ‘I can’t predict how long it’s going to take me to do what I have to do, Sam. The question is: are you willing to wait? You could always look for another partner.’

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you, sir?’ Sam grinned. ‘I’ll never find anyone else I’d want to go into business with who’d actually be willing to go into business with me.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘It’s the truth, sir. So, like my girl said to me before I went off to war: “I’ll wait for you.” But unlike her, I mean it. Anyway, I’ve got a job until this conference ends, haven’t I? The way they’re going, I reckon they could still be here come Christmas. And Paris is definitely one up on Walthamstow. The way I see it, I’m sitting pretty.’

  ‘Good man.’ Spontaneously they shook hands, confirming the renewal of their bargain. ‘I doubt you’ll see much of me for quite a while after tonight, Sam. You appreciate that, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, sir.’ Sam knew better than to ask any questions about Max’s pursuit of Lemmer. And Max liked him all the more because of it. ‘You’ll take care, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. When did I ever not?’

  ‘You don’t want me to answer that, do you, sir?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Now, to more serious matters.’ Max pulled several notes out of a bundle of French francs and slipped them into his pocket, then closed the suitcase and locked it. ‘It’s time to go and get roaring drunk, I think, don’t you?’

  APPLEBY WAS SLEEPILY aware of his train’s arrival at the Gare du Nord early the following morning, but he intended to doze on for an hour or so before emerging into the Parisian dawn. He distinctly recalled telling the steward so and was therefore none too pleased to be roused by a persistent knocking at the door of his cabin. ‘Go away,’ he bellowed. ‘Va-t’en!’ But it did no good. Eventually, he hauled himself out of his bunk and opened the door.

  ‘Good morning, Appleby,’ said Max, beaming in at him. His voice may have been gravelly, but his chin had the smoothness of one who had already bathed and shaved. ‘Can I buy you breakfast?’

  They adjourned to the station café. Neither, it transpired, had much of an appetite. Coffee and his pipe satisfied Appleby’s needs. It was coffee for Max too, supplemented by brandy. ‘Hair of the dog,’ he explained, without elaboration.

  ‘Are you leaving Paris already?’ Appleby asked, nodding to the suitcase Max was carrying with him.

  ‘Maybe. I don’t actually know.’

  ‘It’s too early for riddles.’

  ‘I’ll keep it plain and simple, then. How did your meeting at HQ go?’

  ‘Not well, thanks to your exploits. My ears are still ringing from the reprimand.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  Appleby grunted. ‘It can’t be helped.’

  ‘Ah, but perhaps it can. I have a proposition for you.’

  Appleby’s gaze narrowed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Lemmer wants me to work for him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He came to see me while I was laid up at the Hôtel Dieu. Turned up at my bedside in the middle of the night, masquerading as a doctor.’

  ‘Are you joking, Max?’

  ‘No. I didn’t tell anyone about it at the time because I didn’t think they’d believe me. But it was him. Softly spoken, mild-mannered man. Beard and glasses. Professorial air.’

  Appleby nodded slowly in amazement. ‘So they say.’

  ‘He offered me exciting and lucrative employment.’

  ‘As a spy?’

  ‘Something in that line. He said I’d enjoy the work.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told him to go to hell.’

  ‘So I should hope.’


  ‘But now …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s contacted me again since I came back to Paris. Indirectly. The offer’s still open. You could even say he’s made payment in advance. The suitcase contains the money he found in my father’s safe-deposit box. Lemmer wanted the documents that were in it, of course, not the money. He’s returned it to me as a gesture of good will. I was hoping you’d agree to bank it for me. In an account where it can be held for the duration.’

  ‘The duration?’ Appleby sat back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at Max. ‘What have you got in mind?’

  ‘There’s something I haven’t come to grips with yet that connects Lemmer with my father – some secret they shared, dating back to their days in Japan, I suspect. I mean to find out what it is. And I’m not going to stop until I do. Which is why I’ve decided to accept Lemmer’s offer.’

  ‘Accept his offer?’

  ‘It’s the only way I can get close enough to him to get to the heart of the mystery and maybe live to tell the tale. Don’t you see, Appleby? Working for Lemmer gives me the protection I need. It gives me a chance. I have to take it.’

  ‘All I can see is that Lemmer’s an enemy of our country. And anyone who works for him is guilty of treason. Do you really want to tell me that’s what you propose to engage in?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Max leant across the table and fixed Appleby with his gaze. It was vital there be no misunderstanding between them. ‘I’m telling you because I can accomplish something else beyond teasing out the truth about my father. I can learn what Lemmer intends to do with his spy network now the war’s over – what plans he has, what plots he’s hatching. And I can learn who’s in his network. This is your chance as well as mine, Appleby. I can be your man on the inside. I can bring him down for you.’

  Appleby looked at Max fondly, almost sorrowfully. ‘Have you any conception of how dangerous what you’re suggesting would be? Lemmer’s bound to be doubtful of your loyalty. He’s going to require ample proof of it. And any evidence to the contrary – the faintest suggestion that you’re feeding information to me – will be fatal for you. Literally fatal.’

  ‘I’ll have to tread carefully, then. And trust you to do the same.’

  ‘You’ve obviously already made your mind up.’

  ‘It’s a unique opportunity, Appleby. You’re not going to refuse to help me, are you?’

  Appleby took a fretful chew on his pipe, then said, ‘No. Of course I’m not. As a representative of the Secret Service, I should do everything in my power to encourage you. And, if it comes to it, I will. But as you and I sit here this morning, Max, I say this to you. Don’t do it. One way or the other, it’ll destroy you. Let your father’s secrets rest with him. Walk away. While you still can.’

  Max smiled softly and shook his head. ‘But I can’t, you see. That’s the point. I can’t walk away.’

  Appleby sighed. ‘Then be it on your own head.’

  ‘So, you will help me?’

  Another sigh. ‘Yes. But what we’re discussing is no job for an amateur. And that’s what you are.’

  ‘Teach me a few of your professional tricks, then.’

  ‘I’d have to get approval from the top for an operation like this, Max. I couldn’t discuss covert communication methods with you without authorization. And without some mastery of those methods you’d be sunk.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Codes? Invisible ink?’

  ‘That sort of thing, yes.’

  ‘We used lemon juice at school.’

  ‘It’s no laughing matter.’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’ Max looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got about five hours to turn me into a spy.’

  ‘Five hours?’

  ‘It’s all I have, I’m afraid. Delaying my response would make Lemmer suspicious before I even started.’

  ‘I couldn’t get authorization in that time, let alone train you to any level of competence.’

  ‘I’m a quick learner. And this is an emergency.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I’ve already had my knuckles rapped for letting you wreak havoc. Do you seriously expect me to go out on a limb for you again?’

  ‘Lemmer’s the target, Appleby. I’m just the arrow. How badly do you want him? How badly do your bosses want him? Playing it by the book won’t work. This is our chance. Our only chance. Now. Today. What’s it to be? Yes or no?’

  A lengthy silence followed as they pondered each other’s seriousness of purpose. Then Appleby groaned. ‘Five hours, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we’d better look lively, then, hadn’t we?’

  MAX STEPPED DOWN from the tram in front of the Gare de Lyon, travelling bag in hand. He checked his watch by the station clock. It was twenty past eleven and he was neither early nor late. Warm spring sunshine fell hearteningly on his face as he walked unhurriedly towards the station entrance.

  He paused in his progress by a post-box, where he took a letter out of his pocket and glanced at the name and address he had written on the envelope – G. A. Mellish, Esq, Mellish & Co., 119a High Street, Epsom, Surrey, Angleterre – before dropping it into the slot.

  Max entered the station, made his way to the ticket office and bought a first-class single to Melun, then consulted the departures board to learn which platform his train was leaving from. Next he wandered across to a news-stand and bought a copy of Le Figaro. The Paris editions of several British and American newspapers were also available, but he had no wish to advertise his foreignness.

  He strolled, with every appearance of casualness, to the platform where the train was waiting. It was not a popular service. There were few other passengers. He climbed aboard, glancing at his watch as he did so. In no more than a few minutes, the train would leave. He could disembark before then and walk back out of the station into the safe and secure normality of one version of the rest of his life. But he was not going to. His course was set.

  He sat down. He had the compartment to himself, though, strangely, he felt as if he was being watched. He opened the newspaper, but crooked his wrist so that he could follow the ticking down of the minutes to 11.35.

  11.35 came. And 11.35 went. So did 11.36. At 11.37, there was a shrill blast on a whistle and a general slamming of doors. Then, at the last moment, the door of his compartment was yanked open and a man jumped in, slamming it shut behind him. The train was already moving. Max was no longer alone.

  The man was of about Max’s age, lean, sallow-skinned and narrow-shouldered. He was wearing a raincoat, despite the mildness of the day, which he did not take off. He removed only his hat as he sat down, diagonally opposite Max. He had thinning, sandy-coloured hair and a pinched, raw-boned face. He was breathing heavily, presumably because he had had to run for the train, and the cigarette he immediately lit activated a phlegmy cough. He unfolded a newspaper and began reading it.

  The train lumbered out of the station, past goods sidings and warehouses. Max settled back in his seat. All he could do now was wait upon events. Lemmer would show his hand when he wanted to and not before.

  Perhaps he already had, in the form of Max’s tardy fellow passenger. Perhaps not. Time would tell.

  The train stopped at every station as it slowly lurched and wheezed its way out of the city and south through a succession of villages separated by flat, open countryside.

  With the other occupant of the compartment buried in his paper, Max began to assume nothing would happen until he reached Melun. He relaxed and closed his eyes, wondering if he would be able to catch up on any of the sleep he had missed the night before. He had always been a ready catnapper.

  ‘Excusez-moi, monsieur!’

  How long Max had dozed – whether he had dozed at all, indeed – was unclear to him. His fellow passenger had tapped him on the knee with his newspaper and now, blinking across at him, Max saw that he had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and was waggling a matchbox to demonstrate that it was empty.

  �
�Pouvez-vous me donner du feu?’

  Max delved in his jacket, produced a box of his own and obliged the fellow with a light.

  ‘Merci, monsieur.’ The man took a draw on the cigarette, coughed, then said, ‘Next stop, Max.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Next stop.’

  The train was slowing, though only green fields were visible through the window. The man turned his newspaper in his hand so that Max could see the back page. He had seen it before. It was the previous Sunday’s edition of Le Petit Journal.

  ‘Discrétion absolue,’ the man murmured.

  The train slowed still further, the roof of a small station coming into view as it juddered to a halt. Max stood up, pulled his bag down from the luggage-rack and moved towards the door, only to discover that his companion had already opened it for him.

  He stepped out on to the platform and looked back, thinking there might be some last signal or direction. But the man did not so much as glance at him as he slammed the door.

  Max saw only one other passenger disembark – a middle-aged man wearing a tweed suit. The guard blew his whistle and the train cranked back into motion.

  There were a couple of cottages next to the station. Otherwise it was surrounded by fields, though the roofs of the village it evidently served were visible in the distance. A lane marked by a line of poplars led away from the station towards them.

  The noise of the train faded as Max followed the tweed-suited man along the platform to the ticket office. The man turned through a narrow gateway next to it into a small courtyard at the front of the station, lifted a bicycle out from behind a bush, attached clips to his trousers and climbed on to the machine, then pedalled slowly away along the lane, glancing back at Max as he went.

  Max watched him go. Rural quietude descended. Only birdsong reached him on the gentle breeze. He lit a cigarette and smoked it through as he paced up and down, wondering if somehow this had all been a wild-goose chase.

  Then he heard the thrumbling note of a car engine approaching along the lane from the direction of the village. He strode forward for a view of the vehicle.