The Corners of the Globe

by Robert Goddard

  The Orkney Motor Express service from Kirkwall to Stromness was thinly patronized that morning. Max watched the spring-tinged fields and hills unfurl around him as the journey proceeded. He wished the day over so he could head out for the rendezvous with Wylie and be on with the urgent business of the night. He recollected Sam’s advice whenever he chafed at cancelled missions or groundings on account of bad weather during the war. ‘There’s not a minute that passed quicker for wishing it would, sir.’ It was no more helpful now than it was then. But at least the recollection made him smile.

  Stromness was a narrow, grey-stone town strung out along the western shore of the deep inlet of Hamnavoe. It looked grim and unwelcoming to Max as the coach drove down into it. He could see the northern hills of Hoy as a dark, blurred mass somewhere ahead, beyond the sound that formed one of the entrances to Scapa Flow. The Flow itself lay to the east, with the ships he knew to be dotted across it invisible in the murk.

  Discharged from the coach by the harbour, Max headed for the main hotel, the Stromness, and booked himself in for the night. The rest of the day and the evening that would follow stretched unenticingly ahead and he had little hope of doing anything but pass the hours stoically.

  The only reconnaissance he needed to carry out was swiftly accomplished: a walk round the harbour to the contractor’s yard established where Wylie was due to meet him; the men at work there, unloading timber, paid him no attention.

  After a cheerless lunch, Max walked out of the town, past a busy boatyard, aiming for the headland overlooking Hoy Sound. An army encampment restricted access, however. It housed a battery to defend the entrance to Scapa Flow and was still manned, though the men he saw had a lethargic, post-war slouch to them. Evidently no one was expecting the Germans to make a run for it.

  But there were other precautions against such a possibility nonetheless. Between Stromness and Hoy lay the island of Graemsay. A Royal Navy destroyer was on station in the waters between Graemsay and Mainland. Beyond it, Max could see a line of what appeared to be trestles stretching across the sound from Mainland to Hoy, with a gateway in the middle permitting access to Scapa Flow. And in the distance he could make out the dark smudges of the anchored German ships. They were securely bottled up, no question.

  Wylie had privileged access, of course. That was crucial to Fontana’s plan. But if anything went wrong, if the Navy suddenly, for whatever reason, cast their beady eye upon them . . .

  There would be no way out. There was no question about that either.

  SAM WAS TAKING a final wander round the Majestic garage before locking up for the night when a figure stepped in out of the rain drumming down in the mews. He was wearing a long black waterproof with the collar turned up and his face was barely visible beneath the brim of his sodden hat, but Sam recognized Schools Morahan by his mountainous build alone.

  ‘Mr Morahan,’ he called. ‘Am I glad to see you.’

  ‘I guess the feeling’s mutual,’ Morahan growled, the lamplight catching the crumpled prow of his nose as he took off his hat and shook it. ‘If only because seeing you means I’m in out of the rain.’ He shuddered. ‘I reckon it’s cold enough to snow. So much for spring, huh?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d turn out in this weather.’

  ‘Malory said you sounded worried.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I am, but—’

  ‘Got anything warming to give a feller on a foul night?’

  ‘Whisky?’

  Morahan smiled. ‘Now you’re talking.’

  Sam led the way into his office, where he lit the paraffin stove and produced his emergency bottle of Bell’s. He poured a generous measure for Morahan into the less chipped of his two enamel mugs and a smaller one for himself. ‘Take the weight off,’ he said, gesturing to the only chair.

  Morahan took his coat off and sat down, leaning forward to warm his hands by the stove. ‘You’ve got yourself a nice job, here, Sam, tuning limousines to ferry the big shots round Paris.’

  ‘Not bad, is it?’ Sam sat down on the upturned box he generally used as a chair when anyone above him in the pecking order came calling. He raised his mug. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Your health.’ Morahan sighed with pleasure as he swallowed his first mouthful. ‘The first drop of the day’s always the best.’

  ‘Have you been busy?’

  ‘Not half as busy as you have, I’ll wager. There was a plenary session as well as a Council of Four meeting, so there’ll have been a deal of coming and going for you to manage. Of course, it’s the Council of Three, really, now Italy have walked out. Think they’ll be back, Sam? What’s the word in the garage?’

  ‘We don’t talk about that kind of thing, Mr Morahan. I don’t know why the I-ties left, so whether they’re likely to come back . . .’ Sam shrugged.

  Morahan grinned. ‘You didn’t ask to see me about the conference, then?’

  ‘Not unless they were talking about China and Japan.’

  The remark had popped out of Sam’s mouth before he could ponder the wisdom of uttering it. And Morahan looked greatly puzzled by it, as well he might. ‘China and Japan, Sam? What’s your interest in matters oriental?’

  ‘Nothing. That is, I just . . . wondered.’

  ‘Wondered, did you? I call that odd. Especially when you consider they were talking about China and Japan. Or rather not talking about them.’

  Sam frowned. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘The plenary session this afternoon was to approve the League of Nations covenant. Japan raised no objections. There are rumours that means they’ve struck a deal with the Council of Four over Shantung. Wilson’s bought them off, in other words. Probably reckoned he couldn’t risk another walk-out after the Italians flounced back to Rome. So, Japan get what they want: a chunk of Chinese territory. Well, that’s the rumour, anyway. But why should you care?’

  Sam was in no position to answer that question without breaking his promise to Kuroda. He suspected he was looking pretty downcast, though. Events had moved more quickly than Kuroda had led him to expect. If Japan had secured Shantung, Count Tomura was free to turn his attention to the matter of finding le Singe. Sam forced a smile onto his lips. ‘You’re right, Mr Morahan. Why should I?’

  But Morahan was not about to be fooled by a mere smile. ‘You tell me.’

  Sam only wished he could. He owed Morahan his life. He liked and admired the man. He seemed to be the kind of American Sam wanted to believe in, though his Tom Mix credentials were undermined by his association with Travis Ireton, a man condemned by Max as devious and dishonourable. Morahan was apparently neither. But what exactly he did for Ireton Sam did not know and did not dare to ask. Not directly, anyway. ‘Mr Ireton sells information, doesn’t he? I mean, that’s his business.’

  Morahan nodded. ‘It is.’

  ‘And you work for him.’

  ‘With. Not for. There’s a big difference.’

  ‘’Course. Sorry. Thing is . . .’

  ‘Yuh?’ Morahan prompted. ‘What is the thing?’

  Sam took a deep breath. ‘I need some information.’

  ‘But surely not the kind Travis deals in. Conference tittle-tattle, Sam. What’s your interest in that?’

  ‘I’m in a spot of bother.’

  ‘Oh . . . What kind?’

  ‘I can’t say.’ Sam gave a heavy sigh and engaged Morahan eye to eye. He needed the American to believe him. ‘Honest. I can’t go into the details. It would be . . . unfair to someone else. The fact is though . . . certain people . . . are looking for le Singe.’

  ‘Le Singe? What’s he to you?’

  ‘Nothing. Except . . . these certain people . . . could easily think I know where he is.’

  ‘Why would they think that?’

  ‘Because le Singe was working with Tarn. And Max killed Tarn. And le Singe . . . did nothing to stop him.’

  ‘Or maybe did something to help him.’ Morahan was fully alert now. ‘Is that how Max got the drop on Tarn, Sam? Is that
why le Singe has gone to ground?’

  ‘All I know is that some nasty pieces of work are after le Singe and if they can’t find him they’ll come looking for people they think know where he is.’

  ‘Such as Max. And in his absence . . .’

  Sam nodded. ‘Me.’

  ‘So you figure to track le Singe down before they pay you a visit and . . . what?’

  ‘I just need you to point me in the right direction, Mr Morahan, that’s all.’

  But Morahan was still turning over in his mind what Sam had already said. ‘Are those “nasty pieces of work” Japanese, Sam? Travis told me there was a rumour Tarn was working for them. I can’t imagine they’d spend much time chasing a subordinate who’d betrayed him, though. There’d have to be more to it, which, judging by your expression, there is.’

  ‘You’ll never play anyone false, my lad,’ Sam remembered his mother once saying to him. ‘What’s on your mind is always written on your face, plain as day.’ ‘Will you help me, Mr Morahan?’

  ‘By revealing one of Travis’s trade secrets? He wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘He needn’t know.’

  ‘He has a habit of knowing everything in the end. Then where would I be?’

  ‘You saved my life, Mr Morahan. It’d be a terrible waste of effort if I lost it barely a month later for the lack of a word to the wise, wouldn’t it?’

  Morahan frowned. ‘Did Malory put you up to saying that?’

  ‘No. ’Course not. It’s just I’m—’

  ‘Only she treated me to some piece of Buddhist philosophy once that says if you save someone’s life you go on being responsible for it until the day they die. Or you do.’ Morahan smiled and pointed at Sam accusingly. ‘I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend my declining years nursemaiding you.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about that, Mr Morahan. I’m not a Buddhist.’

  ‘And neither am I. So don’t expect me to ride to the rescue every time you get in a fix.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Morahan glared down at his whisky, then across at Sam. ‘Any word from Max?’

  ‘Not a peep.’

  ‘So, I guess you’ve nowhere else to turn but good ol’ me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘If you get yourself killed, I won’t feel guilty, you know, whatever Malory says – or the Buddha himself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’

  ‘Interested in antiquities?’

  The question took Sam aback. ‘Antiquities?’

  ‘Yuh. You know. Statues of Greek gods. Ancient Egyptian amulets. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Well, er, no.’

  ‘Perhaps you should be. There’s an antiquarian gallery in Passage Vendôme, off Place de la République, where you could pick up one of Alexander the Great’s saddlebags, say, if you had the money and the inclination – and more faith than I could recommend in the proprietor’s integrity.’

  ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘Laskaris and Soutine, Sam. They’re the people for what you want. Well, Soutine, actually. Laskaris is just a name over the door. Soutine’s your man.’

  ‘He can lead me to le Singe?’

  ‘He’s been a source of valuable information for Travis – the kind of information le Singe is rumoured to have procured on his fishing expeditions round the delegations. But these last few weeks the source has dried up. No one’s seen le Singe. Or even had cause to suspect he’s paid them a clandestine visit. And Soutine’s had nothing to sell but antiquities. As to whether he could lead you to le Singe, I guess the answer is maybe – if he wanted to. But he won’t want to. And I don’t rightly see how you’d be able to persuade him.’

  ‘I have to try.’

  ‘Good luck, then.’

  ‘You know this man personally, Mr Morahan – Soutine?’

  ‘I’ve met him a couple of times. Wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him. Maybe not even as far as that, considering he’s no heavyweight. He’s a dealer, Sam. You’ll get nothing from him without paying over the odds for it. And what you want could be very expensive. That’s if you get the chance to talk to him in the first place. Last I heard from Travis on the subject, Soutine had left town. Have you thought of doing that yourself?’

  ‘They’d probably come after me wherever I went. Then I’d have chucked in a good job for nothing.’

  ‘You could ask Appleby for help.’

  ‘I can’t do that. This has to stay . . . unofficial.’

  ‘Then try Soutine.’

  ‘I will. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Literally, I mean.’ Morahan looked hard at Sam until he had extracted a nod of understanding. ‘My advice is: if the threat’s serious, make yourself scarce. I could give you some hints on how to do that without leaving a trail. A job is just a job. You can always get another.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘OK.’ Morahan drained his mug and stood up. ‘But don’t think too long, huh?’

  DUSK IN STROMNESS: the greyness of the town intensified by the greyness of the light. Max trudged through the drizzle back along the main street towards his hotel, dismally aware that he had many hours to wait yet before his rendezvous with Wylie. There was nothing to do and no one to speak to. His experience with the Hentys was a warning against making the acquaintance of strangers. He wondered what Sam was doing at that moment in Paris: downing a bottle of Bass at the Majestic, perhaps, before a meat-and-two-veg dinner rustled up by the imported English chefs. How Max envied him. How he wished he was in Paris himself, taking it easy, like lucky old Sam.

  But Sam was not taking it easy in Paris. He had taken the Métro to République, emerging into the square to find Morahan’s prediction had been correct: it was snowing hard. He wondered bitterly whether there would be a spring at all this year. One of the mechanics had suggested all the shells fired in the war had poisoned the atmosphere. Sam had pooh-poohed the idea. Now he was not so sure.

  Passage Vendôme was an arcade linking Place de la République with the street behind it. Most of the shops and offices were closed and in darkness. He had to pirouette his way round a drunken old soldier to make progress, the man’s rantings echoing boomingly in the arcade. ‘L’héro de la guerre, c’est moi! L’héro de la merde, c’est moi!’

  There it was. Laskaris et Soutine, Antiquaires. Like the other premises, the gallery was in darkness, with a Fermé sign on the door. But there was a lamp on in the room above, light from it spilling down a spiral staircase into the gallery itself, illuminating assorted paintings and statuary and objets d’art.

  Sam was about to knock on the door, when the light went out, casting the gallery into deep shadow. A few seconds passed, then a figure that was no more than a shadow itself appeared on the stairs. It descended slowly into the gallery and moved towards the door. Sam took a step back, then another into the doorway opposite.

  A key was turned in a lock. A latch was slipped. The door opened. A small man in a dark overcoat and homburg emerged, jangling a bunch of keys. He was carrying an umbrella and a bulging Gladstone bag that was heavier than he was used to, to judge by the grunts he gave as he manoeuvred to close the door behind him, casting a wary glance towards the drunkard as he did so.

  ‘Monsieur Soutine?’ Sam asked, moving smartly across the arcade.

  The man started violently. ‘Mon Dieu,’ he gasped. He peered suspiciously at Sam in the thin light of the arcade lamps. ‘Qui est-ce?’ He had a flat, loose-skinned face given some distinction by a snowy white Vandyke beard. His small, blue eyes shone like two sapphires dropped in a bowl of porridge.

  ‘L’héro de la guerre, c’est moi!’ came the slurred bellow.

  ‘Are you Monsieur Soutine?’ Sam asked.

  ‘You are English?’

  ‘Yes. But are—’

  ‘I am not Soutine.’

  ‘L’héro de la merde, c’est moi!’

  ‘But . . . this is your gallery.’

  ‘Yes, y
es. But I am Laskaris, not Soutine. You are looking for my partner?’

  ‘Er, yes. Yes, I am.’

  ‘I am also looking for him.’

  ‘Any idea where he is?’

  ‘No. Of course not. Otherwise—’

  ‘L’héro de la guerre, c’est moi!’

  ‘Ach. Come inside.’ With an impatient flap in the direction of the drunkard, Laskaris retreated into the gallery, beckoning for Sam to follow. He vanished somewhere amid the shadows, then threw a switch. A lamp standing on a desk in a corner came on, its light a particularly sickly hue of yellow-green.

  Laskaris rested the Gladstone bag on a stone sarcophagus bearing faded carvings on its side and sighed wearily. His shoulders dropped and Sam noticed how dusty his clothes were. Laskaris appeared to notice at the same time and started to brush some of the dust off.

  ‘I do not normally come here, Mr . . .’

  ‘Twentyman.’

  ‘Twentyman?’ Laskaris gave all three syllables of Sam’s name a lot of studious emphasis. His accent was not French, though he was certainly not English. Sam would not have been able to place him on a map of Europe. ‘Does Soutine owe you money?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’

  ‘You surprise me. Most of the customers I have heard from since Soutine’ – he pursed his lips and made a plosive noise accompanied by a gesture symbolizing disappearance into thin air – ‘have wanted to be paid for something. Or paid back for something they did not receive. I am Soutine’s commanditaire, you understand. His . . . inactive partner.’

  ‘Sleeping partner?’

  ‘Sleep? I wish I could. Telephone calls. Telegrams. Callers. I am besieged. See that?’ Laskaris pointed to an elephant’s foot standing by the door. ‘Would you believe that belonged to one of the elephants who crossed the Alps with Hannibal?’

  ‘Er, I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘Wise of you, Mr Twentyman. It seems others are less wise. Or perhaps my partner is more persuasive than I am. Ach, Alphonse. How could you do this to me? It’s too much.’

  ‘How long . . . has Monsieur Soutine been gone?’

  ‘I do not know. It is a week since I began receiving complaints about him. Unpaid bills. Undelivered goods. And I am liable for them. I am an honest man. I have a reputation. I had a reputation. Now I have migraines.’