The Corners of the Globe

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Here.’ Laskaris pointed up the spiral stair. ‘In the rooms above. So he told me, anyway. “I do not need a large house, Viktor, when I travel so much to buy antiquities.” Ach, another lie. No, no. There is a house somewhere. A chateau, where he reclines on his chaise longue with his mistress. But I do not know where it is. I do not know where he is.’

  ‘It’s important I find him, Monsieur Laskaris. I, er . . . It’s very important.’

  ‘But not because of money?’

  ‘No. Not because of money.’

  ‘Then it cannot be so important.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Alphonse? Ach, too long. We met in Tunis, many years ago. He owned a vineyard then.’ Laskaris chuckled at some bittersweet memory. ‘Probably he did not own it. Probably he has sold things here that he did not own. It seems to be what he does. And I am left to answer for it.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your predicament, but I do need to find him.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I understand. But you must understand also. I do not know where he has gone. What do you want from him if it is not money, Mr Twentyman?’

  ‘Have you, er, heard of someone called . . . le Singe?’

  ‘Le Singe?’ Laskaris frowned. ‘You mean the burglar they call le Singe? I read about him at my barber’s. I only read newspapers when I visit my barber. It is something to do while I wait. I think perhaps I should find something else to do. The news upsets me.’

  ‘I believe . . . Monsieur Soutine knows le Singe, you see.’

  ‘He knows le Singe? Then it is worse than I thought. Why would he know such a person?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I—’

  ‘I must go to the police. Alphonse has left me no choice. Yes, yes. Tomorrow. No more . . . shilly-shally. Now, I must go home and rest.’

  ‘But how—’

  ‘I cannot help you, Mr Twentyman. I cannot help anyone. Even myself. I am useless, it seems. But here.’ Laskaris took something from his pocket, hoisted his Gladstone bag off the sarcophagus and advanced to join Sam by the door. ‘My card. Telephone me – or call, if you must – in a few days. I may have news of Soutine. I may not. I think it is unlikely. But . . . you may contact me if you wish.’ He gave a heavy, heartfelt, sigh. ‘I will do as much as I can.’

  Sam headed back to the Majestic in a pessimistic frame of mind. He strongly suspected Laskaris would have no news for him if and when they spoke again. The man was Soutine’s dupe, nothing more. They might both end up suffering for what they were wrongly thought to know: where le Singe was hiding. Soutine had decided to drop out of sight and evidently knew how to. Sam would have to try some other way of tracing le Singe. But he had no idea what way that might be.

  In Stromness, the evening fused with the night. The town was quiet to the point of eeriness. Max tried to sleep for a couple of hours after dinner, but could not seem to. Then, within minutes of finally dropping off, he was woken by the alarm. It was midnight. The waiting was over.

  A FIGURE LOOMED out of an inky slab of shadow into a patch of lamplight as Max reached the gate of the builder’s yard. Wylie was a short, wiry fellow in a skipper’s cap and pea jacket, with a smell about him of coarse tar and rough tobacco.

  ‘You’re early,’ was all he said.

  ‘Tom Wylie?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’m Max Hutton.’

  ‘I know who you are. Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  It was a short, dark walk from the yard to the harbour. The drizzle had seeped into the stillness of the night. The sea was an unseen presence, though audible as it lapped and gently slapped at the quay and the hulls of moored vessels.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Wylie, leading the way down a short flight of steps to a small fishing boat roped up to the quay. Her engine was turning over, smoke curling up from the funnel. Evidently Wylie was intent on a prompt departure. ‘Cast off as you come.’

  Max unwound the rope from the bollard and jumped aboard.

  ‘Are you much of a seagoer?’ Wylie asked.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘You’ll be glad it’s such a calm night, then. And there’s no moonlight for anyone to see us by. I’ll take us out.’

  Wylie headed for the wheelhouse. He throttled the engine and, as he steered the drifter away from the quay, lit a lamp fixed to the wheelhouse roof. It shone ahead of them, out through the mouth of the harbour into Hamnavoe.

  ‘There’s some sort of barrier across the sound,’ said Max, joining Wylie by the wheel. ‘I saw it earlier.’

  ‘The hurdles,’ Wylie responded. ‘There’s a gate in the middle. You needn’t worry about them.’

  ‘And a Royal Navy patrol ship.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about her either. I come and go across the Flow day and night. They all know me.’

  ‘You won’t be stopped – or asked to explain why you’re out at this hour?’

  ‘I ferry supplies around the shore bases and there are the Yankee minesweepers to see to as well. I’m always on some errand or other. No one will challenge me.’

  ‘Good.’ Max understood from Fontana that smuggling was the real key to Wylie’s immunity. There were a lot of bored and homesick sailors in these waters to be furnished with alcohol, tobacco and other luxuries. And Wylie was the man to do it. He was thin-lipped and keen-eyed, white hair cropped close to skull and jaw. He looked aptly named.

  ‘I’ll thank you to go below when we get out into the sound, even so. No sense tempting fate.’

  ‘Which ship are we heading for?’

  ‘You’ll know that when you go aboard.’

  ‘You can tell me now.’

  ‘No, I can’t. Fontana’s orders. And it’s his orders I follow, not yours. So, take yourself down to the cabin. I’ll call you when we get there.’

  The cabin would have been cramped even if it had not been crammed with battered cardboard boxes, containing, Max discovered when he prised back the lids of a couple, bottles of whisky and schnapps, packs of cigarettes, tins of tobacco, bars of soap and chocolate: Wylie’s boat was evidently a floating Fortnum & Mason for the fleets of three nations.

  Max sat down on a bench set at the table in the centre of the cabin. He contemplated broaching one of the bottles of whisky and downing a slug from it, but settled for a cigarette instead. He had changed brands recently in search of one he would enjoy, to little avail. Since being shot in Paris, he seemed, bizarrely, to have lost his taste for smoking. He persisted only because he had been unable to think of anything else to do at times when a cigarette would normally have soothed his nerves.

  Seasickness was an additional blow to his spirits that soon made its presence felt as the boat headed out into the sound, if anything worse in the gentle swell than it would have been in heavy weather.

  A light raked over the vessel at one point, shafting in briefly through the porthole. There was a distant hoot, to which Wylie responded. Max assumed the patrol ship was signalling him through.

  Progress slowed soon afterwards. Peering through the porthole Max saw the shadowy fretwork of the hurdle barrier loom up and recede as they passed through the gate.

  Then they picked up speed and soon enough other, different, more massive shapes appeared: the German ships.

  Another throttling back alerted Max to their imminent arrival. The hull of a ship blacked out the view through the porthole completely. The boat manoeuvred in. Max heard Wylie moving around above him. There was the thud of a rope landing on the deck, then three sharp thumps on the cabin roof. It was Max’s cue.

  Wylie had extinguished the bow lantern. The only lights were the wheelhouse lantern and a torch Wylie was using to signal to someone Max could not see, above them on the rail of the ship.

  ‘Make sure the rope doesn’t slip while I fetch the stuff,’ Wylie said, dodging past Max and descending to the cabin.

  He was soon back with a box. ‘Make yours
elf useful and take that up. Look lively.’

  The ascent to the deck of the ship was by a rickety accommodation ladder, with a misstep and a plunge into the icy water of the Flow all too readily imaginable. Max was relieved when he reached the top, the box clutched awkwardly to his chest. It was seized from him so abruptly he nearly fell backwards down the ladder.

  ‘Steady,’ said Wylie, bringing up the rear with another, noticeably smaller box. They clambered onto the deck.

  Their reception committee was three-strong, dimly lit by a storm-lantern one of them was holding. They clearly knew Wylie, who enquired in a less than genial tone, ‘How are you all?’

  ‘What have you?’ was the response from a fellow whose peaked cap suggested he was in charge of his two companions.

  ‘The usual, Bosun,’ said Wylie. ‘And plenty of it. What have you?’

  ‘Who is this?’ A finger was pointed at Max.

  ‘He’s to see your captain. Special business. Speak up, man.’

  ‘I have a letter for Fregattenkapitän Schmidt,’ said Max.

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘I can’t discuss it with anyone but Fregattenkapitän Schmidt.’

  ‘Scheiße. What is this, Wylie?’

  ‘You heard him.’

  ‘You cannot see the captain.’

  ‘I must. Tell him the letter is from Anna.’

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘Yes. Anna.’

  Silence fell on the deck. The only sound was the chug-chug of the drifter’s idling engine. Several seconds passed with painful slowness. Then the bosun said, ‘Wait here.’ And with that he turned and strode away, light flaring briefly from a companionway as he opened a door and went inside.

  ‘Tread carefully,’ Wylie whispered. ‘The captains of these ships aren’t exactly their masters. A lot of the crews mutinied at the end of the war and they still have their own councils to decide which orders to obey and which to disobey. Don’t worry about these two, by the by. They don’t speak a word of English.’ He raised his voice: ‘Do you, boys? Bugger the Kaiser, eh? I bet a few men have. What d’you think?’

  There was no response.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Wylie continued. ‘Admiral von Reuter had to change flagships to find a less restive crew, y’know, so you’re lucky it’s the Herzog I’ve brought you to. This is one of the more orderly ships.’

  ‘Ever met the captain?’

  ‘No. Not sure you will either.’

  ‘Not a natural optimist, are you, Wylie?’

  ‘Oh, but I am. You get sent away with a flea in your ear and I won’t have to come back for you an hour from now, will I? That hour, incidentally? It’s already ticking away as far as I’m concerned. So, let’s hope Commander Schmidt makes up his mind sharpish, eh?’

  Another five minutes or so elapsed excruciatingly as they waited with the two mute sailors. Then the bosun returned.

  ‘The captain will see you,’ he announced. ‘Are you carrying a weapon?’

  ‘No.’

  The bosun spoke in German to one of the sailors, who semaphored for Max to spread his arms and legs. He patted him down and found nothing. There was another exchange in German. Then the bosun turned back to Max. ‘Go with him. Now.’

  THE DESCENT TO the captain’s cabin was through a warren of companionways and narrow corridors. There was a smell of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed flesh in the turbid air. The sailors and petty officers they met along the way were grey-skinned and sloppily dressed. Their cap bands preserved the name of the ship, but a couple of letters were missing in front of it. SMS Herzog, it should have read, the German equivalent of HMS. But only a single S remained. They were no longer in the service of the Kaiser.

  The captain was waiting for him, pacing up and down in his cabin. Commander Lothar Schmidt was a tall, lean, weary-eyed man. His face was pale, his bearing calm and dignified. He was one of the defeated. But he had not given up. Maybe, it occurred to Max, he at least was still in the service of the Kaiser.

  The sailor who had escorted Max gave his captain a desultory salute and a report of few words. He was coolly dismissed. The door closed behind him. And Max was alone with the man he had been sent to meet.

  ‘You are English?’ Schmidt asked in a cultured voice, his German accent educatedly subdued.

  ‘Yes. My name is Max Hutton.’

  ‘You have a letter for me, Mr Hutton?’

  ‘Yes.’ Max handed it over.

  ‘Do you know what the letter says?’

  ‘No. I’m just the messenger.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Schmidt prised at the part of the envelope flap that had stubbornly resisted Max’s attempt to stick it back down properly, but said no more about it, though his iron-grey eyes rested knowingly on Max. ‘The man who sent you must want me to read this letter very badly. You know who he is?’

  ‘Yes. Do you?’

  ‘I recognize the writing, Mr Hutton. But you told the bosun the letter is from Anna.’

  ‘That’s what I was told.’

  ‘I see.’ Max had the discomfiting impression Schmidt actually saw rather a lot. ‘Thank you.’

  The captain sat down at his desk and made a clearance in a drift of documents. He carefully slit the envelope open with an ornate eagle-headed paper knife and moved a lamp closer to read the letter by.

  As he did so, Max’s gaze drifted round the cabin. There were no personal touches he could see, but the gleam on the brass fittings suggested Schmidt was determined to maintain standards many of his crew no longer aspired to. There was a rectangular mark on one wall where a picture had clearly once hung: a photograph of the Kaiser, perhaps, resplendent in Grand Admiral’s uniform. Schmidt’s cap hung on the back of the door. If Max stooped slightly he would be able to see if the band still had SMS embroidered on it in full.

  But at that moment Schmidt swung round in his chair, the letter in his hand. ‘Do you know much German, Mr Hutton?’

  ‘No. Hardly any.’

  ‘Then you will not be able to read the letter.’

  ‘No. But it’s for you, not me.’

  ‘Of course.’ There was a bitter hint of a smile then on Schmidt’s lips. ‘I do not approve of the smuggling that goes on here. But internment at sea is unnatural. The men are restless and discontented. So, they trade with Mr Wylie. And now he delivers . . . you.’

  ‘He’ll be back for me within the hour, Commander Schmidt. I must have what I came for by then.’

  ‘And if you do not have it?’

  ‘I understood you’d be willing to cooperate.’

  ‘Willing? Anna begs me to cooperate. She is my wife, though we have not been together for a long time. Since before the war. She believes I still love her. She offers me our marriage – “as it was at the beginning”. She offers me everything. Including my son. “I will love you and be loyal.” If only I will give up what I took . . . from Lemmer.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘He sent you, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With this plea from Anna. My wife. His secretary. But who is she loyal to? Me? Or him?’

  ‘Perhaps she can be loyal to both of you.’

  ‘No. She cannot. What did I take from him, Mr Hutton? What is it that he wants so badly you have to be smuggled aboard to get it?’

  ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’

  ‘The Grey File. Yes. Of course. Lemmer expects me to give it up so that I may have Anna again. He thinks I am tired and disillusioned and eager for the comforts of bed and home. And I am. But not tired or disillusioned or eager enough to oblige him in this. Your journey ends in failure, Mr Hutton. You will not be leaving this ship, with the file or without it. I will have you confined. Then I will inform Admiral von Reuter that I have a British spy aboard and he will decide what to do with you.’

  Schmidt had spoken in earnest. Max felt his blood chill. But he held his nerve. ‘That wouldn’t be wise, Captain.’

  Schmidt took a box of matches from his pocket, lit one and
held it to the letter.

  The flame caught. He dropped the sheet of paper into an ashtray, where it curled and blackened as it burnt. ‘I will deny you gave me a letter from my wife. And I will deny knowing Lemmer, if you are foolish enough to mention his name.’

  ‘What about your son?’

  ‘I will not choose between my son and my country. Germany must be free of men such as Lemmer. I will not help him to survive – or to rebuild his empire. I will do what I can to stop him. You are a traitor to your country, Mr Hutton. I will not be a traitor to mine.’

  ‘You must give me the file.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Max paused and looked Schmidt in the eye, weighing his chances, judging the next move that might avert disaster – or make it certain. ‘You don’t want to make an enemy of Lemmer, Captain. If you don’t accept the deal he’s offering you, he won’t give up. He’ll get the file back eventually. And he’ll probably kill you in the process.’

  ‘I’ll take the risk.’ Schmidt opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a revolver. ‘Enough.’ He stood up, pointing the gun at Max as he did so, and stepped across to a telephone mounted on the wall. He lifted the handset and rotated the handle beneath it. ‘This conversation is over, Mr Hutton. You are under arrest.’

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘I must.’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘It is useless to—’

  ‘I’m not working for Lemmer.’ There was nowhere for Max to turn now but the truth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me explain. Please.’

  Schmidt frowned thoughtfully and stared hard at Max. He said nothing. Then someone answered his call. Max could hear the garbled words of German from where he was standing. Still Schmidt said nothing. ‘Kapitän?’ the man on the other end bellowed.

  ‘Nichts,’ said Schmidt. ‘Macht nichts.’ He pushed the switch-hook down and replaced the receiver. But still he said nothing to Max. And he kept the gun trained on him.

  ‘Will you let me explain?’