Ireton normally entertained people at Chez Georges when he wanted to persuade them, on account of its genuinely Parisian ambience – banquettes, stucco and gilded mirrors in abundance – that he was at ease with the leisured ways of the city’s business classes. The restaurant was not far from the Bourse and always attracted smart-suited men of money.
Morahan was surprised when he recognized Ireton’s guest, though only to a degree. The ripples of the peace conference washed many unlikely clients into Ireton’s pool.
‘Ah, there you are, Schools,’ came Ireton’s greeting as he approached the table. ‘Glad you could join us.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Morahan,’ said his companion, springing to his feet. He was an athletically built young Asian, expensively dressed, with sleek, dark hair and a lazily arrogant gaze. He was, Morahan happened to know, the son of Count Tomura, the newly arrived joint deputy head of the Japanese delegation to the peace conference.
‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Morahan responded as they exchanged courteous little bows.
‘This is—’ Ireton began.
‘Tomura Noburo,’ Morahan cut in. ‘An honour, I’m sure.’
‘An American who knows the correct rendering of Japanese names,’ said Tomura. ‘I am impressed.’
‘You should take it as an indication of the calibre of the people I employ,’ said Ireton as they resumed their seats and a waiter produced a chair for Morahan. He let Ireton’s misrepresentation of their relationship pass, as he always did.
‘I will, Travis,’ said Tomura. ‘I will.’
So, they were on first-names terms, a good omen in its way. Morahan ordered coffee.
‘I must leave soon,’ Tomura continued, toying with a nearly drained brandy glass.
‘I’ve put Noburo in the picture about how we work, Schools. He’s aware you’ll be handling the practical side of things. That’s why I wanted you two to meet.’
‘Travis has told me you are a get-doner, Schools,’ said Tomura, who grinned with pleasure at his recital of the phrase.
‘I do my level best to get done what our clients need to be done,’ Morahan responded with a smile. He noticed the shadows beneath the young man’s eyes. It looked as if his reputation for dissipation was well deserved.
‘I’ll run over the details later,’ said Ireton.
‘Is your father enjoying Paris, Noburo?’ Morahan asked.
‘Not as much as I am, I think. But I do not have his responsibilities.’
‘I guess not.’
‘He could not be seen here, with you and Travis, for instance. He could not meet all the . . . femmes jolies . . . I do.’
‘Paris is the place for them, all right.’ Ireton laughed.
‘Oh yes. It is a fine city. I like it.’
‘Still, your father’s not having a bad week, is he?’ said Morahan. ‘If we’re to believe the rumours about Shantung.’
Tomura nodded. ‘Believe them.’
‘The Chinese won’t be happy.’
‘We are not here to make the Chinese happy.’ There was a flare of venom in Tomura’s gaze. ‘A nation that is not united deserves to fail.’
‘Didn’t President Lincoln once say something like that?’ Ireton jokingly mused.
‘Travis has told me you do not fail, Schools.’
‘Not generally, no.’
‘I want results. Quickly.’
‘And you’ll get them,’ said Ireton. ‘Leave it to us.’
Tomura swallowed the very last of his brandy. He was about to say something when the coffee arrived. He paused, eyeing Morahan with a hint of scepticism. ‘Travis has also told me you killed several Spanish soldiers with your bare hands in Cuba, Schools.’
Morahan shrugged. ‘It was war.’
‘War is a glorious thing.’
‘In the history books, maybe.’
‘The way of the warrior is to seek death.’
Morahan allowed himself a sidelong glance at Ireton. ‘Then I guess I wasn’t much of a warrior.’
‘I do not believe that.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ said Ireton. ‘Don’t worry, Noburo. You’ve come to the professionals. We’ll solve your problem.’
‘Good. Thank you. I must leave now.’ Tomura stood up. Morahan and Ireton followed suit. ‘When will I hear, Travis?’
‘Soon.’
‘Soon, then.’
A farewell bow and he was off, a waiter intercepting him with his hat and coat as he went.
Morahan and Ireton sat down again as the street door closed behind their new client. Ireton sighed. ‘He is one haughty sonofabitch, I have to admit.’
‘Like father, like son.’
‘What was that about the correct rendering of Japanese names?’
‘The family name comes first, the personal name second. Malory told me. They never bother to set us right, just wince every time we get it wrong.’
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
‘While you’re at it, you’d better remember to tell me what the hell it is we’re doing for him.’
Ireton lowered his voice. ‘He wants us to find le Singe.’
Morahan turned the implications of that over in his mind for a second, then said simply, ‘Why?’
‘He wasn’t inclined to disclose the reason, just the urgency. I got the impression he was talking to me on behalf of his father, though he never said as much.’
‘What interest would Count Tomura have in le Singe?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Schools. Maybe better. You’re the warrior, aren’t you? And Count Tomura has as bloodthirsty a reputation as they come. I’ve heard he sliced off Chinese heads in Port Arthur during the Sino–Jap War of ninety-four/five like my daddy used to harvest cabbages on the farm. And he did much the same to the Russians ten years later.’
‘Your father was never a farmer, Travis.’
Ireton chuckled. ‘Well, no more he was, it’s true. My metaphors tend to run away with themselves. Or was that a simile? I’ll have to ask Malory for an adjudication.’
‘Which brings us back to why Count Tomura should want to find le Singe.’
‘OK. Well, naturally, I don’t know. If I was to guess, though, I’d say he’s spring-cleaning at the delegation. Rumour has it le Singe lifted information from their hotel and Marquess Saionji’s residence on a couple of occasions. Maybe Tomura wants le Singe to tell him exactly what information.’
‘Or stop him telling anyone else.’
‘That’s a possibility. He may have hung on to a few choice nuggets.’
‘Or Soutine may have.’
‘You’re way ahead of me, Schools. Tomura’s brought a lot of authority with him from Tokyo. He’s shaking things up. Kuroda’s been sent home in disgrace, you know.’
‘He has?’
‘Saionji should watch his back.’
‘So should we, Travis. You’ve done a lot of business with Soutine. Tomura’s bound to have considered whether you’ve handled any of their intelligence.’
‘All the more reason to do our best for him. He wants le Singe, not intermediaries.’
‘And then there’s the fee, of course.’
‘You’ll get your fair share.’
‘Le Singe has gone to ground since Tarn was killed. How do you expect me to find him?’
‘I admit it won’t be easy. Soutine’s become elusive as well. Maybe he knew Tomura would start looking for le Singe. Anyhow, start with Soutine.’
‘You normally deal with him.’
‘I can’t afford to be as active as I’d like, Schools, you know that. Since the Ennis affair, I’ve been bothered by a draught at the back of my neck. It’s Carver breathing down it. Besides, if Soutine’s made himself scarce, you’ll have to do a little discreet breaking and entering at his gallery. He has a flat over it he stays in. Chances are you’ll discover something there on le Singe.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘He can’t live on air. He’s hiding somewhere in this ci
ty. You’ll think of a way to flush him out.’
‘He may have left Paris.’
‘I doubt it. But, if we can prove he has, Tomura will have to settle for that.’
‘How much do you know about the Count – aside from his bloodthirsty reputation?’
‘He’s wealthy beyond the normal standards of the Japanese aristocracy. He didn’t just kill Chinese and Russian soldiers in Korea. He’s bought a lot of land over there and invested in a range of businesses, not all of them necessarily legal. And he’s on the board of the Oriental Development Company, which virtually runs the place now it’s a Japanese colony. I ran a guess past Kuroda once that Tomura also has links with the Dark Ocean Society. They’re thought to have been responsible for the assassination of Queen Min and maybe a few other assassinations as well.’
‘What did Kuroda say?’
‘Nothing. In an eloquent kind of way. But he doesn’t trust Tomura. That was obvious. I surmise the feeling’s mutual. It’s probably what got him summoned back to Tokyo. The hard men are moving in at the top of Japanese politics, Schools. They’re going to be a force to be reckoned with. Do you know how much money Japanese corporations made out of selling morphine and heroin to Britain and France – and Germany, on the sly – to treat the injured during the war? The likes of Count Iwazu Tomura – pardon me, Tomura Iwazu – are rolling in it, let me tell you. And I always believe in looking for my clientele where the money is, which sure isn’t war-weary Europe.’
‘It seems not all the hard men are in Tokyo.’ Morahan gazed frankly at Ireton. ‘Pointing Tomura towards le Singe could be as good as signing the boy’s death warrant.’
‘The boy? You sound almost sentimental about him. He’s just some young sneak thief who was lucky to survive the war. If his luck’s run out now, it’s not our fault. We have to look to the future. This conference won’t go on for ever, however much it seems like it might. The Germans are on their way to learn their fate. Their delegation’s expected to arrive this evening. And we’re told the treaty will be published next week. So, the end’s in sight. We have to consider what comes next.’
‘What does come next?’
‘For you and me?’ Ireton smiled confidently at Morahan. ‘Something lucrative. You can count on that.’
MAX’S NAUSEA AS the St. Ola ploughed across the Pentland Firth was just seasickness. He was satisfied he would not be intercepted before he boarded the Inverness train at Georgemas and maybe, with luck, not even then.
Uncertainty on the point was part of the problem. He wanted to believe he was safe, but he knew he should assume the worst. He and a few other hardy souls waited in the strengthening wind and rain at Georgemas station that afternoon as their train approached. He did not try to hide. He scanned the faces of the passengers aboard the train quite openly as it drew in, prepared for a revealing hint of suspicion or hostility in one of their gazes. He noticed nothing. But that also proved nothing, as he was well aware.
He chose an empty compartment to sit in and hoped he would be left alone. There was no corridor and the bleak, sparsely inhabited countryside was unlikely to yield many travellers.
But, at the very first stop, Halkirk, a young man yanked open the door of Max’s compartment and climbed aboard. He was dressed in a black suit and smart overcoat and was wearing a grey fedora. He carried a Gladstone bag, with an umbrella strapped to the side. After removing a newspaper and a file bound with pink legal tape, he heaved the bag up onto the luggage-rack and sat down in the opposite corner to Max.
‘Not much of a day,’ the newcomer remarked in a soft Scottish burr.
‘Indeed not,’ Max responded, opening his three-day-old copy of the Orcadian to deter conversation.
‘Ah! Have you been to the Orkneys?’
‘I have.’
‘I’ve never had occasion to myself.’
The young man’s auburn hair and rosy-cheeked schoolboyishness reminded Max of a pilot in his squadron called Perkins. The real Perkins had gone down in flames over Flanders. But Max found himself thinking involuntarily of his travelling companion by that name. The question was whether this Perkins had been on the train when it arrived at Georgemas and had jumped off at Halkirk in order to join him in his compartment. Max had certainly seen no one waiting on the platform as the train drew in.
‘See anything of the German fleet while you were there?’
‘Er, yes. That is, well, it’s hard to miss it.’
‘How much longer will they be kept there, d’you think?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’
‘According to the Scotsman’ – Perkins flourished his newspaper – ‘the German delegation to the peace conference is expected to reach Paris today. Things seem to be moving at last.’
Spared a direct question, Max said nothing and gazed out through the rain-speckled window. Perkins was either a harmless if irritating chatterbox or a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Max supposed he would find out which at some point in the coming hours.
‘I take it from your accent you’re English. Are you heading south of the border, then?’
Max swore silently. ‘Er, yes.’
‘I’m only going to Inverness myself. But that’s far enough, eh? I had to come all the way up here to oblige one of our better clients. A property dispute, d’you see? What took you to the Orkneys?’
‘Actually,’ said Max, simulating a yawn, ‘I’m done in. Would you mind if I tried to get some shut-eye?’
‘Not at all. Quite understand. You sleep away.’ Perkins’ smile was a perfect construction of bland amiability. ‘I expect you’ve earned it.’
As Max stretched out his legs and reclined his head against the cushion, he caught sight of his bag in the rack above him. The Grey File was inside, with all its secrets. The gun Schmidt had given him was in the bag as well. But it was empty.
It was going to be a long journey.
George treated himself to a good lunch at Au Petit Riche, a restaurant which seemed happily unchanged since he had entertained assorted actresses there – well, that was what they said they were – in his hedonistic youth. Now, after a head-clearing march through the snowy streets, he had arrived at the Passage Vendôme.
It was as Arnavon had said. Laskaris et Soutine, Antiquaires, was firmly fermé. There was no indication when they might reopen, nor was a telephone number displayed for enquiries.
George tried his luck at the other shops in the arcade. They sang the same song. Monsieur Soutine had not been seen for more than a week. He must have gone away, since he lived above the gallery. Did he have another residence in Paris? They did not know.
George warmed himself with coffee and a brandy at a café in the Place de la République and considered what he should do next. Caving in to Arnavon without a fight did not appeal to him. The fellow had an importunate way with him that nettled George. It was therefore time to discover whether Max had learnt anything about his father’s disposal of the Babylonian whim-whams that were causing Winifred – and now him – so many problems.
According to Winifred, Max’s RFC chum, Sam Twentyman, had found employment with the British delegation to the peace conference, keeping their fleet of cars on the road. The afternoon was wearing on and the snow had stopped. Twentyman’s working day would surely be growing less hectic.
With that thought in mind, George headed out in search of a taxi to take him to the Hotel Majestic.
Morahan was aware he was being followed within minutes of leaving Chez Georges. He and Ireton had gone their separate ways at that point. Ireton had a teatime appointment with a loose-tongued member of the Greek delegation. Morahan was heading back to the office.
His shadow was not incompetent, far from it. Someone less experienced in such matters than Morahan would never have noticed. He made no attempt to shake the fellow off. He was presumably Japanese, trained by poor old Kuroda. There was no sense embarrassing him in the eyes of his new boss, Count Tomura.
Tomura’s strategy was clear to Mor
ahan now, though he had not disclosed it to Ireton. Their involvement was merely one part of the Count’s effort to find le Singe. The people Sam was frightened of were his people. Kuroda had probably warned Sam to be on his guard before leaving Paris.
Morahan understood the threat, but could not immediately devise a way to counter it. As far as he could see, someone was going to pay for whatever le Singe had stolen from the Japanese, if not le Singe himself.
He needed to enlist Malory’s aid. Together, they might map out a path through the thicket. Meanwhile, he would simply have to tolerate the presence of his shadow.
The mechanics were beginning to notice and comment on the number of nobs, as they referred to them, calling by the Majestic garage to see Sam. Telling them to mind their own business was like telling dogs not to sniff lamp-posts. But Sam told them even so.
George Clissold was a nob of a different stripe, however. He engaged Billy Hegg in a discussion of the cornering-at-speed qualities of various models of car before approaching Sam, who had to interrupt the preparation of tea in his office to discover who the well-dressed newcomer was.
‘I’m James’s uncle,’ George explained, grinning as he presented Sam with a card relating to his position at a marine insurance company in London. ‘And you’re Sam Twentyman?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any chance of a quiet word, Sam?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Is that a kettle I can hear boiling?’ George’s grin broadened. ‘I like my tea hot and strong.’
MORAHAN SAT IN the chair he had pulled across to the window of Malory’s office at Ireton Associates, 33 Rue des Pyramides, and took a sip from the cup of green tea she had just passed him.
‘What d’you see in this?’ he complained good-naturedly. ‘It’s got no body.’
‘But it does have subtlety,’ Malory replied, eyeing Morahan tolerantly over her horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Which you appear to be in need of.’
‘We could ask my shadow in for a cup.’ Morahan nodded down towards the street. ‘He’d love it.’
‘You’re sure you’re being followed?’
‘I’m disappointed you need to ask me that, Malory.’
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