‘The registration number of the Crossley. You never know if it might come in useful.’
Max shook out the match. A worrying thought had occurred to him. ‘The police will be after us once Bostridge’s body is found, won’t they, Horace? That college porter can describe us. So can the villagers.’
‘You don’t need to worry about them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the villagers can describe Grattan, Hughes and Meadows as well. And Bostridge’s spell in the Service means his death will be referred to Special Branch. Political will make sure they quash any serious investigation.’
‘What’s Political?’
‘Who, you mean. He’s one of the section heads. They go by their section title. Political’s real name is Grieveson. By telling you that, I’m in breach of the Official Secrets Act, so don’t spread it around, will you? Political’s on Lemmer’s payroll. The men who tried to pick me up at Victoria were acting on his orders, apparently in good faith. They were going to take me to a house in Pimlico he’s acquired. I don’t know what he uses twenty-four Glamorgan Street for, but I doubt it’s quiet fireside chats. He’ll obligingly cover our tracks as well as his own operatives’.’
‘That’s some small comfort, I suppose.’
‘But smaller than a warm bed would be, eh?’ Appleby started moving again. ‘We’d better press on.’
In the event, they only pressed on for another mile or so. Then Appleby spotted what a shaft of moonlight revealed to be an open-fronted barn a short distance down a track between two fields. They clambered in among the bales of hay and settled down to sleep.
‘How many tighter spots than this have you been in in your time, Horace?’ Max asked drowsily.
‘None.’
‘So you can’t draw on your vast experience to tell me what our chances are?’
‘I can. But you don’t want to know the answer. Go to sleep.’
‘D’you snore, Horace?’
‘That’s a secret. One you’ll share with my late wife by morning. Goodnight.’
THE GARDIENNE OF the house where Malory Hollander lived on the Ile St-Louis was never welcoming to male visitors, perhaps because all her charges were female. Morahan had encountered her a couple of times before, without eliciting much in the way of helpfulness. He supposed he should be grateful she was not on strike, like so many other Parisians. It was May Day, the great day of action for Socialist protesters, who believed they had a lot to protest about, and the gods had decided to add their own complaint in the form of steady rain.
Morahan’s attempts to charm the gardienne fell predictably flat. He was hung-over and had nicked his chin while shaving. He was not at his best, though he had been equal to the task of losing the tail Tomura had put on him – a necessary precaution in the circumstances.
After apologizing several times, ever more profusely, for calling so early in the day, he was admitted and allowed to ascend the curving stairs to Malory’s apartment, though he was kept under surveillance from the hall as he went.
Malory was halfway through applying lipstick as a finishing touch to her toilette when she answered the door. ‘You look awful,’ she said.
‘I had a rough night.’ He propped himself against the hall wall while she retreated to her bedroom mirror.
‘So I see.’
‘Sorry I wasn’t in when you called round last night.’
‘Never mind. How did you get here?’
‘I drove. Métro’s out. So are the trams and buses.’
‘You can give me a ride to the office, then. We’ll talk on the way.’ She bustled back out of her bedroom, maquillage complete, and handed him her raincoat so he could help her on with it.
‘One of the reasons I agreed to come to Paris was to enjoy a spring in the city of light,’ she remarked as they tiptoed through the puddles to Morahan’s car. ‘I could have got weather like this staying in New York.’
‘At least it’ll dampen down the protests.’
‘Talking of which, I may need a ride home as well. Things could turn ugly.’
‘You’re such an optimist.’
‘It pays to look ahead, Schools.’
‘It surely does.’
They reached the car and climbed in. Morahan started up and headed for the Pont Marie.
‘Your note mentioned le Singe, Malory. That wasn’t just a ploy to get me to pick you up this morning, was it?’
‘Of course not. I found something out last night from Eveline. You just missed her.’
‘You’re not going to tell me she’s acquainted with le Singe?’
‘Obviously not. But she had met Soutine, as you know, so I felt I ought to inform her of his death before she read about it in the newspaper. To my surprise, it emerged she’d seen him once more after our visit to his gallery.’
‘She had?’
‘Yes. She went to a party in an apartment near La Samaritaine last Saturday. It’s Peggy White’s place. I know her slightly. She’s with the Red Cross too. Anyhow, Eveline arrived quite early, while it was still light. She went into the spare bedroom, where the coats were being left, and saw Soutine through the window.’
‘What d’you mean – “through the window”?’
‘Well, Peggy’s apartment is on the top floor of her building, which is a floor or two higher than most of the surrounding buildings. So, Eveline was looking down at a small top-floor balcony a short distance away. And she saw Soutine standing there.’
‘On the balcony?’
‘Yes. Large as life, she said. He was smoking a cigarette. Taking the evening air, I suppose.’
‘He must have a hideaway there.’
‘That’s what I thought. And maybe le Singe hides there too.’
‘We’ve got to find the apartment that balcony belongs to, Malory.’
‘I know. Eveline’s agreed to ask Peggy if we could take a look out of her spare bedroom window this evening and try to figure out exactly where it is.’
‘To hell with this evening. We’ll go there now. If she hasn’t left yet, I’ll back you to talk our way in.’
Sam was breakfasting glumly on porridge and strong tea in the basement room of the Majestic set aside for British delegation support staff – the workers, in other words – when one of the specially imported hotel clerks appeared breathlessly at his table.
‘Urgent message for you, Mr Twentyman.’
‘For me?’
‘Do you know a Mr Clissold?’
Sam braced himself. ‘Yes.’
‘He’s laid up at the Hôtel Dieu after some kind of accident. Seems he’d like to see you as soon as possible.’
Peggy White was on the point of leaving when Morahan and Malory reached her apartment in Place de l’Ecole. Malory had to engage in a lot of fast and persuasive talking to get them inside. It was an accomplished performance, just as Morahan had expected it would be.
‘Eveline will mention it to you later, Peggy. We’d hoped you’d agree to let us come this evening, but Schools is busy then. This really is awfully kind of you. We won’t hold you up long. It’s just that we’ve been trying to locate this particular gentleman for some time. And Eveline is convinced she saw him from here.’
Fortunately, Peggy was intrigued and clearly not worried about delaying her departure for work. She even offered them coffee, which they accepted largely to occupy her in the kitchen while they examined the view from the window of the spare bedroom.
It was a considerable panorama, encompassing the Eiffel Tower, a long stretch of the Seine, the eastern flank of the Louvre and, close by, the Church of St-Germain l’Auxerrois.
Between them and the Louvre was a jumble of chimneys, roofs, walls, windows and courtyards. But there was only one balcony in sight. Perched high and narrow on a building that looked in greater need of repair than most of its neighbours, the balcony was accessible through a set of double doors from a tiny apartment that appeared to have been added as an afterthought above a sloping roof, b
acking onto a blank wall that supported a high chimney-stack.
‘That must be it,’ exclaimed Morahan.
‘That must be what?’ Peggy asked, bustling in to join them rather sooner than they had anticipated.
‘The balcony Soutine was standing on.’ Malory pointed for her to see. ‘Have you ever noticed anyone out there?’
‘A dapper little guy with a white goatee beard,’ added Morahan.
‘Not that I can recall. But you see people at windows watering flowers or leaning out to admire the scenery all the time from here. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.’
‘What about a young Arab boy?’
‘The same applies.’
‘D’you know where that apartment is – what building it’s in?’
‘I’m not sure. But it’s a deal grubbier than the ones either side, so you should be able to find it. The entrance either faces the river or the side of the church.’
‘Yes.’ Morahan nodded. ‘I see.’
‘Now, how about that coffee?’
Billy Hegg was cramming a slice of toast into his mouth as if afraid someone might grab any he left on his plate when Sam tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Twentyman,’ he responded instinctively. ‘I’ll be in the garage by half eight.’
‘Good. ’Cos I want you to drive me to the Hôtel Dieu.’
‘Where’s that when it’s at home?’
‘Eel de la City. It’s the main hospital. I had a stay there myself a while back.’
‘Oh yeah. Well, happy to, I’m sure, but you could drive yourself. You’ve got the pick of the fleet.’
‘I can’t drive while I’m lying on the back seat.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to be seen and followed, Billy. Get it?’
‘Not really, Mr Twentyman. Not by a country mile. But, if you want to be chauffeured over there, I’m your man.’
The accumulations of several more decades’ worth of soot and grime on the exterior than on those of its neighbours distinguished the apartment building Morahan and Malory were looking for, as Peggy had predicted.
The concierge’s bell went unanswered, but fortunately a yawning, scruffily dressed man who seemed not to notice them emerged while they were waiting and they slipped inside before the door swung shut.
The hall was gloomy and none too fragrant. There were numbered mailboxes on one wall, some bearing names, some not. Morahan had to hunt down a distant light switch before they could read them.
‘It’s apartment seventeen,’ Malory announced as he rejoined her by the boxes.
‘How d’you know?’
‘The name.’
Morahan looked and saw a label bearing in blotchily typed capitals: SOUKARIS.
‘Did Laskaris ever really exist, I wonder,’ Malory mused.
‘Who knows?’ said Morahan.
‘What now?’
‘We go take a look in apartment seventeen.’
‘You’re going to pick the lock?’
‘I’m certainly going to try. So, if that’s a little strong for your taste, now’s the time to leave.’
Malory did not leave. They passed no one on the stairs and found the door of apartment seventeen round a corner at the end of a corridor. Morahan worked through his assortment of skeleton keys and, within minutes, they were in.
The apartment was a spotlessly clean contrast with the common areas of the building. It comprised three rooms. One, a bed-sitting-room, overlooked the balcony. The walls were white, with several hanging rugs and a couple of mirrors. There were raffia mats, a high-sided, deep-cushioned sofa, a small dining-table and chairs and a double bed. The tiny bathroom and kitchen were windowless, their doors latticed to admit light. Clues to the identity of the occupant were entirely absent, although the rugs had a Persian look to them. Otherwise, there was nothing – no books, no papers, no photographs.
Morahan stepped out onto the balcony and looked around. To either side was a tilted, tangled roofscape. But he had no doubt le Singe could negotiate it when or if he came and went. Drainpipes, windowsills and chimney-stacks were his personal highway. He needed no key. He was a spirit of the air.
‘Do you think he comes here?’ Malory asked, standing in the doorway.
‘Yes. I do.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Out there somewhere.’
‘How will you communicate with him?’
‘The same way he does. Can I borrow your lipstick?’
Suspiciously, Malory handed it over. Morahan walked across to the narrow fireplace. On the mirror above it he wrote in scarlet capitals:
SOUTINE IS DEAD.
TO KNOW WHO KILLED HIM
BE HERE DUSK THIS EVENING
FIRST OF MAY
‘D’you think he will be?’ Malory asked, protectively retrieving her lipstick as she looked at the message.
‘I don’t know,’ Morahan replied. ‘But I will.’
BREAKFAST AT GRESSCOMBE Place that morning was interrupted by an urgent telephone call from the Deputy Chief Constable of the Surrey Police. More discomposing still for Sir Ashley Maxted was that it was his mother to whom the Deputy Chief Constable wanted to speak.
In Winifred’s absence from the room, Ashley and Lydia anxiously pondered what could be the matter. Their greatest fear was that it concerned James in some way. In their view, it was inevitable he would land himself in serious trouble sooner or later.
‘You’re not to let your mother dispatch you to some corner of the globe to rescue James from a predicament of his own making,’ Lydia insisted. ‘I need you here.’
‘And I want to stay here, Lydia, believe me. But my mother isn’t an easy woman to say no to.’
‘I can say no to her, darling. Leave it to me.’
‘What can have happened, d’you think?’
‘Whatever it is it’ll be James’s own fault. He’s not a child. He must stand on his own two feet.’
‘Ah, but he’s never had to, has he? Straight from Cambridge into the RFC. The boy’s never needed to knuckle down to anything.’
‘That’s half the problem. He always wants to—’
Lydia broke off as Winifred returned to the room. She sat down and waited for Fuller, the manservant, to pour her another cup of tea before she said to him: ‘Ask Ethel to pack a case for me, Fuller. I’m going away for a few days.’
‘Very good, Your Ladyship. Will Ethel be accompanying you?’
‘No, no. I’ll be travelling alone. And I’ll be leaving shortly, so could you see to it straight away?’
‘Of course, Your Ladyship.’
Fuller left the room at a smart pace. Winifred sipped her tea. Ashley flushed with irritation. And Lydia said, ‘May we be told where you’re going?’
‘Paris, my dear.’
‘What?’ Ashley exploded.
‘Paris,’ Winifred repeated more loudly.
‘I heard what you said. I just . . . Why are you going to Paris, Mother?’
‘George is in difficulties.’
‘But he isn’t in Paris . . . is he?’
‘He is. I asked him to go when he was here last Sunday.’
‘You asked him?’
‘Why?’ Lydia cut in.
‘A Canadian railway magnate, Sir Nathaniel Chevalier, is threatening to sue me because a number of ancient Sumerian cylinder-seals he bought from your father have turned out to be fakes. I asked George to meet Sir Nathaniel’s agent in Paris and settle the matter as discreetly and inexpensively as possible.’
Ashley gaped at her in amazement. ‘I knew nothing of this.’
‘No. We agreed it was best to keep it from you.’
‘Ashley is head of this household,’ said Lydia affrontedly. ‘You had no right to keep it from him.’
Winifred half-turned in her chair and gave Lydia the benefit of her gaze. ‘I cede the right to protect my late husband’s good name to no one, Lydia. Please be so good as to remember that.’
‘You should have told me, Mother,’ Ashley fumed.
‘Well, I decided not to and there it is. George went, loyal brother that he is to me. Alas, it’s not gone well for him.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘According to the Paris police, he’s been kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped? Good God Almighty.’
‘Information is limited. But however bad a fix George is in, it’s because he did what I asked of him. So, I shall go to Paris myself and find out exactly what occurred and what can be done.’
‘You can’t go to Paris.’
‘Why not? Haskins can run me up to town in time for the afternoon train from Victoria.’
‘You simply can’t. A woman of your age, alone in Paris. It’s . . . it’s . . .’
‘Hardly Tangiers, Ashley. I shall be extremely careful. George may well not have been, I admit. He’s inclined to be impetuous. But the circumstances are not of his making, so I must do all I can for him. And I cannot do that by staying here.’
‘You should’ve told me about this complaint from Sir Nathaniel, Mother. I’d have asked Mellish to negotiate a settlement. I certainly wouldn’t have asked Uncle George to do anything. You know how unreliable he is.’
‘I know no such thing.’
‘He’ll have behaved like a bull in a china shop,’ declared Lydia.
‘You both seem remarkably unconcerned for his safety, I must say,’ said Winifred.
‘We’re not unconcerned,’ Ashley responded. ‘But the Paris police are surely the people who should be investigating the matter.’
‘You’d happily consign your uncle’s fate to them?’
‘They’re better qualified than we are, Mother. Look at what happened after Pa’s death. If James had only been prepared to let the matter rest, we—’
‘Would still believe your father killed himself. Really, Ashley, I find your attitude incomprehensible. George has been kidnapped. His life may well be in danger. Do you seriously suppose—’
‘Has there been a ransom demand?’ Lydia interrupted.
The question drew a stare from her mother-in-law. ‘Are you worried I might squander your children’s inheritance on buying George’s freedom?’
The Corners of the Globe Page 19