‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Count Tomura,’ she responded. ‘You must be very busy.’
‘You are right. I have many duties to perform.’
‘But you have found time for me. I am grateful.’
Tomura took a curving route towards her, delaying a direct confrontation. ‘What has brought you to Paris, Lady Maxted?’
‘Complications arising from my husband’s death.’
‘I heard of that. My condolences to you.’
‘Thank you.’
He reached the mantelpiece and glanced at the painting above it: a dark oil of a hunting scene, with dogs ravening a fallen stag. Winifred saw bared teeth and rent flesh, but heard only the crackle of the fire and the deep, powerful breaths of her companion.
‘Do you remember when we first met, Count? It was at an Imperial garden party, was it not?’
Tomura looked at her, but did not reply. He had never been a loquacious man and Winifred did not propose to attempt anything amounting to a conversation with him. Much of what needed to be established between them did not need to be spoken.
‘Don’t worry. I haven’t asked to see you in order to reminisce about Tokyo society thirty years ago.’
‘It has changed little.’
‘As have you.’
‘You also, Lady Maxted. I saw the steel in you then. And I see it now.’
‘Not long after that garden party, there was an attempt on the life of the Foreign Minister. Do you remember? A dreadful business. What was his name?’
‘Okuma.’
‘A bomb was thrown at his carriage. He lost a leg, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘The would-be assassin committed suicide. His name was . . .’
‘Kurushima.’
‘Your memory is excellent, Count. Henry told me Kurushima was a member of a secret organization called . . . I can’t recall. But no doubt you can.’
‘Genyosha.’
‘What would that be in English?’
‘Dark Ocean.’
‘Ah. Yes. That was it. Were they connected with the subsequent assassination attempt against the Tsarevich?’
Tomura said nothing. He stared at her expressionlessly for fully half a minute. Then: ‘No.’
‘No. Of course they weren’t. Nor you with them.’
Another silence followed, an altogether tenser one. Then: ‘What did you say, Lady Maxted?’
‘When will you be returning to Japan?’
‘When will you be returning to England?’
Winifred smiled. ‘I believe I asked first.’
Tomura did not smile. ‘What do you want with me, Lady Maxted?’
‘An assurance that you and your son will go back to Japan on the next available ship.’
Tomura gave a short, barking, derisive laugh. ‘I think your husband’s death must have affected your judgement, Lady Maxted.’
‘It has. It has greatly sharpened it. You were not in Paris when Henry died, of course. But I understand your son was. Then my son, James, came here to find out why his father was murdered.’
‘Was he murdered?’
‘He was enquiring into your affairs, Count. This is known to both of us, as is the reason.’
‘The reason?’ Tomura puffed out his considerable chest and glared at her. He looked as if he wanted to snarl. But he did not. ‘You should be careful what you say, Lady Maxted.’
‘I will be. I want to protect my son, as I feel sure you want to protect your son. On that at least we can agree, as parents, can we not?’
Tomura went on glaring. ‘Yes.’
‘I shall tell you something I have told no one else. Henry was in St Petersburg at the time. I was alone at home in Surrey. This was a couple of years before the war. I received a visit from a Mr Jack Farngold.’
Tomura visibly flinched. ‘Farngold?’
‘Yes, Count. Jack Farngold. You know who he is, of course.’
‘I do not believe you.’
‘He told me many disturbing things. He could not prove they were all true. He said he needed to carry out further investigations before he could be sure.’ She paused for a moment, then continued. ‘You’re not going to ask sure of what?’
‘He never visited you.’
‘It was a few months before he stole some documents relating to you from the offices of the Oriental Development Bank in Weihaiwei.’
Tomura was rattled now. Winifred felt sure of it, well though he hid it. As a seasoned warrior, he knew better than to let an adversary see what was in his mind. ‘I know nothing of this,’ he growled.
‘I believe the information Henry was seeking here in Paris concerned the matters Jack Farngold discussed with me. I never passed on what he said to Henry. I did not believe it was in his best interests – or those of my sons – for such matters to be raked over . . . or exposed to public scrutiny.’
‘Public scrutiny?’ Tomura took a step towards her. ‘Are you threatening me, Lady Maxted?’
‘Threatening you would be foolhardy, Count, in view of what tends to happen to those who do. I am explaining to you that our interests coincide – that neither of us has any wish to revisit the past or to make it possible for others to do so. The dead should stay buried and their secrets with them.’
‘Your son, James . . .’
‘Will seek to avenge his father’s murder if he is pointed towards those who were responsible for it.’
‘I was not responsible. Neither was my son.’
‘Yet James could easily come to suspect otherwise, considering the lengths people close to you have gone to in order to find le Singe and a document he stole from the Japanese delegation.’
‘You should go home to England, Lady Maxted.’
‘Before I meet with a fatal accident? Where is Jack Farngold now, Count? Is he even still alive?’
‘Go home.’
‘Gladly. As soon as you’ve arranged to leave Paris yourself, with your son. You can’t intimidate me, Count, and you’d be unwise to do me any harm. It would look far too suspicious for the authorities to ignore, in light of what happened to Henry. No doubt the Emperor would afford you his protection. But you’d certainly be recalled to Japan. And then . . .’
Tomura said nothing. His breathing was deep and audible.
‘I gather you’ve succeeded in negotiating the Japanese retention of Shantung, or at any rate in obliging Marquess Saionji to negotiate it. Perhaps you think he is an inconvenient relic of the Meiji regime you and the current Emperor would be well rid of.’
‘You speak of things of which you are ignorant.’
‘I met Marquess Saionji once, a long time ago. Not in Tokyo. I believe he was out of the country during Henry’s posting there. Certainly we never encountered him. But some years earlier he was the Emperor’s Minister Extraordinary in Vienna. Henry was only a humble third secretary then and I was a humble third secretary’s wife. Still, I was introduced to Marquess Saionji at an embassy reception. A charming man. Quite charming.’
‘You were never humble, Lady Maxted.’
‘Then I apologize, Count. For I know how highly you value humility in a woman.’
‘If you were Japanese . . .’
‘You would strike me dead and suffer no ill consequences. But I am not Japanese. I am an Englishwoman well capable of lodging a statement with her solicitor for publication in the event of her unexpected death. Such a statement might include speculation that an interested party could see Chinese unrest at Japan’s retention of Shantung as perfect camouflage for the murder of the statesman who negotiated that retention. It might name that party. And it might detail much else known to her about him.’
Tomura’s glare had softened. He looked surprised now – surprised and impressed. ‘Are you familiar with the writings of Sun-Tzu, Lady Maxted?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Tomura gave her a tight, grim little smile. ‘In many that would be a loss. But it seems you do not require the advice of Master Sun. “Weakness comes
from preparing against attack,” he wrote. “Strength comes from obliging your enemy to prepare against attack.”’
Winifred allowed herself to smile too. ‘It sounds eminently sensible advice.’
‘We understand each other?’
‘I believe we do.’
‘Then we can part. And we will not need to meet again.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Of course.’ He bowed to her then, turned and stalked towards the door.
MORAHAN INSPECTED NOBURO Tomura’s crew through the window of Madame Berton’s ground-floor parlour. There were more of them than had been lying in wait for him and Sam outside the Hôtel Dieu. Tomura had brought an extra carload. They were hefty, watchful customers: the patient kind. Morahan rated his chances of getting past them without outside help as poor. If he was forced to try it, he would wait until dark.
But waiting was inevitable however the issue was to be forced. If Ireton came to their assistance, it would not be for some time. During that time Morahan would have to decide whether calling in the police, even though they would arrest him and his companions and seize the documents, was better than making a break for it.
It was certainly safer. And he had the welfare of Sam and Yamanaka to consider. He turned away from the window and spoke to Madame Berton in his best French, telling her to admit no visitors without consulting him first. Unless Ireton came, on his own. ‘Ireton,’ she repeated carefully. ‘Je comprends tout à fait, Monsieur Morahan.’
He hoped she did understand. He truly did.
Malory was scarcely less anxious, though under no personal threat, as she waited for Ireton to arrive at 33 Rue des Pyramides. He had no diaried engagements, but his comings and goings were always erratic.
The newspapers were back in print, however, which supplied her with interesting reading matter. Le Figaro made much of the previous day’s disturbances – “les affrontements”, as a headline termed them – but Malory was interested in less prominently reported events. It was reliably believed, according to le Figaro, that Japan had secured what it wanted in Shantung. An outraged reaction in China was predicted. There had already been an outraged reaction in Paris, with a protest meeting of Chinese students at which some speakers had demanded a violent response.
Malory wondered if Chen Sen-mao, the person George Clissold had heard Noburo Tomura discussing, was one of those students. Marquess Saionji, as head of the Japanese delegation, took the blame as well as the credit for the Shantung settlement. And Noburo’s father hated Saionji and his kind: the old guard, the traditionalists, the men of peace. He wanted them all – but Saionji in particular – out of his way.
According to le Figaro, security for President Wilson, who stood accused of betraying the Chinese, had been tightened. There was no mention of security for Marquess Saionji.
Footsteps on the stairs suddenly captured Malory’s attention. She laid aside the newspaper and pricked her ears. But no, it was not Ireton. She did not recognize the tread. A visitor, then, apt to be disappointed.
And a visitor it was, though not one Malory would ever have expected. She had never seen Tomura Iwazu in the flesh till now, but she knew him at once. He closely resembled the photographs of him that had appeared in the press at the time of the Russo–Japanese War and the intervening fifteen years had only weathered him to a more rugged version of his indomitable self. The Butcher of Port Arthur stood in the doorway, grasping a silver-topped cane and surveying her haughtily.
‘Ireton,’ he said, in a simple statement of his requirement. His voice carried the tone of a muffled cannon.
‘He’s not here,’ she responded.
‘When will he be here?’
‘Soon . . . I think.’
‘You think?’ He stepped into the office and looked at her more closely. ‘You are Malory Hollander,’ he stated plainly.
‘You know my name?’
‘As well as you know mine.’
‘I don’t believe we’ve ever met, Count. I can’t imagine how we might have.’
‘We might have, very easily, Miss Hollander. We both know this.’
‘I’m sure I don’t.’
‘Would you like me to tell you how Shimizu Junzaburo is?’
Malory was on the point of asking ‘Who?’ in a puzzled manner. But the pretence turned to ashes in her mouth. Denial would somehow, she felt certain, weigh heavily on her conscience. So she said nothing.
‘He is not well. Here.’ Tomura tapped his temple. ‘You made him dream, Miss Hollander. And then you stole the dream from him.’
‘I stole nothing.’ Memories Malory had striven to suppress flooded into her mind. For some reason, the clearest of them was eating riceballs with Junzaburo at Yudanaka hot springs. She could see the expression on his face as if the sunlight of that day was still shining on them. She swallowed hard. ‘It was . . . a misunderstanding.’
‘You mean he did not understand you. That is certain. But you understood him, I think.’
‘I don’t wish to discuss this with you, Count. Forgive me, but it’s none of your business. There are questions I could ask you that you wouldn’t want to answer.’
‘Is it true I drank blood from a Russian officer’s skull after we took 203 Metre Hill in December of ’04? You mean that kind of question, Miss Hollander?’
‘No,’ she replied coolly. ‘Not that kind.’
‘You know why Western men are so weak? It is because their women are so strong.’
‘Do you wish to leave a message for Mr Ireton?’
‘No. I wish to speak to him. And therefore I will wait for him. In his office.’ He moved towards the door into the corridor that led to Ireton’s office.
‘You can’t go in there.’
‘Would you prefer me to wait with you?’ He cast an oddly sympathetic glance at her. ‘No? I thought not. He will not blame you, Miss Hollander. He would not expect you to defy me. Only you and I will know that you could. Bring me coffee. Strong. Black.’ He bowed faintly. ‘Please.’
Sam took Morahan’s announcement of his tactics rather better than Yamanaka, who sank into the gloom of one convinced a catastrophe was imminent. Sam, who would have conceded, if pressed, that it might well be, saw no merit in lamenting their situation. Morahan’s argument for waiting – till nightfall if necessary – was unanswerable. And his ground-crew experience during the war made Sam an expert in the waiting department. Tomura and his men could not force their way into a Paris apartment building without the police being called. So, they would stay where they were. Which left Sam, Morahan and Yamanaka with little choice but to do the same.
‘What can Mr Ireton do for us, Schools?’ he asked mildly, once Yamanaka had calmed himself.
‘Get us off the hook with Tomura senior.’
‘But we have what Tomura senior wants.’
‘Then we may have to give it up to save our necks. Marquess Saionji’s a wily old bird. This won’t be the only copy.’
‘But we know all Tomura’s dirty secrets now. He won’t be happy about that, will he?’
‘No,’ put in Yamanaka.
‘We can’t unknow them,’ said Morahan. ‘And I doubt they’re all his secrets. There’s going to have to be a compromise.’
‘Tomura does not compromise,’ said Yamanaka glumly.
‘Everyone does if they’re forced to,’ Morahan asserted. ‘Believe me.’
Sam for one was willing to believe him, however doubtful Yamanaka looked. The alternative was best not dwelt upon. ‘Shall I brew some tea?’ he suggested.
‘Sure,’ said Morahan. ‘Let’s all have some tea.’
MALORY SERVED TOMURA his coffee and left him to it, sitting by the fireplace in Ireton’s office. It was as easy to disregard him as it was a large spider in the bath, but Malory did her best. She carried on with what little work she had to do for a distracted half-hour, trying to still her multiple anxieties. In this she was only partly successful.
Relief eventually arrived in the
form of the long-awaited Travis Ireton. Malory had never before been so pleased to see her employer, to the extent that she paid little attention to his distracted state. He crossed immediately to the window and peered down suspiciously into the street. ‘Now you see him, now you don’t,’ he murmured under his breath.
‘Count Tomura is here to see you, Travis,’ Malory announced. She had decided conveying Morahan’s message to Ireton, urgent though it was, would have to be delayed until Tomura had left.
‘Count Tomura?’ Ireton rounded on her. ‘Not the son?’
‘No. Count Tomura Iwazu. He’s in your office.’
‘You let him into my office?’
‘He’s not an easy man to turn down.’
‘God Almighty.’ Ireton glared angrily at Malory, then appeared to decide reprimanding her was not as important as appeasing Tomura. He strode towards the door.
‘I need to speak to you in private as soon as possible, Travis,’ Malory called after him.
‘First things first,’ Ireton fired back as he left.
They were closeted in Ireton’s office for the next twenty minutes or so. Malory made a couple of forays into the corridor to try to hear what they might be saying, but their voices were only audible as a low murmur. She did not feel she could leave her typewriter for long without running the risk of making Ireton wonder if she was eavesdropping. It had become apparent to her that he doubted her loyalty following Morahan’s defection. And he was right to, of course.
Eventually, the door of Ireton’s office opened. ‘You’re the boss,’ she heard him say. He strode along the corridor and into her office, flourishing a piece of paper in his hand, which he slapped down on her desk. ‘Bank this right away, Malory,’ he said.
It was a cheque in the sum of $10,000, a much larger figure than Ireton Associates normally received from a client. Small wonder Ireton wanted it paid into his dollar account at the bank as soon as possible. Malory stared at it – and in particular Count Tomura’s fluent English signature – in some surprise.
‘Right away would mean now,’ said Ireton sharply.
‘Of course.’
She gathered herself together, fetched the paying-in book, slipped the cheque inside and stowed it in her purse.
The Corners of the Globe Page 28