Ireton was ready by then to help her on with her coat. ‘I’ll come out with you.’
Where he was going he did not explain. Nor did Malory feel able to ask, as Tomura chose that moment to join them.
‘For my son,’ he said, handing a letter with Japanese writing on the envelope to Ireton. ‘It explains what he is to do.’
‘I’ll be sure to have him read it,’ said Ireton, pocketing the letter.
‘He will not act without my authority, Mr Ireton. You are nothing to him.’ And nothing, Tomura’s tone implied, to him either.
Ireton displayed no reaction to the slight. This did not surprise Malory. She knew her employer would tolerate being slighted all day for $10,000.
‘Miss Hollander does not ask where you will find my son,’ Tomura continued.
‘She knows better than to ask,’ said Ireton.
‘Or perhaps she knows already.’
Ireton frowned suspiciously at Malory, uncertain what to make of Tomura’s remark. But now was not the moment to pursue the point. ‘We should be going,’ he said.
And Tomura concurred. ‘We should.’
They left the office, Malory locking up after them, and started down the stairs. Etiquette dictated she should lead the way. Nothing was said. The decisive rap of the ferrule of Tomura’s cane on every other tread kept time with their footsteps, while Malory’s mind raced to deduce what Tomura had instructed Ireton to do. She wanted to ask Ireton, but could not do so in Count Tomura’s presence. It remained to be seen whether she would get the chance.
As she neared the street door, Count Tomura slipped past to open it for her. Who he was mocking – her, himself, Ireton – with this small display of chivalry was unclear. She smiled weakly at him in acknowledgement.
Then she stepped out through the doorway. And a man – small, gaunt-faced and grey-suited, flat cap worn low over his eyes – appeared suddenly in front of her.
‘Traître!’ he shouted, raising his arm.
In that instant she realized he was holding a gun and had thrown the accusation of treachery at one of her companions. ‘Blachette,’ she heard Ireton say. Of course. The man was Ireton’s go-between at the Hôtel des Réservoirs, on the run from the police. ‘For God’s—’
The gun went off so close to Malory she felt the heat of the discharge and was at once deafened, her head ringing like a klaxon. She shrank back instinctively and ducked aside. The gun went off three more times, registering with her as dull thumps.
She looked round and saw Ireton toppling backwards through the doorway, clutching at his stomach, his face creased with pain. Count Tomura had been hit as well. He was grimacing and holding his left shoulder.
Blachette stepped forward, shouted something inaudible and fired twice more at Ireton. Everything was happening very quickly, it seemed to Malory, and very slowly at the same time. She saw Count Tomura’s expression harden, erasing the grimace of pain. He moved his right hand to his cane. It was a swordstick, she realized. He drew out the sword in one sweeping movement. The blade was a flash of cold light.
Blachette never saw it coming. The sword struck his wrist. The gun fell from his fingers. And his hand fell too, severed from the arm in a spurt of blood and snap of bone. He watched it with frozen incredulity. Then Tomura drove the sword into his side, deep and hard.
Malory could not breathe, could not think. The Butcher of Port Arthur. Yes, she saw now what that meant. Blood was oozing through the shoulder of Tomura’s coat, but he paid it no heed. He wrenched the blade out and watched Blachette drop to his knees. Then he swung the sword back. Malory believed for a second that he meant to decapitate the man, like the Russian whose skull he had drunk from. But his glance shifted to Malory and he held off long enough for Blachette to slump face down on the pavement, blood flooding out beneath him. The coup de grâce never came.
Malory’s head was still ringing as she stumbled past Blachette to where Ireton was lying in the doorway. He was not bleeding heavily, but one look at his face told her he was dying. His eyes engaged woozily with hers. His lips moved. But, if there were words to hear, she could not hear them. She knelt beside him and clasped his hand. His grip was feeble. And it weakened still further. The light behind his eyes flickered and went out.
She released his hand. And noticed then the tide of Blachette’s blood seeping through the fabric of her skirt. She felt Count Tomura’s hands at her elbows, urging her to rise. But she resisted long enough to stretch forward and press Ireton’s eyelids shut.
‘I’m sorry, Travis,’ she murmured.
TEA HAD DONE little to soothe Yamanaka’s nerves as he waited for news with Sam and Morahan. He was worried for his future, both in the short and the long term. And rightly so. There was nothing Sam could say to reassure him. They were all in peril. But Yamanaka’s position was worse than theirs by far. And it was Sam, by contacting him, who had put him in such a position.
‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Eisaku,’ he ventured as he poured a cup from the second pot of tea he had brewed. ‘It hasn’t exactly turned out as I’d expected.’
‘I chose to be loyal to Commissioner Kuroda. This is the result,’ said Yamanaka dolefully. ‘To lament the consequences is futile. So, I shall not.’
‘How much longer d’you think it’ll be before we hear from Mr Ireton, Schools?’ Sam asked, striving to brighten his tone.
Morahan smiled grimly, as if preparing a discouraging response. But he was spared the need to deliver it by a knock at the door. ‘Talk of the Devil,’ he said, jumping up and striding out to answer it.
Sam followed, eager to know what Madame Berton had to report. A phone call from Ireton was his guess. But it was not Madame Berton at the door.
‘Malory,’ declared Morahan in surprise as he opened it. ‘I never meant you to come here.’
Malory looked pale to Sam’s eye, her normal composure fractured in some way. Then he saw the bloodstains on her coat and the hem of her skirt beneath it. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes.’ She stepped inside and Morahan closed the door behind her. Then he too saw the bloodstains.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Travis is dead, Schools.’
‘What?’
‘Blachette shot him as he was leaving the office with me and Count Tomura. Blachette’s dead too. Count Tomura ran him through with his swordstick.’
‘Good God.’ Morahan put a hand to the wall to support himself. ‘The blood?’
‘Mostly Blachette’s. Some may be Travis’s. There was . . . a lot of it.’
‘You’d better come and sit down.’
They ushered Malory into the room where Yamanaka was waiting. She acknowledged his presence with the faintest of nods.
‘Count Tomura is injured as well,’ said Malory. ‘Not seriously, though.’
‘What . . . was he doing there?’ asked Morahan haltingly. He seemed to be finding it difficult to concentrate.
‘He came to pay Travis off. I still have the cheque in my purse. Travis was so . . .’ She shook her head. ‘He was so anxious I should bank it at once.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Morahan. And it was clear from his expression that he did not. ‘Pay him off?’
‘Count Tomura plans to return to Japan as soon as possible, Schools, taking his son with him. He’s abandoned the search for le Singe.’
‘Why?’
‘He didn’t say. Travis was to have come here and told Noburo to withdraw. I had to come instead. The Count gave me a letter to deliver to his son. Whether it explained his decision to back down I don’t know. Noburo was alarmed to hear his father had been wounded, obviously. He left at once. There’s no one outside now.’
‘Did Count Tomura mention the documents?’ asked Yamanaka.
‘Yes. He said they should be returned to Marquess Saionji.’
‘Sounds like he’s giving in,’ said Sam. He could see how shocked Morahan was by the news of Ireton’s death and how upset Malory w
as. But he had never met Ireton himself. And he knew nothing good of him. What he did know was that, for some reason, Count Tomura had decided to back down.
‘I don’t know why he’s done this,’ said Malory. ‘You’re right, Sam. In effect, he is giving in.’
‘Where’s he now?’ asked Morahan.
‘His suite at the Bristol. He refused to go to hospital. He treated his injury lightly, though it looked quite nasty to me. He said the delegation’s doctor would be able to patch him up.’
‘Ever the warrior,’ Morahan murmured.
‘I didn’t wait for the police, though I should have. They’ll have lots of questions for me. And for you, Schools.’
‘But not for the Tomuras?’
‘I guess not. Marquess Saionji will shield them as members of his delegation. The Count asked me to tell you something, though. Just before he was driven away.’
‘What?’
‘If you leave him alone, he’ll leave you alone.’
‘He said that?’
‘His actual words were: “If the tiger ceases to hunt you, do not hunt the tiger.”’
‘Count Tomura is not a merciful man,’ said Yamanaka. ‘He gives way only to superior force.’
‘Who would that be?’ asked Sam.
‘Whoever it is,’ said Malory, ‘they’ve done us a big favour.’
‘How much was that pay-off?’ Morahan asked thoughtfully.
‘Ten thousand dollars.’
Sam whistled. ‘What’s that in pounds?’
‘Two or three thousand,’ said Morahan.
‘Blimey O’Reilly.’
‘Yuh. Blimey O’Reilly. Tomura really is in retreat. And he doesn’t want us to know why.’
‘Perhaps it’d be best not to know,’ said Malory, grasping Morahan’s arm to command his attention. ‘This lets you off the hook. Sam too. And Mr Yamanaka.’
Morahan sighed. ‘But not Travis. Blachette must have thought he’d betrayed him. But he hadn’t.’ He looked Malory in the eye. ‘We had.’
‘You can’t betray a traitor, Schools. We did the right thing. We weren’t to know what it would lead to.’
‘No regrets, then?’
A moment of silence passed. Then Malory said softly, ‘More than I can express.’
‘Me too.’
Morahan hugged her. And Sam heard a sob muffled by the big man’s chest. Then they broke apart. Malory moved to the window and gazed out, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘OK,’ said Morahan decisively. ‘You can return the documents to Marquess Saionji, Yamanaka?’
Yamanaka nodded. ‘Certainly.’
‘And make up some story about how they came into your hands?’
‘An anonymous source.’
‘Good enough. You’d better get back to the Majestic, Sam. It’ll be business as usual for you.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Sam.
‘To face the music.’
‘Yes,’ said Malory, turning round from the window. ‘It’s time we did that.’
IT WAS LATE afternoon when Max’s train reached Paris, too late, he felt, for an immediate attempt to see Otto Krenz. Members of the German delegation were unlikely to enjoy complete freedom of movement. A meeting with Krenz required careful arranging.
Max booked into a dowdily functional travellers’ hotel opposite the Gare du Nord, paying extra for a room with a telephone. After a badly needed bath, he put a call through to the Hôtel des Réservoirs in Versailles. He asked to speak to ‘Herr Krenz’ on a matter of urgency, using the codename supplied by Appleby that he knew Krenz would recognize: Kahr, which could just as easily be Carr; it was neatly Anglo-Germanic.
Krenz took the call on an extension, after some delay. He sounded breathless – and suspicious. ‘Herr Kahr?’
‘I was pleased to hear you’re in town,’ said Max. ‘We must meet.’
‘Difficult,’ said Krenz. ‘I am very busy.’
‘We must meet.’
‘You sound . . . a little odd.’
‘Only anxious to see you, Otto. You name a time and place. I’ll be there.’
Max thought he heard Krenz groan. Then: ‘I will have to buy some . . . Schreibwaren . . . tomorrow morning. We have not brought enough pencils and paper-clips. Absurd, no?’
‘Where will you buy them?’
‘There is a papeterie in Rue de la Chancellerie. I shall go there at nine.’
‘Be sure you do.’
‘I will. Now I must go. I am wanted.’
His appointment with Krenz secured, Max contemplated an idle evening in Paris. It would be wise, he knew, to lie low. The fewer people who knew he had returned to the city the better. But the past few days had stretched him to breaking point, both physically and mentally. He craved friendly company as keenly as he did food and drink. It would be good to see Sam, on whose discretion he knew he could rely utterly. A quiet drink somewhere could surely do no harm. Sam would probably be as glad to see Max as Max would be to see him. The decision was made.
‘Garage.’ Sam sounded as game as ever when he answered his extension at the Majestic.
‘It’s me, Sam.’
There was a moment’s hesitation before Sam recognized Max’s voice. Or perhaps he simply could not believe his own ears. ‘Sir? Is that really you?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In the same city as you.’
‘You’re back?’
‘For a little while. For tonight, anyway. Can I buy you a drink?’
‘Listen, sir.’ Sam’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. He sounded serious. ‘A lot’s happened I need to tell you about. And it’s not the sort of thing we can risk being overheard. Why don’t you come here – to the garage? I’ll have to stay late anyway, to make up for missing yesterday and most of today. The mechanics will all be gone by eight. Come at half past. We can slide out for a jar afterwards.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘To tell the truth, sir, I’m not sure. But it’s a lot better than it was. And better still for hearing your voice again.’
The mews behind the Majestic was in darkness when Max arrived and nightfall was well advanced. He approached with caution, wondering if some other rendezvous might not have been safer.
The garage doors were closed. He tapped at the wicket door, reluctant to announce himself too noisily. It was opened promptly. Sam beamed at him and ushered him inside, snapping the latch down on the lock behind him.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes and no mistake, sir,’ said Sam as they shook hands warmly.
‘So are you, Sam. It really is good to see you again. There have been times of late when I thought I never would.’
‘Me too.’
‘I have the feeling it hasn’t all been plain sailing for you here.’
‘Anything but. Come into the office and I’ll put you in the picture.’
So it was that Max learnt of all that had occurred in his absence. There was much to relate and much also to understand.
If Max had ever doubted Farngold was the key to the mystery that had claimed his father’s life – and come close to claiming his and Sam’s too – he doubted it no longer after hearing what Sam had to tell him. Jack Farngold and his dead sister, Matilda, once married to Count Tomura, were links in a chain that led from the past – the past of Sir Henry Maxted and Fritz Lemmer as well as Count Tomura – to the present: from Tokyo, thirty years before, to Paris, on the second night of May, 1919. The chain could not be seen. The hands that had forged it were unknown. But it was there, as real and hard as iron.
For his own part, Max disclosed little of what he had done in the month since he had last been in Paris and Sam did not press him for details. He knew without Max having to tell him that Max had done everything he could to draw Lemmer’s sting – so far with only limited success. ‘I’m looking for his secretary, Sam. She’s with the German delegation. Appleby agrees with me she may have the informat
ion we need to round up all the spies Lemmer’s recruited over the years.’
‘Good luck with that, sir. Anything I can do to help . . .’
‘You’ve done enough, I should say.’
‘But not enough to get the better of Count Tomura and his sewer-rat of a son. Someone else did that.’
‘Yes. But who? And how?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Well, for what my guess is worth, I suspect Count Tomura backed down because of his involvement with the Farngolds. Lemmer knows all about it, as far as I can gather. It’s possible he forced Tomura’s hand to ensure the Count’s problems didn’t complicate his grand strategy.’
‘And what is his grand strategy, sir?’
‘He has a spy network for sale. Maybe the Japanese are the buyers. My aim is to see he soon has no network left to sell.’
‘What about le Singe, sir? He gave us the documents to punish Tomura for letting his son kill Soutine. But the documents are back with the Japanese now and Tomura’s taking himself off home. That isn’t going to satisfy le Singe, is it?’
‘I can’t worry about him, Sam. I have too many other things to worry about.’
‘’Course you do. Such as your uncle. Are you going to see him? I phoned the hospital earlier. They said he’d left – gone back to his hotel. The Mirabeau, in Rue de la Pay.’
Max pondered the question. Why he should be reluctant to visit George he was not sure, but reluctant he was. The old boy would encourage him to contact his mother. And that he did not want to do. To succeed he required insulation from sentiment. His instinct was to stay away.
But instinct could not rule. The Farngold secret amounted to far more than had been revealed by the documents le Singe had supplied. It had to. And Sir Henry had known what it was. There was a chance Lady Maxted knew as well, whether she was aware of it or not. And what she knew George was likely to know also, as her closest confidant by far.
‘I should see him, Sam, yes. I’m sorry. We may have to postpone that drink.’
En route to the Mirabeau, Max passed close to the Plaza-Athénée and thought of his father’s old friend Baltazar Ribeiro. It was clear from what Morahan had told Sam about his dealings with Sir Henry that Ribeiro had lied to them. He and Sir Henry had cooked up the fable of buying land in Amazonia for a rubber plantation to explain away Sir Henry’s money-raising efforts if the need arose, as later it did. Ribeiro had stuck loyally to the story, as agreed. He had probably hated doing it, but he had done it nonetheless.
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