‘I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.’
‘I’ll either be at work or at home.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find you.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
To his surprise, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, then hurried down the stairs, glancing back at him and raising a hand as she turned a corner and vanished from sight.
A TELEGRAM FROM Ashley was waiting for Max back at the Mazarin. He read it with some dread, though it contained nothing he could not have foreseen. Funeral fixed for noon tomorrow St Martins. Your presence hoped for. He could reply, explaining why he would not be there. But Ashley already knew the reason and so did their mother. It would have to go unanswered.
Whatever Spataro said to Zamaron and whenever he said it, Max did not propose simply to wait on events. He went up to his room to fetch his hat and coat, intending to proceed directly to the Hotel Plaza Athénée in search of Ribeiro. But Ribeiro, it transpired, was already in search of him. A letter on Plaza Athénée notepaper had arrived for Max during his brief trip upstairs. It was handwritten, in a sprawling script.
26 March 1919
Dear Mr Maxted,
I had the honour to be a friend of your late father over many years. I was greatly saddened to learn of his death. Mr Norris has told me you are to be in Paris for a few more days at least. I should like to speak to you. I hope it is convenient for you to join me for luncheon at my hotel at one this afternoon. Please let me know if it is not. Please accept also my heartfelt condolences.
Sincerely yours,
Baltazar Ribeiro
Max sent back a note, accepting Ribeiro’s invitation, then wandered out into the city, the morning empty before him. As yet, he had only a glut of questions about his father and a dearth of answers. He walked to the Eiffel Tower and took the lift to the top. From there he could see the whole city. But to see was not enough. He needed to understand. And he was as far as ever from doing so. But he had some reason to hope that might change before the day was out.
Baltazar Ribeiro was a stout, white-haired, extravagantly moustachioed man of about Sir Henry Maxted’s age, impeccably dressed in a dove-grey suit with wing-collar and pearl tie-pin. He greeted Max with elaborate courtesy in grammatically perfect but heavily accented English and repeated his written condolences with every sign that they were genuine, tears brimming in his eyes as he spoke of his old friend.
‘I first met your father more than twenty years ago, when he arrived at the embassy in Rio. I was new to the city myself. You could say we discovered Rio together.’ Ribeiro smiled as he spoke, something the lines around his eyes and mouth suggested he did often. ‘It seemed such a happy chance when I learnt that he too was in Paris for the peace conference. I am more sorry than I can say for this terrible accident. When is the funeral to be? I should like to attend if I can.’
‘The funeral’s tomorrow,’ Max replied. ‘In Surrey.’
Ribeiro was struck briefly silent. And in the panelled quietude of the Plaza Athénée’s restaurant, where there were more waiters than customers, his silence was almost tangible.
‘If it is tomorrow, in Surrey,’ he resumed eventually, in a puzzled tone, ‘why are you still in Paris?’
‘I’m not going to be there.’
Ribeiro’s puzzlement only deepened. ‘Why not?’
‘Because my father’s death wasn’t an accident, senhor. He was murdered. And it’s more important that I stay here to find his murderer than I please my family by going home to see him buried.’
Ribeiro’s smile had become a deep frown. ‘I do not understand. Mr Norris said nothing of murder.’
‘Mr Norris said what he’d been told to say. I imagine he’s built his career on doing that.’
‘But why should he have been told to say what is not true?’
‘The unsolved murder of a member of one of the principal delegations to the peace conference would ruffle too many feathers. The authorities have agreed it should be regarded as an accident.’
‘If this is so—’
‘It is so, senhor. Would you like me to explain how I can be sure of that?’
Ribeiro nodded solemnly. ‘I would.’
Max set out the evidence calmly and logically. He made no bones about his father’s relationship with Corinne, though he did not name her. The revelation did not appear to surprise Ribeiro, who listened patiently, sipping his wine and picking at his food distractedly. Max said nothing of the list Sir Henry had left behind, nor of the key concealed in his room at the Majestic. The facts he could swear to would have to speak for themselves. Old friend of Sir Henry’s or not, Ribeiro was still an unknown quantity.
‘This is scandalous,’ he said when Max had finished. ‘They propose to regard Henry’s death as a … stupid fall … when actually he was murdered?’
‘That’s the size of it.’
‘I knew of Henry’s … caso amoroso. He spoke of it to me a few times, though I could have guessed from how happy he was. She felt genuinely for him, you say?’
‘She did.’
‘Then I am very sorry for her. How is she?’
‘She’s coping bravely. And she’s as determined as I am to establish the truth.’
‘But what could that be? Why would anyone want to murder Henry? He had no enemies.’
‘Are you sure?’
Ribeiro shrugged. ‘If he did, he was careful to ensure I knew nothing of them. He made none in Brazil, I’m certain. He was a popular figure in the diplomatic community. I enrolled him in the Jockey Club. Everyone liked him. And everyone who knew him will be sorry to hear of his death.’
‘He had more troublesome postings than Rio.’
‘It is true. St Petersburg in the middle of a revolution must have been grim. And dangerous. He told me it was often unsafe to walk the streets. Ah!’ A thought had struck Ribeiro. ‘You know many Tsarists fled to Paris after the Bolsheviks took over?’
‘Yes.’
‘They live in the streets around the Orthodox Cathedral in Rue Daru. There are so many of them the area is called Little Russia. Henry told me this. I went to see for myself and it is true. Now I think about it, he said to me once that they had caused him some embarrassment.’
‘How?’
‘There is a bookshop run by a man called … I cannot remember his name. It begins with a B … I think. He asked Henry for help. There is an organization the bookseller is a member of, dedicated to restoring the monarchy. It is called the Trust.’
‘The what?’
‘The Trust. You have heard of it?’
Yes. Max had heard of it, though until this moment he was unaware of the fact. The Trust had been worth £5,000 to Sir Henry. But how? And why? ‘I know nothing about such an organization, senhor,’ Max said, adroitly avoiding the need to lie. ‘What help did they want from my father?’
‘They hoped he would speak to Lloyd George and Balfour on their behalf. This man B had known Henry slightly in St Petersburg. Henry could do nothing for him, of course, even if he had wanted to. He joked that they thought he was far more important than he actually was. But, still, perhaps they felt … insulted … by his refusal.’
‘To the extent of murdering him?’
‘It is unlikely, I agree.’
But it was not so unlikely if Sir Henry’s dealings with the Trust had gone further than a polite refusal to lobby the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary for them. What exactly did £5,000 buy? ‘Are you sure you can’t remember the bookseller’s name, senhor?’
‘It is gone. But it does not matter. His name is over the door of the shop. In Russian, obviously.’
‘I’ll find him.’
‘Be careful.’
Max smiled. ‘I can’t afford to be too careful.’
‘The Russians.’ Ribeiro sighed. ‘We had an emperor in Brazil. We let him go into exile when the republic was created. We did not feel the need to slaughter the entire royal family. The Russians are … an extreme peop
le.’
‘Do you know who my father was acquainted with in the Japanese delegation, senhor?’
‘Kuroda.’ Ribeiro nodded. ‘I had forgotten him. Yes. Henry knew him from his time at the embassy in Tokyo. You were born there, of course.’
‘I was, yes.’
‘I have not met Kuroda. I have not met any of the Japanese. They keep to themselves. And Kuroda is not a politician.’
‘What, then?’
‘A policeman, I think.’ Ribeiro snapped his fingers. ‘And there is a Russian connection.’
‘There is?’
‘Yes. When the Tsar the Russians killed last year was crown prince – Tsarevich – he visited Japan. There was an attempt on his life. Henry was in Tokyo at the time. He gave this policeman – Kuroda – some small assistance with the investigation of the crime.’
‘What sort of assistance?’
‘He did not say. And I did not ask. It seemed, as he talked of it, unimportant. It was very long ago. You will speak to Kuroda?’
‘I’ll speak to anyone in Paris who knew my father.’
‘There will not be many who knew him well.’
‘As one of those who did …’ Max grimaced. ‘I have an awkward question to ask.’
Ribeiro spread his arms wide. ‘Ask it.’
‘Was my father short of money?’
‘Money? Your father? No. He … spent … freely when we were together.’
‘He had no need to … raise funds?’
For the first time in their conversation, Max sensed disquiet on his host’s part. Ribeiro smiled, but not quite as easily or genuinely as before. Until this moment, he had been candid and open. Now there was the slightest tinge of circumspection in his eyes and his voice. ‘I cannot think of any reason for Henry to raise funds, as you put it. You have some reason?’
‘Nothing definite.’
‘Then …’
‘I mean to follow every clue, however faint.’
‘You should.’ Ribeiro sounded fatalistic, as if he knew, as perhaps he did, that it would be futile to seek to discourage Max. ‘Henry was a good friend and a good man. If he was murdered …’
‘He was murdered.’
Ribeiro’s expression had become solemn and serious. ‘Then, as his son, you must seek to avenge him. And as his friend … I shall help you if I can.’
NUMEROUS BRANDIES HAD concluded Max’s lunch with Baltazar Ribeiro. Disappointed that he would not be able to attend his old friend’s funeral, Ribeiro had insisted they toast his memory countless times as he called to mind various incidents from their friendship. Racecourse mishaps and nightclub escapades Max could hardly associate with his father had flowed from Ribeiro’s alcohol-loosened tongue. ‘We both left it late in life to sow our wild oats, Max.’ (Max had persuaded Ribeiro to address him by his nickname, though the Brazilian’s accent made it sound like Mags.) ‘I lived in Manaus until I was forty, deep in Amazonia. My father made his fortune from rubber and paid for me to become a lawyer. I married another rubber baron’s daughter and led a respectable, hard-working life. Then I was selected to replace one of the province’s congressmen who had died and off I went to Rio, two thousand kilometres away. I had never been to the capital before. My family stayed behind in Manaus. It was a little the same for Henry. We became a pair of middle-aged playboys. We had a lot of fun, Max, more than our fair share. Oh, yes, they were great days. I miss them. And I miss my friend, your father.’
Max was aware, when he left the Plaza Athénée, that he was drunk and not necessarily the best judge of his own actions. He realized that proceeding directly to Little Russia in search of bookseller B was unwise and impetuous. But he went anyway, reckoning the walk there through the chill afternoon air would sober him up.
The chill afternoon air in fact made little impression. He reached the neighbourhood of the multi-domed St-Alexandre-Nevsky Orthodox Cathedral under no illusion as to his condition. But he was not going to turn back now.
Many of the shops and cafés in the area sported signs in the Russian alphabet. He heard more Russian spoken by passers-by than French. In a side-street off Rue Daru, he came upon a bookseller’s premises and used the Ancient Greek he remembered from his schooldays to make a rough transliteration of the proprietor’s name: Bukayev. He was in the right place. But Bukayev was not. The shop was closed.
No opening hours were displayed. The interior looked dusty and barely businesslike. Bukayev probably came and went much as he pleased, Max surmised. This was confirmed by a grizzled old man in a heavy overcoat and fur hat who stopped at the sight of Max peering through the shop window. After a futile foray in Russian, he switched to French.
‘Le magasin est quelquefois ouvert, quelquefois fermé, monsieur.’
‘Vous connaissez Bukayev, monsieur?’ Max asked.
‘Un peu.’ A little was not a lot. But it was better than nothing.
‘Où habite-t-il?’
‘Là.’ The man gestured to the windows above the shop.
That was something. Bukayev lived on the premises. He would have to return eventually. But Max could not wait. He too would have to return.
It was probably for the best, Max concluded as he headed for the Mazarin. He needed to sleep off the brandies Ribeiro had plied him with before addressing himself to the task Ireton had set him. And he half-hoped good news might be waiting for him at the hotel in the form of a message from Zamaron. Bukayev would keep.
As James Maxted, late of the Royal Flying Corps, was striding a touch unsteadily along the eighth arrondissement streets of Paris, another youthful RFC veteran, Sam Twentyman, was walking up the drive of Gresscombe Place, in Surrey. Any unsteadiness he displayed was due to nervousness rather than alcohol. Only force of circumstance had led him to travel there from Walthamstow. He knew Max would not want him to visit his family, but the telegram he had received had left him with little choice in the matter.
A maid answered the door. Sam asked if he could speak to Sir Ashley Maxted on an urgent matter concerning his brother and she admitted him to a darkened hallway. The house was quiet, oppressively so, as he waited. He knew, of course, that the family would be in mourning. He reminded himself to bear that fact in mind.
Eventually, the maid returned and reported that Sir Ashley was busy in his study, but could spare Sam a few moments of his time. She escorted him to a room towards the back of the house.
Sir Ashley was walking up and down by a window overlooking rain-prinked lawns and shrubbery. There were enough papers scattered on his desk to suggest he really was busy. His greeting was barely polite. Sam’s condolences were brusquely acknowledged. A handshake was out of the question.
‘You’re Twentyman?’
‘Yes, Sir Ashley. I was in the RFC with your—’
‘Yes, yes, I know that. James has mentioned you to me. What can I do for you?’
‘I wonder, has Lieutenant Maxted also mentioned our … business plans?’
The question raised a scowl on Sir Ashley’s face. ‘He may have.’
‘I’m worried about how our plans … stand at present.’
‘Are you really?’
‘I understand Lieutenant Maxted—’
‘You can drop the “Lieutenant”,’ Sir Ashley cut in testily. ‘My brother’s a civilian these days.’
‘Yes. Of course. I, er …’
‘What exactly do you want, Twentyman?’
‘I understand … Mr Maxted … is in Paris. I had a telegram from him suggesting he … might be there for some time.’
Sir Ashley’s face darkened ominously. The scowl rearranged itself, but remained a scowl. ‘Indeed,’ was all he said, though it was evident he might have liked to say more.
‘Can you tell me where in Paris I could find him?’
‘You’re thinking of going there?’
‘Yes. I am.’
‘I shouldn’t if I were you.’
‘No?’
Sir Ashley shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘The land my brother needs for this flying school you and he had hopes of establishing … is unlikely to be available.’
‘Oh.’
‘You have a trade you can turn your hand to, Twentyman?’
‘Not exactly, Sir Ashley, no.’
‘Well, I should advise you to find one.’
Sam could think of nothing to say to that. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. He badly wanted not to believe that his hopes for the future were to be dashed.
‘If there’s nothing else I can do for you …’ Sir Ashley glanced dismissively towards the door.
Sam steeled himself. ‘Mr Maxted’s address … in Paris?’
‘You still want it?’
‘If … If you don’t mind.’
‘Why should I mind?’ Sir Ashley stalked to his desk, ripped a sheet of paper from a pad and wrote on it, then handed it to Sam. ‘There you are.’
‘Thank you. I’m … much obliged.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Well, I was just wondering … if you could tell me … what’s keeping Mr Maxted … in Paris.’
‘What’s keeping him there?’
‘Er … yes.’
‘If you want to find that out, Twentyman, I suggest you waste some money I suspect you don’t have by going to Paris and asking him.’
‘Right.’ Sam swallowed a tart riposte. ‘I see.’
‘Do you? I doubt it. Now, you really must excuse me. I have my father’s funeral to arrange.’
For a second, when the alarm clock woke him, Max thought it was early morning rather than early evening. The twilight falling greyly through the windows of his hotel room could have denoted either. Then where and when and why took urgent hold of his mind and he leapt up from the bed. The time had come to do what he had agreed to do for Ireton. He set aside caution and apprehensiveness as he had done every day of his war service. In his experience, they only slowed a man’s reactions. And speedy reactions could be the difference between life and death. Nothing as elemental as that, he felt certain, awaited him in Auteuil. In all likelihood, it would be as simple an errand as Ireton had predicted. At all events, he would soon find out.
The Ways of the World Page 12