The Corners of the Globe (13 page)

‘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 Morahan 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.’

‘Sorry. You’d know, of course. But what’s the problem? You’re a past master at losing a tail.’

‘I can’t afford to lose him. It’d make Tomura suspect I’m up to no good.’

‘He wants you to lead him to le Singe?’

‘Yup.’

‘And then?’

‘Not sure. Either he needs to know something le Singe knows or he needs to stop le Singe telling it to anyone else.’

‘How could he do that?’

‘Oh, by killing him, I reckon.’ Morahan took another sip of tea. ‘This could use a shot of bourbon in it, y’know.’

With a disapproving frown, Malory fetched a bottle of Jim Beam down from the shelf behind her, walked across to where Morahan was sitting and poured some into his cup. ‘That thing you agreed to do for Sir Henry, Schools . . .’

‘Yuh?’

‘Was le Singe anything to do with it?’

‘I’m not sure. But it would fit with le Singe stealing something from the Japanese delegation: a nugget of intelligence that was pure gold to Henry, maybe.’

‘Intelligence concerning Count Tomura?’

‘Well, let’s ask ourselves why he’s here. The official story is Premier Hara wanted to reinforce the delegation as the conference entered its final stages. The unofficial story is he sent Tomura to take over from Saionji in all but name because he thinks the old boy’s gone soft. There were riots in Korea at the beginning of March and Hara may have feared Saionji would fail to block Korean representatives getting a hearing at the conference. But what if both stories are wrong? What if Tomura persuaded Hara to send him for reasons of his own? He’s been here a week. It’s a six-week voyage from Japan. So, he must have set off around March the tenth. Henry was already on the track of his great secret by then.’

‘Is that what he called it – his “great secret”?’

‘He did.’

‘But he never even hinted what it was?’

‘Only that he could use my help to get to the bottom of it, but was determined to try even if I turned him down.’

‘Which there was no chance you’d do?’

‘I owed the man my life, Malory. What d’you think?’

‘I think he asked the right guy.’

Morahan took a swig of the reinforced tea. ‘That’s a whole lot better.’

Malory smiled. ‘Have you ever thought you should’ve told Max about this?’

‘“If anything happens to me, Schools, don’t breathe a word to my family. Especially my son James.” That’s what Henry said. Those were his exact words. I reckon he must have said something similar to Ribeiro, his old friend from the Brazilian delegation. So, we’ve both kept our mouths shut. I figured it was best to let Henry’s quest – whatever it was – die with him.’

‘But you’re afraid it didn’t die with him, aren’t you?’

‘Tomura junior’s been here since January. He could’ve alerted his father to any threat Henry posed to him. And the Count could’ve decided to come here and nullify the threat in person.’

‘Do you think he was behind Sir Henry’s murder?’

‘No. That was down to Lemmer. At least . . .’ Morahan shrugged helplessly and drank some more tea. ‘Somehow, I have to find le Singe and learn what he knew before Tomura hears I’ve found him, then decide how I can use the information to spike Tomura’s guns. I can’t refuse to look for le Singe because then Tomura will try to squeeze whatever he can out of Sam Twentyman. That’ll be nothing, which won’t go well for Sam. And I have to do all this while leading Travis to believe I’m obediently trying to track le Singe down via Soutine in order to earn us a fat fee from Tomura via his son.’

‘I should say Travis is the least of your problems. He’s preoccupied with the Greeks at the moment. Everyone wants to know how generous a slice of the Turkish pie they’re going to end up with.’

‘Maybe they should ask you.’

‘The Greeks’ eyes are bigger than their stomachs. That’s all I’ll say. Now, what do
you
want to ask me? I mean, I’m happy to listen while you analyse the impossibility of your situation, but . . .’

Morahan laughed. ‘Travis has no idea how much smarter you are than he is, Malory. You are aware of that, aren’t you?’

Malory arched her eyebrows. ‘A good secretary flatters her boss, not herself.’

‘He wouldn’t be happy to hear about some of the things you do for me.’

‘Which is why he won’t. Another duty of a good secretary is to spare her boss’s feelings. Besides, morally speaking, Travis is a louse. Whereas you, Schools, are a man of honour.’ Her gaze was gentle and frank. There were no secrets between them, even concerning what they thought of each other.

‘I’m way short of that,’ said Morahan softly.

‘What d’you want me to do?’

‘Look through all the newspaper reports of le Singe’s activities. See if there’s a pattern to them. I mean a geographical pattern, one that might give me a clue about where I should look for him.’