The Ways of the World (29 page)

Brigham meticulously stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. He peered through the windscreen at the caped figures of two policemen on bicycles who rode slowly round the car and turned on to the bridge. Max found himself watching them as well. One of the policemen glanced back at the car as they took the turn. ‘Since that mad anarchist took a pot-shot at Clemenceau, the French have been nervous as kittens that there’ll be some fearful outrage to sully their management of the conference. They’re suspicious of everything. I shouldn’t really be here, talking to you. It could be hard to explain, if I was called upon to do so.’

‘It was your idea.’

‘So it was.’

‘What’s the answer to my question?’

‘No one put me in the picture, James. I merely made judicious enquiries. Good God, I’ve been in this game for nearly forty years. I know how to find things out. It requires tact, caution and connections developed and nurtured over decades. You’re clearly deficient in every one of those departments. That’s why you’re in such danger. You’re brave and determined, which is admirable. But it’s not enough. In your situation, it may even be a disadvantage. Do you sail?’

‘What?’

‘I have a share in a villa near Cannes. I keep a boat down there, scandalously underused. A local man looks after it for me. You could go and stay in the villa, if you like. Take the boat out. Enjoy
a Provençal spring. Relax. Pamper yourself. My friends would be delighted to meet you. I might even join you there, if this conference ever ends.’

Max hardly knew what to say. The man’s nerve was quite something. ‘I’m not going to Cannes, Brigham. Or anywhere else. I’m staying here until I find my father’s killer.’

‘Or until he finds you?’

‘The cards must fall where they will.’

‘What a fatalistic young man you are.’

‘It’s what I’m resolved to do.’

‘As an act of filial piety?’

‘If you like.’

‘The statement does you credit. But it’s misplaced piety, as I think you’re aware. It would seem perverse in the extreme to lose your life seeking to avenge a father who isn’t actually—’

‘
Don’t say another word
.’ The force of Max’s interjection succeeded in silencing Brigham. Max turned to face him, though he could see little of his expression in the dim light that reached them from the nearest street lamp. ‘I promise you this, Brigham: if I learn you were responsible in any way for my father’s murder, however indirectly—’

‘That’s preposterous. I had nothing to with Henry’s death.’

‘
If
I learn that, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?’

‘What? You can’t—’

‘Be serious? Oh, but I’m being deadly serious. I want you to know that. It’s not an idle threat. I can’t be bought off or adopted as some kind of pet. I mean to finish what I’ve started. I mean to punish those who brought my father down. If you’re one of them, I advise you now: do your worst before I do mine.’

‘James, you’ve completely—’

‘I’ll bid you goodnight, Brigham. I’ll walk back to the hotel, thanks. I need some fresh air.’

With that, Max yanked the door open and hopped out of the car. He slammed the door violently behind him and strode away across the street without a backward glance. If Brigham was his enemy, he was glad of it. Proof, one way or the other, was all he needed. Proof. And then he would act.

MAX DID NOT
walk back to his hotel, as he had told Brigham he would. He headed for Little Russia. The explanation he advanced to himself was that he needed to confirm Nadia was safe and well. She might have news of her uncle, or of something else that would aid his search for the truth. But he would not spend the night with her. His encounter with Brigham had left him emotionally ragged. That the fellow might be his father was a sickening possibility he had long done his level best to disregard. He wanted nothing of Brigham’s. He could not, would not, acknowledge any tie, least of all of blood.

The bookshop was in darkness, but a light was burning in the room above. Max rang the bell and stepped back to let Nadia see him from the window. A lace curtain twitched, though she did not show herself. But, a few moments later, he heard a movement in the shop. And then the door opened.

She looked pale and anxious. ‘Max,’ she said, smiling as if it was an effort to do so.

‘May I come in?’

‘Ah, no.’ She lowered her voice. ‘A friend of my uncle and his wife are here. It is …’

‘Awkward?’

‘They will ask you many questions, Max. And they are not … discreet people. It is better, I think, if you do not come in.’

‘I understand. Is all well?’

‘Nothing has changed. I wait to hear. But I hear nothing.’

‘I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do …’

Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Come again soon. Last night …’ She looked deep into his eyes. ‘I need you.’

‘You know where to find me. I’ll say goodnight.’

‘
Spokoynoy nochi
, Max.’ She blew him a kiss and slowly closed the door.

Max took a long detour on his way back to the Mazarin, walking himself into a state of exhaustion on the cold and empty streets of the night-time city. It was the only way he could be sure of sleeping, with so many doubts and questions swirling in his mind.

In Sir Henry Maxted’s old room at the Majestic, Sam was already sound asleep. Insomnia had always been a mystery to him, a good night’s rest no more complicated than a bed to climb into. It did not even have to be a particularly comfortable bed, though this one was certainly that.

He had not been surprised to hear nothing from Max that evening, concerned though he was about him. No news was in a sense good news. He did not doubt Max would be in touch when he could. The war had only served to reinforce Sam’s innate pragmatism. What would be would be.

By the same token, he did not dream much, generally waking with no memory of how his sleeping mind had occupied itself. But that was not to be the case when he came to himself on Saturday morning, with a shaft of grey morning light falling across the coverlet.

He had dreamt of le Singe, or his subconscious version of le Singe: a small, spry, dark-skinned boy dressed in ragged army fatigues, standing before him, on tiptoe it seemed, ready to dodge or spring, and pointing at him with one steady forefinger, smiling as he did so, his teeth a yellow crescent across the umber of his round, simian face. There was something white in his other hand: a stick of chalk, perhaps. The sight fleetingly transformed him into one of the teachers at Sam’s old school in Walthamstow. Then there was a
blur of motion. Le Singe was a crouching figure in a window. And then he was gone.

Sam sat up and rubbed his face. The dream stayed with him, refusing to leave his mind. He looked at his alarm clock. There was still half an hour to go before the time he had set the alarm for and he wondered what had roused him. The chill air, perhaps. It was desperately cold in the room.

He glanced across at the window and saw that it was open. The stay was hanging free, though he felt sure he had secured it the night before. It had not fitted properly, though. It might have worked itself loose. He lumbered over and closed it, shivering in the chill. As he did so, he noticed a mark on the sill outside: a white cross. Had it been there before? He could not say for sure. He reopened the window and rubbed the cross with his finger. He was left with a smear of chalk on his skin.

Then he turned and started with astonishment. On the wall above the bed, while he had lain asleep, someone had chalked a message.

At the Mazarin, Max was woken by a telephone call from the lobby. Sam was downstairs, sounding breathless and perturbed. Could he come up? Max, his thoughts still fuddled by sleep, slurred out his consent and struggled into his dressing-gown.

He had hardly done so when Sam was knocking at the door. ‘What the devil’s the matter?’ Max demanded as he let him in. ‘And what time is it?’

‘Bacon-and-egg time, sir, but there’s something I have to tell you before you tuck into breakfast. Take a look at this. I copied it down off the wall of my room at the Majestic. Your father’s old room, as it happens.’

‘My father’s room? What are you—’ He broke off as Sam handed him a piece of paper and read the message written on it.

Max reread the message when Sam had finished recounting the events of the night. It seemed clear le Singe had paid him a visit. It was no dream. The chalked words on the wall and the open window proved that.

‘He must be double- or triple-jointed, sir. You’d need to be able to swing from pipes and railings like a monkey from creepers in the jungle to get to the window of that room. And I reckon he’s been before. That cross on the sill is his mark. It was the first night since Sir Henry’s death that there was a light in the room. His first chance, as he saw it, to send you this message.’

‘He seems to want to tell me he didn’t know murder was part of the deal. Fine. It’s his boss I’m after, anyway. But if le Singe has a conscience, it could mean he’ll give us some more help. If we can only make contact with him.’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

‘What did you do with the writing on the wall?’

‘I rubbed it out sharpish, sir. We don’t want anyone else to get the benefit of it, do we?’

‘No, we don’t. Good work, Sam. Now, these letters and numbers. What are they supposed to mean?’

‘Looks like a car registration number to me, sir. HX is the code for central London.’

‘It is?’

‘I thought everyone knew that.’

‘’Fraid not, Sam. It’s an inexplicable gap in my education.’

‘I checked the cars in the garage before I left. They were all brought over from London and most have HX in front of the number. But 4344 ain’t among ’em.’

‘And what would it mean if it were, eh?’

‘I was hoping you might have some idea, sir.’

‘Maybe I do.’ Max tapped his front teeth thoughtfully. ‘Brigham’s rented an apartment, so he’s not staying at the Majestic. His car wouldn’t be in the hotel garage.’

‘Who’s Brigham, sir?’

‘A senior member of the British delegation. And a nasty piece of work to boot. Our man, quite possibly. He took me for a drive last night and advised me to leave Paris in the interests of my health.’

‘What was he driving, sir?’

‘A Daimler. His own, I suspect.’

‘Get the registration number, did you?’

Max gave Sam a pained smile. ‘Incredibly, it never occurred to me.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘But it doesn’t matter. Appleby can tell me where Brigham’s staying. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out if he’s driving HX 4344. I’ll go and see Appleby straight after breakfast. Do you want to join me for a bite here?’

‘Kind of you, sir, but I’d better hotfoot it back to the Majestic. I have to put the mechanics through their paces this morning.’

‘All right. You go. Thanks for bringing this to me so promptly, Sam.’

‘Don’t mention it, sir. About le Singe …’

‘Yes?’

‘He’s a weird one and no mistake. I really thought I was dreaming when I saw him. And it was like he knew I’d think that. He wasn’t worried a bit. He seemed … calm. Calm as a pail o’ milk.’

‘Would you know him again?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s a breed all to himself.’

‘Maybe he’ll call again.’

‘If he does, I’ll be ready for him.’

‘Take care.’

‘I will. You too, sir.’

Max grinned. ‘Don’t I always?’

After Sam had gone, Max bathed and shaved hurriedly, then went down to breakfast. He was halfway through a bowl of porridge and a silent rehearsal of what he was going to tell Appleby – he had already half-convinced himself Brigham’s Daimler would turn out to be HX 4344 – when a clerk materialized at his elbow.

‘Telephone call for you, Monsieur Maxted. A Senhor Ribeiro. Will you speak to him? He says the matter is urgent.’

Max swallowed his spoonful of porridge and stood up. ‘Take me to the phone.’

‘Baltazar?’

‘Yes, Max. It is I. Baltazar Ribeiro. I am sorry to be calling you so early.’

‘Never mind. I’m an early riser.’

‘I rise early also. I sleep badly, probably because I do not take enough exercise.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. But—’

‘I generally take a little walk as soon as it is light. To give me an appetite for breakfast.’

Max’s lunch with Ribeiro had not left him with the impression that the Brazilian’s appetite was ever likely to be deficient, but he did not dwell on the point. ‘Really? Well, I—’

‘As soon as I left the hotel he appeared in front of me. He must have been waiting for me. Perhaps I mentioned to him my habit of an early walk.’

‘Who was waiting for you?’

‘Walter Ennis. Of the American delegation.’

‘
Ennis?
’

‘Yes. It was him. We know each other from the confiscated-shipping committee. But that is of no importance. You know him also, I think.’

‘Yes. We met yesterday.’

‘He would not say what happened between you. But something bad, I assume. He looked worried and … not himself. He had not shaved. His clothes were creased.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Someone he could trust – and you could trust also – to pass a message to you from him.’

‘What was the message, Baltazar?’

‘He wants to meet you. This morning. He said he wants to tell you the truth. Before it is too late. His words, Max.
Before it is too late
.’

‘I’ll meet him. Where and when?’

‘Notre-Dame, ten o’clock. Sit in the nave and wait. Go alone. If you are not alone, he will not show himself.’

‘He doesn’t need to worry about that. I’ll be alone.’

‘Max, I—’

‘It’s all right, Baltazar. There’s nothing for you to be concerned
about. There’s no danger, I assure you. We’ll just talk. That’s all.’

‘But—’

‘Thanks so much for letting me know. Goodbye.’ Max put the telephone down and glanced at the clock on the wall behind the reception desk, then strode towards the stairs.

APPLEBY WAS OUT
of the office when Max called in at the Majestic. Cursing his luck and unable to spare the time to wait, Max headed for Etoile Métro station and his appointment at Notre-Dame.