The Ways of the World (37 page)

‘I feel better than I look.’

‘That is good. May I repeat my condolences on your loss.’

‘You can repeat them, by all means. But they won’t help.’

They reached the room housing the safe-deposit boxes. Three walls were lined with numbered, lockable steel hatches of varying sizes. The clerk had a key for the hatch numbered 2576 and removed the box that was inside.

The box, also of steel, was about three feet deep, a foot wide and a foot high. The clerk laid it on the table in the centre of the room. He said something to Charretier-Ornal in French as he did so.

‘What was that?’ Max queried.

Charretier-Ornal grimaced. ‘He said it feels light.’

‘Is he the one who brought the man claiming to be Farngold down here earlier?’

‘He is.’

‘Can he describe him?’

There was an exchange in French. Charretier-Ornal’s glum expression remained glum throughout. Then: ‘A man of sixty years or about, he thinks. English, he also thinks. Not fat. Not thin. Not tall. Not short. There was nothing to remember about him. Grey hair. Beard. He spoke quietly.’ The director shrugged. ‘
C’est tout
.’

‘Do you know who he is, Mr Maxted?’ Mellish asked.

Max nodded. ‘I believe I do.’ He looked at the locksmith. ‘
Ouvrez la boîte, s’il vous plaît
.’

It required a wave of the hand from Charretier-Ornal before the locksmith swung into action. Within a few minutes, he had removed the lock. The clerk prepared to raise the lid. And they all stepped forward to see what might be inside.

It was as Max had known it would be.

ACCORDING TO SAM
, who had seen a lot of pilots come and, sadly, go, one of Max’s most valuable assets was his optimism. ‘It might sound stupid to you, sir,’ he had once said under a cerulean sky into which Max was about to take off, ‘but I reckon those who expect to survive usually do.’

Well, Max had survived the war, true to Sam’s prediction, albeit half of it in a POW camp. And he was by nature an optimist, sometimes to his own surprise. Sitting in the vault of la Banque Ornal that morning, staring at the empty safe-deposit box on the table in front of him, he wondered how long it would be before he finally abandoned the notion of bringing his father’s murderers to justice. He should perhaps have despaired there and then.

He did not contribute to the increasingly tetchy discussion between Mellish and Charretier-Ornal about responsibility for allowing an impostor access to the safe-deposit box. It was a redundant debate. The fox had had his run of the hen-coop. And he had not even left a few feathers behind him.

How had Lemmer discovered the pseudonym Sir Henry had used? How had he been able to forge his signature so convincingly? How, come to that, had he known which bank Sir Henry had used? The questions only illustrated the scope of Lemmer’s power. He was always at least one step ahead of his pursuers. Several steps, in this case.

‘I’m not going back to the hospital,’ Max announced as he and Mellish, the latter still grumbling pointlessly about the bank’s
ineptitude, walked out to rejoin Burley. ‘The doctor said all I need is rest. I can get that at the Mazarin.’

‘What?’ Mellish gaped at him.

‘I’m not going back to the hospital.’

‘That’s surely unwise,’ said Mellish.

‘
Definitely
unwise,’ Burley contributed.

‘You’re right, of course.’ Max drew in a lungful of Parisian air and knew that, however short of his best he currently was, retreating to a bed at the Hôtel Dieu was not to be countenanced. ‘But then unwise is what I mean to be.’

Burley had not been idle during Max and Mellish’s sojourn at the bank. He had telephoned Appleby again and this time got through to him. He made another call when they reached the Mazarin. Appleby, he reported, had a lot to discuss with Max, wherever he chose to rest, and would be with him within the hour.

The hour passed swiftly, as Max took a gingerly bath, applied a fresh bandage to his wound, and recovered as best he could from the disproportionate effort involved. He would have told any other man behaving as he was that he was being a damn fool. But he could not help that. He was not going to give in, even to his own frailty.

It was hard to tell whether Appleby’s downcast expression when he arrived was due to Max’s appearance or the tidings he had brought. ‘Do you want to know how you look?’ he asked as he slumped down in the only armchair in the room and watched Max lower himself on to the edge of the bed.

Max came to rest with a wince. ‘No.’

‘Good. Because I’ve quite enough bad news to deliver as it is.’

‘You’d better get on with it, then.’

So Appleby did, relating the discovery of Igor Bukayev’s body in the Canal de l’Ourcq, Nadia Bukayeva’s allegations against Brigham and Brigham’s subsequent departure for London. ‘I’ve been officially warned off, Max. Brigham’s boss outranks my boss. My hands are tied.’

‘It sounds like Sam’s been busy on my behalf while I’ve been laid
up. I must thank him. And I must proffer my condolences to Nadia as well.’

‘Well, perhaps you can console each other for your misfortunes. Although I wouldn’t try anything too energetic in your present condition. Burley tells me you think it was Lemmer who emptied Sir Henry’s safe-deposit box. In person, would that be?’

‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’ Max was not ready to tell anyone, even Appleby, about his encounter with Lemmer. He was not sure Appleby would believe him. He had difficulty believing it himself. ‘Without whatever the box contained, though, and with Ennis dead, Brigham’s the only possible source of information about Lemmer’s network. If you can’t squeeze anything out of him, I’ll have to.’

‘How?’

‘I think I can find a way under his defences.’ Brigham’s weakness was his belief that he was Max’s father. That was what Max would play on, reluctant as he was to do so. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll follow him to London and give it my best shot.’

‘How soon will you be fit enough to travel?’

‘I’ll go on tonight’s sleeper.’

‘Being shaken around on that won’t do you much good. And then there’s the Channel crossing.’

‘Is there a storm forecast?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Then don’t worry about me. I only need you to do a couple of things for me.’

‘What?’

‘Get me the gun you promised before I leave.’

‘I didn’t promise anything.’

Max gave Appleby a straight look. ‘Just get it, OK?’

Appleby sighed. ‘Very well.’

‘And can you organize the ticket?’

‘All right. But you’ll be on your own, you know. In every sense of the word.’

‘Oh, I know. But that doesn’t matter. Actually, it’s how I prefer it.’

Max had a meal sent up to him and planned to take a nap afterwards, before going to the Majestic to speak to Sam. In the event, he plunged into a deep sleep and was woken by Sam coming to see him at the end of his working day. It was already early evening. Anxious as he was to set off, time was slipping through his fingers like sand.

‘You should still be in the hospital, sir,’ Sam said, frowning at Max with obvious concern. ‘Mr Appleby said you were off to London tonight. You never are, are you?’

‘Needs must, Sam.’

‘You’re going after Brigham?’

‘Someone has to.’

‘But you’re not well enough. It’s plain to see.’

Max strode less than fluidly across to the dressing-table and peered at himself in the mirror. ‘A little pale, I grant you. A steak supper will see me right. Care to join me?’

‘More than happy to, sir. But there’s something I have to tell you first.’

‘Appleby filled me in on everything, Sam. You did well and I’m very grateful. Finding Bukayev as you did can’t have been pleasant. You can tell me all about it over a stiff drink.’

‘This is something Mr Appleby doesn’t know about, sir.’

‘It is?’

‘And in the circumstances … I don’t think it’ll wait.’

AS THEY LEFT
the Mazarin, the reception clerk presented Max with a letter that had been handed in for him. The envelope contained his ticket for the sleeper to London and a note from Appleby.
I will meet you with the other at the station tonight
.

‘What’s the “other”, sir?’ Sam asked, craning over his shoulder as they exited on to the street.

‘A bath-chair, I expect. Everyone’s convinced I’m an invalid.’ Max suspected Sam would worry about him all the more if he knew he was going to be carrying a gun.

‘But you
are
an invalid, sir, that’s the trouble. Maybe I ought to go with you.’

‘And walk out on your new job? I wouldn’t hear of it. I’ll see my doctor when I get to London. He can do any patching-up that’s needed.’

‘You’ll have a relapse if you overdo it.’

‘I’m not letting Brigham off the hook, Sam. You may as well accept it. Now, find us a cab, there’s a good fellow. Ordinarily, I’d walk to the Plaza Athénée, but as it is …’

‘I’ll find one, sir. You just stay there.’

Baltazar Ribeiro was dressing for dinner when they were admitted to his suite at the Plaza Athénée. His delight at seeing Max up and about was considerable, although it was swiftly followed by concern. ‘Sit, sit,’ he said, ushering Max to a couch.

‘Before he falls down, eh,
senhor
?’ said Sam. ‘I have tried to tell him.’

‘And as I’ve already told Sam, I can’t afford to rest. I’ve lost enough time lying in that hospital already.’

‘Drink a little brandy,’ said Ribeiro, fumbling with a bottle and some glasses. ‘It gives strength when you need it.’

Max did not argue and accepted a tot. ‘I expect you can guess why we’re here, Baltazar,’ he said, swallowing some down.

‘Of course. I meant what I said to Mr Twentyman yesterday. It is time to share the secret with you, Max, and I am glad to have the chance – glad because you are well enough to be told.’ Ribeiro drew up a couple of armchairs, one for himself, one for Sam, and sat down. He drank some of his brandy and gazed earnestly at Max. ‘Henry was my friend. I did not feel I could tell you this when we first met because he had trusted me to tell no one. But so much has happened since then that I think now you should know. Still, it is not easy. I feel I am … betraying him.’

‘I understand,’ said Max. ‘But if this information helps me bring his murderers to justice …’

‘I do not see how it can do that. But at least you will know what was in his mind. In truth, it is a simple story.
O amor
. Love. He was planning a future for himself and Corinne Dombreux. He was not a rich man. His wealth was in the estate in England. He needed money of his own to give them a comfortable life somewhere. And I … suggested a way to get it.’ Ribeiro frowned at his own folly – or that of Sir Henry. ‘I inherited land in Amazonas from my elder brother, Francisco, land that had once made our family rich from the rubber it produced. But the business went into decline around the turn of the century because of competition from Asian plantations. Now the land is nothing except jungle. An Englishman is to blame for this, I must tell you. A man called Wickham smuggled thousands of rubber seeds out of Brazil that were used to start growing the crop in Malaya. Our monopoly was broken. Our rubber trees grow wild, you must understand. We did not plant them. We could not compete with the close-grown Asian plantations. The riches … evaporated.’

‘Baltazar, I don’t quite—’

‘Wait, wait. I will explain. Francisco had a plan. He believed plantation rubber could be successfully grown in Brazil. It only
required labour to clear the land and expert knowledge of how to cultivate the crop. He bought options on several neighbouring estates and sent a trusted man to Malaya to study how it was done. Then he died. And the war came. But the options stand. I inherited them from him. I have had discussions with representatives of two large American corporations who are interested in investing in Francisco’s scheme. Motor cars are the transport of the future, Max. One day everyone will want to own one. And every car has four tyres made of rubber. This could make me rich again many times over. It could have made Henry rich too. If he had lived.’

‘You persuaded him to put some money into this venture?’

‘I offered him the opportunity, as a friend. Firestone and Ford – there now, I have told you who the American corporations are – do not want the price of rubber to be set by Britain, France and the Netherlands, the imperial powers who control the rubber-growing areas of south-east Asia. They fear a cartel, with the price going up and up. A separate source of rubber, in Brazil, controlled by them, appeals to them greatly. They will pay handsomely to secure it. But I must take up the options if I am to be the one they pay. And for that I need liquid cash. I have some, of course. But not enough. I asked Henry if he would like to be my partner. He said yes. And he said he thought he could raise the rest of the cash we would need. I did not ask how. But I swear to you I did not think he meant to risk his life to do it.’

Max contemplated the irony of his father’s fate. His relationship with Corinne was a late-life chance of happiness. Naturally, he wanted to give her all the luxuries she had been denied in recent times. Then Ribeiro came to him with a proposition that must have seemed heaven-sent. All he needed was his share of the investment. And so he turned his mind to such assets as he could trade in. It was a short list – and, as it turned out, a dangerous one. ‘Where did he plan to take Corinne, Baltazar?’

‘He did not say. Rio, maybe. He loved the city and would have enjoyed introducing her to it. With his share of the profit, he could have bought a grand mansion in Botafogo and a villa in Petrópolis to retreat to in the summer and a private art collection and a
racehorse and more fine clothes and jewellery than Madame Dombreux could ever have worn.’

‘Is this really rubber you’re talking about – or gold?’

‘Rubber
is
gold to Henry Ford and Harvey Firestone, Max. They will pay whatever I ask.’

‘Will you still go through with it?’

‘If I can raise the money to buy the options, yes, I suppose I will. But I must be honest with you. There is profit and there is joy. They are not the same. Money is paper and the possessions you buy with it. Joy is in the spirit. And there is no joy for me in this now Henry is dead. Especially if I believe, as it seems I must, that he died because of my accursed scheme to make us both rich.’