‘You’d say that anyway.’
‘So I would. But it happens to be true.’
Wylie did not linger at the quayside in Stromness. As soon as Max was on dry land, he cast off and pulled away. Max had not asked where he was going and Wylie had not said. The drifter vanished into the night.
Since Fontana had presumably intended to have Wylie take him back to Scapa Bay, no one was likely to be waiting for Max in Stromness. The short walk to his hotel through the silent, empty streets was nonetheless a nervous one.
‘Well, well, sir,’ the night porter greeted him. ‘I’d given up on you.’
‘But here I am. Any messages? Any callers?’
‘None, sir.’
That was exactly what Max wanted to hear. No messages. No callers. All was well. ‘Do you have a Bradshaw I could borrow?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘Thanks. I’ll drop it back in the morning. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
Max took a look at the contents of the Grey File as soon as he reached his room. There was a page per name, typed on flimsy paper, in German, naturally, and in code, so that the names made no sense. There were lots of uncoded dates, though, stretching back to the turn of the century, and sums of money, paid in marks. Many ran to four figures, a few to five. Running a spy network was evidently not cheap. He could make no more of the documents than that. But the Secret Service had experts who could break the code and unlock every name and every detail of their treachery. All Max had to do was make sure the file reached them intact.
He left the curtains of his room open to ensure the dawn roused him. He would have liked to be on his way at once, but the mail steamer to Scrabster sailed at 10.45. He had no choice but to sit it out in Stromness until then.
He busied himself writing a letter to Susan Henty explaining his sudden departure from Orkney. Then he pored over the timetables in Bradshaw for his journey south.
After breakfast, he headed along to the post office, where he posted the letter and dispatched a telegram – to H. Appleby, Hotel Majestic, Paris: Coming south with precious cargo. Please advise. M.
Wandering back through the town, Max found himself remembering his last meeting with Appleby, in Paris, three weeks before. ‘You’ll be on your own once you catch that train,’ Appleby had said with some emphasis as they sat in his office at the Hotel Majestic, in the quiet of early morning. ‘You shouldn’t contact me unless it’s absolutely vital.’
Lemmer’s message to Max had instructed him to board the 11.35 Melun train from the Gare de Lyon if he wanted to accept his offer of employment. It was a step into the unknown he had resolved to take. ‘What would you deem absolutely vital?’ Max had asked.
‘Something that gives us Lemmer or his network of spies. Preferably both.’
‘A tall order.’
‘That’s why I’m not expecting to hear from you.’
‘And you won’t. Unless I can deliver the goods. But if I can . . .’
‘Let me know at once. I’ll render all necessary assistance.’
‘I may need it.’
Appleby had smiled wryly at that. ‘I imagine you may.’
And now he did.
Though Max was not to know it, Paris was colder than Orkney that morning. Snow was falling from a gun-metal sky, causing Sam all manner of difficulties in arranging for tyre chains to be fitted to several cars at short notice. He welcomed the problems as a distraction from worrying about his failure to track down Soutine – and hence le Singe. He did not know where to turn next. But he had to turn somewhere. The Paris edition of The Times, which he had scanned anxiously in the hotel’s lobby earlier, carried a small but disturbing mention of Count Tomura, the very man Kuroda had warned him about.
Rumours are rife that the Japanese have persuaded President Wilson not to oppose their retention of the portion of the Shantung peninsula they seized from Germany early in the war. If this is true, it suggests the arrival in Paris of Count Tomura as joint deputy head of the delegation has invigorated their negotiating tactics. There has been some criticism of Marquess Saionji for representing Japanese interests with insufficient assertiveness. It appears Count Tomura may have been dispatched from Tokyo to insert an iron fist into Saionji’s velvet glove.
An iron fist? Sam did not like the sound of that. He did not like the sound of that at all.
A more leisurely start to the Parisian day was being enjoyed by George Clissold at the Hotel Mirabeau, in Rue de la Paix. Proximity to the Opéra and the Place Vendôme suited his vision of how life should be led in the city. He enjoyed wandering the passages in search of exotic tobacco or whiling half the day away on a café terrace watching the fashionable world go by.
Unfortunately, he was not in Paris to enjoy himself, which he regretted, since it was far too long since he had been. A note from Arnavon had been waiting for him when he arrived at the Mirabeau the previous evening, agreeing to his cabled suggestion of a time and place to meet. Wisely, George had proposed a venue he could easily stroll to, although it was more likely to be a slither in the prevailing weather. He had not been expecting snow. He had hoped for spring sunshine, a nostalgic taste of the Paris of his youth. But his youth, it seemed, had been mislaid.
Despite the fine napery, the flavoursome coffee and the fresh croissant, George did not feel entirely at ease. For that, more than his looming encounter with Arnavon, was to blame. He had just read the same report in The Times as Sam had. And the mention of Count Tomura’s name had disturbed him as well.
‘Tomura, here, in Paris,’ he muttered to himself as he sipped his coffee. ‘As portents go, George, old boy, that’s a hard one to ignore.’
The morning advanced slowly in Stromness. The wind was getting up and, from the window of his room at the Stromness Hotel, Max could see the masts of the mail steamer swaying at its mooring in the harbour. He did not intend to board until the last moment, although he was confident no one was watching out for him. If Fontana had an accomplice ready to take the Grey File to Lemmer, he would be in Kirkwall, not Stromness.
There lay the danger. From Scrabster, on the north coast of Caithness, it was a short bus ride to the railhead at Thurso, then a twenty-minute train journey to Georgemas, where Max could catch the mainline service from Wick, on the east coast, to Inverness. But the ferry from Kirkwall to Wick would put Fontana’s putative accomplice on the very same train.
It was Tuesday morning and he could not reach London before Wednesday evening, Paris before midday on Thursday. He could not bear the thought of prolonging the journey. Laying up in Thurso was therefore out of the question.
He had one advantage to cling to. Fontana’s disappearance would be difficult to interpret. It could be seen as evidence of his treachery rather than Max’s. Hence the importance of the second telegram he had sent that morning, to Miss N. Kislev, Central Station Hotel, Glasgow: Coming south with precious cargo. Await my arrival tomorrow. M.
It was the message he was supposed to send if he was still loyally doing Lemmer’s bidding, whatever had passed between him and Fontana. Miss Kislev, of course, was Nadia Bukayeva’s travelling alias. She would certainly wait for him.
But she would wait in vain.
HORACE APPLEBY SLOWLY and meticulously filled his pipe as he leant back in his chair in his basement office at the Hotel Majestic. Before him, on the desk, lay the telegram from Max. Coming south with precious cargo. Please advise. M.
It had been sent earlier that morning from Stromness post office in the Orkneys. The Orkneys meant Scapa Flow and the interned German fleet. It was hard to resist a connection with Lemmer. And Appleby had been quite specific that he did not want to hear from Max until and unless he had something that would net Lemmer or his spy network or both.
James Maxted never ceased to surprise. He could seem headstrong and reckless. But he had a rare ability to deliver results. He would not have cabled if he did not have exactly what he said: precious cargo.
Yet
the fact he had cabled at all suggested he feared Lemmer might have seen through his subterfuge. He might need help to bring home the bacon.
Appleby lit his pipe and considered what he could do. A cable to London would have an agent heading north to meet Max at, say, Edinburgh, to protect him for the remainder of his journey. That was the obvious thing to do. Appleby could travel to London himself and wait for him there.
But that course of action troubled him deep in his cautious soul. Lemmer’s reach was unmeasurable. How many spies he had working for him in England Appleby could not say. But there were some. That was certain. And there was no way of telling what position they might occupy. The exposure of the late and unlamented Herbert Norris as one of Lemmer’s operatives was a sobering example. And what worried Appleby most of all was the thought that someone within the service might be on Lemmer’s payroll. He had not dared raise the possibility with C. But he had been unable to reason the idea out of his mind.
He ground his teeth on the stem of his pipe. Max had presented him with an unexpected conundrum. Precious cargo, indeed. But how precious? And what should he do to secure it? Just how far out on a limb should he go?
George spotted Arnavon as soon as he entered the Café de la Paix. There were several solitary males dotted around the interior. The snow had driven them inside, to huddle over newspapers and warming coffee or chocolat. The one George laid a private bet with himself on being Arnavon was a small, goblin-headed fellow with a patchy beard and a querulous expression: half sycophant, half nitpicker. Yes, that was his man.
And George was right. ‘However did you recognize me, Mr Clissold?’ Arnavon said, once George had introduced himself.
‘A lucky guess,’ George replied, pleased to have the upper hand from the start.
Arnavon’s accent was authentically North American, but he had been reading Le Figaro, as befitted a French Canadian. It was folded open at the editorial page.
‘What do the French make of the latest shenanigans at the peace conference?’ George asked idly.
Arnavon looked at him in mild surprise. ‘They think the Belgians are asking for too much.’
‘Nothing about the Japanese in there, then?’ George pointed at the paper. ‘Café crème et l’eau Vichy,’ he added, for the benefit of the hovering waiter.
‘Are you particularly interested in the Japanese, Mr Clissold?’
‘No. It’s just . . .’ George smiled and flapped his hand. ‘Never mind.’
‘I should say at the outset that I’m grateful to you for coming here to meet me.’ Arnavon did not look grateful, in George’s opinion. Certainly not as grateful as he should be.
‘My sister has a highly developed sense of family honour.’
‘Well, selling fake antiquities is rather worse than dishonourable, isn’t it?’
‘Knowingly selling them is, Mr Arnavon, yes. But my brother-in-law was scrupulously honest. He would never have done such a thing.’
‘The fact remains that the articles I bought from him are not what I was assured they were. The matter has caused me considerable embarrassment and left Sir Nathaniel Chevalier significantly out of pocket.’
‘And significantly out of humour?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Arnavon fixed George with his green-eyed gaze. ‘I assumed your willingness to travel here meant you were taking my complaint seriously, Mr Clissold. Is that not so?’
‘My sister is taking your complaint seriously, Mr Arnavon. Therefore I’m obliged to. I can’t help feeling, however, that your argument is with the dealer you bought the cylinder-seals from, Monsieur . . .’
‘Soutine.’
‘The very fellow.’
‘Conveniently absent from his place of business.’
‘It’s not convenient for me. Nor is it for you, I imagine. But look here. I’m sure the concept is recognized in Canada of caveat emptor.’
‘That does not apply to fraudulent misrepresentation.’
‘Henry sold what he believed in good faith – as did his father, Sir Charles Maxted, who bought them in the first place – to be genuine Sumerian artefacts. I’d stake my life on that.’
‘Well, they’re not genuine. I’ve brought one for you to see.’ Arnavon delved in his pocket and took out a velvet bag. From it he slid onto the table a short grey stone rod, with relief carvings on it of human figures dressed in ancient robes and columns of cuneiform symbols.
‘May I?’ George asked, putting on his glasses to examine the object. ‘This is a cylinder-seal, is it?’
‘Haven’t you ever seen one?’
‘Museums aren’t really my cup of tea, Mr Arnavon. Henry’s father consigned his collection of seals to the county museum in Guildford years ago.’
‘So, they were duped as well.’
‘I suspect Sir Charles was also duped, when it comes down to it. If, as you say, this is a fake.’
‘The experts Sir Nathaniel referred the seals to at the Royal Toronto Museum pronounced them to be bogus. The cuneiform is no better than gibberish and the clothing on the human figures isn’t right either.’
‘I suppose they’d know.’
‘If you intend to claim they’re in fact genuine, I can arrange for the antiquities department at the Louvre to give their opinion. I must warn you it won’t come cheap, though.’
‘How were these seals originally used?’ George asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
‘They were rolled across clay envelopes containing legal tablets when the clay was still wet to authenticate the contents. The seals represented the personal authority of the owner. They could also be used when sealing sacks or jars.’
George toyed with the seal in his hand. ‘Remarkable.’
‘But that particular example was used for nothing, of course, except defrauding the unwary.’
‘The only fraud was when some devious Mesopotamian merchant sold the seals to Sir Charles, Mr Arnavon.’
‘Maybe so. But Sir Nathaniel is still entitled to restitution.’
‘In your letter, you mentioned a receipt.’
‘You’d like to see it?’
‘Yes, please.’
Arnavon retrieved the seal and put it away, then took an envelope from his inside pocket and removed a piece of paper which he laid on the table, flattening it out carefully and keeping his fingers pressed down on the edges so that George could not pick it up.
Suspicious bugger, George thought. But all he said was, ‘I see.’
The document was printed with the name of the dealer, Laskaris et Soutine, and an address in the 3rd arrondissement. The articles sold were described in French: 6 Sceaux Cylindriques, Sumerien ancien, le XXIIIe siècle av. J.-C. The price was written next to them and, below that, Pour acquit, together with the signature A. Soutine.
‘This sum in francs must equate to—’
‘Approximately three thousand pounds.’
‘Good God.’
‘Very reasonable, actually, had they been genuine. Sadly, they aren’t.’
‘I can’t help feeling your quarrel is with this fellow Soutine, Mr Arnavon. He sold you the seals.’
‘On Sir Henry’s behalf.’
‘Henry’s name isn’t mentioned on this document. The liability is Soutine’s.’
‘But he’s nowhere to be found.’ Arnavon’s mouth tightened tetchily. ‘I made it clear in my letter to Lady Maxted that Sir Nathaniel has instructed me to—’
‘Yes, yes. I know what you wrote.’ George played for time by taking a thoughtful sip of Vichy water, then said, ‘My sister would much prefer to avoid litigation.’
‘As would Sir Nathaniel.’
‘In the first instance, I’ll seek to have a word with Soutine.’
‘Perhaps you don’t quite understand, Mr Clissold. Soutine is gone. Vanished. Disparu.’
‘I’d like to confirm that to my satisfaction.’
‘Very well. The address of his gallery is on the receipt, as you can see. For all the good it’ll do you.’
‘What sort of a fellow is he?’
‘A bad sort, it would seem.’
‘I mean what does he look like?’
‘You want me to describe him?’
‘You’ve met him, Mr Arnavon. I haven’t.’
‘No. And you’re not about to, as I’ve already explained. You’ll be wasting your time by looking for him.’
‘You’re probably right.’ George smiled at Arnavon, who did not smile back. ‘But I believe I’ll waste it anyway.’
Appleby had informed his clearly bemused secretary that he would be away for ‘a few days’ attending to a family emergency. The train schedules had left him no time for prolonged deliberation. He either believed Max had something crucial or he did not. On balance, he believed.
Before boarding the noon train for London at the Gare du Nord, he dispatched two telegrams. One was to the stationmaster at Inverness: Telegram for passenger Nettles evening arrival from Wick to be delivered into his own hand. The other was to Max. You will be met Waverley tomorrow morning. A.
It was fortunate that rail services in the north of Scotland were sufficiently sparse to leave little doubt as to the trains Max would be travelling on. He was probably using an alias, but Appleby had no way of knowing what it might be, so he had reverted to the one they had settled on before Max left Paris.
According to Appleby’s hurried reading of the timetables, he would reach Edinburgh on the sleeper from London an hour before Max arrived on the sleeper from Inverness.
What happened after they met at Waverley station depended on what exactly Max had with him and any steps Lemmer might have taken in the interim. They had both broken cover now. The chase was on.
MORAHAN ENTERED CHEZ Georges curious as to why Ireton had summoned him to meet his unidentified luncheon guest at the conclusion of their meal. Malory Hollander, Ireton’s indefatigable secretary, had been unable to enlighten him, since her boss had made the appointment without informing her. ‘Tell Travis the concept of an office diary relies on its keeper knowing when its principal subject is free and when he isn’t,’ she had complained. Morahan had assured her he would.
The Corners of the Globe Page 9
