He glanced up at Soutine’s inverted face as he turned to rise. And something stopped him.
‘What is it?’ asked George.
‘In his mouth,’ said Sam. ‘There’s something in his mouth.’
It was a sharp edge of some kind. A broken tooth was Sam’s first thought. But it did not look like a tooth. He edged closer and peered between Soutine’s bloodied lips. Something had been wedged at the side of his mouth and now, with the tongue hanging loose, it had become visible.
‘What the devil is it?’ George crept into the room.
Sam stretched out his hand, delicately grasped the edge and pulled it out.
It was a piece of card, folded in quarters. It had once been white, but was now mostly a dull red. Sam unfolded it and found himself looking at a small, creased, sepia-tinted photograph. He stood up. George shone the torch on the picture and they both stared at it, George fumbling with his glasses to see it properly.
The photograph had been taken inside a pale-walled room, opening onto a balcony. Soutine, some years younger, with darker hair and a leaner face, was reclining amid richly patterned cushions on a divan. He was wearing a gold-braided gown of some kind. Sitting next to him was le Singe, obviously also younger, though his facial appearance was exactly as Sam recalled. He was dressed in a white kaftan and a dark-coloured fez. Soutine’s left arm was draped round le Singe’s neck. His right hand was resting on le Singe’s knee. Both men were smiling broadly.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ asked George.
‘Yes, sir. That’s le Singe.’
‘More than a servant to Soutine, by the look of it. A lot more. Is there anything on the back?’
Sam turned the photograph over. A few words were written there, in French, hard to read for the intermingling of blood and ink. Les jours heureux au Tunis.
‘Happy days in Tunis,’ murmured George. ‘He may have thought of them as he died.’
‘He looks happy in the picture.’
‘They both do.’
‘I reckon this is what he came back for.’
‘Yes. I dare say you’re right. When he knew they were coming for him . . .’
‘He stuffed it in his mouth so they wouldn’t have a likeness of le Singe.’
‘It looks to me as if he loved the boy dearly.’
‘He won’t have given him up, then.’
‘Probably not, no.’
No. Soutine had died with le Singe’s secret intact. They had found Soutine. But they had not found le Singe.
‘It doesn’t look well for you if they still don’t know where he is,’ said George. ‘If, as you say, they believe you may know where he’s hiding.’
‘No. It doesn’t.’
‘Judging by the state of the bureau, they must have searched high and low for a clue. And they’ll have taxed Soutine sorely before they killed him.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that, sir.’
‘Sorry. Maybe you should leave Paris.’
‘You’re not the first person to suggest that, sir.’
‘You should certainly leave here. Without further delay. And take that photograph with you. I’ll say nothing about it to the police. We should respect any secret a man died to keep. Soutine may have been a rogue, but it seems he wasn’t a coward.’
‘No, sir.’ Sam took a last glance at Soutine’s bright blue unblinking eyes. ‘Anything but.’
SAM PROWLED AROUND the junction of Place de la République waiting to see how long it would be before the police arrived. Three cigarettes later, a black Citroën with a couple of motorcycle outriders approached at some speed from the south. The car and one of the motorcycles turned into Rue Béranger. The other motorcyclist rode round the square to the opposite end of Passage Vendôme.
Sam felt he could safely leave now. He had been concerned, though he had not mentioned it to George, that Soutine’s killers might return before the police arrived, unlikely as that was. But all had been quiet. And George would be safe with the police. He was the sort to command their instant respect.
The Métro had stopped running for the night, so Sam was faced with a long, cold walk back to the Majestic. He shouldered the duffel bag and set off.
He had only gone a few yards when he heard footsteps behind him. Suddenly alarmed, he turned round. And was astonished to find Schools Morahan towering over him, a vast black shadow in his dark hat and coat.
‘Mr Morahan! What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same, Sam.’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘I spotted you as I was crossing the square about ten minutes ago, though naturally I took care you didn’t spot me. I was planning to pay an out-of-hours visit to Laskaris and Soutine, but with you loitering in the vicinity I reckoned I’d better wait and see what was going on. Now the police have shown up and, by the look of it, you were expecting them.’
‘Soutine’s dead,’ said Sam, unable to summon the effort to dissemble. ‘Strung up in the flat above the gallery like a pig in a slaughterhouse.’
‘They’ve killed him?’
‘Tortured, then killed, it looks like.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘The door was unlocked.’
‘What were you trying to do?’
‘Find a clue to his whereabouts. And le Singe’s.’
‘You called the police? Then left?’
‘Mr Clissold’s waiting for them. He’ll keep my name out of it.’
‘Who?’
‘George Clissold. Max’s uncle.’
‘What the hell’s he doing here?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’ll hear it anyway. I’ve a car near by. And I know somewhere we can get a drink this late. Let’s go.’ Morahan glanced over his shoulder. ‘Before the police start checking the square.’
Max was on the platform at Inverness station well before the sleeper was due to leave. So, worryingly, was the big fellow. They both had business with the sleeping-car attendant, it transpired, as did several others. The attendant was kept busy for some time with requests for berths. Max and the big fellow were accommodated in first-class singles, though not, mercifully, next door to each other. They were half the length of the corridor apart.
Max had no fear of sleeping through the stop at Perth. The separation of the Glasgow and Edinburgh sections would supply enough jolts to rouse him. Not that he expected to sleep much, anyway.
He stowed the envelope containing the Grey File under his NB-monogrammed pillow and lay on the bunk fully clothed, gazing up into the darkness as the train left the station. With every southward mile he covered, he was closer to making an end of Lemmer.
‘It was Kuroda who warned you of the threat Count Tomura poses, wasn’t it?’ Morahan asked, when Sam had finished recounting the events of the evening. They were sitting in a booth in the smoky rear of Le Couche-Tard, an obscurely signed basement bar near the Gare St-Lazare, drinking coffee heavily laced with rum.
‘I’m naming no names as far as that goes, Mr Morahan,’ said Sam. ‘I’d tell anyone who asks that Commissioner Kuroda has nothing to do with it.’
‘He’d be pleased to hear it, I’m sure. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. Kuroda’s gone. Tomura’s running the show at the Japanese legation. And he’s looking for le Singe. His son, whose acquaintance I wouldn’t recommend to my worst enemy, hired Ireton Associates today.’ Morahan glanced up at the clock behind the bar. ‘Make that yesterday. He engaged our services to find le Singe. That’s what took me to Laskaris and Soutine.’
‘You mean, it wasn’t the Japs who killed Soutine?’
‘It might not have been. There could be people we don’t know about looking for le Singe. Not to mention people we do know about, such as Lemmer. But I wouldn’t rule out Tomura junior. He met with Ireton on his father’s behalf. He’d probably like nothing better than to track down le Singe without our assistance. It’d make him look the big man. He wants to be feared and respected. Standard heart’s
desire for an insecure young bully.’
‘What was done to Soutine was butchery plain and simple, Mr Morahan.’
‘And having seen that, have you had second thoughts about leaving Paris? Though maybe you won’t have to, if Soutine pointed them in le Singe’s direction.’
‘I don’t think he did.’
‘Because of the photograph?’
‘Because he went back for it. And then stuffed it in his mouth to stop them finding it.’
‘You may be right, Sam. Which is bad news for you. If you won’t clear out of the city, at least stick to the Majestic, huh? You should be safe there.’
‘I won’t feel safe.’
‘You’re sure this guy Clissold will say nothing to the police about le Singe? Or you?’
‘He promised not to.’
‘And he’s an English gent we can take at his word?’
‘He is.’
‘Well, that leaves you with the Tomura problem. And ironically I’m pleased to help you with that since Tomura’s paying Travis – and therefore me – to find le Singe.’
‘How can you do that now Soutine’s dead?’
‘Well, his death will be widely reported. The press love blood. And he was well known in the art and antiquities world. We can assume le Singe will hear of it sooner rather than later. How’s he going to react?’
‘Run for it?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe he’ll look to avenge his . . . whatever Soutine was to him.’
‘Show himself, you mean?’
‘It’s a possibility. And about the only way I’m likely to be able to locate him.’
‘I can’t help hoping he’ll stay in hiding. He did all he could to make up for his part in Sir Henry’s death. He saved Max’s life. He doesn’t deserve to end up the way Soutine did.’
‘How we deserve to end up doesn’t generally have much sway when it comes down to it, Sam. I’d lay my money on le Singe trying to make someone pay for Soutine’s murder. But how he’ll try, and when, are harder questions than I can answer at this hour of the night.’ Morahan rubbed his eyes. ‘Drink up. It’s time I was taking you back to your home from home.’
THE SLEEPER ROLLED into Perth General shortly after five o’clock on the last morning of April. A grey dawn lit the station beyond the gleam of the platform lamps. Max raised the blind in his compartment a few inches and peered out. There were more staff to be seen than passengers, busy loading mail and preparing to divide the carriages.
Max put on his coat and hat, slid the envelope containing the Grey File inside his waistcoat, grabbed his bag and make a deft, silent exit into the corridor. There was no one about. He padded along, heading for the rear of the train, where the ticket inspector had previously directed Edinburgh passengers.
Six carriages took him as far as the guard’s van. He got out there and asked a porter how long the train would spend at Perth. The answer did nothing to soothe his impatience. The Glasgow section was due to leave at 5.50, the Edinburgh section not until 6.20.
‘There’s a cafeteria on the other platform, sir. They’re open for breakfast if you’ve the stomach for it.’
Max was not sure he had, but went anyway. He wanted to be nowhere in view if the big fellow should look out. He bought a Scotsman and scanned through it for news from the Orkneys. There was none, as he had hoped. He drank some tea and forced down half a bowl of porridge.
He remained in the cafeteria until whistles and the sound of an engine gathering steam marked the departure of the Glasgow service. He saw the plume of smoke as it left.
Only then did he deem it safe to return. He found an empty first-class compartment, pulled down the blinds on the corridor side to discourage company and settled in. It was a two-hour ride to Edinburgh. There was no sign of the big fellow. As far as he could tell, all was well.
The train eventually left nearly ten minutes late. But it left. And that was all that mattered to Max.
The journey proceeded smoothly for the first hour and beyond. The grey dawn became a sunless morning, the sky over the Ochil Hills veiled in flat cloud. The train picked up more passengers at every stop, though none of the few who were travelling first class tried to enter Max’s compartment.
The service grew busier still at Dunfermline. Max looked out of the window to check his watch against the station clock. The train was still running late, but it was only forty minutes now to Edinburgh. He was beginning to think Perkins and the big fellow had been innocent wayfarers, the suspiciousness of their behaviour existing only in his overstimulated imagination.
After a couple more stops, the train headed slowly out onto the Forth Bridge, slowing still further as it did so. Peering through the window, Max could see scaffolding up round the arch before the first cantilevered section. Further delay did not worry him unduly. The London express was not due to leave Edinburgh until ten o’clock. He had been promised some kind of reception at Waverley station. It was a surprisingly cheering thought.
The door of the compartment was suddenly wrenched open. Two men entered, one of them the big fellow from Inverness; the other, smaller, leaner and meaner-faced. He was carrying a gun; the big fellow, a flick-knife. Max saw the blade flash out of the handle as the door slammed shut behind them.
Max had hoped he would have to deal with only one man. He had an empty revolver to bluff with and not a lot else. But he had no intention of giving up without a fight.
‘Stop where you are or I’ll shoot,’ he said, whipping out the revolver and taking his stand against the window. They had waited for the bridge so there would be no onlookers, he realized. They wanted no witnesses to what they planned to do. ‘I mean it.’
‘We know it’s empty, Max,’ said the small man, in a slippery, hissing voice. ‘There’s nowhere you could have bought ammunition since leaving Stromness.’
Damn Wylie, Max thought. Damn him to hell.
‘We only want the file. Give it up and you can go free.’
‘Really? Are those your orders – to let me go on my way rejoicing?’ They would try to avoid shooting on the train. That much was true. But the big fellow looked as if he could kill a man quietly with his knife any time he was asked to.
‘Just give us the file. Is it in your bag?’
‘Where else?’
‘Get it down for us.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. I’m not doing anything to help you. Go ahead and shoot me if you like. Plenty of people will hear the shot and come to see what the trouble is. Are you sure you want to risk that?’
The short man appeared momentarily nonplussed. Then the big fellow said, ‘I’ll do it.’
He heaved the bag down from the luggage-rack onto the seat, opened it and delved inside, while the short man kept the gun trained on Max. ‘Well?’ he snapped, when the search went on a few seconds too many for his liking.
‘It’s not here.’
‘It must be.’
That was the chance Max had been waiting for: the short man’s alarmed glance towards his accomplice. Max lashed out with his foot. His kick struck the short man’s wrist. The gun went off, a shot shattering the window. Max’s gun was empty, but it was a weapon even so. He smashed it butt first into the man’s temple. And down he went.
Max went down after him, grabbing for the loaded gun. But the big fellow was already on him, with a boot to Max’s jaw that threw him back against the opposite seat. His head bounced against the stiff edge of the cushion and his vision blurred.
The big fellow lifted him by the lapels of his jacket as if he weighed no more than a toddler and slammed him into the corner against the window. He held the knife to Max’s throat.
‘Where’s the file, God damn it?’
‘You’ll never know . . . if you kill me.’
‘It’s in this compartment somewhere. We’ll find it. You can be sure of that.’ The blade pressed into Max’s flesh.
Max’s vision began to clear. Reflected light gleamed into his
eyes. A triangle of glass trembled in the draught of air through the broken window. ‘OK, OK,’ he gasped, raising his right hand as if in surrender. ‘I’ll show you where it is.’
The pressure of the blade eased. In that instant, Max grabbed at the loose shard of glass, ignoring the pain as it sliced into his palm, and swung it, point first, into his assailant’s neck, striking where he had seen the pulsing of the jugular vein.
The big fellow cried out as blood spouted from the wound. He toppled sideways, dropping the knife as he fell. Max’s hand and forearm were soaked in his blood. And more of it was spurting out of him. Max pushed him to the floor and struggled to his feet.
The short man was still unconscious from the blow to his head. The big fellow lay moaning beside him. Max knew it might be wise to finish them both off with the loaded gun, but he was no executioner. And his chances of being hunted as a murderer would only increase if he took the gun with him. He felt the pressure of the Grey File, buttoned inside his shirt, as he paused for one deep calming breath.
He grabbed his coat, struggled into it, jammed his hat on his head, closed the bag, picked it up and stepped past his assailants to the door. His right sleeve was wet with blood and his hand was bleeding. But all he could think about now was escape.
He flung the door open and lunged out into the corridor. ‘Was that a gunshot?’ came a shout from his left. Max glimpsed a knot of figures towards the far end of the corridor. He ignored them and headed the other way, checking the position of the train through the window as he went.
It was past the last cantilevered section of the bridge. The southern shore of the firth was immediately below Max’s carriage. The train would be in Dalmeny station in a few minutes, by which time the people cowering in the corridor would probably have summoned the courage to enter the compartment he had just left. They would alert the guard. The police would be called. And the train would be held at Dalmeny until they arrived.
The Corners of the Globe Page 13
