The Corners of the Globe

by Robert Goddard

  Max reached the end of the carriage and hurried through to the next. There he pushed down the first window he came to and leant out. Below him was another railway line, curving beneath the bridge as it spanned the shoreward part of the town. Ahead he could see the station platform. The train was slowing as it approached.

  Max opened the door and held it ajar, checking over his shoulder for signs or sounds of pursuit. There was nothing yet that he could detect above the rumble of the wheels. The brakes began to squeal as the train drew into the station.

  He pushed the door fully open as his carriage reached the platform and jumped out on the run. He jogged on to the footbridge and was most of the way over it before any other passengers had got off. At the barrier, he thrust his ticket into the hand of the collector and rushed down the steps towards the exit.

  He was five or six miles short of his destination. There was enough time for him to walk to Edinburgh and still catch the London train. But he felt conspicuous on the streets of Dalmeny and knew he would feel even more so tramping along the Edinburgh road. It was odds-on the alarm would soon be raised. Any description of him would be vague to the point of uselessness, but there was blood on his shirt and on the handkerchief he had wrapped round his bleeding hand. Nor could he afford to assume the two men he had left on the train were the only two on his trail.

  He reached the shore road and stopped, wondering which way to turn. The wide expanse of the firth stretched ahead of him. Above him to his left loomed the vast stone piers of the bridge. To his right, thirty yards or so along on the opposite side of the road, he could see two people waiting at a bus stop, looking expectantly in his direction.

  The bus they were waiting for seemed certain to be bound for Edinburgh. It was the best escape route Max could hope for. He crossed the road and began to hurry towards the stop.

  ‘IS HE IN?’ Morahan asked Malory as he strode into the outer office of Ireton Associates that morning.

  ‘Good morning, to you too, Mr Morahan,’ Malory said, smiling sweetly.

  ‘Sorry.’ Morahan pushed up the brim of his hat far enough to rub his forehead. ‘Late night.’

  ‘And no more fruitful, judging by your expression, than my evening in the bibliothèque.’

  ‘Soutine’s been murdered.’

  ‘Oh my Lord.’ Malory stopped typing. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Yuh. Is Travis here?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘I’d better report the grisly details toot sweet.’

  ‘Schools—’

  ‘What is it?’ He moved closer to her desk.

  ‘Can I speak to you?’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Not here. Maybe during my lunch break? La Fontaine, twelve thirty?’

  ‘What’s this about – Soutine?’

  ‘No. I’ll explain when we meet. Can you make it?’

  ‘Sure.’ He smiled uncertainly. ‘It’s a date.’

  Max got off the bus before it reached the centre of Edinburgh. He had buried himself behind his Scotsman while he was aboard, but out on the busy streets in broad daylight he became concerned about his bloodied appearance. He strode as confidently as he could into the Royal Hotel in Princes Street and made straight for the toilets. A look in the mirror was reassuring. His jaw was swollen and bruised, but there were few visible bloodstains. He tidied himself up as best he could.

  There was nothing to be done about his jacket, though. One sleeve was stiff with blood, which had seeped through to his waistcoat. He went in search of an outfitter’s, where he bought replacements, including a new shirt. He put them on in the fitting room and tossed the discarded clothes in the first rubbish bin he came to.

  With half an hour still to spare before the London express was due to leave, he found a barber willing to give him a quick shave. Hot towels and eau de Cologne made him feel much better.

  He descended the steps into Waverley station apprehensively, even so. Would Appleby be there? Would more pursuers be waiting for him – for both of them – in enough force to ensure there could be only one outcome?

  The station was busy, which was to his advantage. Solitude in a first-class compartment had done him little good. He would be travelling third class henceforth, reasoning there was safety in numbers.

  He bought his ticket, then checked the departures board. The train was ready. But where was Appleby? If he had sent someone in his place, how would Max know he could trust him? Travellers with bags were milling everywhere. The scene had every appearance of normality. But Max hung back, concealed between a luggage-wagon and the side of a bookstall.

  He lit a cigarette and flourished his Scotsman as camouflage. There was a later train he could catch and still be in London by early evening. He scanned the crowd before him, looking for some sign, some hint, of something amiss. And he watched the station clock tick down towards the moment when he could delay a decision no longer.

  Ireton had received the news of Soutine’s demise with more irritability than dismay. ‘Damn it, he was a valuable source. It’s a real shame we’ve lost him. It’s going to make it a lot tougher for you to track down le Singe, Schools.’

  ‘You mean to go on with the hunt?’ Morahan frowned. Why he was surprised he did not really know. His long-time partner had never put business second to anything.

  ‘Of course we go on. Tomura’s paying top dollar.’

  ‘Only for a result – which his son’s just made a damn sight harder to achieve by killing Soutine.’

  ‘You don’t know the boy killed him.’

  ‘I can’t prove it, no. But I’m certain in my own mind he did. And he’s put a tail on me.’

  ‘Someone has, you mean.’

  ‘It’s got to be Tomura, Travis. It started right after we met him.’

  ‘There were signs Soutine was tortured, you say?’

  ‘So my informant tells me.’

  Morahan’s informant, in the version of events he had supplied to Ireton, was not Sam but a pliant police officer. He had said nothing about Sam at all, in fact. Nor about the photograph Sam had shown him.

  ‘Noburo Tomura wants to make himself look cleverer than us in his father’s eyes by finding le Singe without our help.’

  ‘Look, if you’re right and he got what he wanted out of Soutine before killing him, he will find le Singe before we do. Then our contract with his father will be cancelled in double quick time and you’ll be able to tell me I should never have done business with him in the first place. Until that happens, though, we should press on. Soutine may have given nothing away. He was one stubborn sonofabitch, when all’s said and done. Or someone else may have killed him. What other leads are you following on le Singe?’

  ‘One or two. No point me detailing them unless they come to something. And I’ll certainly be going back to my informant to try and find out if the police came across anything significant in Soutine’s flat.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me hold you up. I’m going to be pretty busy myself now the Germans have arrived. I gather it was quite a circus out at Versailles last night. I don’t envy them the Hôtel des Réservoirs. Gloomy sort of a place.’

  ‘You’ve got a contact there?’

  ‘The deputy manager. Don’t worry. He’s reliable. The Germans will pay more or less whatever I ask for advance warning of the peace terms. It’s going to be a sweet deal. So, don’t stray too far in the days ahead, will you? We may need to be quick on the draw. But it’s important for our future that the Japanese regard us as good people to work with. So, don’t neglect Tomura whatever you do. OK?’

  Morahan nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘Telegram for Mr Nettles!’

  The uniformed boy came into Max’s view in an eddy of the crowd and he caught the words above the bellowed announcement of his train. ‘East Coast Express to London ready to leave.’

  He was about to step forward when he saw two men over by the departures board watching the boy. One of them craned his neck to keep sight of him through the swirl of travellers.
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  ‘Telegram for Mr Nettles!’

  It was a message from Appleby. It had to be. But accepting the previous telegram at Inverness could easily have been what singled Max out. It was not a mistake he could afford to repeat.

  The luggage-wagon began to move, hauled by a beefy porter. Max fell in beside it, obscured from the gaze of the two men watching the boy. They could hardly be sure Max was on the station. They might not yet know what had happened on the train from Perth and had never seen Max before that he was aware of. No description would be enough to distinguish him from dozens of other hatted and overcoated men on the move.

  Max broke from the cover of the luggage-wagon as a whistle began to blast on the platform where the London train was standing. He ran to the barrier, flashed his ticket and ran on towards the rear door being held open by the guard, who glared at him before blowing the whistle again.

  GEORGE ALLOWED HIMSELF a lengthy lie-in after his late night with the police. His story had been watertight, of course. Arnavon would confirm Soutine’s sale of the fake Sumerian cylinder-seals which had taken George to the gallery in search of answers. Sam’s role in events had been easy to suppress. Altogether, the police had been polite and sympathetic, although their ears had pricked up at the mention of Soutine’s dealings with George’s late brother-in-law, Sir Henry Maxted.

  ‘We may have further questions for you, monsieur. You are not planning to leave Paris?’

  He had assured them he was not and there it had been left, with George transported back to his hotel with parting expressions of solicitude and regret.

  ‘Our apologies that you should have had such an unpleasant experience in our city, monsieur.’

  He skipped breakfast, beyond a head-clearing café noir, in favour of an early lunch. Later he would visit Sam, reassure him that the police had no inkling of his presence at the gallery and extract the promised explanation of Henry’s connection with le Singe.

  Most of the snow had melted, but it was still depressingly cold and overcast. George told himself a bracing stroll was nonetheless in order. He aimed for the Tuileries, knowing this would take him in the direction of a fondly remembered bistro near the Gare d’Orsay.

  But the gardens proved to be altogether too bracing, so he abandoned his projected perambulation in favour of a quick march to the Pont Royal.

  He was halfway across the bridge, his attention focused principally on the swollen waters of the Seine surging below him, when he became aware that someone was walking very closely behind him. Before he could turn round, something hard and heavy struck him a stunning blow at the back of the head.

  Darkness folded round him as he fell. ‘Il est malade,’ he heard someone declare. He wanted to protest, but could not find his voice. He was being supported, then lifted and moved. And then . . . nothing.

  Max began to relax as the train headed south. He had chosen to sit in a compartment where only one seat remained, which seemed to guarantee the innocence of the other occupants. They paid him no heed whatever. The crossing of the Tweed at Berwick felt momentous to him. He was back in England. The miles were rolling away between him and London. He worried about letting the telegram go unclaimed at Waverley, but knew it had been the right decision. He had been lucky to survive the first brush with his pursuers and had to do everything he could to avoid a second.

  Sam was keeping his head down at the Majestic, concentrating as best he could on his work. He expected a visit from George Clissold before the day was out and found himself thinking enviously of Kuroda, who would be most of the way across the Mediterranean by now, bound for Japan. Sam would not have objected to a long ocean voyage himself. Every step he took in his present predicament had to be carefully judged. The bloodstains on the photograph he had taken from Soutine’s body reminded him of that whenever he looked at it. ‘The skilful warrior does not rely on the enemy not coming,’ Kuroda had advised him. ‘He relies on his own preparedness.’ Sam did not doubt the truth of that. He was no warrior. But still he must prepare.

  Morahan apologized for keeping Malory waiting when he arrived at La Fontaine ten minutes late. She brushed the matter aside as unimportant, the first sign he detected that what she wanted to discuss with him was itself very far from unimportant.

  ‘If you’re worried about me, Malory, I want you to stop. I’ll find a way through this business with le Singe, I guarantee. I just need time – and a slice of luck.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t turn up anything helpful in the archives, Schools, so luck is what it’ll probably take. And you’re right: I am worried. So should you be, with Soutine dead. Murdered, you said.’

  ‘Yuh. And not prettily. Tomorrow’s papers will make quite a splash of it.’

  ‘There won’t be any papers tomorrow. A general strike’s been called for May Day.’

  ‘It has? Well, that’s downright unlucky. I was hoping the publicity might smoke le Singe out.’

  ‘Anyhow, he’s not who I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  Malory broke off at the appearance of the waiter to order a glass of red wine and an omelette aux fines herbes. Morahan opted for a steak.

  ‘Good choice. You need the iron.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do.’ She dropped her voice. ‘The thing is this. The trading of information between competing delegations is a disreputable way to make money in a lot of people’s eyes, Schools, but I’ve always reckoned it helps ensure fair play. You could argue Ireton Associates performs a public service in that sense.’

  ‘That’s a nice way to put it.’ Morahan smiled at her. ‘I’ll be sure to remember it.’

  ‘None of the countries represented at the conference are military enemies of the United States.’

  ‘What point are you leading up to, Malory?’

  ‘The Germans, Schools. They are military enemies of our country. The war could resume if they reject the terms offered to them. Travis regards them as just another potential client. But dealing with them – helping them – could be classified as treason. I can’t be party to that. Nor should you be.’

  ‘What has Travis told you?’

  ‘Nothing. But I know he has a go-between in place at their hotel.’

  ‘You’re right. He does.’

  ‘You know who it is?’

  Morahan nodded. ‘I do.’

  ‘A senior member of the hotel staff, I imagine.’

  ‘You imagine correctly.’

  A silence fell while Morahan and Malory looked searchingly at each other, extended by the arrival of their drinks. Then Malory asked, ‘Are you really willing to let Travis go ahead with this?’

  ‘It’d be hard to stop him.’

  ‘What if the French authorities were tipped off that the staff member in question represented a security risk?’

  ‘He’d be arrested right away.’

  ‘And it would be difficult, if not impossible, for Travis to replace him at short notice.’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘We’d actually be doing Travis a favour. Saving him from himself.’

  ‘I doubt he’d see it that way.’

  ‘No need for him to see it any way, other than as a stroke of misfortune.’

  Morahan sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Damn it all,’ he murmured.

  ‘How should I go about it?’

  ‘You?’ He looked at her in surprise. ‘No, no. I’ll do it.’ He sat back in his chair and took a long, slow breath. ‘You’re right, of course. I’ve had a fair few other things to think about recently. But there are lines you can’t cross and this is one of them. A lot of our boys died in the winning of the war. We can’t let them down, can we? And we can’t let Travis let them down either.’

  ‘It’s a relief to hear you say that, Schools.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it as soon as possible. Just leave it to me.’

  The train had just left Darlington and several passengers in Max’s compartment had begun nibblin
g at their packed lunches when the door was pulled open and a tubby fellow in NER catering livery looked in. He scanned several faces before fixing on Max.

  ‘Mr Hutton?’

  Whatever his use of the name portended, Max knew at once it could not be good. ‘Why d’you ask?’ he replied coolly.

  ‘There’s a lady in the restaurant car, sir, travelling first class, who wonders if you’d like to join her for lunch.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Miss Kislev.’

  It was Nadia. Of course. Who else?

  ‘Bit of a stunner, sir.’ The steward winked. ‘I’d take her up on the offer if I was you.’

  NADIA WAS A picture of travelling elegance in a green-flecked tweed jacket and skirt and a high-necked blouse. She was smoking a long cigarette and sipping a gin and tonic, while turning the pages of a slim novel. Her dark hair gleamed in the sunlight shafting through the window. There was a lustre to her skin and a depth to her gaze that reminded Max how attractive she was – and how dangerous.

  ‘I am so happy you can join me, Max,’ she trilled, rising to kiss him on the cheek.

  He said nothing, dumbstruck by her flagrancy. He slid his bag under the table and sat down opposite her.

  ‘It was wise to bring your luggage,’ she went on, smiling at him. ‘There are thieves everywhere.’

  ‘Are there?’ he countered. ‘Have you read this?’ She showed him the title of the book: The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should. It is very exciting. Though not as exciting as your own adventure.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Nadia?’

  ‘The same as all those people in Paris: trying to make peace.’

  ‘I met some colleagues of yours earlier. They weren’t very peaceable.’

  ‘You should have stayed on the train to Glasgow.’

  ‘What difference does it make what route I travel by, as long as I reach the right destination?’

  ‘None. As long as it is the right destination.’

  ‘How did you know I’d be on this train?’

  ‘They cabled me from Perth, Max. I left for Edinburgh immediately. This is the quickest way for you to reach London. So, I knew you would be on this train. However late you left it to board.’