The Corners of the Globe

by Robert Goddard

  ‘The damn fool.’ Ireton poured himself a drink and waggled the bottle at Morahan. ‘Join me?’

  ‘A little early, I reckon.’

  ‘Yeah. But it’s May Day. And this sure is an emergency.’ Ireton slugged some of the whisky down and slumped despondently into his fireside chair.

  ‘If the police catch Blachette, can he give them anything that incriminates you?’

  ‘Nothing clinching. It’d be his word against mine. And you can alibi me if needs be.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The problem is how to open up another channel of communication with the Krauts. We maybe have another week before they get the terms.’

  ‘It’s not worth the risk, Travis.’ Morahan sat down and looked seriously at his long-time partner. ‘Le Deuxième Bureau and Carver will be watching every move the Germans make. That goes for the hotel staff now too.’

  ‘But it’s a gold-plated opportunity.’

  ‘Find another.’

  ‘I’m trying to, God damn it.’ Petulance flashed in Ireton’s gaze. ‘It’d help if you delivered le Singe to the Japs. Then we’d be able to cement a lucrative relationship with one of the winners of this damn war.’

  ‘As far as that goes, doing someone else’s dirty work without knowing just how dirty it is can be a dangerous business.’

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I got a whisper that our esteemed client, Noburo Tomura, has done some kind of a deal with the Chinese.’

  Ireton shook his head. ‘Not possible. Wilson’s handed the Japs Shantung. That’s the only deal that’s been done. The Chinese got confirmation yesterday. The Japs have won. Tomura wouldn’t have anything to offer the Chinese. Besides, he does what his father tells him to do. And Count Tomura wouldn’t give them anything except his boot on their throats.’

  ‘Something’s wrong somewhere, Travis. There’s something we’re missing about why they’re so anxious to find le Singe.’

  ‘What you’re missing is le Singe, Schools. Stop asking yourself why Tomura wants him and—’

  Ireton broke off at the sound of a commotion in the outer office. Malory’s voice was raised, insisting the visitor wait there. But heavy footfalls in the passage indicated they had paid her no heed.

  Noburo Tomura burst into the room, his face flushed with anger. Malory followed him in.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ireton. Mr Tomura insists on seeing you.’

  ‘Send the furui tori away, Ireton. We must talk as men.’ Tomura curled his lip as he looked at Morahan. ‘You are here, then. That is good.’

  ‘It’s all right, Malory,’ said Ireton, rising to his feet. ‘You can leave us.’

  Malory withdrew, casting dark looks at Tomura as she went. Ireton walked across and closed the door behind her, then faced Tomura. Morahan stood up as well. The air was close in the room, electric with the tension of the moment.

  ‘What’s this about, Noburo?’ Ireton asked, smiling cautiously.

  ‘Ask your friend.’ Tomura pointed accusingly at Morahan.

  ‘We had a . . . disagreement . . . earlier this morning,’ Morahan said neutrally.

  ‘He stopped me questioning Twentyman. I suspect Twentyman knows where le Singe is. I suspect Morahan knows also. I hired you to find le Singe for me, Ireton. Now your man blocks my path. Explain, please.’

  ‘Schools?’ Ireton looked dubiously at Morahan.

  Morahan shrugged. ‘I’m not prepared to be a party to murder and kidnapping. I know who murdered Soutine and I know who kidnapped Clissold. You, Noburo. You and no one else.’

  ‘You accuse me?’

  ‘I do,’ said Morahan, facing him down. ‘If I knew where le Singe was, I wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Do you know?’ asked Ireton.

  ‘We shouldn’t do business with this man, Travis. I can’t put it any plainer than that.’

  ‘We have a contract,’ said Tomura, rounding on Ireton. ‘You must honour it.’

  Ireton stared at Morahan for a silent moment, then said, ‘Tell him everything you know about le Singe, Schools.’

  Morahan’s only answer was a shake of the head.

  ‘Tell him.’

  ‘I occasionally have to explain to people that I work with you, Travis, not for you. I guess the time’s come to explain that to you as well, though I really shouldn’t need to.’

  ‘We’re finished together if you don’t come clean about le Singe right now.’

  Morahan took his measure of Ireton for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘I reckon we’re finished, then.’

  ‘God damn it to hell, Schools. How can you do this to me?’

  ‘I warned you when we struck up our partnership there were lines I wouldn’t cross – things I wouldn’t do, however fat the fee.’

  ‘There’ll be no fees at all if we quibble about the use people make of the information we supply.’

  ‘There’s no danger you’ll quibble, Travis.’

  ‘Will you let him defy you?’ Tomura demanded.

  ‘I’ll find le Singe for you, Noburo,’ said Ireton. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘But Morahan knows already where he is.’

  ‘There’s nothing he can do for you about that, Noburo,’ said Morahan as he ambled past him to the window and looked out. ‘Ah, I see you’ve got fresh transport. New car, same crew. Sorry about the mess the last vehicle ended up in.’

  ‘You damaged their car?’ said Ireton.

  ‘No. I let them wreck it all on their own.’ From an underarm holster concealed by his jacket Morahan took a small revolver. He turned and pointed it at Tomura. ‘Come over here and signal for them to drive away, Noburo.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Put the gun down, Schools,’ implored Ireton, panic skittering across his face.

  ‘I don’t want them waiting down there when I leave, Noburo,’ Schools went on calmly. ‘Signal for them to drive away.’

  ‘No,’ Tomura spat out. ‘I will not.’

  ‘I know you like inflicting pain, but I doubt you like experiencing it.’ Morahan pointed the gun at Tomura’s groin. ‘You do want to go on enjoying those femmes jolies, don’t you?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Schools,’ said Ireton. ‘Think what you’re doing.’

  ‘It’s for Noburo to think. About what I’m willing to do. And what he is.’

  ‘He’s Count Tomura’s son.’

  ‘And I’m the son of an Irish pauper. But we’re both capable of killing people. And you know that, don’t you, Noburo? So, what’s it to be?’

  ‘You will pay for this,’ said Tomura.

  ‘Just get over here.’

  Reluctantly, Tomura walked to the window. Morahan pulled it open and moved back to make way for him, keeping the gun trained on him every step of the way.

  Tomura leant out of the window and waved, then gave several violent dismissive gestures with his arm. Morahan stood behind him, watching as the men who had been waiting climbed obediently back in their car and, a moment later, drove away along Avenue de l’Opéra.

  ‘Good,’ said Morahan. ‘Close the window.’

  Tomura closed it and turned to face him. Shame and fury were knotted on his sweat-sheened face. ‘You are a dead man,’ he blustered.

  ‘We all are, sooner or later. I’ll take my chances.’ Morahan strode to the door and paused, holstering his gun as he turned the handle. ‘Goodbye, Travis,’ he said, glancing at Ireton.

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Morahan smiled. ‘I’ll see you there, no doubt.’

  MAX WAS EARLY for his appointment with Appleby and Veronica Underwood. He prowled the Assyrian and Sumerian halls of the British Museum for a reminiscent half-hour, recalling a visit with his father when he was no more than seven or eight.

  The figures on the elaborately decorated Standard of Ur had fascinated him as a child: recognizable humans, young and old, male and female, fat and thin, plucking lyres or drinking wine or carrying wood. ‘Imagine, my boy,’ his father had said. �
�The artist who made this lived about four and a half thousand years ago.’

  ‘What was it like to be alive so long ago, Pa?’ Max had asked.

  ‘Oh, much the same as now. Not as comfortable, of course, but otherwise much the same.’

  ‘Who was the Queen of England then?’

  ‘There wasn’t one. There wasn’t an England to be queen of.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. And one day there won’t be again.’

  ‘Won’t England last for ever?’

  ‘No, my boy.’ A distant look had come into his father’s eyes then. He had patted Max on the head and ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘Nothing will.’

  Well before three o’clock, Max was in the tea-room waiting impatiently. All he wanted now was to be on and doing. How long it would take Mrs Underwood to decipher the list he did not care to ask himself. He was confident Appleby had been able to secure her cooperation. That was all that mattered for the present.

  But the present stretched into an empty hour. Appleby did not arrive, with or without Veronica Underwood. Max fretted, smoking cigarettes and drinking numerous cups of tea. Unable to bear sitting where he was any longer, he left the tea-room and stationed himself in the corridor outside.

  Around 4.30 Max realized Appleby was not going to appear. The certainty formed like lead in his stomach. Something had happened. Something had gone wrong. Appleby was not coming.

  But certainty was not enough for Max to call off his vigil. He stayed where he was, waiting and hoping – and eventually just waiting.

  The day had passed with agonizing slowness for Sam as well, confined to Morahan’s apartment. Preparing himself a meal from the meagre ingredients in Morahan’s kitchen had not distracted him for long from gloomy contemplation of the fix he was in. They were staking more or less everything on being able to forge some kind of alliance with le Singe. But le Singe was by his very nature unknowable. He might not even come to meet them. Then they would certainly have nothing to use against Tomura.

  He was relieved, nonetheless, when the time came to leave. However vulnerable he felt on the streets it was better to be moving than not.

  The strike seemed to have ended. There were a few taxis about and some buses were running. He tried to board one heading south, but was rebuffed by a broad-bosomed conductress. ‘Complet, monsieur.’

  It was not a long walk and he needed to stretch his legs, though he would have preferred for safety’s sake to be squeezed inside a crowded bus. He turned up his collar, kept his head down and marched on with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

  Max stood at the bar of the pub opposite the entrance to the British Museum, weighing his choices. He could linger there all evening and those choices would neither change nor improve. Appleby was not coming. His plans had gone awry. He had been waylaid. He might already be dead.

  More likely he was alive, though – much more likely. The reason was the board-backed envelope containing photographic prints and negatives Max was carrying with him: the Grey File and its coded secrets. That was what Lemmer wanted above all to secure. And that was what must be denied him.

  But what could Max do? Attack, his wartime instincts told him. Engage the enemy. Turn in the sky and swoop.

  Appleby had spoken of a house in Pimlico where Political had planned to interrogate him. There was a good chance he had been taken there. Maybe Veronica Underwood too. Number 24 Glamorgan Street. Yes, that was the address Appleby had given. It was possible he had deliberately specified where it was with a contingency such as this in mind.

  Max drained his whisky glass. He needed to find somewhere safe to lodge the negatives. It would be crazy to keep them with him. Once he had done that, he would not hesitate. They would not need to come looking for him. He would go looking for them.

  Sam was relieved to find Morahan waiting for him in the church porch when he reached St-Germain l’Auxerrois. He had not relished the prospect of a lengthy vigil there. Morahan looked relieved to see Sam as well.

  ‘How do we know le Singe is going to turn up, Mr Morahan?’ Sam asked glumly as they set off.

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Or that he’ll be willing to help us if he does?’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Or—’

  ‘Shut up, Sam, for God’s sake. You don’t need to tell me how desperate a throw this is. I quit Ireton Associates today and I’ve ensured Tomura is after my blood as well as yours. So, there’s a lot riding on this for both of us. But it won’t help to mention that every step of the way.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sam dolefully.

  ‘Me too. But sorrow’s next to gladness on the barometer dial of life, so they say.’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘Oh yuh. All the time.’

  Max gave the porter at the Athenaeum the warmest of smiles as he requested an envelope in which to leave something for one of the club’s more senior members. The porter had explained Mr Brigham was abroad at present and offered to post the article on, but Max insisted it should await his return to London. ‘Or I’ll retrieve it myself first and deliver it in person. My name’s Maxted. James Maxted.’

  ‘Right you are, sir. I’ll make a note of that.’

  L. Brigham, Esq., Max wrote on the envelope. For collection. Private and confidential.

  ‘It’s rather important,’ Max said as he handed it over, accompanied by a generous tip.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. It’ll be safe as houses here.’

  ‘I’m counting on it.’

  And so, of course, he was.

  A GROUND-FLOOR TENANT grouchily admitted Sam and Morahan to the building after they had despaired of rousing the concierge and rung his bell instead.

  ‘Pardon, monsieur,’ Morahan said. ‘Soukaris est un ami.’ He pointed to Soutine’s nom de résidence on the mailboxes in the hall.

  The man looked mildly surprised, but said nothing and padded back to his apartment in his slippers. Morahan was halfway up the first flight of stairs before his door had closed behind him. Sam hurried to keep up.

  Morahan had the skeleton key he had used on his previous visit ready in his hand as they approached the door of apartment 17. But he had no need to use it. The latch was up on the lock. The door opened as he pushed against it.

  ‘We’re expected,’ he murmured, stepping cautiously inside.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Sam whispered, engaging the latch carefully as he followed Morahan in and eased the door shut.

  Grainy pearly-grey light filled the bed-sitting-room. Curtains had been partly drawn across the half-open French windows. Sounds of the city – echoing voices, fluttering pigeons, barking dogs – drifted into Soutine’s tiny, white-walled haven. A hideaway, Morahan had called it, though to Sam it seemed less that than a retreat from a raucous and uncaring world. He had seen Soutine as a rogue and trickster, but, standing beside Morahan at the foot of the dead man’s bed and thinking of the end he had come to, Sam found himself admiring the last-gasp bravery of the devious antiquarian.

  ‘The message has gone from the mirror,’ Morahan said softly.

  Sam looked in the direction he was pointing. The glass in the mirror was clean and clear. Le Singe had read the message and erased it. And he had left the door unlatched. They were there, as he wanted them to be. But where was he?

  A movement, reflected in the glass, caught Sam’s eye. Morahan’s, too. They both turned round.

  Le Singe was standing in the doorway leading to the balcony. He was wearing his normal rags and tatters of army uniform, but had put on over them a long, loose white tunic, intricately embroidered around the neck. Sam could not have explained why, but he had the impression the garment was a symbol of mourning. It certainly made him look more Arabian.

  Le Singe was not smiling, as he had been when Sam had last encountered him. His expression was calm but sombre. And in his eyes there was the watchfulness a hovering hawk might bestow on its prey – intent, patient, all-perceiving. He flicked back the
tunic to reveal a knife, held in a scabbard on a belt around his waist. He was armed and he was cautious. But he was there.

  ‘I left the message for you,’ said Morahan slowly, enunciating his words carefully, as if le Singe might be deaf and needed to read his lips. ‘And this man you know.’

  There came from le Singe the faintest of nods. He was not deaf. But quite possibly he was dumb. Sam found it hard to imagine him speaking.

  ‘We are sorry for your loss,’ said Sam. From his pocket he took the photograph inscribed Les jours heureux au Tunis and held it up for le Singe to see. ‘His killers did not find this.’

  Le Singe beckoned for Sam to place the photograph on the dining-table that stood against the wall. Sam stepped forward and laid it down, then stepped back.

  Le Singe kept his eyes on them as he moved forward to collect the photograph. He glanced at it and kissed the picture. He slipped it into a pocket of his fatigues and nodded to Sam, as if in thanks, though there was nothing in his expression to indicate gratitude.

  ‘We need your help,’ said Morahan. ‘And you need our help.’

  Le Singe gave that several stationary moments of thought before he bent down and picked up an object that had been propped against the wall behind him.

  As he turned it in his hand, they saw it was a square of slate, framed in carved maroon-painted wood. From a pocket le Singe slipped a stick of chalk and wrote on the slate, before turning it for them to read.

  WHO YOU?

  ‘My name is Schools Morahan,’ said Morahan. ‘And this is Sam Twentyman. We’re friends of James Maxted, son of Sir Henry Maxted. I think you knew him. I used to work with Travis Ireton, but I work with him no longer. We bought information from Soutine. Information you obtained for us. Something you found out is very dangerous. Maybe you know what it is. We don’t. But Soutine’s killers think we do. So, you and we are on the same side. We need to help each other.’

  Le Singe’s searching gaze rested on them as he considered Morahan’s reply. Then he plucked a cloth from a fold of his sleeve, rubbed the slate clean and wrote another question on it.

  WHO KILLED HIM?