‘You can’t seriously believe that.’
‘When I look back on our life there . . . I don’t know what to believe.’
‘Well, believe this. Lemmer orchestrated the events that led you and me here. That means he knows what Pierre wrote to you. Either because the letter was forged on his instructions or because he compelled Pierre to write it.’
‘It isn’t a forgery. And Pierre is here, in Marseilles. I brought a photograph of him with me. I showed it to the lift conductor. He said he thought he’d seen Pierre riding the lift several times.’
‘But not once since you arrived?’
‘I have to be patient, Max.’
‘For how long?’
‘A few more days at least.’
‘Can I see the letter?’
‘I destroyed it.’
‘You did what?’
‘He asked me to, Max. If it fell into the hands of the authorities it could lead to his arrest. He stands accused of treason, as you just pointed out. That means the guillotine. By writing to me, he was putting his trust in me. He was putting his life in my hands.’
‘Or our lives in Lemmer’s.’
‘If Lemmer’s as powerful as you say, he could kill us whenever he pleases. Why bring us here? Why involve Pierre at all?’
‘I don’t know.’ Max shook his head helplessly. ‘I simply don’t know.’ He stood up and, turning, gazed towards the purple-blue horizon where sea and sky met, out in the Marseilles roads. ‘Can I see Pierre’s photograph?’ he murmured.
Corinne took it from her reticule and passed it to him.
Pierre Dombreux looked younger than Max had expected, although the picture had probably been taken several years previously, of course. And he was smiling. That too was quite illogically unexpected. The man in the photograph was clear-browed and smooth-skinned, almost cherubic, an effect only partly detracted from by a vigorous moustache. He had dark, glossy hair and a soft, amenable gaze. Only Max’s knowledge of his previous deviousness – in whatever cause he truly served – tainted the charming nature his appearance implied.
‘I believe he may not be as bad a man as I once supposed,’ Corinne said softly.
Max looked both ways along the bridge. ‘He’s not coming. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I have to give him the chance.’
‘You should leave with me.’ He returned the photograph to her. ‘Now.’
‘I’ll stay a little longer.’
‘And return tomorrow?’
‘The truth is . . .’ She raised her head and looked at Max directly. ‘I don’t know what else to do.’
‘Go back to Nantes.’
‘I’m not ready to give up yet.’
He dropped to his haunches in front of her and held her by the wrists. He wanted her to understand him plainly – to acknowledge what to him was an obvious truth: that the longer she remained in Marseilles the more danger she was in. ‘You must leave this city, Corinne. As soon as possible. Whatever Lemmer has in mind for us, it won’t be good.’
‘Are you leaving?’
‘I can’t. But you can.’
‘And that’s what you want me to do?’
‘You were free when you left Paris. Don’t throw that freedom away.’
‘I can lead a poor kind of life somewhere, Max. Yes. I can do that. And maybe I will.’
‘Think about it, Corinne. Think seriously. For both our sakes.’
She gazed at him for a long time. He could not guess what was in her mind. ‘It isn’t easy,’ was all she said in the end.
He let go of her and stood up. ‘I’m staying at the Grand under the name Morris. You can contact me there at any time.’
‘Can you let the chance slip through your fingers of finding out what the “great secret” is that your father was pursuing, Max? Can you really do that?’
‘I’ll find out without endangering you, Corinne. I promise. I’ll find out. And when I do I’ll tell you everything I’ve learnt.’
‘You don’t believe Pierre’s alive, do you?’
‘If he is, he’s doing Lemmer’s bidding. Which means you should turn your back on him. And walk away.’
‘You may be right.’
‘I am.’
‘I will think about it.’
‘Good. But don’t think too long. Because I don’t know how long we’ve got before Lemmer shows his hand.’ Max gazed around, wondering if they had been under observation the whole time they had been there. ‘I only know he will.’
CORINNE’S REAPPEARANCE IN his life left Max confused and apprehensive. His only certainty was that Lemmer had lured them both to Marseilles for sinister reasons of his own. For the moment, Max could think of no obvious response beyond trying to persuade Corinne to leave. He was supposed to be seeking out Anna Schmidt, but how he was to do that now he had no idea.
He descended in the lift and headed back towards his hotel on foot through the deepening dusk. An echoing of footsteps behind him as he passed under the railway bridge on Boulevard Notre-Dame alerted him to the fact that Leather-Jacket was once again on his tail. Frustrated by his inability to outwit Lemmer, Max became angry that such a bungler had been assigned the task of following him. Impulsively, he decided to do something about it.
The streets became narrower and denser as he neared the Vieux Port. Max saw the quay of the Rive-Neuve canal ahead, brightened by a ray of the setting sun. The shadows were deep in the street he was walking along, however, and deepening all the time. He turned abruptly into a side alley, then dodged into a doorway.
Within a couple of minutes Leather-Jacket made a cautious entrance into the alley, before abruptly picking up his pace, presumably anxious not to lose Max.
There was no danger of that. Max stepped out just as the man hurried blindly past the doorway, grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him back and slammed him against the door.
‘Please,’ Leather-Jacket cried out as dislodged cement dust pattered down around him. ‘Don’t hurt me.’
The first surprise was that the man spoke English, and in a native Scottish accent. The second was his timidity. He was paunchy and short of breath, his sparsely bearded jowl quivering as he spoke. There was fear clear to read in his glassy, skittering gaze. His voice was a high-pitched wheeze. One of Lemmer’s hardened killers he patently was not.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Max demanded.
‘MacGregor. William MacGregor.’
‘What d’you want with me?’
‘I’m here on behalf of Miss Susan Henty.’
For a second, Max’s blood ran cold. He thought he had left his entanglement with the Henty siblings safely behind him in the Orkneys. ‘Who?’ he countered.
‘Miss Susan Henty. She sent me to look for you . . . Mr Hutton.’
‘My name’s not Hutton.’
‘Maybe not. But it’s the name you used while you were in the Orkneys.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I recognized you from your photograph.’
‘What photograph?’
‘It was taken by Miss Henty at the Ring of Brodgar . . . on Saturday the twenty-sixth of April. It shows you with her late brother, Selwyn.’
A photograph? Damn it all to hell. Susan Henty had taken pictures of the stones at Brodgar, to supplement Selwyn’s surveying work. Max had done his best to ensure he was not in any of them. But she must have taken one while he was not paying attention. ‘I’ve never heard of Susan Henty. Or Selwyn Henty. He’s dead, you say?’
‘His body was found in Kirkwall harbour by a police diver five days ago. He’d been murdered.’
‘Sorry to hear that. But it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘You left Kirkwall without warning last Monday, following Mr Henty’s disappearance.’
‘I keep telling you, MacGregor. I know nothing about any of this. You’ve got the wrong man.’
‘Miss Henty received a letter from you, blaming your sudden departure on a family e
mergency. But you supplied no address where you could be contacted. The Orkney police would very much like to talk to you about what happened to Mr Henty.’
‘You mean they’d like to talk to this fellow Hutton. What you don’t seem to be able to grasp is that I’m not Hutton.’
‘I think you are.’
Max tightened his grip on MacGregor’s collar. But the man had conquered some of his fear. Perhaps he had concluded Max was not about to beat him to a pulp.
‘Miss Henty received another letter, two days after yours. It said you could be found here, in Marseilles. The police dragged their feet about following it up, so Miss Henty hired me to investigate.’
‘What are you – a private detective?’
‘When there’s call for me to be, aye.’
‘And this letter. Who was it from?’
‘Oh, it was anonymous. But accurate, as it turns out.’
‘Accurate be damned. I’m not Hutton.’
‘I say you are. And I’ll say it to the police here unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’
MacGregor licked his lips nervously, apparently debating what he should demand. Then: ‘I’ll require a signed notarial statement detailing everything you know about Mr Henty’s death.’
‘That’s easy. I know nothing.’
‘You were seen with Mr Henty and a third person, thought to be a US naval officer, in the bar of the Albert Hotel, Kirkwall, late in the evening of Saturday the twenty-sixth. Your statement will need to be specific about what the three of you discussed. It may be that the American wrote the anonymous letter to Miss Henty in order to divert suspicion from himself. So, what can you tell me about him?’
‘Not a damn thing. I wasn’t there.’
‘I believe I can cause you a great many difficulties with the French authorities, Mr . . . whatever your real name is. You could leave the country before the Procurator Fiscal of Orkney submitted an extradition request, I don’t doubt. But maybe you don’t want to leave. Maybe your business with that young lady you met up by the cathedral obliges you to remain here, at least for the time being. In which case, a statement of the kind I’ve described really isn’t too much to ask.’
Max began to suspect MacGregor’s primary objective was not the pursuit of Selwyn Henty’s murderer, but the acquisition of a document he could take back to Susan Henty that would encourage her to pay the fee he had it in mind to charge. He was a long way from home and poorly placed to extract much more from Max. What he did not know was that he was still asking too much. The last thing Max could afford to do was put his name to any kind of account of his dealings with Selwyn Henty and Lieutenant Grant Fontana of the US Navy.
‘What d’you say? I could arrange for us to meet a notaire tomorrow.’
Max held MacGregor in his grip a moment longer, then released him. Time was his best friend in extracting himself from the dilemma. He smiled.
‘What’s funny?’
‘You’re a lucky man, Mr MacGregor.’
‘In what way?’
‘If I’d had a hand in Selwyn Henty’s murder, I probably wouldn’t scruple to kill you as well.’
‘But you didn’t?’
‘No. I did not.’
‘Then you’ll favour me with that statement?’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Continental, Rue Beauvau.’
‘Give me forty-eight hours to consider my position.’
‘I’ll give you twenty-four.’
MacGregor seemed to fancy himself a hard bargainer. Max decided to indulge him. ‘Twenty-four it is.’
‘I’ll expect to hear from you no later than this time tomorrow evening.’
‘And I’ll expect to be spared the sight of you dogging my footsteps in the meantime.’
MacGregor nodded. ‘I believe we have an understanding,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Max agreed. ‘I believe we do.’
DESPITE ALL THE many reasons why he might have slept poorly, Max in fact slept well and long that night, although the problems he was beset by were waiting stubbornly to confront him the following morning.
He breakfasted in his room. Gaspard brought the tray – and the latest news. ‘The Japanese party you asked about, monsieur: they will arrive this evening. We expect them to be ’ere by eight.’
‘Where will their rooms be?’ Max asked gruffly as he sipped his coffee.
‘Count Tomura is staying in the front corner suite on the third floor. That would be the second to you, monsieur: the floor below this one. ’Is son will be in the room next to it, over Boulevard Garibaldi. There is . . . une porte de communication – an inside door . . . that connects the two rooms.’
Max digested the information as he munched a slice of toast, then said, ‘How much for the loan of a pass-key?’
‘Un passe?’ Gaspard feigned horror. ‘You ask too much.’
‘Maybe. But that means you can do the same. Who knows? I might agree to your terms.’
Gaspard frowned dubiously at Max, who went on munching his toast. Half a minute or so elapsed. Then Gaspard said, ‘When do you want it?’
After breakfast, Max took himself off to the offices of Nippon Yusen Kaisha to confirm the departure of the Miyachi-maru at noon on Tuesday, bound for Port Said, Colombo, Singapore, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Kobe and Yokohama. She was coming from Antwerp and was expected to dock that evening. Berths were still available, moderately priced. Max resisted the temptation to book one. Travelling to Japan on the same ship as the Tomuras would be madness. Besides, he had come to Marseilles in pursuit of Anna Schmidt and so far had accomplished nothing on that front.
When he returned to the hotel, he was surprised to find a visitor waiting for him: Corinne. She looked depressed and careworn, as if her faith in her errant husband had evaporated overnight. Max had not expected her to see the folly of trusting Pierre so soon, but was happy to think it possible.
And it was possible, as she rapidly confirmed. ‘I’ve decided to leave Marseilles, Max,’ she announced. ‘Can we go somewhere and talk?’
They found a café a short distance away in the Cours St-Louis and sat out on the terrace. Corinne ordered cognac with her coffee and readily accepted a succession of Max’s cigarettes, for which he seemed to have less and less use himself. In the dappled sunlight, with the perfume from a pavement flower stall wafting over them and a hopeful violinist sawing away near by, Corinne’s anxiety was even more palpable.
‘Has something happened?’ Max asked. He could hardly believe her sudden change of heart was solely attributable to the force of his argument.
‘You haven’t heard, have you?’
‘Heard?’
‘It was in this morning’s paper.’
‘What was?’
‘I thought about what you said and I saw the sense of it. I knew you were right. Still, I doubt I’d have talked myself into acting on it straight away but for this.’ She took out of her reticule a half-page torn from a newspaper and passed it to him. ‘There.’ She pointed to an article headlined UNE MORT EN MER – a death at sea.
Max’s first scan took in only a few salient words: Port Said, May 3; NYK Kazama Maru; Une noyade; Un citoyen japonais; Kuroda Masataka.
‘Kuroda’s dead, Max,’ said Corinne softly.
‘Drowned?’
‘The report says he was lost overboard on Friday in unexplained circumstances. His body was picked up by a fishing boat later that day.’
The half-page slipped from Max’s grasp. He slumped back in his chair. ‘I can’t believe it.’ But he could, of course. He remembered what Kuroda had said in his letter: ‘My continued well-being is by no means guaranteed . . . My position is acutely vulnerable.’ How right he had been.
‘It’s being treated as an accident, Max. But it wasn’t an accident, was it?’
‘Assuredly not.’
‘He was a good friend of Henry’s.’
‘I know.’
‘Why had he left Paris?’
‘Recalled to Tokyo to face trumped-up charges. It was Count Tomura’s doing. As was his drowning, I don’t doubt.’
‘Another accidental death.’
‘Good God.’ Max put his head in his hands. ‘He wrote to me just before sailing. He virtually predicted this.’
‘There’s a dangerous secret buried somewhere in Japan, isn’t there? A secret Henry and Kuroda both knew too much about to be allowed to live.’
‘Yes. There is.’
‘Pierre’s mixed up in it somehow, isn’t he?’
‘He is, yes.’ Max looked up at her. ‘Which means you’re in danger, Corinne. I think you understand that now, don’t you?’
‘You’re in danger too.’
‘Let me worry about that. It’s vital you leave Marseilles as soon as possible.’
‘I know. Though still it troubles me that Pierre may be a better, nobler man than I ever gave him credit for and is relying on me to stay.’
‘If that was true, he’d already have contacted you. You’ve waited more than long enough for him.’
‘I know, I know.’ She swallowed some of her cognac. ‘I should go.’
‘You said you were going.’
She drew a deep breath and slowly released it. ‘I am.’
‘When?’
‘There’s a sleeper to Bordeaux at eight. I can travel on to Nantes from there tomorrow.’
‘You shouldn’t wait until this evening.’
‘What else can I do?’
‘Take a local train to somewhere en route this afternoon. Catch the sleeper there later.’
She frowned at him, more deeply worried than ever by being urged to take such precautions.
‘We can go to the station straight away, Corinne, find out the times and buy you a ticket.’
She looked intently at him, measuring his seriousness, then nodded. She had accepted the need to do as he said. ‘Very well,’ she murmured.
The practicalities of arranging Corinne’s departure distracted Max from the dismay he felt at the news of Kuroda’s death. Somewhere, he knew, the motor of Lemmer’s master-plan was continuing to run. Kuroda’s demise was merely further evidence of this, following hard on the heels of MacGregor’s unwelcome arrival on the scene.
The Corners of the Globe Page 34
