James Maxted 03 The Ends of the Earth

by Robert Goddard

  He slept so well and so late on the ryokan’s floor-level bed, without the slightest twinge from the old wound in his side, that he missed the first train to Tokyo next morning. When he finally reached Yokohama at close to ten o’clock that evening, he instructed the taxi driver to take him to the best hotel: the Grand. No one called Morahan or Hollander was staying there, which did not surprise Max, given Morahan’s cautious ways. But he was confident his friends would not be far away. He was tired and hungry. His only food since breakfast had been bought from a platform vendor during one of the train’s many lengthy stops. He decided to have supper and a night in a Western-style bed before going in search of them.

  Tuesday morning revealed the hotel’s setting to Max as soon as he pulled back the curtains of his room. It faced Yokohama harbour, thronged with shipping, sunlight sparkling on the wavetops out in the bay. The air carried gull shrieks and ships’ horns and the distant shouts of stevedores. He had reached the rendezvous at last. The search for his father’s secret in the land where it had long lain buried was about to begin.

  The Eastbourne was the third hotel he tried. He noticed something odd about the atmosphere of the place as soon as he entered the foyer. The staff looked distracted and several were huddled behind the counter, where a man with a managerial cast to him was answering questions on their behalf put by a small, insistent individual Max instinctively identified as a policeman.

  A couple of uniformed policemen descended the stairs from the upper floors while Max lingered just inside the door. He had no clue as to what might be going on, nor any reason to think it concerned his friends. On balance, though, he reckoned it would be wise to call again later.

  As he walked back out, he felt a twitch at his sleeve and turned to find a smiling bellboy, who looked more Hispanic than Japanese, close behind him.

  ‘You friend of Miss Hollander?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘I think you are friend she waited for. You look for her now?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Bad time, meester. Police look for her too. Also Meester Twentyman.’

  ‘Twentyman?’ Max was taken aback. Sam was not in Japan. He could not be. Max had explicitly told Morahan to leave Sam out of it. And yet … ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘João.’

  ‘So, what can you tell me, João?’ Max fished a few yen out of his pocket, but João waved them away and shot an apprehensive glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Post Office, Nihon-odori, half hour,’ he whispered. ‘Sim?’

  ‘Sim,’ Max found himself saying. ‘Yes. I’ll be there.’

  Max was loitering by the telegram form counter when João entered the post office, still in his bellboy’s uniform, clutching several parcels. He joined a queue at one of the windows. Max stepped in behind him and opened a murmured conversation.

  ‘I’m Max, João. Did Malory – Miss Hollander – ever mention me?’

  ‘I heard her say your name to Meester Twentyman. They wait for you. Since Wednesday. Miss Hollander nice lady. All this with police not right.’

  ‘All what with police?’

  ‘They arrest Meester Morahan in Tokyo last night, I hear. They are looking for Meester Twentyman and Miss Hollander. I do not know about Meester Twentyman, but Miss Hollander left hotel just before police came last night. She had message to meet someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Meester Monteith.’

  The name meant nothing to Max. But the rest spelt a catastrophe he could not quite come to terms with.

  João reached the head of the queue at that point. He broke off to deal with the clerk. The parcels were weighed and João paid for them. Then they moved away from the counter.

  ‘Mr Morahan’s been arrested, but Mr Twentyman and Miss Hollander are still free,’ Max pressed. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I think yes. The police ask all about them.’

  ‘Are they together?’

  ‘I do not know. The police arrested two men at other hotel in Yokohama last night also, I hear.’

  ‘What are they charged with?’

  ‘The police say Meester Morahan murdered man in Tokyo. But he is not murderer, I think. Miss Hollander would not have friend who is murderer.’

  ‘No more she would, João. Who’s Mr Morahan accused of murdering?’

  ‘Farngold.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That is what I hear. Name is Jack Farngold.’

  A meeting with Morahan and his team, followed by a dispassionate assessment of how they were to set about uncovering the truth and defeating the combined forces of Lemmer and Tomura, was what Max had foreseen. Instead, all their plans and preparations were in disarray. How and why, Max did not know. But it was clear disaster had overtaken them.

  Thanks to Appleby, Max had a couple of false passports to travel under and he doubted the police had a photograph of him. He had to assume Farngold’s murder and Morahan’s arrest had been orchestrated by Tomura, however, acting at Lemmer’s direction. It was likely they would be looking for Max as well. All in all, he should probably leave Yokohama as soon as possible. But to go where? And to do what?

  He needed hard information and he needed it quickly. Without it, he was flying in fog. Only one way of obtaining any occurred to his mind.

  He hurried back to his hotel and put a call through to the British Embassy in Tokyo.

  ‘Hodgson speaking.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hodgson. My name is Taylor. I’m writing an article for a London magazine on the challenges of a diplomatic career in this part of the world.’

  ‘You are?’ Hodgson sounded as if a sense of irony lurked beneath the crustiness of his voice.

  ‘I’m told you’ve worked at the legation here for many years.’

  ‘Too many.’

  ‘Since Mr Fraser was ambassador.’

  ‘Ah, poor old Fraser, yes. Worked himself into an early grave. Didn’t call himself ambassador, though. Envoy Extraordinary was the formal title in his day.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. A slip of the tongue. Nomenclature is very important, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘Could we perhaps meet for lunch? You could set me right on a few things.’

  ‘Lunch? Well, I … what magazine is this for?’

  ‘Cartouche.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s quite new. So, could I buy you lunch?’

  ‘Oh, well …’

  ‘Anywhere you like. The editor will want me to entertain you properly.’

  ‘Will he? That’s decent of him.’

  ‘Are you available today by any chance?’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘My schedule’s rather … tight.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes. So … can we meet?’

  THE PROSPECT OF lunching at one of his favourite restaurants at someone else’s expense clinched the matter for Hodgson. He doubted ‘Mr Taylor’ could locate the establishment unaided – ‘the city’s rather a maze, you’ll find’ – so they agreed to meet in the central hall of Tokyo station. Max had explained he would be arriving by train, though arriving from where he did not specify.

  He booked out of the Grand and dropped his bag at the left luggage counter when he reached Tokyo Central. He did not want Hodgson to conclude he was without accommodation. Then he made his way to the rendezvous.

  He spotted Hodgson from some way off – a fleshy, jowly, ruddy-faced Englishman in a loose linen suit and panama, leaning on a cane and perusing, with apparent comprehension, a Japanese newspaper.

  ‘Mr Hodgson? I’m James Taylor.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ They shook hands. ‘Hope it’s not too hot for you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t object if it was cooler.’

  ‘I dare say. Japanese summers are gruelling affairs. But one gets used to them eventually. And old Nakahara has some ingenious arrangements with fans and trickling water to keep his restaurant cool. Let’s take
a cab there.’

  Hodgson began to question Max about how long he had been in Japan and what sort of magazine Cartouche was, but was easily persuaded to talk about himself instead. A potted autobiography was delivered during their taxi ride, which, by Max’s hazy concept of Tokyo’s geography, took them into the Ginza district, where he knew – though could not admit knowing – that Hodgson lived.

  ‘Grew up in Essex. Constable country. Father was a land agent. Can’t tell you how pleased he was when I passed the Civil Service exam after I left Oxford. “You’re made for life, my boy.” Well, I’m not sure he was right about that. I thought I’d see the world, not just this corner of it, but apparently my expertise in the language makes me indispensable. Not many fluent Japanese speakers in the FO. Never have been.’

  ‘Speaker and reader, I see.’

  ‘Ah, the paper? Just perusing an editorial. Got to keep in touch.’

  ‘What’s the subject?’

  ‘Candidates for the governor-generalship of Korea.’

  ‘A new broom needed after the first of March riots?’

  ‘Yes. Hasegawa’s out and—’ Hodgson frowned quizzically at Max. ‘You seem to have done your research.’

  ‘A little. Who would you blame for the problems in Korea?’

  ‘Hold up, young man. I can’t discuss policy with a journalist for a magazine I know nothing about. I thought you wanted to hear about the life and career of an average Far East dip.’

  ‘Dip?’

  ‘Diplomat.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. You’re right. I do.’

  And Max dutifully pretended to for the first half hour or so of their presence in the agreeable cool and quiet of Nakahara’s restaurant. Hodgson was evidently a regular and valued patron. They were shown into a private room, where they sat at a sunken table and were attended by flower-scented waitresses in rustling kimonos. The sound of water wafted in from somewhere on the breeze of the fan. Filtered sunlight fell mellowly on panelled walls bearing artful depictions of cherry trees and cypress groves.

  Apparently forgetting his bar on discussing policy, perhaps under the influence of several thimblefuls of Nakahara’s most select sake, Hodgson revealed he actually blamed ‘the militarists’ for the disturbances in Korea. ‘The sooner Saionji returns from Europe the better.’ He felt obliged to explain who Saionji was, just as Max felt obliged to nod gratefully.

  Hodgson’s evident approval of Saionji and his comments on the situation in Korea implied to Max he was no better disposed towards Tomura than when he had written his report to the Permanent Under-Secretary back in June 1891. It was time to test the water.

  ‘When were you first posted here, Mr Hodgson?’ Max asked as he maladroitly manoeuvred a piece of raw soy-dipped fish to his mouth with his chopsticks.

  ‘Autumn of eighty-seven. I’ve had plenty of time to accustom myself to Japanese cuisine and master the jolly old hashi.’ Hodgson grinned and waggled his chopsticks by way of translation.

  ‘You must remember Sir Henry Maxted, then.’

  ‘Maxted?’

  ‘Here from eighty-nine to ninety-one, I believe. Not Sir Henry then, of course. Just plain Mr Maxted.’

  Lulled as he was by fine food and smooth sake, Hodgson looked nevertheless to be on his guard. ‘Why d’you mention Maxted?’

  ‘He was murdered in Paris a few months ago, while serving with the British delegation to the peace conference. You must have read about it. And been saddened to learn of the death of a former colleague, I imagine.’

  ‘I was. But there was no question of murder, surely.’ The assertion sounded half-hearted. Hodgson was evidently well aware of the eventual verdict of the Paris police.

  ‘Count Tomura wasn’t in Paris at the time. But he arrived shortly afterwards. He’s recently returned to Japan, I believe.’

  Hodgson laid down his chopsticks and looked searchingly at Max. ‘What prompts you to mention Count Tomura?’

  ‘Sir Henry crossed swords with him while he was posted here. You wrote a report explaining why he was sent home in the summer of ninety-one.’ Max sat back and stretched his legs as best he could. He met Hodgson’s gaze. ‘Complications arising from a police investigation of the attempted assassination of the Tsarevich at Ohtsu on the eleventh of May that year. That was the nub of the matter, wasn’t it?’

  Hodgson was probably astonished. But his diplomatic training enabled him to hide it well. ‘The magazine you’re writing this piece for, Mr Taylor …’

  ‘It doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Are you in fact a journalist?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is Taylor your real name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve persuaded me to meet you under false pretences using an assumed name and fictitious credentials.’

  ‘I have.’

  Hodgson’s face had flushed a worrying red. But his voice remained steady. ‘I’ll give you one minute to explain yourself before I ask Nakahara to have you thrown out.’

  ‘My real name is James Maxted.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Sir Henry’s son.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I see now … You have his eyes.’ Hodgson shook his head in bewilderment. ‘What in heaven’s name possessed you to come to Japan?’

  ‘I followed Tomura. Lemmer’s with him. They’re working together. Just as they were twenty-eight years ago. Lemmer was responsible for my father’s death, you see.’

  ‘Lemmer?’

  ‘You named him in your report, Mr Hodgson. Tomura too. The German working with Dark Ocean to—’

  ‘Don’t mention Dark Ocean here.’ Hodgson looked alarmed. He raised one hand to silence Max. ‘And don’t mention my report. You shouldn’t have been able to get hold of that.’

  ‘But I was able to. I mean to bring them down – Tomura and Lemmer. It’s time someone did, don’t you think?’

  ‘You can’t bring Tomura down. Not here, in Japan. He’s too powerful. As for Lemmer—’

  ‘I need your help, Mr Hodgson. I’m very much hoping you’ll give it. But I’ll go on without it if I have to.’

  ‘And get yourself killed?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Like Henry.’ Hodgson leant forward and massaged his forehead. ‘He should have left well alone.’

  ‘What should he have left?’

  ‘We can’t talk about this here. The staff don’t speak a word of English as far as I’m aware, but even so … We should leave.’ He picked up his cup of sake, emptied it and reached for a small bell to summon the waitresses. ‘You shouldn’t have come, young man.’

  ‘Call me Max. Everyone does.’

  ‘Max? Very well. You should have stayed in Europe, Max. There’s nothing for you here.’

  ‘Except the truth.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes. And I think you know what that truth is.’

  THEY TRAVELLED BY rickshaw to hibiya park, the other side of the Imperial Hotel from Ginza. As if to prevent Max mentioning sensitive subjects during the journey, Hodgson sustained a monologue about how much he preferred rickshaws to motor-taxis and trams. It seemed to Max he was simply playing for time.

  The park offered patches of welcome shelter from the baking sun, but naturally that was where most of its visitors had chosen to sit, so Hodgson piloted them to an isolated, unshaded bench near the empty bandstand. He took a handkerchief from his pocket as he sat down and wrapped it loosely round his neck as protection against the sun. Max hardly noticed the heat.

  ‘Some of the trees in this park are older than the city,’ said Hodgson, squinting around. ‘It used to be a parade ground. I saw the old Emperor reviewing troops here once. And later I watched his funeral procession from this very spot. That was only seven years ago, though oddly it seems longer. The whole Meiji era has vanished into a distant past. And its values with it.’

  ‘You’re not intending to tell me you’ve forgotten the events of 1891, are you, Mr Hodgson?’

  ‘No. Certain
ly not.’ Hodgson looked upset by the suggestion. ‘If you’ve read my report, though actually I merely drafted it for—’

  ‘You wrote it, yes or no?’

  ‘In effect, I … suppose I did.’

  ‘Kuroda suspected a connection between Tomura and the attempted assassination of the Tsarevich. He suspected Lemmer was involved as well. My father was giving him what assistance he could when you intervened to have him sent home.’

  ‘I didn’t intervene. I was asked to assess the situation and that’s what I did.’

  ‘My father went back to London and Kuroda was called off by his superiors. Tomura and Lemmer were allowed to continue with their scheming.’

  Hodgson lifted one end of his neckerchief to wipe some sweat from his upper lip. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick … Max. When I said you shouldn’t have come here, it wasn’t because I was worried about myself. It’s because I’m worried about you. You really shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘Kuroda’s been killed now as well as my father. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I heard of Kuroda’s death, yes. Officially, an accident … I believe.’

  ‘Do you believe it?’

  More mopping of the lip. ‘No,’ Hodgson murmured. ‘Of course I don’t.’

  ‘Did you recommend my father be sent home?’

  ‘Yes. I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Tomura was and still is a dangerous man. Doubly so when collaborating with Lemmer. I was genuinely concerned for Henry’s safety. He and your mother knew the Tomuras socially. They also knew Mrs Tomura’s father.’

  ‘Claude Farngold?’

  ‘Yes. They met him aboard ship on their way here in eighty-nine. He joined the voyage at Hong Kong. Business often took him there, I understand. Henry told me – and Kuroda – that Farngold expressed grave concerns to him about Tomura’s political activities. His daughter had only been married to Tomura a matter of months then. It was rumoured Farngold had agreed to the match to gain a commercial advantage. Army supply contracts: that kind of thing. Then came the attempted assassination of the Japanese Foreign Minister, Okuma. And, shortly afterwards, Farngold’s death in a fire at his warehouse. Well, you’ve read the report. Kuroda said there was a strong possibility Farngold was already dead when the fire began. It looked to him like murder concealed by arson. His superiors disagreed. Just as they disagreed with his suggestion that Lemmer encouraged Tomura to move against the Tsarevich in order to poison Russo-Japanese relations. Henry offered to help him out by making a statement to the police putting on record his suspicion that Tomura had ordered Claude Farngold’s murder to prevent him disclosing evidence connecting Tomura with the attempt on Okuma’s life. That would have made it very difficult for Kuroda’s superiors to stop him investigating Tomura’s role in the attack on the Tsarevich. But London had insisted no legation personnel were to become personally involved in the matter for fear of provoking a full-scale diplomatic row. So, Henry was told to keep quiet, which he wasn’t at all happy about. Since there was a distinct possibility Tomura was aware of his willingness to speak out, it seemed to me he was bound to be in danger. The boat home was the obvious answer.’