‘Is there any of Spataro’s work here?’
Ashley stiffened, but remained silent. Zamaron, meanwhile, appeared blithely undismayed. He was on first-name terms with his favourite artists as well, it soon transpired. ‘I cannot show Raffaele’s paintings here. They are too—’
‘Explicit?’
‘Non, non. They are too big. Raffaele, he … paints on a grand scale.’
‘But he does paints nudes, doesn’t he?’
‘Er, sometimes. Not always. He is … versatile.’
‘And something of a ladies’ man?’
Zamaron leant back in his chair and gazed studiously at Max. ‘He is Italian, Monsieur Maxted. He has a reputation, like many of his countrymen. But it was my understanding that you and Sir Ashley did not wish to enquire deeply into—’
‘We don’t, commissioner,’ Ashley interrupted, with a glare at Max. ‘We don’t require any more information than we already have. Isn’t that so, James?’
Max shrugged. ‘Yes. Of course. I was just—’
The door rattled open and Fradgley came in, sparing Max the need to complete his sentence. ‘I’m pleased to say that all the documentation we require to facilitate the collection of Sir Henry’s body from the hospital is now to hand, gentlemen,’ Fradgley announced, looking every bit as pleased as he claimed to be. ‘There is a reliable firm of undertakers we customarily use in such situations as this. They can arrange everything and deliver the deceased to the Gare du Nord to be carried on the train you elect to travel home on.’
‘They’re thinking of tomorrow, Fradgley,’ said Appleby.
‘That should present no difficulty. The documents are waiting at the Embassy and the undertakers will be available at your convenience.’
‘Excellent,’ said Ashley.
So it was, in its way, thought Max. The Paris police and the British Embassy were surpassing themselves in the cause of a speedy resolution to the awkward matter of Sir Henry Maxted’s fatal fall. It was hard not to be impressed. And it was equally difficult not to ponder what chances the truth had of making itself heard amidst all this speed and efficiency.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, messieurs?’ Zamaron enquired, in a tone that presumed the answer would be no.
‘One point does occur to me,’ said Max in the same instant that Ashley opened his mouth to speak.
Ashley rounded on him. ‘What?’
‘It’s simply that there’s no key among our father’s possessions, commissioner.’
‘No key?’ Zamaron frowned in puzzlement.
‘Well, I’m merely wondering how our father gained entry to the apartment building on Friday night. I assume it’s locked at night.’
‘For heaven’s sake, James,’ spluttered Ashley, ‘haven’t we—’
‘Non, non,’ Zamaron cut in. ‘Monsieur Maxted asks a good question. The building is locked at night, oui. The concierge, Madame Mesnet, assures me of this. But she is forgetful. She likes to take a drink. She may have forgotten to lock the door. Or else Sir Henry had a key, given to him by Madame Dombreux, which slipped from his pocket when he fell and was … not noticed on the pavement.’
‘Yes,’ Max conceded. ‘I suppose one of those explanations must be correct.’
‘You’re satisfied on the point, then?’ Ashley asked, glaring at him.
‘Yes. As far as one can be.’
‘Good. Well, I’m sure Commissioner Zamaron is a busy man. I think we’ve taken up enough of his time, don’t you?’
ASHLEY WAS CLEARLY seething with irritation at Max – all the more because he could not express it – when they left Police Headquarters and travelled to the British Embassy. There the atmosphere was calm and orderly, hushed, it struck Max, almost ecclesiastical.
Fradgley had Sir Henry’s passport and his travel-hardened leather suitcase, packed with his belongings from his room at the Hotel Majestic, waiting in his office for them to collect. More crucially, he had a tranche of documents – permits of one kind or another, some in duplicate, some in triplicate, and the terse but essential death certificate. From an administrative viewpoint, nothing now stood in the way of Sir Henry’s posthumous repatriation to his homeland.
Fradgley suggested they should repair promptly to the undertaker he recommended in order to arrange the next stage in the process. To this they readily agreed. Appleby explained he would not be accompanying them. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you, gentlemen.’ They did not argue.
As he left, Appleby said, looking at Max as he spoke, ‘If you do find you need me, I can be contacted via the security office at the Majestic.’
Ashley hardly seemed to be listening. But Max was.
Their business at the undertaker’s was handled with sombre efficiency. Monsieur Prettre, entrepreneur de pompes funèbres of the fourth generation (with the daguerreotyped likeness of his great-grandfather casting a faded gaze over his shoulder) assured them of his best and swiftest attention. He saw no reason why they could not take their father home on Tuesday’s noon train. He suggested they telephone him later to confirm everything was in order.
Through gritted teeth (it seemed to Max) Fradgley offered them lunch ‘at the Embassy’s expense’ after they had left the undertaker’s. If this was intended as an acknowledgement of the service Sir Henry had rendered his country over the years, Max reckoned it erred on the side of paltriness.
The conversation over lunch was as dull as the food. Handshakes afterwards on the pavement outside the restaurant marked, Max assumed, the end of their dealings with Fradgley, but it transpired he was assuming too much.
‘I’ll be at the Gare du Nord tomorrow to see you off, gentlemen,’ the wretched man announced. ‘And to ensure there aren’t any last-minute hitches. You can’t take any chances with the French.’
Ashley interpreted this as a further indication of the lengths the Embassy was going to in order to smooth their path. If anyone’s path was being smoothed, Max thought it more likely to be Fradgley’s. But much of Ashley’s anger at him for asking unhelpful questions at unhelpful times had dissipated, so he chose not to offer this interpretation.
A somewhat testier version of the discussion they had had on their way out of 8 Rue du Verger ensued as they walked back to the Mazarin through the dank grey afternoon. But Max was well aware it would have been testier still a few hours earlier.
‘You don’t seem to appreciate, James, just how helpful these people are being.’
‘Oh, I do, Ashley, believe me.’
‘Then why must you keep provoking them?’
‘I thought they might think it odd if one of us didn’t query a few things.’
‘What is there to query apart from Pa’s sanity? How he can have put himself in such a situation is beyond me.’
‘La femme fatale. I believe it’s an old story.’
‘Well, it’s not a story we can allow Mother to hear.’
‘I agree.’
‘Then act as if you agree. And apply your mind to the problem of what we’re going to tell her.’
‘I will.’
‘Good. Because we don’t have long to think of something.’
They assuredly did not. Max claimed, accurately enough, that a walk would help clear his mind on the subject. He left Ashley at the door of the Mazarin with a tentative agreement to dine together later. Ashley had telegrams to send, to the undertaker in Epsom their family used and to their mother, alerting her to the imminence of their return. There was plenty to keep him busy.
There was plenty to occupy Max too, though it was not exactly what he had led his brother to suppose. As soon as he was out of sight of the Mazarin, he headed for the river. He was going back to Montparnasse.
William Fradgley would not have been pleased to know this. Fortunately for his peace of mind, he believed Sir Ashley Maxted had his brother’s inquisitiveness well under control. He was in the process of telling Appleby so even as Max was striding across the Pont de l’Alma.
<
br /> ‘They’ll be gone tomorrow, Appleby, and the problem of Sir Henry with them.’
‘You think so?’ Appleby’s rumbling voice was turned into a growl by the crackly telephone line from the Majestic.
‘Of course. Why not?’
‘The younger brother. James. He worries me.’
‘You worry too much.’
‘That’s my job, Fradgley. To worry. The last thing we want during the conference is a scandal.’
‘It’s also the last thing Sir Henry’s family wants.’
‘But there’s more than one kind of scandal. And Sir Henry tupping a young widow is far from the worst.’
‘What a coarse turn of phrase you people do have.’
‘It must arise from the sort of fixes we have to get you people out of.’
‘I don’t know what—’
‘Have you heard anything from le Deuxième Bureau?’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘They may have been keeping an eye on Madame Dombreux.’
‘Surely whatever her husband was up to was buried with him in Russia.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Certainty’s hard to come by in my line of business.’
Fradgley sighed. ‘I’ll put the Maxted brothers on the train tomorrow, Appleby. Along with their late father. As far as I’m concerned, my involvement in this matter ends there.’
‘I wish I could believe mine will too.’
‘Well, I must get on.’
‘Yes, yes. I’m sure there are memos you need to write. Good afternoon to you.’
Max had set himself a brisk pace and was at the Gare Montparnasse within half an hour. He had no way of knowing whether Madame Dombreux would be on duty, but was happy to take his chances. If she had already gone, he would simply have to press on to 8 Rue du Verger.
He could not see the cashiers clearly behind their grilled windows, but, after annoying several people by dodging from one queue to another, he found the one he was looking for.
The cashier was a young woman, dressed in an unflattering grey uniform. But, as Max drew closer, it became ever more obvious that she was really quite beautiful.
Her dark hair was gathered beneath her uniform cap. Her face was pale and heart-shaped and only a cast of weariness in her looks disguised her attractiveness. She kept her cool green eyes trained on the tickets and the money in front of her. Her expression was grave, her exchanges with passengers minimally polite. Max would have guessed, even without knowing, that she was someone only misfortune and adverse circumstances had reduced to issuing train tickets for a living. She had been bred for better.
He reached the head of the queue and drew her gaze by the simple means of saying nothing.
‘Oui, monsieur?’ she prompted, her voice soft and serious.
‘Madame Dombreux?’
She frowned and looked at him more intently. Then she covered her mouth in surprise. He heard her sharp intake of breath. Somehow, she knew who he was.
‘I’m James Maxted.’
‘Of course. You have Henry’s eyes.’
Her direct, unflinching reference to his father and the perfection of her English, in which an accent was barely detectable, took him aback. For a moment, he merely stared at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I did not mean to—’
‘I need to speak to you.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘And I to you. But we cannot speak here. Meet me in the Café du Dôme at a quarter to seven. It is on Carrefour Vavin.’
WITH TIME TO kill, Max went into a café opposite the station, where he drank two coffees and smoked several cigarettes. The light outside started to fail and the streets became slowly busier as workers began their homeward journeys. Well-filled trams rattled by at intervals. He pondered the enigma of Madame Dombreux and her relationship with his father. You have Henry’s eyes. The phrase lingered in his thoughts, along with the manner in which she had spoken it. Whatever she had been to Sir Henry, it surely amounted to more than he had been led to believe.
It was a short walk along Boulevard du Montparnasse to Carrefour Vavin. He diverted to Rue du Verger and paused to stare up at the roof of number 8. It was growing dark now. Lamplight gleamed from some of the windows. It was easy to convince himself Madame Mesnet was peering out at him from one of them. He headed on.
There were several cafés spaced around the junction. The Café du Dôme appeared to be the busiest, with one or two hardy souls braving the terrace. Inside, most of the tables were occupied. There was laughter and shoulder-clapping banter and a miasma of cigarette smoke. Max could hear the click of billiard balls from an inner room. He found a perch on one of the banquettes close to the entrance and ordered a beer. He looked at his watch and wondered what he would say when she arrived.
A quarter of an hour slowly passed. Then a large, bulky figure entered the café, colliding with Max’s table as he did so. He uttered no apology, probably because he had not noticed. He was a huge man, made to look huger still by a flapping, frayed tweed suit and wild head of hair, complete with bushy beard. He headed straight for the bar, waving his hand in acknowledgement as someone shouted his name. ‘Eh, Raffaele!’
Several of those standing at the bar greeted him familiarly. And his response clinched his identity. ‘Buonasera … mes amis.’ A brandy was downed in mid-sentence and another promptly ordered.
It was both an opportunity not to be missed and one fraught with difficulties. For all his bonhomie, Spataro looked every bit as volatile as an Italian artist might be expected to. Perhaps the shrewdest course of action would be to wait and see how he reacted to Madame Dombreux’s arrival.
But shrewdness sat ill with Max’s impatience to learn as much as he could before he was obliged to leave Paris. He stood up and threaded his way to the bar.
‘Raffaele Spataro?’ There was no response until Max had added a tap on the arm – an arm that felt like a solid mass of muscle. ‘Raffaele Spataro?’
‘Si.’ Spataro swung round and looked at him. ‘C’est moi.’
‘I’m James Maxted.’
‘You are English.’
‘Yes. Could I have a word with you?’
‘Ah. Words. That is all the English have.’
‘I don’t think the Germans would agree with you there.’
The remark seemed to make Spataro take stock of Max for the first time. ‘Do you want to buy me a drink, mio amico?’
‘I’d be happy to.’
Spataro laughed. ‘Then I leave you to pay for my brandy.’ He drained his second glass and smacked it down on the bar. ‘Grazie mille. I must go.’
‘Wait.’ Max laid a restraining hand on Spataro’s elbow. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about the death in Rue du Verger on Friday night.’
‘What is that to you?’
‘The man who died was my father. Sir Henry Maxted.’
‘Then I am sorry for you. But I know nothing.’
‘Your studio faces the roof he supposedly fell from.’
‘Supposedly? What is “supposedly”? He fell.’
‘Did you see it happen?’
Spataro shook Max off and gave him a glare in which there was just a hint of fear beneath the menace. ‘I saw nothing.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Si. I am sure.’
‘You don’t look it.’
Spataro’s eyes widened. Suddenly, he grabbed Max by the tie and collar. Max felt his feet being raised from the floor. He smiled, which seemed to baffle the Italian. ‘What is funny?’
‘You are, Raffaele. It’s a good thing you’re an artist, because you’d make a rotten actor.’
Spataro’s face darkened and his grip on Max tightened. Then there was a shout from behind the bar. The patron intervened in a reproving volley of Franco-Italian that seemed to register with Spataro as something he was bound to take note of. He scowled and ground his teeth, then released Max and held up his hands in a placatory fashion. But it was the management of a favourite wat
ering hole he was placating, not Max. ‘Leave me alone,’ he growled. Then he spun on his heel and stalked out.
Max rather expected the patron to give him his marching orders too. But he was positively sympathetic, refusing to let Max pay for Spataro’s brandies and referring to ‘les artistes’ with an expressive roll of the eyes.
One of the other customers massed at the bar spoke reasonable English and claimed to know someone who knew one of those who had found Sir Henry’s body. ‘A terrible thing, monsieur. Have the police found out what happened?’ Max assured him they had not. ‘Naturellement,’ came the cynical response.
Max decided to finish his beer outside. It was growing cold, but that hardly mattered. He wanted to be able to suggest to Madame Dombreux that they go elsewhere for their talk. After his encounter with Spataro, he felt too conspicuous for comfort at the Dôme.
He was not kept waiting long, but her arrival surprised him nonetheless. He was expecting her to approach from the direction of the station and to be recognizable by her uniform. Instead, she appeared suddenly beside him, dressed in her own clothes: skirt, coat and cloche hat. She had evidently gone home first.
‘Why are you out here?’ she asked at once.
‘I met your friend Spataro. He got a little … loud.’
‘Raffaele Spataro?’
‘The very same.’
‘He’s no friend of mine.’
‘That’s not what Commissioner Zamaron says.’
She frowned at him and shook her head, as if surpassingly sorry that he should believe whatever Zamaron had told him. ‘Why are you here, James?’ Her freedom with his first name was disarming in its effect.
‘I want to know why my father died.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, so do I.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I am sorry. I loved him. His death like that … was so awful.’ She dabbed away some of her tears with a handkerchief.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, madame.’
‘But you want the truth.’
‘Yes.’
‘And your brother? Madame Mesnet told me of your visit. I notice he isn’t with you. Does he want the truth?’
The Ways of the World Page 6
