Max shrugged. ‘I can’t speak for him.’
‘Will you buy me a brandy, James? I feel a little …’
‘Of course. Is there somewhere else we can go? We’ll attract a lot of attention here.’
‘Yes. The Parnasse. Next door. It’s quieter.’
THE CAFÉ PARNASSE was, as she had promised, quieter than the Dôme: fewer customers, less badinage, calmer altogether. Max watched her sip her brandy and went on watching her as he flicked his lighter for her cigarette. She was older than he by a few years. And some of those years had been hard ones, costing her much of the bloom she must once have had. She was beautiful, but no longer flawless. The cuff of her blouse beneath her check jacket was ever-so-slightly frayed. There was weariness in her looks and sadness in her eyes.
‘Call me Corinne,’ she said softly.
‘In that case, you’d better call me Max. I’m only James to my family.’
‘Max it is. The name suits you. Henry said you flew in the war.’
‘I did.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘The war? Or the flying?’
‘Both. Or either.’
‘I haven’t flown a plane since I was shot down in April of ’seventeen. That’s nearly two years. I missed it dreadfully at first. Now … it’s not so bad.’
‘And you’ll be flying again soon, won’t you?’
‘Ah. Pa told you about that, did he?’
She did not answer. But Sir Henry had told her everything, of course. Max felt strangely certain of that. He was damned if he would embarrass himself or Corinne Dombreux by asking her to admit she and his father – her senior by at least thirty years – had been lovers. She had said she loved him and that was enough. Nor was it hard to understand what might have attracted Sir Henry to her. She had an air of mystery and a hint of fragility likely to attract many men – including Max, come to that.
‘You speak very good English, Corinne. I’d hardly know you were French.’
‘My mother was English. And I went to school there. Both my parents wanted me to be the perfect English lady.’
‘You say that as if you disappointed them.’
‘Living here, as I do, isn’t what they had in mind for me. It’s not what I had in mind for myself.’
‘How did it come about?’
‘I married the wrong man, Max. I am the widow of the infamous Pierre Dombreux.’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘I wish no one had.’
‘What did he do to earn his infamy?’
‘He betrayed his country … so they say.’
‘How?’
‘He was a diplomat, like Henry. My parents were very pleased when I married him. So was I. I loved him. I thought he loved me. He was posted to the embassy in St Petersburg. I went with him.’
‘And that’s where you met my father?’
‘Yes. There was nothing between us at first, except friendship, which flourished despite the difference in our ages. And a friendship is what it would have remained if Pierre had been faithful to me. But he was not. And he did little to hide it. Henry was a source of strength when I most needed it. He was the only friend I had in the whole of St Petersburg – Petrograd, as it was by then. When Pierre learnt of our closeness – which was entirely innocent at that point, though precious to me nonetheless – he sent me home to Paris in disgrace.
‘My parents believed every lie he told them. They disowned me. This was in the autumn of 1917, just before the Bolsheviks seized power in Russia. The war was going badly. I had our apartment to live in, but no money. I found work as a seamstress. It was hard. I received a second schooling: in what the world is like for a woman with no place in society. And there was worse to come. In March last year, when the Bolsheviks made peace with Germany, Pierre was accused of prompting them to do so by revealing secret plans the French government had supposedly approved for Japan to seize Vladivostok.
‘The first I knew of it was when the papers named him as a traitor. He had gone missing, it was reported. A few days later, I had a telegram from the embassy in Petrograd. His body had been pulled out of the Griboedov canal. He’d been shot through the head.’
‘Good God. That must have been a terrible shock for you.’
‘I’m not asking for sympathy.’ There was a flash of anger in her eyes. Her pride in herself had been dented by misfortune. But it had not been destroyed.
‘I’ll be sure not to offer any.’
Corinne frowned at him. ‘You’re a lot like your father, you know.’
‘My mother’s forever complaining of how unlike him I am.’
‘Henry always said she misunderstood him.’
‘They’d grown apart, Corinne. You must know that.’
‘Yes. Of course. I can only speak of the Henry I knew. We wrote to each other after I left Petrograd. And he came to see me after he left himself, early last year.’ (Was that when their relationship had moved beyond the platonic? Max wondered. Or had his father waited until she was a widow?) ‘When he saw how I was living, he began sending me money, which I’m ashamed to say I accepted. I was evicted from Pierre’s apartment after his death. That’s when I moved here. I took the job at the station to try to make myself independent. I took other jobs as well.’
‘Including modelling?’
‘Yes. Do you want to know how many artists I posed for in the nude, Max? Is that it?’
‘The only artist I’m interested in is Raffaele Spataro.’
‘He was one of them,’ she acknowledged with a sigh.
‘Did it stop at posing?’
‘He’d have liked to take it further. I didn’t let him. I know what you’ve been told: that Henry fell from the roof because he was spying on Spataro to see if I was with him. It’s nonsense. I wasn’t there. I haven’t done any modelling since Henry came to Paris. And I only modelled for Raffaele Spataro once. He’s a lecher and a liar. He probably encouraged Zamaron to believe I spent the night with him to burnish his reputation as the Casanova of Montparnasse.’ She shook her head. ‘It would be laughable if it weren’t so serious. Please don’t entertain the notion that I betrayed your father. It’s the last thing I’d have done.’
‘Why was he there that night, Corinne?’
She took a sip of brandy and looked Max in the eye. ‘He was there every night. I surely don’t have to spell it out.’
‘How did he get into the building?’
‘He had a key.’
‘None was found on him.’
‘He left it in my apartment. I found it when I returned.’
‘Returned from where?’
‘Nantes. My sister lives there. I received a telegram at the station just as I was about to go off duty saying she was dangerously ill. I travelled to Nantes at once, but the journey took hours, of course. I knew Henry would be waiting for me, but there was nothing I could do. When I arrived, I discovered the telegram was a hoax. My sister wasn’t ill at all. And she wasn’t pleased to see me. I’d missed the last train back by then, so, somewhat reluctantly, she let me stay overnight. I think she suspected I was making a clumsy attempt to effect a reconciliation. Little good it would have done me. I took the first train back in the morning. And when I reached home …’
‘You think someone lured you away?’
‘It didn’t occur to me at the time, but my sister had no way of knowing where I worked. Yet the telegram was sent from Nantes. Someone went to great lengths to arrange my absence that night.’
‘Knowing my father would then be there alone.’
‘Yes. Exactly.’
‘You realize what you’re suggesting?’
‘He was murdered, Max. I haven’t a doubt of that.’
So, she had come out and said what he had already begun to suspect himself. It was murder. And murder changed everything. If it was true, it could not go unavenged. ‘You must have told Zamaron where you were.’
‘Naturally I told him, but he doesn’t believe me.
Spataro says I was with him. That’s good enough for Commissioner Zamaron.’
‘Surely your sister—’
‘He assumes she’s helping me out of a hole by saying I was in Nantes. Not that she has said that, as far as I know. I don’t think he’s actually asked her.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because he doesn’t need to. For his purposes, it’s enough that Henry might have suspected I was with Raffaele Spataro. Zamaron isn’t conducting a criminal inquiry. That’s the beauty of his theory from his point of view. It means he doesn’t have to amass evidence or test alibis. He doesn’t have to do anything.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘Don’t waste your time with the police. They don’t want to know. Zamaron’s not his own master. The unexplained murder of a member of the British delegation to the peace conference could turn into a scandal. They’re afraid the press – and others – will start suggesting it had something to do with the conference itself.’
‘Could it have?’
‘I don’t know. Neither do they. So, it’s safer to write it off as an accident.’
Max lit a cigarette and considered the point. ‘How sure are you that he was murdered, Corinne?’
‘You mean how sure can I make you?’
He smiled drily. ‘I suppose I do.’
‘Henry left the apartment in a hurry. He didn’t lock the door behind him. He didn’t take his overcoat. He was chasing something … someone.’
‘An intruder?’
‘Maybe.’
‘When I went up on the roof, I noticed that one of the skylights was broken. From the inside.’
‘I noticed that too.’
Max was not surprised to learn Corinne had been on the roof. What else, he wondered, had she done in pursuit of her lover’s murderer?
‘Did they let you see Henry’s body, Max?’
‘Of course.’
‘They wouldn’t let me. There were excuses about the severity of his injuries. When I persisted, I was told I had no right to see him because I wasn’t a relative. And I won’t be able to go to his funeral either, will I?’
Max shook his head sorrowfully. ‘No.’
‘I don’t expect you to approve of our relationship. But I loved him. And now I’ve lost him. To a murderer no one is prepared to admit even exists.’
‘I’m prepared to admit it.’
She looked at him, her eyes suddenly full of hope. ‘You are?’
‘Someone cut Pa’s fingernails, Corinne. They made a pretty poor job of it. He certainly didn’t do it himself. It must have been done after his death. Probably at the mortuary. The question is: why?’
‘Do you have an answer?’
‘If there was a struggle on the roof, if Pa came to grips with an assailant …’
‘There could have been blood or skin of the assailant under his fingernails?’
Max nodded. ‘That’s what I’m thinking.’
She sipped her brandy and thought for a moment, then said, ‘We must go to my apartment.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s something I need to show you. I wasn’t sure, but now …’ There was a decisiveness in her gaze that had not been there before. ‘Now I’m sure.’
MERCIFULLY, THE CONCIERGE did not stir when they entered 8 Rue du Verger. They took the stairs to Corinne’s apartment. ‘Quieter than the lift,’ she explained. That was amply proven when the sound of someone entering the building reached them as they neared the third floor. It was shortly followed by the lift clanking noisily into motion. ‘Monsieur Miette, second floor back,’ Corinne murmured, apparently knowing all her neighbours merely by their footfalls.
Her apartment was small, though sufficient, he supposed, for a single occupier. It was neat and clean, simply but comfortably furnished, though with few personal touches. There were no photographs on display and no paintings on the walls. Corinne’s domestic existence had been pared down to essentials.
One item that was clearly inessential swiftly attracted his attention, however: a box of Cuban cigars on the mantelpiece. It could only have been left there by his father.
‘He would often wait for me here,’ Corinne said quietly, following the direction of Max’s gaze. ‘He knew the times of my shifts. He’d sit there’ – she pointed to a buttoned-leather armchair beneath a standard lamp – ‘and smoke a cigar and read a newspaper while he waited. I could smell the cigar from the stairs. I’d know by its aroma that I’d see him smiling at me as I opened the door.’
Ashley would be scandalized by such revelations of their father’s secret life, of course. Max might have been himself. Instead, he found them curiously touching. Sir Henry the old romantic was a novel but endearing figure to him.
‘There was still a trace of the aroma when I returned here on Saturday,’ Corinne continued in a wistful tone. ‘But it’s gone now.’
‘What did you want to show me?’ Max asked, as eager to know as he was to change the subject.
‘This.’ She took a piece of paper from her handbag and passed it to him.
He frowned at her. ‘I thought it was something here, in the apartment.’
‘I couldn’t risk showing it to you in the café, in case we were being watched.’
‘Watched?’
‘The apartment was searched while I was at work yesterday. I wasn’t supposed to notice. But they weren’t careful enough. Fortunately, I didn’t leave that piece of paper here.’
‘What is it?’
‘See for yourself. I found it on the table by Henry’s—’ She broke off. ‘On the table by the armchair. You’ll recognize the handwriting.’
It was his father’s, unmistakably: a list of some kind. Corinne lit the lamp for Max to read it by.
It was written in pencil and seemed to represent a rough financial calculation:
Capital 4,000
Mortgage 3,000
Seals 3,000
Trust c 5,000
Chinese box c 5,000
Contingencies Memo c 5,000
F.L. c 5,000
c 30,000
‘Do you know what this is about?’ Max asked, turning to Corinne.
‘No. I don’t think he intended me or anyone else to read it. He’d probably have destroyed it if he hadn’t been interrupted.’
‘By whoever killed him?’
‘That’s how I see it.’
‘Thirty thousand pounds is a hell of a lot of money.’
‘I know.’
‘Did he say anything to you that implied he was trying to raise a sum like this?’
‘No.’
Max looked at the list again. Capital. Sir Henry might have had savings of £4,000. It was certainly possible. Mortgage. He had nothing to mortgage apart from Gresscombe Place. Surely he would not have done that without telling Lady Maxted; Ashley would know if he had. Seals. What that might refer to Max could not guess. Likewise Trust, unless there was some family fund no one had ever mentioned to him, which was not inconceivable. Chinese box was a Chinese puzzle in its own right, as were Contingencies Memo and F.L. The first three figures were definite amounts, the next four estimates.
‘Do you mind if I copy this?’
‘Go ahead.’
Max fished a piece of paper from his wallet and jotted down the details. ‘I’ll show the list to my brother. It might mean something to him.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s difficult to explain, but …’
‘What?’
She looked down. ‘Henry said Ashley wasn’t to be trusted.’
‘He said that? When?’
‘I don’t know. Some time back, I asked him about the two of you … and how you got on. I …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. You must think I had no business discussing you with your father. And you’re right, of course.’
‘What did he say, Corinne? Just tell me.’
She hesitated a moment longer, then answered him. �
�I’ve already told you. Ashley wasn’t to be trusted.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No. He also said he thought you were made of the right stuff.’ She glanced directly at Max. ‘I’m very much hoping he was right. You’re the only person I’ve shown that to. It’s the only clue I have as to why Henry may have been murdered. You should weigh the risks very carefully before you share the information with anyone else. As you said, thirty thousand pounds is a lot of money.’
‘What would he have wanted it for?’
‘I don’t know. But something happened about a month ago. It changed Henry. Not towards me, but inside himself. His thoughts were often elsewhere. As if he was turning a problem over in his mind. He said the delegation was working him hard, but that wasn’t it. Something else was going on. Something else altogether. He went to London the week after your visit and—’
‘He went to London?’
‘Yes. He was away three nights. He said he’d been recalled to the Foreign Office for consultations.’
‘That can’t be right. He wouldn’t have gone back to England without seeing my mother. And as I understand it most of the Foreign Office is here in Paris. He didn’t need to go to London to consult his lords and masters.’
‘It’s what he told me, Max. And I believed him. But now … I’m not so sure.’
‘When was this exactly?’
‘He left … two weeks ago today.’
Max pulled out his pocket-diary. ‘That would have been … Monday the tenth.’
‘Yes.’
‘I saw him here in Paris on Thursday the sixth. He said nothing about it then.’
‘He can’t have wanted you to know.’
‘But why not?’
The only reply Corinne could manage was a shake of the head. Then she frowned and said, ‘Your diary.’
‘What about it?’
‘Henry had a pocket-diary too. With a coat of arms on the front.’
‘Official issue of some kind, I imagine.’
‘It had a little pencil in the spine.’
‘What of it?’
‘He didn’t carry any other pencil.’
‘Corinne, I—’
The Ways of the World Page 7
