The Ways of the World

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Did the police give you everything they found on him, Max?’

  ‘Yes. They did.’

  ‘Was there a pocket-diary?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There should have been. He didn’t leave it here. And he wouldn’t have left it at the Majestic. Besides, I’m sure he used the pencil to write this list.’

  Max felt sure she was right. Sir Henry’s pocket-diary had been removed. But who had taken it? And why?

  ‘The French police didn’t know what they were looking for. If they had, the list would probably have gone too. It took a while for someone to arrange a thorough search of this apartment. By then it was too late.’

  ‘Damn them all,’ Max declared, his mind suddenly made up. ‘I’m not going to let them get away with this.’

  ‘But who are “they”?’

  ‘That’s what I mean to find out. Did you ever see any of the diary entries?’

  ‘As far as I know, Henry only used it to record appointments in connection with his duties for the delegation.’

  ‘Do you remember him mentioning any of the names of the people he met?’

  ‘Well, there was a Brazilian delegate he saw quite a bit of called Ribeiro. They knew one another from Henry’s time in Rio. And he often referred to a man called Norris whom he reported to in the British delegation. There was a Japanese delegate he was acquainted with as well, though I can’t recall his name, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What about Ireton? Did he ever talk about him? An American. Travis Ireton.’

  There was a gleam of recognition in Corinne’s gaze. ‘Yes. Ireton. I remember. We met him at the races at St-Cloud. A strange sort of fellow, with a lopsided stance … and a scar on his face.’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He was at the Ritz the evening I dined there with Pa. We had a brief word. He was in the company of some Rumanians.’

  ‘Really? The people he was at St-Cloud with were fellow Americans, I think.’

  ‘I asked him if he was attached to the American delegation and got a pretty evasive answer. I had the impression he was some kind of … fixer.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Max smiled. ‘I’m not sure. Next time, I’ll press him to be more specific about what he does.’

  ‘I may be able to tell you how to contact him.’

  Max looked at her in surprise. ‘How?’

  ‘He’s a womanizer. A girl can always tell. Clumsy flirtation usually confirms it, as it did at St-Cloud. He slipped me his card. “In case you want to call round” was how he put it.’

  ‘And you still have it?’

  ‘I believe I do.’

  Corinne crossed to the bureau in the corner of the room, delved in a flower-patterned china pot and returned, smiling triumphantly. It was the first time Max had seen her smile and a surpassingly lovely sight it was. He had a glimpse then of the pleasure his father must have taken from her company.

  ‘Here it is.’ She handed the card to him.

  Travis R. Ireton

  For all your needs in post-war Paris:

  une cité des possibilités

  Ireton Associates

  33 Rue des Pyramides, Paris

  Telegrams: Trireton, Paris

  Telephone: Central 48-99

  ‘“A city of possibilities”,’ Max mused as he slipped the card into his wallet. ‘I wonder what he means by that.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  ‘I’d like to be there when you do.’

  ‘It’ll be better if I handle this on my own: man to man.’ And safer for Corinne, he reflected. If Sir Henry really had been murdered, seeking out the reason was likely to be dangerous.

  She knew that, of course. ‘Are you trying to protect me, Max?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want you to, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. But if I’m to pursue this, I must do it alone.’

  ‘Are you worried I’ll get in your way?’

  ‘I’m more worried that the irregular nature of your relationship with my father could put me in a difficult position.’

  She flinched. The words had hurt her, as Max had intended. If the cost of keeping her out of harm’s way was to have her think him a prude, so be it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Corinne, but I can’t allow my family to think you and I have become allies.’

  ‘No.’ She composed herself. ‘I suppose you can’t.’

  ‘I’m grateful for the information you’ve given me. I’ll make the best use of it I can. And I’ll let you know what I learn.’

  ‘That would be kind of you.’

  ‘Now I think I should be going, don’t you?’

  She nodded. In her expression there was realism as well as disappointment. It seemed he had succeeded in lowering her opinion of him. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  MAX FOUND ASHLEY consuming a solitary meal in the restaurant of the Mazarin and looking none too happy about it.

  ‘Where have you been till this time?’ Ashley growled. Fortunately he launched into a summary of how arrangements for the funeral stood without requiring Max to answer that question.

  Max ordered fish and let Ashley talk himself out on the subjects of their father’s extraordinary lack of judgement (‘No fool like an old fool’), the cooperativeness of the French authorities (‘Surprisingly obliging lot’) and the thorny issue of what they were to tell their mother (‘We have to think of something, damn it’).

  Then, as the meal drew towards a close, Max broached the subject that had been on his mind all along.

  ‘I need to have a word with you in private, Ashley.’

  His brother was instantly suspicious. ‘What about?’

  ‘This is no place to discuss it.’

  ‘I don’t want you creating difficulties, Max.’

  ‘I know you don’t.’

  ‘But you’re going to create some anyway. Is that it?’

  ‘Shall we go to my room or yours?’

  Ashley flung his napkin down tetchily on the table. ‘Mine.’

  There was a predictable explosion of fury from Ashley when he realized Max had been to see Corinne Dombreux. Eventually and reluctantly, however, he agreed to hear what Max had to say.

  It seemed to Max as he spoke that the evidence of foul play was irrefutable, or at the very least far stronger than the evidence that Sir Henry had died accidentally. The shorn fingernails; the missing diary; the broken skylight; the hoax telegram; the searching of Corinne’s apartment; the mysterious list: they all told the same story.

  But it was not a story Ashley had any intention of believing. His sullen silence as Max laid the facts before him suggested as much. And, when Max had finished, he wasted no time in making his position clear.

  ‘I don’t understand the way your mind works, James, I truly don’t. We agreed it was in the family’s best interests to ensure no scandal attached itself to Pa’s death. Now here you are doing your damnedest to sabotage that effort. Perhaps the Dombreux woman has dazzled you just as she dazzled Pa. Well, I don’t propose to entertain her lies for a moment. She persuaded her sister to provide her with an alibi for her liaison with this Italian painter and you swallow it hook, line and sinker. Thank the lord Zamaron isn’t so credulous. You have only her word for it that her apartment’s been searched, but what if it has? As the widow of a known traitor I should think she bears careful watching. A broken skylight is a broken skylight and nothing more. You don’t know when it was broken or by whom. As for Pa’s fingernails, I never noticed they were badly or clumsily trimmed.’

  ‘That’s because you didn’t look at them,’ Max cut in.

  ‘I didn’t need to. It’s ridiculous to suggest the state of his fingernails can have any bearing on this.’

  ‘You know it isn’t ridiculous. He was always fastidious about such things.’

  ‘It’s a pity he wasn’t fastidious about his choice of female company.’

  ‘Wh
at about his diary, Ashley? How do you account for it being removed?’

  ‘It wasn’t among the items the police handed over because it wasn’t found on him. It is as simple as that.’

  ‘Then where is it?’

  ‘We don’t know it ever existed. I don’t recall him using one when he was at Gresscombe. The Dombreux woman may have invented it, just as she’s invented Pa’s trip to England two weeks ago. Or …’ A thought struck him. ‘It could be in there, of course.’ He pointed to Sir Henry’s suitcase, standing in the corner of the room.

  ‘Have you looked inside?’

  ‘No.’ Ashley’s expression implied there had clearly been no good reason to.

  ‘Well, perhaps we better had.’

  Max opened the case and laid it on the floor. He had no expectation of finding anything of interest. Appleby had already had ample opportunity to examine the contents of Sir Henry’s room at the Majestic and remove anything significant. His expectation was duly fulfilled. The case held only clothes and toiletries. He delved into every corner and into every pocket of the jackets and trousers. There was nothing else.

  ‘No diary,’ he said, closing the case.

  ‘Then she made it up,’ came Ashley’s fatuous response.

  ‘And the list? Did she make that up? The original’s in Pa’s handwriting. I saw it for myself.’

  ‘There’s no mortgage on Gresscombe Place, James. And no secret family trust. It’s balderdash.’

  ‘You think Pa wrote the list for no reason?’

  ‘I think we can’t hope to know the reason. A man’s bound to leave a few minor mysteries behind him when he dies as suddenly and unexpectedly as Pa did.’

  ‘So, you refuse to accept he may have been murdered?’

  ‘The suggestion’s preposterous. Why would anyone want to murder him?’

  ‘That’s what I mean to find out.’

  ‘Fortunately, there’s no time for you to make a nuisance of yourself by trying. We leave on the noon train tomorrow.’

  ‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What?’ Ashley stared at him incredulously, though why he should be so surprised Max did not understand. The logic of what he had said was obvious and it did not involve leaving Paris in the near future.

  ‘I believe Pa may well have been murdered, Ashley. That doesn’t appear to bother you or the police or the Foreign Office. But it does bother me. And I intend to do everything in my power to establish the truth of what happened to him.’

  Ashley reddened ominously. ‘I had your word – your solemn word – that you’d help me protect our family’s good name.’

  ‘I am protecting it. By seeking justice for a member of it.’

  ‘You’ll be on that train tomorrow.’

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘Mother expects us both to take Pa home.’

  ‘She’ll understand why I’ve stayed.’

  ‘She most certainly won’t.’

  ‘I’m not leaving, Ashley. You may as well face it.’

  ‘I’m warning you, James.’ Ashley jabbed a forefinger threateningly in Max’s direction. ‘Defy me in this and there’ll be consequences. You need my agreement to open your damned flying school, remember.’

  ‘I felt sure you wouldn’t allow me to forget it.’

  ‘Stay here and you can forget it.’

  So, it had come to that, as Max had feared it would. ‘I can’t trust someone who’s willing to let his father’s probable murder be brushed under the carpet, Ashley. You scuttle back to England and spread whatever lies you like about me. I’ll stay here. And do my duty.’

  MAX FELT AS if a heavy and irksome burden had been lifted from his shoulders following his altercation with Ashley. It was no longer necessary to pretend they were acting in concert. The use of Gresscombe land for a flying school had ceased to be a carrot dangling in front of his nose. He had always been one to chafe at limitations on his freedom. Now he need chafe no more.

  He was aware that the effort of planning for the future, something he had not needed to do during the war, had oppressed him of late. It was not his forte. He was a man of action and of instinct. The RFC had found him valuable on that account, but there had seemed no call for his particular strengths in the peacetime world. His father’s murder – he did not seriously doubt it was murder – had changed all that. He was about to revert to what he did best.

  He rose early next morning and fired off a couple of telegrams. The first was to Sam. He did not want to break the bad news to him by cable, so contented himself with a holding message. Delayed in Paris for indefinite period. The second telegram was to his mother, worded to alert her to what he was trying to accomplish. Will remain in Paris until possible to report true version of events. He was confident she would see through whatever misrepresentations Ashley attempted. He was only doing what she had assured him she expected him to do. He breakfasted at a nearby café, having no wish to risk a frosty encounter with Ashley at the hotel. There he considered his position. He was tempted to proceed directly to the offices of Ireton Associates, but thinking fondly of Sam, as he had that morning, reminded him of the value of thoroughness. It could be, he knew, the difference between life and death.

  A hot afternoon in the summer of 1916, waiting to go on patrol, had exhausted even Max’s capacity for dozing and lazing. Hearing that Sergeant Twentyman was still working on his plane, he had gone to find out why.

  Sam was alone in the maintenance hangar, fiddling with the control wires for the elevator and rudder on Max’s Sopwith Camel. ‘Haven’t you finished with her yet, Twentyman?’ Max demanded.

  ‘Not quite, sir,’ Sam replied, without turning round.

  ‘Why are you so much slower than the other riggers?’

  ‘I’m not, sir. I just do more than they do.’

  ‘More of what, damn it?’

  ‘Checking, sir.’ Sam did turn round now, his smile flashing through a face darkened by oil and sunburn. ‘It’s surprising what you find.’

  ‘And what have you found?’

  ‘Nothing you need to worry about, sir. Now I’ve checked, she won’t let you down.’

  ‘But if you hadn’t she would have?’

  ‘Might’ve, sir. Easily might’ve. And I’d never have forgiven myself if she had. There’s not much I can do about the Hun. But at least I can check everything for you, can’t I?’

  Whether Max would be able to carry out the check he wanted to remained to be seen. He could only trust to luck. But it was still early enough to hope he would catch the staff of the Majestic on the hop.

  The detective on the door looked promisingly bleary-eyed. Max confidently asserted that ‘Mr Appleby’ had approved his visit. This seemed to impress the detective, who, after scrutinizing Max’s passport, took him in to the reception desk.

  By chance, the clerk on duty was the same man Max had met there before. He recognized Max and offered his respectful condolences. He also confirmed that Sir Henry’s room had not yet been reallocated.

  ‘So,’ said Max, ‘there can be no objection to my taking a look at it.’ He deliberately phrased this as a statement rather than a question.

  ‘What are you looking for, sir?’ the detective asked.

  ‘I simply wish to satisfy myself that all my late father’s effects have been removed. My mother would never forgive me if anything of sentimental value was left behind.’

  The detective mulled this over for a moment, then gave his reluctant consent. There was a delay while a colleague of his was summoned to escort Max. ‘Can’t have you wandering around the hotel on your own, sir. You might get lost.’ The clerk supplied the key and they set off.

  The colleague was younger and friendlier and considerably tubbier. He introduced himself in the course of a lengthy tramp up two separate flights of stairs and along various winding corridors as Sergeant Benson, drafted in from the Suffolk constabulary, who was enjoying himself in Paris – ‘as far as they’ll let me, sir, if you catch my
drift’. He was considerably out of breath by the time they reached Sir Henry’s room.

  It was at the back of the hotel, with a view of chimney-stacks and little else, smaller than Max had expected and poorly lit. Sir Henry’s relative unimportance in the British delegation was depressingly obvious.

  ‘Looks pretty empty … to me, sir,’ Benson panted.

  ‘I’ll just make sure.’ Max embarked on a careful inspection of the desk, wardrobe, chest of drawers and bedside cabinet. It revealed nothing. He crouched down for a view under the bed and saw only dust and what might have been mouse droppings. He did not know what he was looking for, of course, nor if there was anything to be looked for. But he knew his father to be cautious, if not secretive, by nature, despite the ample evidence of his recent recklessness. It would not have surprised Max to discover that the old man had hidden something there. It was becoming clear he had hidden a great deal about his life of late.

  Max was himself no stranger to hiding things. It had been a valuable skill in the camp. Rising to his feet, he remembered the role of bunk-posts in concealing material from the guards. Surreptitiously sawing off the top of the posts supporting the prisoners’ bunks and hollowing out their interiors created a space in which all manner of articles could be stashed. Max recalled mentioning this when recounting some of his POW experiences to his father during their dinner at the Ritz.

  The bed in Sir Henry’s room had stout brass posts topped with umbrella-shaped finials. Max was standing close to one of the posts at the head of the bed. He grasped the finial and gave it a speculative twist. There was brief resistance, then it began to unscrew.

  ‘You certainly do believe in making sure, sir,’ said Benson.

  ‘May as well, while I’m here.’ Max completed the unscrewing and lifted the finial off. He peered into the hollow post and saw nothing, though it was too dark to be sure. ‘You don’t have a torch, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘Not on me, sir. I’d have to go back downstairs to fetch one.’

  ‘Would it be too much trouble?’

  Benson gave a put-upon sigh. ‘I suppose not. You’d better come with me.’

  ‘If you insist.’