The Ways of the World

by Robert Goddard

  ‘You do.’ Mellish leant forward. ‘I should perhaps explain that beyond the executorship you are not mentioned in Sir Henry’s will. There is no bequest to you.’

  ‘Everything goes to Ashley?’

  ‘Bar an allowance to your mother, yes. I have a copy for your perusal.’ Mellish flourished the document. ‘Shall I?’ He made to place it on the bedside cabinet. Max nodded his assent. ‘You can, er, study it at your leisure.’

  ‘I expected no inheritance, Mr Mellish. My father was a firm believer in the principle of primogeniture.’

  ‘Can I take it you’ll act as executor?’

  ‘I’m a poor choice. As I’m sure my brother and sister-in-law have already told you. Frankly, it’s a baffling decision on Pa’s part. He gave me no inkling of it.’

  ‘Nor me, Mr Maxted. He revised his will to accommodate your appointment as recently as the twelfth of this month.’

  ‘So that’s why he went back to England at such short notice.’

  ‘Ah. You knew of the visit?’

  ‘Only that it occurred. Not the reason. Until now.’

  ‘There may have been several reasons. I’ve had a letter from the curator of the county museum.’ Mellish made another extraction from his briefcase. ‘It appears that after visiting my office on the twelfth Sir Henry proceeded to Guildford, where he reclaimed some ancient artefacts loaned to the museum by his father. The curator wants to know if they’re likely to be returned to their keeping following Sir Henry’s death. That would be a matter for, er, his executor, of course.’

  ‘Ancient artefacts, you say?’

  ‘Sumerian cylinder-seals, to be precise.’

  ‘Seals?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve seen them?’

  ‘No.’ Max sighed. ‘And I doubt the curator will again.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think Pa probably sold them.’

  ‘Really?’ Mellish looked pained as well as puzzled. ‘Well, you may wish to tell the curator that.’

  ‘I can’t act as executor, Mr Mellish. I don’t have the time. Judging by his letter, Ashley’s anxious to persuade me to renounce the role, so I may as well oblige him.’ A few short weeks ago, Max would have fought tooth and nail for his and Sam’s flying school. Now it hardly seemed to matter. It belonged to a different world – a different life. ‘Where do I sign?’

  Mellish adjusted his glasses and peered at Max. ‘Sign what, Mr Maxted?’

  ‘Whatever I have to sign to give up the executorship.’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘You said I had a choice.’

  ‘Indeed. I can certainly prepare a letter of renunciation. You’d need to sign it in my presence, or more appropriately in the presence of some other notary public, so that it can be formally lodged with the probate registry. But that may not be necessary. I can handle all administrative matters pertaining to the settlement of Sir Henry’s estate if you instruct me to do so. The demands on your time and attention would be minimal.’

  ‘Even minimal’s probably more than I can manage.’

  ‘But there is something else you have to consider, Mr Maxted. In many respects, it’s why I’ve travelled to Paris. This.’ Yet another document emerged from the briefcase, clutched in Mellish’s sausage-fingered hand. ‘Sir Henry did more than revise his will when he came to see me on the twelfth. He dictated and signed quite specific instructions relating to an item of his property not mentioned in the will. Mentioned or not, of course, it still forms part of Sir Ashley’s inheritance, but, as executor, it falls to you to take the steps required to classify it as an asset of the deceased.’

  Max grimaced. ‘What?’

  ‘Sir Henry lodged the item – or items – in a safe-deposit box at a bank here in Paris. But he did so under an assumed name, hence the procedural difficulty. The letter he left with me overcomes that difficulty, however. It supplies the name and address of the bank, the number of the safe-deposit box and his pseudonym: Farngold. That should be sufficient to gain you access. There will have been a key also. Did you come across one amongst his possessions that might fit such a box?’

  Max’s heart sank. Oh, yes, he had come across the key. Hidden, discovered … and lost. ‘I don’t have it,’ he said levelly.

  ‘No matter. The will identifies you as his executor and the letter authorizes you to take charge of the contents of the box. As soon as you’re fit enough to leave the hospital, I would recommend you contact’ – Mellish consulted the letter – ‘la Banque Ornal and claim the property, whatever it might be.’

  ‘Pa gave no clue?’

  ‘None. But he left me in little doubt that it was very important to him. And possibly …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘To you as well, Mr Maxted, if I’m to be frank.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘No. It was an impression I had. But a forceful impression, certainly. The use of a pseudonym is also indicative of …’ Mellish cleared his throat and fell silent, unable, it seemed, to frame his idea of what such a precaution might point to.

  ‘Where is la Banque Ornal, Mr Mellish?’

  Mellish glanced at the letter. ‘Rue Vivienne, second arrondissement.’

  ‘Not far.’

  ‘No? Well, once you’ve recovered sufficiently, I suggest—’

  ‘Hang that, Mr Mellish.’ Max pushed himself up, threw back the blankets and swung his feet to the floor. ‘I’m going now. There’s no time to be lost.’

  TIME TO BE lost or not, Max did not achieve an instantaneous departure from the Hôtel Dieu. The doctor who had congratulated him on riding out his fever was fetched to caution him against leaving. ‘You need to rest, monsieur. Se reposer.’ It did not help Max’s cause that Mellish urged the same. ‘Leave it until tomorrow at least, Mr Maxted. I can wait.’

  But Max could not wait. And Mellish admitted that nothing short of a personal visit to the bank would suffice. Eventually, a compromise was agreed. Max would not actually discharge himself, merely travel to the bank with Mellish, then return to the hospital.

  As it turned out, Burley went with them. Having failed to contact Appleby by telephone, he decided it made no sense to guard a room whose occupant had left it. Max suffered the indignity of being conveyed in a wheelchair down in the lift to the ground floor, then along the corridors to the main entrance, where a taxi was waiting.

  Quitting the chair as he exited into the open air, he was relieved to discover that he could walk short distances without difficulty, despite shortness of breath and a disquieting rubberiness in his legs. He felt better just for being out of hospital, though the coldness of the weather came as a shock. They squeezed into the taxi and set off.

  Burley did not accompany them into the bank, whose ornate frontage seemed to persuade him that Max would be safe enough inside. The premises were certainly imposing, with high ceilings, classical frescos, grand siècle furnishings and lavishly marbled acreages of space.

  They were received courteously, but the response to their request, once it had been understood, was far from speedy. They were kept waiting for close to half an hour before being ushered into the office of le directeur. Mellish chose to interpret the delay as no more than typical French dilatoriness, but Max had begun to fear a more sinister explanation. The involvement of the bank’s senior officer did nothing to reassure him.

  There were elaborate introductions. The director’s surname was Charretier-Ornal. He was evidently some semi-detached member of the founding family. He did not look like a man who had worked his way up through the business counting francs and cashing cheques. There was nothing remotely clerical about him. His manner was smooth and confident, with the barest undertow of discomposure.

  He read English as well as he spoke it and swiftly perused the various documents Mellish presented: the will, the death certificate, the letter of authorization. He tut-tutted as if he had detected a discrepancy before returning them, prompting Mellish to ask if something was wrong.

  ‘The documen
ts indicate that the Monsieur Farngold who rented box number 2576 was actually Sir Henry Maxted, who died on the twenty-first of this month,’ said Charretier-Ornal, speaking slowly and carefully. ‘That is your contention, messieurs?’

  ‘It’s not a contention,’ said Max. ‘It’s a fact.’

  ‘Oui. A fact. As you say, Monsieur Maxted. My condolences to you. I read of Sir Henry’s death in the newspaper. A great tragedy.’

  ‘You realized he was the man known to your bank as Farngold?’

  ‘Non, non. Pas du tout. Monsieur Farngold was a customer like any other. We did not know it was … un pseudonyme. I never met him. The transaction was … routine. There was no reason for us to question his identity.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mellish, ‘I trust you accept that, as Sir Henry’s executor, Mr Maxted is entitled to access to box 2576.’

  ‘Bien sûr. I accept it. But you must understand, messieurs, that the conditions we agreed with Monsieur Farngold – Sir Henry – were simple as regards to access. They were our standard conditions. He would unlock the box in private using the key supplied to him when he first rented it.’

  ‘We don’t have the key,’ said Max.

  ‘But you can open the box,’ said Mellish. ‘There must be provision for that to be done if the key is lost.’

  ‘Mais oui. There is provision. But that is not the problem.’

  ‘What is the problem?’ Max pressed.

  Charretier-Ornal pursed his lips and frowned. A moment passed. Then he said, ‘There was access to the box earlier this morning.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A man claiming to be Monsieur Farngold came here at’ – he consulted a note – ‘ten thirty. He gave my staff no reason to doubt he was who he said he was. His signature matched the specimen. He had the key to the box. He was given access to it. He left at’ – another consultation – ‘ten fifty.’

  It was as Max had feared. Lemmer had got there before them. He sank his face in his hand. ‘Oh God,’ he murmured.

  ‘I must emphasize that we proceeded strictly according to the conditions of use. There was no … déviation. Voyez vous-même.’

  Charretier-Ornal thrust under Max’s nose a form bearing a signature in the name of H. Farngold that undeniably reminded Max of his father’s handwriting. Another form swiftly followed: the specimen. They were a close match. Not exact – for how could they be? – but close enough to satisfy a credulous bank clerk on a humdrum Monday morning. Max almost felt sorry for the blustering director. They had all been outclassed.

  ‘If the man was an impostor—’

  ‘He was either that or a ghost, monsieur.’ Max smiled grimly at Charretier-Ornal. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘A friend of your father, perhaps, obeying some … dying wish.’

  ‘My father died in a fall from a roof, monsieur. He had no time for dying wishes.’

  ‘This is all highly unsatisfactory,’ said Mellish. ‘You appear to have allowed an unknown third party access to Sir Henry’s property.’

  Charretier-Ornal scowled at the implication of incompetence. ‘Sir Henry must have given the third party, as you call him, the key – et le pseudonyme. We cannot be responsible.’

  ‘As to that, it’ll be for—’

  ‘Never mind who’s responsible,’ Max cut in. ‘Did the man claiming to be Farngold empty the box?’

  Charretier-Ornal shrugged. ‘I cannot say. The boxes are opened in private, as I explained to you. We do not know what they contain.’

  ‘Can we see what this one contains now?’

  Silence briefly intervened. Charretier-Ornal looked momentarily indecisive. Then he said, ‘Oui. Let us all go and see.’

  Charretier-Ornal spoke to someone on his telephone – too quickly for Max to follow what was said – then they descended to the bank’s vault. A clerk who had been hovering outside the director’s office fell in with them to unlock various doors along the way. A second man, less smartly dressed and introduced by Charretier-Ornal as ‘notre serrurier – our locksmith’ joined them en route. Charretier-Ornal set a brisk, impatient pace, before realizing that the corpulent Mellish and the ailing Max could not keep up with him.

  ‘You do not look well, Monsieur Maxted,’ he remarked.

  ‘I feel better than I look.’

  ‘That is good. May I repeat my condolences on your loss.’

  ‘You can repeat them, by all means. But they won’t help.’

  They reached the room housing the safe-deposit boxes. Three walls were lined with numbered, lockable steel hatches of varying sizes. The clerk had a key for the hatch numbered 2576 and removed the box that was inside.

  The box, also of steel, was about three feet deep, a foot wide and a foot high. The clerk laid it on the table in the centre of the room. He said something to Charretier-Ornal in French as he did so.

  ‘What was that?’ Max queried.

  Charretier-Ornal grimaced. ‘He said it feels light.’

  ‘Is he the one who brought the man claiming to be Farngold down here earlier?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Can he describe him?’

  There was an exchange in French. Charretier-Ornal’s glum expression remained glum throughout. Then: ‘A man of sixty years or about, he thinks. English, he also thinks. Not fat. Not thin. Not tall. Not short. There was nothing to remember about him. Grey hair. Beard. He spoke quietly.’ The director shrugged. ‘C’est tout.’

  ‘Do you know who he is, Mr Maxted?’ Mellish asked.

  Max nodded. ‘I believe I do.’ He looked at the locksmith. ‘Ouvrez la boîte, s’il vous plaît.’

  It required a wave of the hand from Charretier-Ornal before the locksmith swung into action. Within a few minutes, he had removed the lock. The clerk prepared to raise the lid. And they all stepped forward to see what might be inside.

  It was as Max had known it would be.

  ACCORDING TO SAM, who had seen a lot of pilots come and, sadly, go, one of Max’s most valuable assets was his optimism. ‘It might sound stupid to you, sir,’ he had once said under a cerulean sky into which Max was about to take off, ‘but I reckon those who expect to survive usually do.’

  Well, Max had survived the war, true to Sam’s prediction, albeit half of it in a POW camp. And he was by nature an optimist, sometimes to his own surprise. Sitting in the vault of la Banque Ornal that morning, staring at the empty safe-deposit box on the table in front of him, he wondered how long it would be before he finally abandoned the notion of bringing his father’s murderers to justice. He should perhaps have despaired there and then.

  He did not contribute to the increasingly tetchy discussion between Mellish and Charretier-Ornal about responsibility for allowing an impostor access to the safe-deposit box. It was a redundant debate. The fox had had his run of the hen-coop. And he had not even left a few feathers behind him.

  How had Lemmer discovered the pseudonym Sir Henry had used? How had he been able to forge his signature so convincingly? How, come to that, had he known which bank Sir Henry had used? The questions only illustrated the scope of Lemmer’s power. He was always at least one step ahead of his pursuers. Several steps, in this case.

  ‘I’m not going back to the hospital,’ Max announced as he and Mellish, the latter still grumbling pointlessly about the bank’s ineptitude, walked out to rejoin Burley. ‘The doctor said all I need is rest. I can get that at the Mazarin.’

  ‘What?’ Mellish gaped at him.

  ‘I’m not going back to the hospital.’

  ‘That’s surely unwise,’ said Mellish.

  ‘Definitely unwise,’ Burley contributed.

  ‘You’re right, of course.’ Max drew in a lungful of Parisian air and knew that, however short of his best he currently was, retreating to a bed at the Hôtel Dieu was not to be countenanced. ‘But then unwise is what I mean to be.’

  Burley had not been idle during Max and Mellish’s sojourn at the bank. He had telephoned Appleby again and this time got through to him. He
made another call when they reached the Mazarin. Appleby, he reported, had a lot to discuss with Max, wherever he chose to rest, and would be with him within the hour.

  The hour passed swiftly, as Max took a gingerly bath, applied a fresh bandage to his wound, and recovered as best he could from the disproportionate effort involved. He would have told any other man behaving as he was that he was being a damn fool. But he could not help that. He was not going to give in, even to his own frailty.

  It was hard to tell whether Appleby’s downcast expression when he arrived was due to Max’s appearance or the tidings he had brought. ‘Do you want to know how you look?’ he asked as he slumped down in the only armchair in the room and watched Max lower himself on to the edge of the bed.

  Max came to rest with a wince. ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Because I’ve quite enough bad news to deliver as it is.’

  ‘You’d better get on with it, then.’

  So Appleby did, relating the discovery of Igor Bukayev’s body in the Canal de l’Ourcq, Nadia Bukayeva’s allegations against Brigham and Brigham’s subsequent departure for London. ‘I’ve been officially warned off, Max. Brigham’s boss outranks my boss. My hands are tied.’

  ‘It sounds like Sam’s been busy on my behalf while I’ve been laid up. I must thank him. And I must proffer my condolences to Nadia as well.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you can console each other for your misfortunes. Although I wouldn’t try anything too energetic in your present condition. Burley tells me you think it was Lemmer who emptied Sir Henry’s safe-deposit box. In person, would that be?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’ Max was not ready to tell anyone, even Appleby, about his encounter with Lemmer. He was not sure Appleby would believe him. He had difficulty believing it himself. ‘Without whatever the box contained, though, and with Ennis dead, Brigham’s the only possible source of information about Lemmer’s network. If you can’t squeeze anything out of him, I’ll have to.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I think I can find a way under his defences.’ Brigham’s weakness was his belief that he was Max’s father. That was what Max would play on, reluctant as he was to do so. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll follow him to London and give it my best shot.’