The Ways of the World (13 page)

‘I saw some action in Cuba in ’ninety-eight,’ Ireton went on. ‘I realized then that I had no gift for self-denial. My talents lie elsewhere.’ He pitched the butt of his cigarette into the fire and lit another. ‘And I believe we should all make the most of our talents.’

‘About my father, Travis …’ Max engaged Ireton eye to eye as he accepted a second cigarette. The time for sparring was over. ‘What exactly were your dealings with him?’

‘OK.’ Ireton relaxed into his chair. ‘Cards on the table. Naturally, I buy information as well as sell it. I’m a broker. People come to me because I enable them to trade anonymously. The governments or organizations they work for wouldn’t necessarily approve of what they’re doing. It isn’t illegal, but it could be regarded as unethical, even disloyal. My discretion is one of the things I charge for. It’s one the things I’m
known
for. My clients rely on it. You understand? It’s not a trivial matter.’

‘Was my father a client of yours?’

‘He might have been.’

‘As a buyer or a seller?’

‘How would you feel if I said Henry was active in the information market?’

‘Incredulous. He would never have betrayed his country.’

‘Betrayal’s a strong word. Most of the material I deal in falls well short of earth-shattering. Henry was in regular contact with the Brazilian delegation. The other South American delegations – Bolivia, Ecuador, Peru, Uruguay – would all like to know more about Brazil’s negotiating tactics. And vice versa, of course. The outcome of this conference isn’t going to be affected in the slightest way by trading small amounts of such information.’

‘Are you saying that’s what my father did?’

‘Would it be so terrible if he had?’

Could it be true? Max was aware that his incredulity was founded on his knowledge of his father’s character. But he could not help wondering if his knowledge amounted to anything more than a set of conventional – and quite possibly false – assumptions.

‘It would be terrible if it led to his death.’

‘Nothing Henry worked on was important enough to get him murdered, Max, it truly wasn’t.’

‘What was, then?’

‘I’m not sure. But …’

‘But what?’

Ireton fell silent for a long, thoughtful moment, then said, ‘To share my suspicions with you involves letting you know more about my activities than is frankly wise, considering you and I are barely acquainted. I’d like to help you, largely because I liked and admired Henry and reckon he’d probably want me to help you. But I can’t allow myself to be swayed by sentiment.’

‘What
would
sway you?’ There had to be something, Max reckoned. Otherwise why would Ireton have agreed to meet him in the first place?

‘A demonstration of your trustworthiness, Max.’ Ireton nodded for emphasis. ‘That’s what I need.’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘A small service I’d repay with my confidence in you. I’m always happier if both sides have a bargain to honour.’

‘And this service is?’

‘The collection of an item from a man I’d prefer not to meet face to face. A simple matter. It shouldn’t cause you any difficulty.’

Words were cheap, of course. Max was not blind to the possibility that he was being led on. Ireton might have nothing of value to disclose and see this as a way of solving a bothersome problem. ‘Why not send one of your associates? Morahan, for instance.’

‘Ah, yes, you met Schools earlier, didn’t you? Well, I could send him, but that wouldn’t tell me whether you’re the sort of person I can rely on, now would it? Look at this from my point of view, Max. It’s a question of establishing your
bona fides
. I have to be
sure of you. I can’t proceed unless I am. You’ll be taking a risk, of course. You only have my word for it that I can help you discover who may have murdered Henry. But you’re not a stranger to risks and I don’t believe for a moment you mean to shy away from this one. So, shall I tell you the name of the man I want you to meet and where and when I want you to meet him – or not?’

SIR HENRY MAXTED
had come home. He reposed that night in the library at Gresscombe Place. The delivery of his body in a stout oak coffin had been efficiently managed by the local undertaker. It had taken place late in the evening, at the conclusion of a lengthy journey from Paris that had left Ashley exhausted and fit only for bed.

Lydia was by contrast feeling far from sleepy. Her curiosity about her brother-in-law’s reasons for remaining in Paris had thus far been held in check. Now, in the privacy of their bedroom, she proceeded to bombard her heavy-lidded husband with questions.

‘Surely he understands there will be a price to pay for defying you in this manner, darling?’

‘Oh, he understands. He just doesn’t seem to care.’

‘Doesn’t he care about the good name of his own family? Or his father’s reputation?’

Ashley’s answering sigh converted itself into an irrepressible yawn. He had informed Lydia earlier, during a snatched quarter of an hour alone together, of the French police’s theory concerning Sir Henry’s death. To his mother he had offered only their official bafflement, having despaired of inventing any plausible alternative. ‘James has convinced himself Pa was murdered. He says he means to bring the murderer to justice.’

‘He wasn’t murdered, though, was he?’

‘I don’t think so. But, if he was, it will have been for some scandalous reason we’re all better off not knowing about. Pa made a prize fool of himself in Paris and suffered for it.’

‘That doesn’t mean
we
have to suffer for it as well, darling. Think of your poor mother.’ Lydia was not in fact thinking of her mother-in-law at all, but even to Ashley she did not care to reveal the full extent of her callousness.

‘James said he was determined to uncover the truth at all costs.’

‘How typically perverse of him. As if the truth were all that mattered.’

‘I felt sure my say-so regarding those fields he needs for his flying school would suffice to keep him in line.’

‘You left him in no doubt that he’d forfeit the land if he went on with this?’

‘I made it very clear to him. It had no effect.’

‘How can he be so indifferent to his own best interests?’

‘I don’t know. I’d blame the war, but he’s always been the same.’

‘Do you think he’ll come back for the funeral?’

‘The day after tomorrow? I doubt it. I shall cable him with the details in the morning and leave it to him.’

‘His absence will be so embarrassing, darling. How will we explain it?’

‘We’ll say he’s ill. What other excuse can we offer? Cutting his own father’s funeral is a damn poor show.’

‘And raising a stink in Paris will only make matters worse. What can we do to bring him to heel?’

‘Nothing. But don’t worry unduly. I’m assured by those who know that his enquiries will hit a brick wall. Eventually, he’ll be forced to admit defeat.’

‘And then?’

‘Then?’ Ashley ineffectually stifled another yawn. ‘He’ll come home, I suppose. With his tail between his legs.’

In the few minutes between turning off the light and his descent into slumber, Ashley was visited by a frisson of doubt concerning his professed certainty that James would fail in his quest for the truth. The fellow was too stubborn and resourceful to be written off. Appleby, who had travelled with Ashley from Paris to London, had pooh-poohed the grounds for suspicion James had presented to Ashley. (‘This list sounds like something and nothing to me, Sir
Ashley. Your brother is wasting his time.’) But, upon reflection, Appleby had perhaps overdone the pooh-poohing. And the reason he had given for being on the train – a ‘family emergency’ – was rather too pat for comfort. Should Ashley have been more guarded in what he said? It was a worrying question, since he found it difficult now to recall just what he had said. Damn Appleby
and
James, he thought. And with that he plunged into a deep sleep.

At that moment Lady Maxted was standing beside the trestle-mounted coffin in the library, gazing down at the death-masked face of her late husband. Part of his head was concealed by a thick white veil, to spare her the sight of his fatal brain injury. What remained visible were recognizably the features of Sir Henry Maxted, but Henry the man was gone, lost to her entirely.

She had displayed as much disappointment at the news that James had remained in Paris as she had judged Ashley and Lydia would expect. And she had allowed Ashley to give an obviously inadequate account of what he had accomplished there. Altogether, she had played the part of the meek and pliant widow quite shamelessly.

From the pocket of her dress she took the telegram James had sent her that morning. She unfolded it and reread the message.
Will remain in Paris until possible to report true version of events
. Then her gaze returned to the never-again-to-open eyes of Sir Henry Maxted. ‘He has pledged himself for you, Henry,’ she murmured. ‘He will not let you down.’

At the same moment, glumly installed with a pint of Bass in a smoky corner of the public bar of the Rose and Crown, Walthamstow, Sam Twentyman pulled from his pocket the telegram he had also received from Max earlier that day. He reread the message for the umpteenth time.
Delayed in Paris for indefinite period
. No address was supplied for a reply.

‘You’re trying to let me down lightly, aren’t you, sir?’ Sam murmured as he put the telegram away again. He sensed the flying school he had set his sights on slipping fast from his future. And without it that future looked bleak. Ill-advisedly, as he now saw, he
had paid Miller a deposit on the planes he had persuaded Max they should buy and would forfeit it if they did not conclude the purchase within ten days. It was money he could not afford to spend. But that was not the worst of it, not by a long way. If Max abandoned his plans for a flying school, Sam would be condemned to a lick-spittle role in his father’s bakery business. The prospect appalled him. To avoid it he found it hard to imagine what he would not be willing to do.

And that was not his only concern.
Delayed in Paris for indefinite period
was a message that said more than it was intended to. It sounded to him as if Max was in trouble – or soon would be. He needed Sam’s help whether he knew it or not. That had often been the case in the war. Apparently, it still was.

‘Flying solo’s no good without a mechanic you can rely on, sir,’ Sam mused. ‘You should know that.’

Also at the same moment, two hundred miles away, in Paris, Corinne Dombreux was walking along Rue du Verger, on her way home from an evening shift at the ticket office at the Gare Montparnasse. She was tired and in low spirits. The shock of Henry’s death had faded, but the grief of losing him was an ache she could not ease. She was relying on Max to discover who had murdered his father and why, but she did not know when she would next hear from him or whether he would be able to achieve anything. It might only make her life more difficult if he did. The authorities regarded her with acute suspicion. They could move against her at any time. Nothing about her existence was secure. Pierre had bequeathed her only adversity and notoriety. And she did not know how much longer she could face both of them down.

As she approached number 8, a massive figure suddenly detached itself from the deep shadow of a doorway opposite and lurched across the street towards her. ‘Corinne,’ Spataro called. ‘
Attends un peu
.’

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ she responded, quickening her pace.

But he was too fast for her. To her surprise, she realized that he was, for once, stone-cold sober. He did not sway as he blocked her
path. There was no brandy on his breath. And he did not slur his words.

‘
Ecoutes-moi, Corinne
. I beg you.’

‘Why should I?’

‘What I have done. It gives me … a bad conscience.’

‘So it should.’

‘I want to put it right.’ He grasped her by the arm. ‘
Tu capisci?
I want to put it right.’

THE MEETING HAD
been arranged at short notice and at an hour the expressions of several people round the table suggested was unreasonably early. Appleby was not one of them. The older he grew, the less sleep he needed. He suspected the same was true of C, who surveyed the select gathering from the head of the table. He had the advantage of living on the premises, of course. Secret Service Headquarters was C’s home as well as his place of work. Appleby was far from sure he envied him such an arrangement, difficult though the journey to Whitehall Court had been from his sister’s home in Eltham.

The war – and the work rate it had committed him to – had taken its toll on C, who looked frailer and older than when Appleby had last seen him. Rumour had it that he had never recovered from the death of his son. It might be so, Appleby conceded. He too had lost a son in the conflict and did not delude himself that he was unmarked by the tragedy. But neither he nor C was the sort of man to dwell on such matters. Stoicism was their philosophy of choice.

‘Be so good as to remind everyone of the evidence that Lemmer may be in Paris, would you, Appleby?’ C prompted, fixing a beady eye on him over the rim of his teacup.

‘Certainly, sir.’ He risked a glance at the grim-set faces of the others: four of them, of varying degrees of seniority, representing the Military, Aviation, Naval and Political sections. None appeared either overtly hostile or supportive. But that counted for little in a service where overtness was actively discouraged. The search for
Fritz Lemmer, fugitive head of the German Secret Service’s spy network, had involved them all at various stages since the end of the war. They were likely to resent the credit for tracking him down devolving upon Appleby – if indeed he had tracked him down. ‘The evidence stems from material relating to the late Sir Henry Maxted. Murdered, we believe, though officially his death’s to be treated as an accident.’

‘The PM won’t want to hear that a member of our delegation has been murdered,’ remarked Political.

‘Which is why he won’t hear it,’ Appleby continued. ‘But there’s no doubt in my mind Sir Henry was murdered.’