The Ways of the World (31 page)

‘Apparently so.’

‘He obviously doesn’t think Paris is a healthy place to be these days. And by the look of you he’s right.’

‘I intend to make it unhealthy for Lemmer.’ Max paused, then asked, ‘Can you get me a gun, Appleby?’

Appleby’s eyebrows twitched in surprise. ‘It’s not what most people in hospital ask for.’

‘I want it for when I leave. Which will be sooner than the doctor recommends, if I have my way.’

‘As you no doubt will.’

‘The gun?’

Appleby chewed his unlit pipe and contemplated the request for
a moment. Then he said, ‘It could only be for self-defence. But then … I suppose you may have need of quite a bit of that.’

‘It seems so.’

Appleby nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Sam had brought food and a few toiletries, for which Max was grateful, though whatever the doctor had prescribed to dull the pain of his wound had dulled his appetite as well. He was almost as pleased to see Sam as Sam was to see him, though he hid it rather better.

‘Mr Appleby said you got off lightly in the circumstances, sir.’

‘He must have a curious definition of “getting off lightly”.’

‘I told him about Mr Brigham.’

‘I know. He mentioned it.’

‘Thing is, sir, I didn’t get the feeling he was going to do much about it.’

‘Neither did I. Brigham has friends in high places, Sam. Appleby can’t afford to tread on their toes.’

‘Luckily for you you’ve got a friend in a low place, then. I’ll scout round the streets tonight. Mr Brigham’s apartment can’t be far from the Majestic and it’s not likely a garage goes with it. So, I may be able to find his car. If it’s HX 4344 …’

‘Yes? What then?’

Sam tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ve had an idea.’

Max groaned. ‘Lord save us.’

‘You know what they say. If Mahomet won’t come to the mountain …’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Don’t worry, sir. Just leave it to me.’

MAX FELL ASLEEP
that night watching snow falling over the Seine. Access to his room was guarded by a French policeman and a British Secret Service representative built in keeping with his name, Burley. Max felt as weak as a baby, but was confident a night’s rest would revive him. The attempt to kill him he took as a back-handed compliment. They were frightened of him. And he was determined to give them good cause to be. First, though, he had to sleep.

The snow that grew heavier as the night deepened did not deter Sam, but it did complicate his tasks. There were quite a few cars parked on the streets of the eighth arrondissement, but the accumulation of snow meant their registration numbers were mostly illegible. Sam began his circuit from the Majestic diligently brushing the snow off every number, but his gloves were soon sodden and his fingers numb, so he abandoned that in favour of looking for Daimlers in particular and English makes in general. His ability to distinguish them at a glance from French cars was far from infallible, however. His clothes were not warm enough and he cursed the Parisian spring weather with many muttered profanities as he trudged along. Despite reviving halts for coffee and brandy at various bars, HX 4344 remained frustratingly elusive.

While clasping his coffee-cup between his frozen hands in one such bar, puffing suspiciously on a French cigarette, Sam acknowledged to himself that he had bitten off more than he could chew. Many of the apartment buildings he had passed had inner
courtyards, where a car could be stowed out of sight. There were stables as well, and a few garages, to be considered. Not to mention the possibility that HX 4344 was simply elsewhere that evening. It seemed likelier that he would catch pneumonia than a sight of the damned thing.

If it even existed, of course. Perhaps it was not a registration number at all. Perhaps le Singe had played a trick on him.
Cheeky monkey
, Sam thought, smiling grimly at his own play on words.

Eventually, Sam took pity on himself and suspended the search. It was as he approached the Arc de Triomphe for the third or fourth time that he decided he should quit while he was behind. But returning to the solitude of his room at the Majestic with his tail between his legs did not appeal to him. Little Russia was a shortish walk away along Avenue Hoche. He did not know precisely how matters stood between Max and Nadia Bukayeva, but he felt sure she would want to be told what had happened, although naturally Sam would claim ignorance of the events that had led to the shooting. It was not yet midnight and he did not suppose Nadia was one to be wrapped up in bed with cocoa at ten. She was a creature of the night if he had ever met one. And she might even be pleased to see him.

It was as he turned into Rue Daru and saw the domes of the Orthodox Cathedral ahead of him through the flurrying snow that Sam heard the throaty note of a car engine behind him and was shortly afterwards splattered about the ankles with slush from the gutter as a sleek black Daimler purred past.

Sam broke into a squelching trot to keep the car in sight. The registration number was displayed on a curved plate fixed to the spare tyre on the boot, but was obscured by snow. The car slowed ahead of him and turned left into the next side-street, the very side-street, in fact, where Sam knew Bukayev’s bookshop was located. He put a spurt on.

He heard a car door slam as he neared the corner and, rounding it, saw a hatted, trench-coated figure hurrying away from the Daimler, now standing at the kerbside, its engine ticking.
The bookshop was halfway along the street on the opposite side and the man steered a straight course towards it. Sam stopped running and moved into the deep shadow of an unlit doorway. The car was only a few feet from him, but still he could not make out the number. Whatever the number, though, there was something about this he did not like. And he felt sure Max would like it even less.

There were lights burning in the rooms above the shop. The man reached the door and rang the bell. A curtain twitched above. Sam thought he glimpsed Nadia’s face, though he could not have sworn to it. A few moments later, the door opened. There was a murmured exchange of words. Then the man stepped inside and the door closed behind him.

‘You naughty girl,’ Sam said under his breath. ‘Not playing fair with us, are you?’ He walked hastily to the rear of the Daimler and brushed the snow off the numberplate. It was HX 4344.

Sam returned to the shelter of the doorway and stood there for several minutes, considering what he should do next. His original plan had been designed to prove Brigham drove HX 4344, but he reckoned that was now clear. The question was what he should do about it. On balance, there was still a lot to be said for obliging Brigham to bring the Daimler to the Majestic for repair. It would establish his ownership as an unchallengeable fact, though quite what it would establish beyond that Sam did not know.

He looked up at the illuminated windows of the rooms above the bookshop. He had misread Nadia Bukayeva. So had Max. It would be preferable to believe she was merely indiscriminate with her favours than what Sam actually suspected: that some greater treachery altogether was afoot.

He could delay no longer. Either he went through with it or not. ‘Get on with it, lad,’ he told himself, with sudden decisiveness. He left the doorway and advanced to the front of the Daimler. He looked both ways along the street and was reassured. The coast was clear. He rested his hand gently on the warm bonnet of the car. For what he had in mind, it would be easier to open her up. That risked drawing the attention of anyone passing by. And if Brigham happened to glance out of the window … No. It was going to be
a cold and wet scramble beneath the engine, but there was nothing else for it. After another glance in both directions, he crouched down on the snowy pavement and crawled gingerly into the space between the kerb and the chassis of the car.

Max woke, at what stage of the night he could not have said, aware that something had changed – for the worse. He was bathed in sweat, his heart was fluttering, his head pounding, every part of his body pulsing with heat. He was in the grip of a fever the like of which he had never known. Moving a single muscle demanded more concentration and effort than he felt capable of exerting. There was a small bell on the bedside table for him to summon help if he needed it and there was no question that he did need help. He managed to bend his neck so that he could see the bell. The next challenge was to reach out and grasp it. He stared long and hard at it, pulling together the small amount of strength he had. Then he forced himself up on one elbow and stretched out his hand. He noticed that his fingers were trembling like leaves in a breeze. They touched the bell, but he could not seem to control them enough to take hold of it. It toppled over, rolled to the edge of the table and dropped to the floor. And Max fell back against the pillow. He could do no more.

WHEN SAM WENT
to visit Max the following morning, he was horrified to learn of the deterioration in his condition. The doctor on duty was too busy to speak to him and none of the nurses spoke English. ‘
Une fièvre
’ was mentioned, which Sam assumed meant a fever, since Max was clearly in the grip of one and too far gone to communicate. Burley, the Secret Service man Appleby had put on the door to Max’s room, told Sam the doctor had said earlier that the bullet wound had led to blood poisoning and that ‘the next twenty-four hours will be critical’.

Sam was still gloomily mulling this over when Carver and a couple of men built like wardrobes arrived in the hope of questioning Max. Their frustration that this would not be possible was more in evidence than any concern about the patient’s prospects. Carver turned to Sam as a substitute, but was to be disappointed.

‘I wasn’t there, sir. I don’t know what Mr Ennis may have said before he was shot. I didn’t even know Mr Maxted was planning to meet him.’

‘I thought you lived in the guy’s hip pocket.’

‘He’s never told me everything that’s in his mind. He probably reckons it’s safer for me to be kept in the dark.’

‘But what if I don’t believe you
are
in the dark?’

‘Then I suppose you won’t believe anything I say.’

‘A US diplomat has been gunned down in broad daylight, Twentyman. I need to find out why. If turning you upside down and shaking you to see what falls out is what it takes, I’ll do it.’

‘I’m sure you will, sir. But nothing will fall out.’

Carver closed in and prodded Sam so hard in the shoulder that he was propelled back a step. ‘The dumb act’s fine, Twentyman, so long as you really are dumb. If not, you’re storing up a whole lot of trouble for yourself. You can trust me on that. Because I’m one of the places the trouble will be coming from.’

‘I’m sure Mr Maxted can explain everything when he’s well enough.’

‘You are, are you? Well, for your sake I hope he’s well enough pretty damn soon.’

‘I hope that too, sir.’

Carver held Sam with a glare for several seconds, then broke away and led his far from merry men off down the echoing stairs from the landing where he and Sam had exchanged words.

Sam leant on the banister-rail and watched them descend in a surge of coat-tails and jutting fedoras. They reached the ground floor and vanished from sight.

He did not move away, however. He stayed where he was, gazing into the vortex of the stairwell, wondering what to do for the best.

Then, to his astonishment, Nadia Bukayeva moved into view on the next landing down. She had clearly been waiting for Carver and his crew to leave. She looked up at him and frowned, then headed up the stairs.

‘Why did you not tell me what happened to Max?’ she asked as she reached him. ‘I went to the Mazarin to see him this morning. They gave me the news there.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam, flustered and well aware that he probably looked it. ‘I would have … got in touch with you today …’

‘How is he?’ she cut in, clasping his arm. She looked genuinely worried. Sam had to force himself to remember what he had seen the night before.

‘The wound isn’t serious. Or it wasn’t. They think he’s contracted blood poisoning. He has a bad fever.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘Well, I …’

‘I must.’

Sam decided to let the nurses decide the issue. Nadia talked her way past them in fluent French, charming Burley along the way. Max was sleeping when they entered his room, though hardly peacefully. Nadia stroked his hand and murmured what sounded to Sam like a prayer. She left with tears in her eyes. He would not have doubted her for a moment but for knowing more of her than she had cause to suppose. She was a consummate actress. He could not deny that.

‘Can we go outside and talk, Sam?’ she asked, drying her eyes. ‘Please tell me as much as you can about what happened. And then … there is something I want to tell you. It is why I went to see Max this morning. I need help.’ She looked at him with an expression of utter sincerity. ‘Will you help me, Sam? There is no one else I can turn to.’

‘Try Brigham,’ he was tempted to say. But he said no such thing.

They went out into the inner courtyard of the hospital. The sky above them was pure blue, but the air was cold and snow lay in thick carpets on the lawns. In milder weather, recovering patients might have been taking tentative strolls there with friends or relatives. As it was, they were alone.

Sam offered Nadia a cigarette, which she gladly accepted. He held the match for her, noticing how her hand trembled as she clasped the cigarette. She pulled the fur collar of her coat up around her soft, pale cheeks and looked, gazing at him through a drift of smoke, quite breathtakingly lovely.

He told her then the little he felt he should about the circumstances of the shooting, proclaiming as much ignorance to her as he had to Carver. ‘He’d have explained it all to me afterwards,’ he said, referring to Max’s rendezvous with Ennis. ‘But he hasn’t been well enough to.’

‘Will he live, Sam?’

‘I’ll back him to. He’s a tough nut.’

‘I will pray for him. You should pray for him also.’

‘He wouldn’t want me to.’