After a couple more stops, the train headed slowly out onto the Forth Bridge, slowing still further as it did so. Peering through the window, Max could see scaffolding up round the arch before the first cantilevered section. Further delay did not worry him unduly. The London express was not due to leave Edinburgh until ten o’clock. He had been promised some kind of reception at Waverley station. It was a surprisingly cheering thought.
The door of the compartment was suddenly wrenched open. Two men entered, one of them the big fellow from Inverness; the other, smaller, leaner and meaner-faced. He was carrying a gun; the big fellow, a flick-knife. Max saw the blade flash out of the handle as the door slammed shut behind them.
Max had hoped he would have to deal with only one man. He had an empty revolver to bluff with and not a lot else. But he had no intention of giving up without a fight.
‘Stop where you are or I’ll shoot,’ he said, whipping out the revolver and taking his stand against the window. They had waited for the bridge so there would be no onlookers, he realized. They wanted no witnesses to what they planned to do. ‘I mean it.’
‘We know it’s empty, Max,’ said the small man, in a slippery, hissing voice. ‘There’s nowhere you could have bought ammunition since leaving Stromness.’
Damn Wylie
, Max thought.
Damn him to hell
.
‘We only want the file. Give it up and you can go free.’
‘Really? Are those your orders – to let me go on my way rejoicing?’ They would try to avoid shooting on the train. That much was true. But the big fellow looked as if he could kill a man quietly with his knife any time he was asked to.
‘Just give us the file. Is it in your bag?’
‘Where else?’
‘Get it down for us.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. I’m not doing anything to help you. Go ahead and shoot me if you like. Plenty of people will hear the shot and come to see what the trouble is. Are you sure you want to risk that?’
The short man appeared momentarily nonplussed. Then the big fellow said, ‘I’ll do it.’
He heaved the bag down from the luggage-rack onto the seat, opened it and delved inside, while the short man kept the gun trained on Max. ‘Well?’ he snapped, when the search went on a few seconds too many for his liking.
‘It’s not here.’
‘It must be.’
That was the chance Max had been waiting for: the short man’s alarmed glance towards his accomplice. Max lashed out with his foot. His kick struck the short man’s wrist. The gun went off, a shot shattering the window. Max’s gun was empty, but it was a weapon even so. He smashed it butt first into the man’s temple. And down he went.
Max went down after him, grabbing for the loaded gun. But the big fellow was already on him, with a boot to Max’s jaw that threw him back against the opposite seat. His head bounced against the stiff edge of the cushion and his vision blurred.
The big fellow lifted him by the lapels of his jacket as if he weighed no more than a toddler and slammed him into the corner against the window. He held the knife to Max’s throat.
‘Where’s the file, God damn it?’
‘You’ll never know . . . if you kill me.’
‘It’s in this compartment somewhere. We’ll find it. You can be sure of that.’ The blade pressed into Max’s flesh.
Max’s vision began to clear. Reflected light gleamed into his eyes. A triangle of glass trembled in the draught of air through the broken window. ‘OK, OK,’ he gasped, raising his right hand as if in surrender. ‘I’ll show you where it is.’
The pressure of the blade eased. In that instant, Max grabbed at the loose shard of glass, ignoring the pain as it sliced into his palm, and swung it, point first, into his assailant’s neck, striking where he had seen the pulsing of the jugular vein.
The big fellow cried out as blood spouted from the wound. He toppled sideways, dropping the knife as he fell. Max’s hand and forearm were soaked in his blood. And more of it was spurting out of him. Max pushed him to the floor and struggled to his feet.
The short man was still unconscious from the blow to his head. The big fellow lay moaning beside him. Max knew it might be wise to finish them both off with the loaded gun, but he was no executioner. And his chances of being hunted as a murderer would only increase if he took the gun with him. He felt the pressure of the Grey File, buttoned inside his shirt, as he paused for one deep calming breath.
He grabbed his coat, struggled into it, jammed his hat on his head, closed the bag, picked it up and stepped past his assailants to the door. His right sleeve was wet with blood and his hand was bleeding. But all he could think about now was escape.
He flung the door open and lunged out into the corridor. ‘Was that a gunshot?’ came a shout from his left. Max glimpsed a knot of figures towards the far end of the corridor. He ignored them and headed the other way, checking the position of the train through the window as he went.
It was past the last cantilevered section of the bridge. The southern shore of the firth was immediately below Max’s carriage. The train would be in Dalmeny station in a few minutes, by which time the people cowering in the corridor would probably have summoned the courage to enter the compartment he had just left. They would alert the guard. The police would be called. And the train would be held at Dalmeny until they arrived.
Max reached the end of the carriage and hurried through to the next. There he pushed down the first window he came to and leant out. Below him was another railway line, curving beneath the bridge as it spanned the shoreward part of the town. Ahead he could see the station platform. The train was slowing as it approached.
Max opened the door and held it ajar, checking over his shoulder for signs or sounds of pursuit. There was nothing yet that he could detect above the rumble of the wheels. The brakes began to squeal as the train drew into the station.
He pushed the door fully open as his carriage reached the platform and jumped out on the run. He jogged on to the footbridge and was most of the way over it before any other passengers had got off. At the barrier, he thrust his ticket into the hand of the collector and rushed down the steps towards the exit.
He was five or six miles short of his destination. There was enough time for him to walk to Edinburgh and still catch the London train. But he felt conspicuous on the streets of Dalmeny and knew he would feel even more so tramping along the Edinburgh road. It was odds-on the alarm would soon be raised. Any description of him would be vague to the point of uselessness, but there was blood on his shirt and on the handkerchief he had wrapped round his bleeding hand. Nor could he afford to assume the two men he had left on the train were the only two on his trail.
He reached the shore road and stopped, wondering which way to turn. The wide expanse of the firth stretched ahead of him. Above him to his left loomed the vast stone piers of the bridge. To his right, thirty yards or so along on the opposite side of the road, he could see two people waiting at a bus stop, looking expectantly in his direction.
The bus they were waiting for seemed certain to be bound for Edinburgh. It was the best escape route Max could hope for. He crossed the road and began to hurry towards the stop.
‘
IS HE IN?
’ Morahan asked Malory as he strode into the outer office of Ireton Associates that morning.
‘Good morning, to you too, Mr Morahan,’ Malory said, smiling sweetly.
‘Sorry.’ Morahan pushed up the brim of his hat far enough to rub his forehead. ‘Late night.’
‘And no more fruitful, judging by your expression, than my evening in the
bibliothèque
.’
‘Soutine’s been murdered.’
‘Oh my Lord.’ Malory stopped typing. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Yuh. Is Travis here?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘I’d better report the grisly details toot sweet.’
‘Schools—’
‘What is it?’ He moved closer to her desk.
‘Can I speak to you?’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Not here. Maybe during my lunch break? La Fontaine, twelve thirty?’
‘What’s this about – Soutine?’
‘No. I’ll explain when we meet. Can you make it?’
‘Sure.’ He smiled uncertainly. ‘It’s a date.’
Max got off the bus before it reached the centre of Edinburgh. He had buried himself behind his
Scotsman
while he was aboard, but out on the busy streets in broad daylight he became concerned about his bloodied appearance. He strode as confidently as he could into the Royal Hotel in Princes Street and made straight for the toilets. A look in the mirror was reassuring. His jaw was swollen and bruised, but there were few visible bloodstains. He tidied himself up as best he could.
There was nothing to be done about his jacket, though. One sleeve was stiff with blood, which had seeped through to his waistcoat. He went in search of an outfitter’s, where he bought replacements, including a new shirt. He put them on in the fitting room and tossed the discarded clothes in the first rubbish bin he came to.
With half an hour still to spare before the London express was due to leave, he found a barber willing to give him a quick shave. Hot towels and eau de Cologne made him feel much better.
He descended the steps into Waverley station apprehensively, even so. Would Appleby be there? Would more pursuers be waiting for him – for both of them – in enough force to ensure there could be only one outcome?
The station was busy, which was to his advantage. Solitude in a first-class compartment had done him little good. He would be travelling third class henceforth, reasoning there was safety in numbers.
He bought his ticket, then checked the departures board. The train was ready. But where was Appleby? If he had sent someone in his place, how would Max know he could trust him? Travellers with bags were milling everywhere. The scene had every appearance of normality. But Max hung back, concealed between a luggage-wagon and the side of a bookstall.
He lit a cigarette and flourished his
Scotsman
as camouflage. There was a later train he could catch and still be in London by early evening. He scanned the crowd before him, looking for some sign, some hint, of something amiss. And he watched the station clock tick down towards the moment when he could delay a decision no longer.
Ireton had received the news of Soutine’s demise with more irritability than dismay. ‘Damn it, he was a valuable source. It’s a real shame we’ve lost him. It’s going to make it a lot tougher for you to track down le Singe, Schools.’
‘You mean to go on with the hunt?’ Morahan frowned. Why he was surprised he did not really know. His long-time partner had never put business second to anything.
‘Of course we go on. Tomura’s paying top dollar.’
‘Only for a result – which his son’s just made a damn sight harder to achieve by killing Soutine.’
‘You don’t know the boy killed him.’
‘I can’t prove it, no. But I’m certain in my own mind he did. And he’s put a tail on me.’
‘Someone has, you mean.’
‘It’s got to be Tomura, Travis. It started right after we met him.’
‘There were signs Soutine was tortured, you say?’
‘So my informant tells me.’
Morahan’s informant, in the version of events he had supplied to Ireton, was not Sam but a pliant police officer. He had said nothing about Sam at all, in fact. Nor about the photograph Sam had shown him.
‘Noburo Tomura wants to make himself look cleverer than us in his father’s eyes by finding le Singe without our help.’
‘Look, if you’re right and he got what he wanted out of Soutine before killing him, he will find le Singe before we do. Then our contract with his father will be cancelled in double quick time and you’ll be able to tell me I should never have done business with him in the first place. Until that happens, though, we should press on. Soutine may have given nothing away. He was one stubborn sonofabitch, when all’s said and done. Or someone else may have killed him. What other leads are you following on le Singe?’
‘One or two. No point me detailing them unless they come to something. And I’ll certainly be going back to my informant to try and find out if the police came across anything significant in Soutine’s flat.’
‘Well, don’t let me hold you up. I’m going to be pretty busy myself now the Germans have arrived. I gather it was quite a circus out at Versailles last night. I don’t envy them the Hôtel des Réservoirs. Gloomy sort of a place.’
‘You’ve got a contact there?’
‘The deputy manager. Don’t worry. He’s reliable. The Germans will pay more or less whatever I ask for advance warning of the peace terms. It’s going to be a sweet deal. So, don’t stray too far in the days ahead, will you? We may need to be quick on the draw. But it’s important for our future that the Japanese regard us as good people to work with. So, don’t neglect Tomura whatever you do. OK?’
Morahan nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Telegram for Mr Nettles!’
The uniformed boy came into Max’s view in an eddy of the crowd and he caught the words above the bellowed announcement of his train. ‘
East Coast Express to London ready to leave
.’
He was about to step forward when he saw two men over by the departures board watching the boy. One of them craned his neck to keep sight of him through the swirl of travellers.
‘Telegram for Mr Nettles!’
It was a message from Appleby. It had to be. But accepting the previous telegram at Inverness could easily have been what singled Max out. It was not a mistake he could afford to repeat.
The luggage-wagon began to move, hauled by a beefy porter. Max fell in beside it, obscured from the gaze of the two men watching the boy. They could hardly be sure Max was on the station. They might not yet know what had happened on the train from Perth and had never seen Max before that he was aware of. No description would be enough to distinguish him from dozens of other hatted and overcoated men on the move.
Max broke from the cover of the luggage-wagon as a whistle began to blast on the platform where the London train was standing. He ran to the barrier, flashed his ticket and ran on towards the rear door being held open by the guard, who glared at him before blowing the whistle again.