‘You propose we sit here together over lunch and watch the countryside roll by and talk about . . . what? Your childhood summers at the family
dacha
?’
‘If you like.’
‘Well, I—’
‘James Maxted,’ a voice cut in.
Max looked up to see, standing at his shoulder, a stocky man of late middle years, wearing an overcoat and trilby. Beside him was a brawny police constable, eyeing Max as if taking the physical measure of him.
‘You are James Maxted, aren’t you, sir? You fit your description, so I’d advise against denying it.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘You’re under arrest, sir.’
‘
What?
’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Tunnicliffe, North Riding Constabulary, acting on a request from the Metropolitan Police. We’ll be taking you off the train at York, for questioning by an officer from London.’
‘What is he charged with?’ Nadia asked. ‘A possible breach of section one of the Official Secrets Act, miss. Now, we don’t want a commotion, do we, sir? There are people here trying to enjoy their lunch. Come along with us, please, there’s a good fellow.’
MORAHAN DID NOT
stir from the bench where he was sitting when he saw the unmistakable figure of Frank Carver of the US Secret Service descending the stairs to the eastbound platform of Concorde Métro station. The man was square-shouldered and lantern-jawed, conspicuously larger and better nourished than most of the assembled passengers. Someone had told Morahan Carver hailed from Iowa and certainly he had a healthily farm-reared look to him.
They waited at opposite ends of the platform, smoking cigarettes – Morahan, French; Carver, American. Only when the rumble of the approaching train became audible did they move towards each other. They boarded the same carriage and took adjacent seats.
The doors closed and the train set off. Carver finished his cigarette and extinguished the butt beneath the toe of his shoe. ‘Busy?’ he enquired of Morahan, pitching his voice so that no one near by could have heard what he had said.
‘Not idle, that’s for sure.’
‘Let’s get to it, then, shall we? What d’you want?’
‘An accommodation.’
‘What in hell does that mean?’
‘You’ve been making it hard for Travis to operate, Frank. Obstructing his business. Harassing his clients. He’d like it to stop.’
‘Sure. And I’d like Christmas once a month.’
‘What would it take for you to lay off?’
‘Proof that he isn’t undermining American interests at the peace conference. Got any in your back pocket?’
‘Proving a negative is a difficult thing to do, Frank.’
‘Well, I thought that’s what Ireton paid you to do: difficult things.’
‘You’ve got him all wrong, y’know. He’s a patriot.’
‘Patriot my ass.’
‘He fought for his country in Cuba.’
‘So did you. Matter of fact, Schools, Ireton’s an open book compared with you. I mean, I know how his mind works. Yours is way more complicated. How much of an American are you? You sure weren’t born one.’
‘My parents left Belfast when I was two years old. My earliest memories are of New York.’
‘So, you were one of the huddled masses. But it’s not just about birth, is it? Far as I can tell, you haven’t spent a straight year in the States your whole adult life.’
‘Been studying me, have you, Frank?’
‘Best I can. But tracking you’s not easy. I get the feeling you’ve never wanted it to be.’
‘I didn’t ask to meet you to rehearse my autobiography.’
‘I can believe that. Why, then?’
‘I thought if I gave you something that showed you Travis draws the line well short of compromising American interests, you might, well, go a little easier on him.’
‘You did, did you?’
‘Sound reasonable?’
‘Tell me what it is and I’ll let you know.’
‘All right.’ Morahan paused to light a cigarette. He held the match for Carver to light one of his own, a small gesture of conciliation, and lowered his voice confidentially. ‘The deputy manager of the Hôtel des Réservoirs has offered us his services as a conduit for selling information to the German delegation.’
‘The hell he has.’
‘We’re not proposing to do business with the Germans, Frank. Those consciences you don’t credit us with won’t let us. But if we just refuse, he’ll likely look elsewhere. We don’t want that to happen either.’
‘It won’t now.’
‘I imagine you’ll want to speak to
le Deuxième Bureau
about him.’
‘You can count on it.’
‘Good. And as for our future relations . . .’
‘Don’t push it, Schools. This is a first step on a long road to redemption for you and Ireton. But it’s a step in the right direction, I’ll say that.’
‘You’ll bear it in mind to our advantage?’
Carver gave the question some thought during a long draw on his cigarette, then said, ‘Maybe.’
Sam’s afternoon in the garage was interrupted by an unexpected summons to the office of Shuttleworth, i/c support services for the British delegation. When he arrived, he was surprised to see Shuttleworth had a visitor he recognized: Commissioner Zamaron of the Paris police.
‘
Bonjour
, Mr Twentyman,’ Zamaron greeted him, a smile forming beneath his luxuriant moustache.
‘I gather you know each other, Twentyman,’ said Shuttleworth, who looked as if the fact did not sit well with him.
‘We’ve met before, yes,’ said Sam cautiously.
‘Well, the Commissioner has some questions for you. And there are some problems requiring my attention elsewhere in the hotel, so I’ll leave you to it.’
‘
Merci beaucoup
,’ said Zamaron, bowing faintly as Shuttleworth took his leave of them.
‘Er, right, thanks,’ murmured Sam.
Shuttleworth closed the door behind him. Zamaron’s smile grew broader, but no more reassuring.
‘What can I do for you, Commissioner?’ Sam spotted a stray smut of oil on his thumb, which he wiped off on the back of his overalls. ‘Sorry, about the, er, kit.’
‘I am sorry, Mr Twentyman, to interrupt your important work. You are the wheels of the British delegation, no?’
‘Sort of.’
‘So, I will not delay you more than I have to. Are you acquainted with Mr George Clissold?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, he’s Lieutenant James Maxted’s uncle. He came to see me yesterday.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, in case I had news of his nephew.’
‘And had you?’
Sam shook his head. ‘’Fraid not.’
‘Did he tell you why he had come to Paris?’
‘Yes. Something about a dispute with an antique dealer. Name of, er . . .’
‘Soutine?’
‘Yeah. That’s it. Soutine. He was wondering if Max – Lieutenant Maxted – had mentioned him to me.’
‘And had he?’
‘No.’
‘Soutine was found dead in the
appartement
above his gallery last night, Mr Twentyman. By Mr Clissold.’
‘Oh lor’. Sorry to hear that. How did Soutine—’
‘He was murdered.’
‘Murdered? Blimey.’
‘Mr Clissold reported his discovery at once. I did not hear of it until this morning. I have not met Mr Clissold. He was not at his hotel when I called there earlier. Have you heard from him today?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Have you a thought about why Soutine was murdered?’
‘Me? No. Haven’t a clue.’
‘You are sure?’ Zamaron’s gaze had suddenly hardened.
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘Did Mr Clissold mention speaking to anyone else about Soutine?’
‘Not as I recall.’
‘Anyone Chinese . . . or Japanese?’
Sam tried to look suitably baffled, though he was actually more worried now than confused. George was not supposed to have said anything about the people they believed had killed Soutine. ‘No. Nothing.’
‘It is a very serious matter, Mr Twentyman.’
‘’Course. Murder is.’
‘It is not only murder. I received a report after visiting Mr Clissold’s hotel that a man fitting his description was attacked while crossing the Pont Royal earlier today. Witnesses saw him dragged into a van and driven away. They described his attackers as
Orientaux
: Chinese or Japanese.’
‘Mr Clissold? Kidnapped?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Oh my Gawd.’
‘It is a strange thing, Mr Twentyman.’ Zamaron cocked his head suspiciously. ‘For the first time this afternoon, I feel I have told you something you did not know already.’
Max had expected another move to be made against him by Lemmer’s agents. The attention of the police had caught him unawares. He was still trying to imagine what might lie behind his arrest as he was marched down the train towards the guard’s van. Tunnicliffe led the way and the constable brought up the rear, carrying Max’s bag. They kept close in the narrow corridors and vestibules, rendering escape impossible.
When they arrived, it was clear the guard had been expecting them. ‘Is he dangerous?’ he asked, as Max was handcuffed to the bicycle rack.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ Tunnicliffe replied. ‘You’ll get your van back after York.’
The guard took that as his cue to leave and the constable soon followed, with instructions to stop anyone coming in.
‘Cigarette?’ Tunnicliffe asked, taking a pack from his pocket once he and Max were alone.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He put the cigarettes away and lit a pipe. ‘You got Horace’s telegram?’
‘What?’
‘Horace’s telegram. At Edinburgh. Warning you he’d pull some stunt like this to get you off the train.’
Anxiety turned suddenly to optimism. ‘Appleby sent you?’
‘We’re old friends, Horace and me. We go way back. It’s not safe to go on to London, apparently. He’ll be waiting for you at York. I haven’t a clue what this is all about, but, if Horace says special precautions are necessary, they’re necessary. We’ll take you off under guard for the benefit of anyone tailing you. After that, it’ll be up to Horace. Carrying something important, are you?’
‘You could say that.’
‘You’re in the same organization as him? The one that doesn’t officially exist?’
‘Not exactly.’
Tunnicliffe mulled Max’s answer over for a moment, then said, ‘I suppose you have to be pretty tight-lipped in your game.’
‘It helps.’
‘Well, Horace vouches for you, so that’s good enough for me. Sorry about the ’cuffs. But we have to make this look like a genuine arrest. Want me to do anything about the young lady you were having lunch with?’
‘No. Leave her be.’ Max wondered how Nadia would interpret what had happened. With any luck, she would be as baffled as initially he had been. ‘Have you seen Appleby?’
‘Not seen, no. Spoke to him on the blower earlier.’
‘How did he sound?’
‘Worried. Which he isn’t easily. Should he be?’
‘Yes. I rather think he should.’
C AND HIS
principal lieutenants were seated round the conference table in his office at Secret Service Headquarters. It was an unscheduled meeting, called at Political’s request. The suavest and most obviously cerebral of the Service’s section heads, Political looked unusually animated, if not troubled. The absence of his customary languor had tinged his colleagues – Military, Naval and Aviation – with faint but unmistakable anxiety, though there was no sign this had extended to C.
They were all drinking tea, or at any rate the sludgy brown liquid served under its name by the redoubtable Mrs Ferris, who had also supplied some finger-slices of fruit cake no one had so far ventured to sample. Military, Aviation and Political were smoking cigarettes. Naval was puffing at a pipe – ‘signalling to the fleet’, as Political often described it. And C was watching them.
‘Where is Appleby now?’ he asked after perusing once again the urgent memo Political had circulated.
‘We don’t know,’ Political replied. ‘We assume he left Victoria by train. There are many destinations he could have chosen from.’
‘Have we had a full account from Paris yet of the circumstances of his departure?’
‘We only know what he told his secretary: that he had to attend to a family emergency and would be away for a few days.’
‘Does he have a family?’ Military enquired.
‘He’s a widower,’ said C. ‘He had a son who was killed in the war.’
There was a brief silence, reflecting the fact that C, as well as Naval, had also lost sons in the war. Then Political said, ‘It seems unlikely in Appleby’s personal circumstances that there was any such emergency.’
‘Do we know why he left, then?’ asked Aviation.
C looked at Political. ‘Tell them,’ he said quietly.
Political cleared his throat. ‘Yesterday morning, shortly before Appleby left his post, I heard from our contact in the German delegation that another member of the delegation staff had named Appleby as a German spy.’
‘Good God,’ said Naval, putting down his cup of tea so hurriedly he spilt some of it into the saucer.
‘Is this to be credited?’ asked Military.
‘It’s certainly to be taken seriously,’ Political replied. ‘The informant is a secretary accompanying Posts Minister Giesberts, a woman by the name of Anna Schmidt. She previously worked in the special measures department of the Nachrichten-Abteilung as personal secretary to—’
‘Lemmer?’ Military interrupted.
‘Exactly. She is someone in a position to know. I felt obliged to act quickly. I intended to recommend Appleby’s immediate recall, but he’d left before I had the chance.’
‘Tipped off, you think?’ asked Aviation.
‘It’s the obvious conclusion to draw. He’d received a telegram – we don’t know from whom, obviously – shortly before leaving. I arranged for him to be met at Victoria if he headed this way. As indeed he did. But he pulled a gun on our man and got away.’
‘Who did you send?’ asked Military.
‘Davison, with Parks driving.’
Military shook his head contemptuously. ‘They’d never have been a match for him. I’m surprised you didn’t realize that.’
‘My resources aren’t infinite,’ Political snapped. ‘It was by no means certain he’d come to London. And he’d have accompanied my men readily enough if he’d really been attending to a family emergency. His reaction confirms his guilt to my mind.’