Sam was breakfasting glumly on porridge and strong tea in the basement room of the Majestic set aside for British delegation support staff – the workers, in other words – when one of the specially imported hotel clerks appeared breathlessly at his table.
‘Urgent message for you, Mr Twentyman.’
‘For me?’
‘Do you know a Mr Clissold?’
Sam braced himself. ‘Yes.’
‘He’s laid up at the Hôtel Dieu after some kind of accident. Seems he’d like to see you as soon as possible.’
Peggy White was on the point of leaving when Morahan and Malory reached her apartment in Place de l’Ecole. Malory had to engage in a lot of fast and persuasive talking to get them inside. It was an accomplished performance, just as Morahan had expected it would be.
‘Eveline will mention it to you later, Peggy. We’d hoped you’d agree to let us come this evening, but Schools is busy then. This really is awfully kind of you. We won’t hold you up long. It’s just that we’ve been trying to locate this particular gentleman for some time. And Eveline is convinced she saw him from here.’
Fortunately, Peggy was intrigued and clearly not worried about delaying her departure for work. She even offered them coffee, which they accepted largely to occupy her in the kitchen while they examined the view from the window of the spare bedroom.
It was a considerable panorama, encompassing the Eiffel Tower, a long stretch of the Seine, the eastern flank of the Louvre and, close by, the Church of St-Germain l’Auxerrois.
Between them and the Louvre was a jumble of chimneys, roofs, walls, windows and courtyards. But there was only one balcony in sight. Perched high and narrow on a building that looked in greater need of repair than most of its neighbours, the balcony was accessible through a set of double doors from a tiny apartment that appeared to have been added as an afterthought above a sloping roof, backing onto a blank wall that supported a high chimney-stack.
‘That must be it,’ exclaimed Morahan.
‘That must be what?’ Peggy asked, bustling in to join them rather sooner than they had anticipated.
‘The balcony Soutine was standing on.’ Malory pointed for her to see. ‘Have you ever noticed anyone out there?’
‘A dapper little guy with a white goatee beard,’ added Morahan.
‘Not that I can recall. But you see people at windows watering flowers or leaning out to admire the scenery all the time from here. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.’
‘What about a young Arab boy?’
‘The same applies.’
‘D’you know where that apartment is – what building it’s in?’
‘I’m not sure. But it’s a deal grubbier than the ones either side, so you should be able to find it. The entrance either faces the river or the side of the church.’
‘Yes.’ Morahan nodded. ‘I see.’
‘Now, how about that coffee?’
Billy Hegg was cramming a slice of toast into his mouth as if afraid someone might grab any he left on his plate when Sam tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Twentyman,’ he responded instinctively. ‘I’ll be in the garage by half eight.’
‘Good. ’Cos I want you to drive me to the Hôtel Dieu.’
‘Where’s that when it’s at home?’
‘Eel de la City. It’s the main hospital. I had a stay there myself a while back.’
‘Oh yeah. Well, happy to, I’m sure, but you could drive yourself. You’ve got the pick of the fleet.’
‘I can’t drive while I’m lying on the back seat.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to be seen and followed, Billy. Get it?’
‘Not really, Mr Twentyman. Not by a country mile. But, if you want to be chauffeured over there, I’m your man.’
The accumulations of several more decades’ worth of soot and grime on the exterior than on those of its neighbours distinguished the apartment building Morahan and Malory were looking for, as Peggy had predicted.
The concierge’s bell went unanswered, but fortunately a yawning, scruffily dressed man who seemed not to notice them emerged while they were waiting and they slipped inside before the door swung shut.
The hall was gloomy and none too fragrant. There were numbered mailboxes on one wall, some bearing names, some not. Morahan had to hunt down a distant light switch before they could read them.
‘It’s apartment seventeen,’ Malory announced as he rejoined her by the boxes.
‘How d’you know?’
‘The name.’
Morahan looked and saw a label bearing in blotchily typed capitals: SOUKARIS.
‘Did Laskaris ever really exist, I wonder,’ Malory mused.
‘Who knows?’ said Morahan.
‘What now?’
‘We go take a look in apartment seventeen.’
‘You’re going to pick the lock?’
‘I’m certainly going to try. So, if that’s a little strong for your taste, now’s the time to leave.’
Malory did not leave. They passed no one on the stairs and found the door of apartment seventeen round a corner at the end of a corridor. Morahan worked through his assortment of skeleton keys and, within minutes, they were in.
The apartment was a spotlessly clean contrast with the common areas of the building. It comprised three rooms. One, a bed-sitting-room, overlooked the balcony. The walls were white, with several hanging rugs and a couple of mirrors. There were raffia mats, a high-sided, deep-cushioned sofa, a small dining-table and chairs and a double bed. The tiny bathroom and kitchen were windowless, their doors latticed to admit light. Clues to the identity of the occupant were entirely absent, although the rugs had a Persian look to them. Otherwise, there was nothing – no books, no papers, no photographs.
Morahan stepped out onto the balcony and looked around. To either side was a tilted, tangled roofscape. But he had no doubt le Singe could negotiate it when or if he came and went. Drainpipes, windowsills and chimney-stacks were his personal highway. He needed no key. He was a spirit of the air.
‘Do you think he comes here?’ Malory asked, standing in the doorway.
‘Yes. I do.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Out there somewhere.’
‘How will you communicate with him?’
‘The same way he does. Can I borrow your lipstick?’
Suspiciously, Malory handed it over. Morahan walked across to the narrow fireplace. On the mirror above it he wrote in scarlet capitals:
SOUTINE IS DEAD.
TO KNOW WHO KILLED HIM
BE HERE DUSK THIS EVENING
FIRST OF MAY
‘D’you think he will be?’ Malory asked, protectively retrieving her lipstick as she looked at the message.
‘I don’t know,’ Morahan replied. ‘But I will.’
BREAKFAST AT GRESSCOMBE
Place that morning was interrupted by an urgent telephone call from the Deputy Chief Constable of the Surrey Police. More discomposing still for Sir Ashley Maxted was that it was his mother to whom the Deputy Chief Constable wanted to speak.
In Winifred’s absence from the room, Ashley and Lydia anxiously pondered what could be the matter. Their greatest fear was that it concerned James in some way. In their view, it was inevitable he would land himself in serious trouble sooner or later.
‘You’re not to let your mother dispatch you to some corner of the globe to rescue James from a predicament of his own making,’ Lydia insisted. ‘I need you here.’
‘And I want to stay here, Lydia, believe me. But my mother isn’t an easy woman to say no to.’
‘
I
can say no to her, darling. Leave it to me.’
‘What can have happened, d’you think?’
‘Whatever it is it’ll be James’s own fault. He’s not a child. He must stand on his own two feet.’
‘Ah, but he’s never had to, has he? Straight from Cambridge into the RFC. The boy’s never needed to knuckle down to anything.’
‘That’s half the problem. He always wants to—’
Lydia broke off as Winifred returned to the room. She sat down and waited for Fuller, the manservant, to pour her another cup of tea before she said to him: ‘Ask Ethel to pack a case for me, Fuller. I’m going away for a few days.’
‘Very good, Your Ladyship. Will Ethel be accompanying you?’
‘No, no. I’ll be travelling alone. And I’ll be leaving shortly, so could you see to it straight away?’
‘Of course, Your Ladyship.’
Fuller left the room at a smart pace. Winifred sipped her tea. Ashley flushed with irritation. And Lydia said, ‘May we be told where you’re going?’
‘Paris, my dear.’
‘
What?
’ Ashley exploded.
‘Paris,’ Winifred repeated more loudly.
‘I heard what you said. I just . . .
Why
are you going to Paris, Mother?’
‘George is in difficulties.’
‘But he isn’t in Paris . . . is he?’
‘He is. I asked him to go when he was here last Sunday.’
‘You
asked
him?’
‘Why?’ Lydia cut in.
‘A Canadian railway magnate, Sir Nathaniel Chevalier, is threatening to sue me because a number of ancient Sumerian cylinder-seals he bought from your father have turned out to be fakes. I asked George to meet Sir Nathaniel’s agent in Paris and settle the matter as discreetly and inexpensively as possible.’
Ashley gaped at her in amazement. ‘I knew nothing of this.’
‘No. We agreed it was best to keep it from you.’
‘Ashley is head of this household,’ said Lydia affrontedly. ‘You had no right to keep it from him.’
Winifred half-turned in her chair and gave Lydia the benefit of her gaze. ‘I cede the right to protect my late husband’s good name to no one, Lydia. Please be so good as to remember that.’
‘You should have told me, Mother,’ Ashley fumed.
‘Well, I decided not to and there it is. George went, loyal brother that he is to me. Alas, it’s not gone well for him.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘According to the Paris police, he’s been kidnapped.’
‘
Kidnapped?
Good God Almighty.’
‘Information is limited. But however bad a fix George is in, it’s because he did what I asked of him. So, I shall go to Paris myself and find out exactly what occurred and what can be done.’
‘You can’t go to Paris.’
‘Why not? Haskins can run me up to town in time for the afternoon train from Victoria.’
‘You simply can’t. A woman of your age, alone in Paris. It’s . . . it’s . . .’
‘Hardly Tangiers, Ashley. I shall be extremely careful. George may well not have been, I admit. He’s inclined to be impetuous. But the circumstances are not of his making, so I must do all I can for him. And I cannot do that by staying here.’
‘You should’ve told me about this complaint from Sir Nathaniel, Mother. I’d have asked Mellish to negotiate a settlement. I certainly wouldn’t have asked Uncle George to do anything. You know how unreliable he is.’
‘I know no such thing.’
‘He’ll have behaved like a bull in a china shop,’ declared Lydia.
‘You both seem remarkably unconcerned for his safety, I must say,’ said Winifred.
‘We’re not unconcerned,’ Ashley responded. ‘But the Paris police are surely the people who should be investigating the matter.’
‘You’d happily consign your uncle’s fate to them?’
‘They’re better qualified than we are, Mother. Look at what happened after Pa’s death. If James had only been prepared to let the matter rest, we—’
‘Would still believe your father killed himself. Really, Ashley, I find your attitude incomprehensible. George has been kidnapped. His life may well be in danger. Do you seriously suppose—’
‘Has there been a ransom demand?’ Lydia interrupted.
The question drew a stare from her mother-in-law. ‘Are you worried I might squander your children’s inheritance on buying George’s freedom?’
‘They’re
your
grandchildren.’
‘Yes. And George is my brother. But don’t worry, my dear. I’m sure you can rely on your husband to prevent a single penny of his father’s estate being spent on rescuing George.’
‘How did you intend to fund any deal Uncle George struck with Sir Nathaniel, Mother?’ Ashley asked pointedly.
‘I have resources of my own, Ashley. I wouldn’t have expected you to contribute.’
‘I don’t see why we – or you – should have offered to pay anything,’ said Lydia. ‘The authenticity of some old museum exhibits is between the buyer and the seller. And since the seller’s . . .’ Her words petered out.
‘Dead?’ Winifred offered. ‘That is what you mean, isn’t it? You’re right, of course, more right than you know, in point of fact. Henry sold the cylinder-seals through a dealer called Soutine. Apparently, the poor fellow’s been murdered. George found his body. The police believe that may have something to do with his kidnapping.’
‘Good God,’ said Ashley. ‘This is worse than I thought. It’s connected with Pa’s death, isn’t it? James has stirred up a hornets’ nest by his confounded meddling and this is the result.’
‘There may be some truth in what you say,’ Winifred conceded. ‘But I have no intention of abandoning George in his hour of need.’
‘You’re not to go, Mother. I forbid it.’
‘Fortunately, Ashley, I am not subject to your forbiddance. So, I shall go whether you want me to or not. I cannot, of course, prevent you accompanying me if you feel I need your protection.’
‘It’s clearly unsafe for
any
member of this family to go to Paris,’ Lydia responded.
‘I agree,’ growled Ashley.
‘I quite understand,’ said Winifred, gazing at Ashley not so much in disappointment as in grim satisfaction at having foreseen how he would react.
Fuller came back in at that moment to report that Ethel had embarked on her packing.
‘Good. I believe I’ll go and make sure she doesn’t pack more than I’ll actually need.’
With that Winifred rose and left Ashley and Lydia to the remains of their breakfast and the remnants of their conversation.
MAX AND APPLEBY
slept so soundly in the barn – despite the scurrying of assorted rodents – that they reached Abingdon railway station after the first train of the day had already left. The second had them on their way at eight o’clock, after a rudimentary wash and brush-up in the station toilet.
By then, following a thoughtful few pipefuls of tobacco, Appleby had devised a plan of campaign. ‘We need to capitalize on the few advantages we have, Max. At the moment, Lemmer doesn’t know where we are, or, more importantly, where the negatives are. We have an opportunity and it won’t last long. So, we must make the most of it while it does.’