‘That does not apply to fraudulent misrepresentation.’
‘Henry sold what he believed in good faith – as did his father, Sir Charles Maxted, who bought them in the first place – to be genuine Sumerian artefacts. I’d stake my life on that.’
‘Well, they’re not genuine. I’ve brought one for you to see.’ Arnavon delved in his pocket and took out a velvet bag. From it he slid onto the table a short grey stone rod, with relief carvings on it of human figures dressed in ancient robes and columns of cuneiform symbols.
‘May I?’ George asked, putting on his glasses to examine the object. ‘This is a cylinder-seal, is it?’
‘Haven’t you ever seen one?’
‘Museums aren’t really my cup of tea, Mr Arnavon. Henry’s father consigned his collection of seals to the county museum in Guildford years ago.’
‘So, they were duped as well.’
‘I suspect Sir Charles was also duped, when it comes down to it. If, as you say, this is a fake.’
‘The experts Sir Nathaniel referred the seals to at the Royal Toronto Museum pronounced them to be bogus. The cuneiform is no better than gibberish and the clothing on the human figures isn’t right either.’
‘I suppose they’d know.’
‘If you intend to claim they’re in fact genuine, I can arrange for the antiquities department at the Louvre to give their opinion. I must warn you it won’t come cheap, though.’
‘How were these seals originally used?’ George asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
‘They were rolled across clay envelopes containing legal tablets when the clay was still wet to authenticate the contents. The seals represented the personal authority of the owner. They could also be used when sealing sacks or jars.’
George toyed with the seal in his hand. ‘Remarkable.’
‘But that particular example was used for nothing, of course, except defrauding the unwary.’
‘The only fraud was when some devious Mesopotamian merchant sold the seals to Sir Charles, Mr Arnavon.’
‘Maybe so. But Sir Nathaniel is still entitled to restitution.’
‘In your letter, you mentioned a receipt.’
‘You’d like to see it?’
‘Yes, please.’
Arnavon retrieved the seal and put it away, then took an envelope from his inside pocket and removed a piece of paper which he laid on the table, flattening it out carefully and keeping his fingers pressed down on the edges so that George could not pick it up.
Suspicious bugger
, George thought. But all he said was, ‘I see.’
The document was printed with the name of the dealer,
Laskaris et Soutine
, and an address in the 3rd arrondissement. The articles sold were described in French:
6 Sceaux Cylindriques, Sumerien ancien, le XXIIIe siècle av. J.-C
. The price was written next to them and, below that,
Pour acquit
, together with the signature
A. Soutine
.
‘This sum in francs must equate to—’
‘Approximately three thousand pounds.’
‘Good God.’
‘Very reasonable, actually, had they been genuine. Sadly, they aren’t.’
‘I can’t help feeling your quarrel is with this fellow Soutine, Mr Arnavon. He sold you the seals.’
‘On Sir Henry’s behalf.’
‘Henry’s name isn’t mentioned on this document. The liability is Soutine’s.’
‘But he’s nowhere to be found.’ Arnavon’s mouth tightened tetchily. ‘I made it clear in my letter to Lady Maxted that Sir Nathaniel has instructed me to—’
‘Yes, yes. I know what you wrote.’ George played for time by taking a thoughtful sip of Vichy water, then said, ‘My sister would much prefer to avoid litigation.’
‘As would Sir Nathaniel.’
‘In the first instance, I’ll seek to have a word with Soutine.’
‘Perhaps you don’t quite understand, Mr Clissold. Soutine is gone. Vanished.
Disparu
.’
‘I’d like to confirm that to my satisfaction.’
‘Very well. The address of his gallery is on the receipt, as you can see. For all the good it’ll do you.’
‘What sort of a fellow is he?’
‘A bad sort, it would seem.’
‘I mean what does he look like?’
‘You want me to describe him?’
‘You’ve met him, Mr Arnavon. I haven’t.’
‘No. And you’re not about to, as I’ve already explained. You’ll be wasting your time by looking for him.’
‘You’re probably right.’ George smiled at Arnavon, who did not smile back. ‘But I believe I’ll waste it anyway.’
Appleby had informed his clearly bemused secretary that he would be away for ‘a few days’ attending to a family emergency. The train schedules had left him no time for prolonged deliberation. He either believed Max had something crucial or he did not. On balance, he believed.
Before boarding the noon train for London at the Gare du Nord, he dispatched two telegrams. One was to the stationmaster at Inverness:
Telegram for passenger Nettles evening arrival from Wick to be delivered into his own hand
. The other was to Max.
You will be met Waverley tomorrow morning. A
.
It was fortunate that rail services in the north of Scotland were sufficiently sparse to leave little doubt as to the trains Max would be travelling on. He was probably using an alias, but Appleby had no way of knowing what it might be, so he had reverted to the one they had settled on before Max left Paris.
According to Appleby’s hurried reading of the timetables, he would reach Edinburgh on the sleeper from London an hour before Max arrived on the sleeper from Inverness.
What happened after they met at Waverley station depended on what exactly Max had with him and any steps Lemmer might have taken in the interim. They had both broken cover now. The chase was on.
MORAHAN ENTERED CHEZ
Georges curious as to why Ireton had summoned him to meet his unidentified luncheon guest at the conclusion of their meal. Malory Hollander, Ireton’s indefatigable secretary, had been unable to enlighten him, since her boss had made the appointment without informing her. ‘Tell Travis the concept of an office diary relies on its keeper knowing when its principal subject is free and when he isn’t,’ she had complained. Morahan had assured her he would.
Ireton normally entertained people at Chez Georges when he wanted to persuade them, on account of its genuinely Parisian ambience – banquettes, stucco and gilded mirrors in abundance – that he was at ease with the leisured ways of the city’s business classes. The restaurant was not far from the Bourse and always attracted smart-suited men of money.
Morahan was surprised when he recognized Ireton’s guest, though only to a degree. The ripples of the peace conference washed many unlikely clients into Ireton’s pool.
‘Ah, there you are, Schools,’ came Ireton’s greeting as he approached the table. ‘Glad you could join us.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Morahan,’ said his companion, springing to his feet. He was an athletically built young Asian, expensively dressed, with sleek, dark hair and a lazily arrogant gaze. He was, Morahan happened to know, the son of Count Tomura, the newly arrived joint deputy head of the Japanese delegation to the peace conference.
‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Morahan responded as they exchanged courteous little bows.
‘This is—’ Ireton began.
‘Tomura Noburo,’ Morahan cut in. ‘An honour, I’m sure.’
‘An American who knows the correct rendering of Japanese names,’ said Tomura. ‘I am impressed.’
‘You should take it as an indication of the calibre of the people I employ,’ said Ireton as they resumed their seats and a waiter produced a chair for Morahan. He let Ireton’s misrepresentation of their relationship pass, as he always did.
‘I will, Travis,’ said Tomura. ‘I will.’
So, they were on first-names terms, a good omen in its way. Morahan ordered coffee.
‘I must leave soon,’ Tomura continued, toying with a nearly drained brandy glass.
‘I’ve put Noburo in the picture about how we work, Schools. He’s aware you’ll be handling the practical side of things. That’s why I wanted you two to meet.’
‘Travis has told me you are a get-doner, Schools,’ said Tomura, who grinned with pleasure at his recital of the phrase.
‘I do my level best to get done what our clients need to be done,’ Morahan responded with a smile. He noticed the shadows beneath the young man’s eyes. It looked as if his reputation for dissipation was well deserved.
‘I’ll run over the details later,’ said Ireton.
‘Is your father enjoying Paris, Noburo?’ Morahan asked.
‘Not as much as I am, I think. But I do not have his responsibilities.’
‘I guess not.’
‘He could not be seen here, with you and Travis, for instance. He could not meet all the . . .
femmes jolies
. . . I do.’
‘Paris is the place for them, all right.’ Ireton laughed.
‘Oh yes. It is a fine city. I like it.’
‘Still, your father’s not having a bad week, is he?’ said Morahan. ‘If we’re to believe the rumours about Shantung.’
Tomura nodded. ‘Believe them.’
‘The Chinese won’t be happy.’
‘We are not here to make the Chinese happy.’ There was a flare of venom in Tomura’s gaze. ‘A nation that is not united deserves to fail.’
‘Didn’t President Lincoln once say something like that?’ Ireton jokingly mused.
‘Travis has told me you do not fail, Schools.’
‘Not generally, no.’
‘I want results. Quickly.’
‘And you’ll get them,’ said Ireton. ‘Leave it to us.’
Tomura swallowed the very last of his brandy. He was about to say something when the coffee arrived. He paused, eyeing Morahan with a hint of scepticism. ‘Travis has also told me you killed several Spanish soldiers with your bare hands in Cuba, Schools.’
Morahan shrugged. ‘It was war.’
‘War is a glorious thing.’
‘In the history books, maybe.’
‘The way of the warrior is to seek death.’
Morahan allowed himself a sidelong glance at Ireton. ‘Then I guess I wasn’t much of a warrior.’
‘I do not believe that.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ said Ireton. ‘Don’t worry, Noburo. You’ve come to the professionals. We’ll solve your problem.’
‘Good. Thank you. I must leave now.’ Tomura stood up. Morahan and Ireton followed suit. ‘When will I hear, Travis?’
‘Soon.’
‘Soon, then.’
A farewell bow and he was off, a waiter intercepting him with his hat and coat as he went.
Morahan and Ireton sat down again as the street door closed behind their new client. Ireton sighed. ‘He is one haughty sonofabitch, I have to admit.’
‘Like father, like son.’
‘What was that about the correct rendering of Japanese names?’
‘The family name comes first, the personal name second. Malory told me. They never bother to set us right, just wince every time we get it wrong.’
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
‘While you’re at it, you’d better remember to tell me what the hell it is we’re doing for him.’
Ireton lowered his voice. ‘He wants us to find le Singe.’
Morahan turned the implications of that over in his mind for a second, then said simply, ‘Why?’
‘He wasn’t inclined to disclose the reason, just the urgency. I got the impression he was talking to me on behalf of his father, though he never said as much.’
‘What interest would Count Tomura have in le Singe?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Schools. Maybe better. You’re the warrior, aren’t you? And Count Tomura has as bloodthirsty a reputation as they come. I’ve heard he sliced off Chinese heads in Port Arthur during the Sino–Jap War of ninety-four/five like my daddy used to harvest cabbages on the farm. And he did much the same to the Russians ten years later.’
‘Your father was never a farmer, Travis.’
Ireton chuckled. ‘Well, no more he was, it’s true. My metaphors tend to run away with themselves. Or was that a simile? I’ll have to ask Malory for an adjudication.’
‘Which brings us back to why Count Tomura should want to find le Singe.’
‘OK. Well, naturally, I don’t know. If I was to guess, though, I’d say he’s spring-cleaning at the delegation. Rumour has it le Singe lifted information from their hotel and Marquess Saionji’s residence on a couple of occasions. Maybe Tomura wants le Singe to tell him exactly
what
information.’
‘Or stop him telling anyone else.’
‘That’s a possibility. He may have hung on to a few choice nuggets.’
‘Or Soutine may have.’
‘You’re way ahead of me, Schools. Tomura’s brought a lot of authority with him from Tokyo. He’s shaking things up. Kuroda’s been sent home in disgrace, you know.’
‘He has?’
‘Saionji should watch his back.’
‘So should we, Travis. You’ve done a lot of business with Soutine. Tomura’s bound to have considered whether you’ve handled any of their intelligence.’
‘All the more reason to do our best for him. He wants le Singe, not intermediaries.’
‘And then there’s the fee, of course.’
‘You’ll get your fair share.’
‘Le Singe has gone to ground since Tarn was killed. How do you expect me to find him?’
‘I admit it won’t be easy. Soutine’s become elusive as well. Maybe he knew Tomura would start looking for le Singe. Anyhow, start with Soutine.’
‘You normally deal with him.’
‘I can’t afford to be as active as I’d like, Schools, you know that. Since the Ennis affair, I’ve been bothered by a draught at the back of my neck. It’s Carver breathing down it. Besides, if Soutine’s made himself scarce, you’ll have to do a little discreet breaking and entering at his gallery. He has a flat over it he stays in. Chances are you’ll discover something there on le Singe.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘He can’t live on air. He’s hiding somewhere in this city. You’ll think of a way to flush him out.’
‘He may have left Paris.’
‘I doubt it. But, if we can prove he has, Tomura will have to settle for that.’
‘How much do you know about the Count – aside from his bloodthirsty reputation?’
‘He’s wealthy beyond the normal standards of the Japanese aristocracy. He didn’t just kill Chinese and Russian soldiers in Korea. He’s bought a lot of land over there and invested in a range of businesses, not all of them necessarily legal. And he’s on the board of the Oriental Development Company, which virtually runs the place now it’s a Japanese colony. I ran a guess past Kuroda once that Tomura also has links with the Dark Ocean Society. They’re thought to have been responsible for the assassination of Queen Min and maybe a few other assassinations as well.’