‘Rue Frederick Soton. Bloncheesery . . .’
‘Orita.’
‘Orita,’ Sam repeated.
‘Max booked out of the Hotel Mazarin on the fifth of this month. Have you heard from him since?’
‘No, sir.’
‘If you do, please warn him also.’
‘Of course.’
‘When we last met, he asked me if a certain English surname meant anything to me.’
‘Farngold.’
Kuroda nodded. ‘That was the name.’
‘And it didn’t mean anything to you, he said.’
‘If you hear it from another, especially le Singe—’
‘I’ve never heard anything from le Singe, sir. Nor has Max. He doesn’t seem to speak.’
‘Remember the name, Mr Twentyman. It could be crucial.’
‘I’ll remember, sir.’
‘Remember also: the skilful warrior does not rely on the enemy not coming; he relies on his own preparedness. You have a chance.’ Kuroda inclined his head towards Sam and fixed him with his soulful gaze. ‘Use it.’
MAX WOKE EARLY
on Monday morning, well before the time set on his alarm clock. The dawn was grey and drizzly, but he did not care. He reviewed the events of Sunday over a stale cigarette with shame – and relief they had now lapsed into the past. He only wished he could forget what had happened. But there was no chance of that.
The arrival on the scene of Sergeant Tulloch had done nothing to pierce the darkness surrounding Selwyn Henty’s whereabouts. The good sergeant had asked if Selwyn was a drinking man and had reluctantly suggested he might have fallen into the harbour and drowned. Privately, Max had little doubt of it, except that he believed Selwyn had not fallen, but been pushed.
Tulloch had decided to organize a search of the harbour and inner bay by boat, leaving Susan Henty to her own devices. Unable to bear the thought of sitting at the Ayre Hotel and waiting for news, she had resolved to tramp the city, armed with a snapshot of her brother, asking passers-by if they had seen him. Max had been obliged to accompany her. The exercise had been in vain.
Clearly clutching at straws, Susan had suggested Selwyn might have gone back to the Ring of Brodgar to study the alignment of the stones at sunrise. Why he should have done so without telling her or how he would have travelled there under his own steam were questions that had gone unanswered. They had set off in the car to discover whether he was still there. This journey had also been in vain.
Max felt a heel and a wretch for his treatment of Susan. He was more or less certain he knew the truth. But he could not speak of it without exposing his stated reasons for being in the Orkneys as a sham.
Late on Sunday, he had set about covering his tracks.
‘I forgot with all that’s been going on to tell you earlier, Susan, I’m going to Hoy tomorrow to see the
Vanguard
memorial. I had a message from the fleet chaplain saying he’d be happy to show me round the cemetery. I’ll be away overnight. I’m so sorry about the timing.’
‘Obviously you must go, Max. It’s not as if you can do anything here.’
‘I only wish that weren’t true.’
‘But it is. There’s nothing I can do either. I greatly fear . . .’
‘Don’t say it.’
‘I’ll go on hoping, of course.’
‘You should.’
‘He was missing once in the war, you know, but he came through.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘But this is a small island. And there isn’t a war being waged on it.’
‘Even so . . .’
‘Thank you for all you’ve done, Max. I really am awfully grateful.’
Max winced at the memory of Susan’s tearful gaze as he walked out of the Ayre, travelling bag in hand. He headed for the Castle Hotel, where the coach service to Stromness left from, composing in his head as he went the letter he would send Susan before quitting Orkney, explaining that news of a death in his family – a grandmother, perhaps – meant he would have to leave without returning to Kirkwall. Naturally, he would forget to give her any means of contacting him. It was the damnedest business, it really was. But it would have to be done.
Sam was sharp with several mechanics that morning, which he could see by their reactions surprised them. They looked relieved when he withdrew into his office to brood on his problems over a pot of tea and a succession of cigarettes. He had tried to convince himself Kuroda was mistaken. But the truth was he believed the old man’s every word. Sitting tight and doing nothing was not the answer. Nor was fleeing, especially since it was far from clear where he could flee to. He was left with only one course of action open to him: find le Singe and learn what he knew.
But how? He would have valued Appleby’s advice, but he had promised Kuroda he would tell no one what they had discussed. Where, then, could he turn?
He turned over in his mind everything he knew about le Singe, which was precious little. The boy had to live somewhere. And those who engaged his services had to have some means of contacting him. What could it be? How had Sir Henry managed it?
Then, in a flash, it came to him. Max had voiced the suspicion that Sir Henry had been put on to le Singe by Travis Ireton. Yes, of course. The well-informed Mr Ireton. He would not tell the likes of Sam the time of day, let alone how to find le Singe. But there was someone close to Ireton who might be a little more forthcoming.
Sam picked up the telephone.
The Orkney Motor Express service from Kirkwall to Stromness was thinly patronized that morning. Max watched the spring-tinged fields and hills unfurl around him as the journey proceeded. He wished the day over so he could head out for the rendezvous with Wylie and be on with the urgent business of the night. He recollected Sam’s advice whenever he chafed at cancelled missions or groundings on account of bad weather during the war. ‘
There’s not a minute that passed quicker for wishing it would, sir
.’ It was no more helpful now than it was then. But at least the recollection made him smile.
Stromness was a narrow, grey-stone town strung out along the western shore of the deep inlet of Hamnavoe. It looked grim and unwelcoming to Max as the coach drove down into it. He could see the northern hills of Hoy as a dark, blurred mass somewhere ahead, beyond the sound that formed one of the entrances to Scapa Flow. The Flow itself lay to the east, with the ships he knew to be dotted across it invisible in the murk.
Discharged from the coach by the harbour, Max headed for the main hotel, the Stromness, and booked himself in for the night. The rest of the day and the evening that would follow stretched unenticingly ahead and he had little hope of doing anything but pass the hours stoically.
The only reconnaissance he needed to carry out was swiftly accomplished: a walk round the harbour to the contractor’s yard established where Wylie was due to meet him; the men at work there, unloading timber, paid him no attention.
After a cheerless lunch, Max walked out of the town, past a busy boatyard, aiming for the headland overlooking Hoy Sound. An army encampment restricted access, however. It housed a battery to defend the entrance to Scapa Flow and was still manned, though the men he saw had a lethargic, post-war slouch to them. Evidently no one was expecting the Germans to make a run for it.
But there were other precautions against such a possibility nonetheless. Between Stromness and Hoy lay the island of Graemsay. A Royal Navy destroyer was on station in the waters between Graemsay and Mainland. Beyond it, Max could see a line of what appeared to be trestles stretching across the sound from Mainland to Hoy, with a gateway in the middle permitting access to Scapa Flow. And in the distance he could make out the dark smudges of the anchored German ships. They were securely bottled up, no question.
Wylie had privileged access, of course. That was crucial to Fontana’s plan. But if anything went wrong, if the Navy suddenly, for whatever reason, cast their beady eye upon them . . .
There would be no way out. There was no question about that either.
SAM WAS TAKING
a final wander round the Majestic garage before locking up for the night when a figure stepped in out of the rain drumming down in the mews. He was wearing a long black waterproof with the collar turned up and his face was barely visible beneath the brim of his sodden hat, but Sam recognized Schools Morahan by his mountainous build alone.
‘Mr Morahan,’ he called. ‘Am I glad to see you.’
‘I guess the feeling’s mutual,’ Morahan growled, the lamplight catching the crumpled prow of his nose as he took off his hat and shook it. ‘If only because seeing you means I’m in out of the rain.’ He shuddered. ‘I reckon it’s cold enough to snow. So much for spring, huh?’
‘I didn’t think you’d turn out in this weather.’
‘Malory said you sounded worried.’
‘Well, I suppose I am, but—’
‘Got anything warming to give a feller on a foul night?’
‘Whisky?’
Morahan smiled. ‘Now you’re talking.’
Sam led the way into his office, where he lit the paraffin stove and produced his emergency bottle of Bell’s. He poured a generous measure for Morahan into the less chipped of his two enamel mugs and a smaller one for himself. ‘Take the weight off,’ he said, gesturing to the only chair.
Morahan took his coat off and sat down, leaning forward to warm his hands by the stove. ‘You’ve got yourself a nice job, here, Sam, tuning limousines to ferry the big shots round Paris.’
‘Not bad, is it?’ Sam sat down on the upturned box he generally used as a chair when anyone above him in the pecking order came calling. He raised his mug. ‘Cheers.’
‘Your health.’ Morahan sighed with pleasure as he swallowed his first mouthful. ‘The first drop of the day’s always the best.’
‘Have you been busy?’
‘Not half as busy as you have, I’ll wager. There was a plenary session as well as a Council of Four meeting, so there’ll have been a deal of coming and going for you to manage. Of course, it’s the Council of Three, really, now Italy have walked out. Think they’ll be back, Sam? What’s the word in the garage?’
‘We don’t talk about that kind of thing, Mr Morahan. I don’t know why the I-ties left, so whether they’re likely to come back . . .’ Sam shrugged.
Morahan grinned. ‘You didn’t ask to see me about the conference, then?’
‘Not unless they were talking about China and Japan.’
The remark had popped out of Sam’s mouth before he could ponder the wisdom of uttering it. And Morahan looked greatly puzzled by it, as well he might. ‘China and Japan, Sam? What’s your interest in matters oriental?’
‘Nothing. That is, I just . . . wondered.’
‘Wondered, did you? I call that odd. Especially when you consider they
were
talking about China and Japan. Or rather
not
talking about them.’
Sam frowned. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘The plenary session this afternoon was to approve the League of Nations covenant. Japan raised no objections. There are rumours that means they’ve struck a deal with the Council of Four over Shantung. Wilson’s bought them off, in other words. Probably reckoned he couldn’t risk another walk-out after the Italians flounced back to Rome. So, Japan get what they want: a chunk of Chinese territory. Well, that’s the rumour, anyway. But why should you care?’
Sam was in no position to answer that question without breaking his promise to Kuroda. He suspected he was looking pretty downcast, though. Events had moved more quickly than Kuroda had led him to expect. If Japan had secured Shantung, Count Tomura was free to turn his attention to the matter of finding le Singe. Sam forced a smile onto his lips. ‘You’re right, Mr Morahan. Why should I?’
But Morahan was not about to be fooled by a mere smile. ‘You tell me.’
Sam only wished he could. He owed Morahan his life. He liked and admired the man. He seemed to be the kind of American Sam wanted to believe in, though his Tom Mix credentials were undermined by his association with Travis Ireton, a man condemned by Max as devious and dishonourable. Morahan was apparently neither. But what exactly he did for Ireton Sam did not know and did not dare to ask. Not directly, anyway. ‘Mr Ireton sells information, doesn’t he? I mean, that’s his business.’
Morahan nodded. ‘It is.’
‘And you work for him.’
‘With. Not for. There’s a big difference.’
‘’Course. Sorry. Thing is . . .’
‘Yuh?’ Morahan prompted. ‘What is the thing?’
Sam took a deep breath. ‘I need some information.’
‘But surely not the kind Travis deals in. Conference tittle-tattle, Sam. What’s your interest in that?’
‘I’m in a spot of bother.’
‘Oh . . . What kind?’
‘I can’t say.’ Sam gave a heavy sigh and engaged Morahan eye to eye. He needed the American to believe him. ‘Honest. I can’t go into the details. It would be . . . unfair to someone else. The fact is though . . . certain people . . . are looking for le Singe.’
‘Le Singe? What’s he to you?’
‘Nothing. Except . . . these certain people . . . could easily think I know where he is.’
‘Why would they think that?’
‘Because le Singe was working with Tarn. And Max killed Tarn. And le Singe . . . did nothing to stop him.’
‘Or maybe did something to help him.’ Morahan was fully alert now. ‘Is that how Max got the drop on Tarn, Sam? Is that why le Singe has gone to ground?’
‘All I know is that some nasty pieces of work are after le Singe and if they can’t find him they’ll come looking for people they think know where he is.’
‘Such as Max. And in his absence . . .’
Sam nodded. ‘Me.’
‘So you figure to track le Singe down before they pay you a visit and . . . what?’
‘I just need you to point me in the right direction, Mr Morahan, that’s all.’
But Morahan was still turning over in his mind what Sam had already said. ‘Are those “nasty pieces of work” Japanese, Sam? Travis told me there was a rumour Tarn was working for them. I can’t imagine they’d spend much time chasing a subordinate who’d betrayed him, though. There’d have to be more to it, which, judging by your expression, there is.’
‘
You’ll never play anyone false, my lad
,’ Sam remembered his mother once saying to him. ‘
What’s on your mind is always written on your face, plain as day
.’ ‘Will you help me, Mr Morahan?’