‘By revealing one of Travis’s trade secrets? He wouldn’t like that.’
‘He needn’t know.’
‘He has a habit of knowing everything in the end. Then where would I be?’
‘You saved my life, Mr Morahan. It’d be a terrible waste of effort if I lost it barely a month later for the lack of a word to the wise, wouldn’t it?’
Morahan frowned. ‘Did Malory put you up to saying that?’
‘No. ’Course not. It’s just I’m—’
‘Only she treated me to some piece of Buddhist philosophy once that says if you save someone’s life you go on being responsible for it until the day they die. Or you do.’ Morahan smiled and pointed at Sam accusingly. ‘I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend my declining years nursemaiding
you
.’
‘You needn’t worry about that, Mr Morahan. I’m not a Buddhist.’
‘And neither am I. So don’t expect me to ride to the rescue every time you get in a fix.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Mmm.’ Morahan glared down at his whisky, then across at Sam. ‘Any word from Max?’
‘Not a peep.’
‘So, I guess you’ve nowhere else to turn but good ol’ me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘If you get yourself killed, I won’t feel guilty, you know, whatever Malory says – or the Buddha himself.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’
‘Interested in antiquities?’
The question took Sam aback. ‘Antiquities?’
‘Yuh. You know. Statues of Greek gods. Ancient Egyptian amulets. That kind of thing.’
‘Well, er, no.’
‘Perhaps you should be. There’s an antiquarian gallery in Passage Vendôme, off Place de la République, where you could pick up one of Alexander the Great’s saddlebags, say, if you had the money and the inclination – and more faith than I could recommend in the proprietor’s integrity.’
‘I’m not sure I—’
‘Laskaris and Soutine, Sam. They’re the people for what you want. Well, Soutine, actually. Laskaris is just a name over the door. Soutine’s your man.’
‘He can lead me to le Singe?’
‘He’s been a source of valuable information for Travis – the kind of information le Singe is rumoured to have procured on his fishing expeditions round the delegations. But these last few weeks the source has dried up. No one’s seen le Singe. Or even had cause to suspect he’s paid them a clandestine visit. And Soutine’s had nothing to sell but antiquities. As to whether he could lead you to le Singe, I guess the answer is maybe – if he wanted to. But he won’t want to. And I don’t rightly see how you’d be able to persuade him.’
‘I have to try.’
‘Good luck, then.’
‘You know this man personally, Mr Morahan – Soutine?’
‘I’ve met him a couple of times. Wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him. Maybe not even as far as that, considering he’s no heavyweight. He’s a dealer, Sam. You’ll get nothing from him without paying over the odds for it. And what you want could be very expensive. That’s if you get the chance to talk to him in the first place. Last I heard from Travis on the subject, Soutine had left town. Have you thought of doing that yourself?’
‘They’d probably come after me wherever I went. Then I’d have chucked in a good job for nothing.’
‘You could ask Appleby for help.’
‘I can’t do that. This has to stay . . . unofficial.’
‘Then try Soutine.’
‘I will. Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. Literally, I mean.’ Morahan looked hard at Sam until he had extracted a nod of understanding. ‘My advice is: if the threat’s serious, make yourself scarce. I could give you some hints on how to do that without leaving a trail. A job is just a job. You can always get another.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘OK.’ Morahan drained his mug and stood up. ‘But don’t think too long, huh?’
DUSK IN STROMNESS:
the greyness of the town intensified by the greyness of the light. Max trudged through the drizzle back along the main street towards his hotel, dismally aware that he had many hours to wait yet before his rendezvous with Wylie. There was nothing to do and no one to speak to. His experience with the Hentys was a warning against making the acquaintance of strangers. He wondered what Sam was doing at that moment in Paris: downing a bottle of Bass at the Majestic, perhaps, before a meat-and-two-veg dinner rustled up by the imported English chefs. How Max envied him. How he wished he was in Paris himself, taking it easy, like lucky old Sam.
But Sam was not taking it easy in Paris. He had taken the Métro to République, emerging into the square to find Morahan’s prediction had been correct: it was snowing hard. He wondered bitterly whether there would be a spring at all this year. One of the mechanics had suggested all the shells fired in the war had poisoned the atmosphere. Sam had pooh-poohed the idea. Now he was not so sure.
Passage Vendôme was an arcade linking Place de la République with the street behind it. Most of the shops and offices were closed and in darkness. He had to pirouette his way round a drunken old soldier to make progress, the man’s rantings echoing boomingly in the arcade. ‘
L’héro de la guerre, c’est moi! L’héro de la merde, c’est moi!
’
There it was.
Laskaris et Soutine, Antiquaires
. Like the other premises, the gallery was in darkness, with a
Fermé
sign on the door. But there was a lamp on in the room above, light from it spilling down a spiral staircase into the gallery itself, illuminating assorted paintings and statuary and objets d’art.
Sam was about to knock on the door, when the light went out, casting the gallery into deep shadow. A few seconds passed, then a figure that was no more than a shadow itself appeared on the stairs. It descended slowly into the gallery and moved towards the door. Sam took a step back, then another into the doorway opposite.
A key was turned in a lock. A latch was slipped. The door opened. A small man in a dark overcoat and homburg emerged, jangling a bunch of keys. He was carrying an umbrella and a bulging Gladstone bag that was heavier than he was used to, to judge by the grunts he gave as he manoeuvred to close the door behind him, casting a wary glance towards the drunkard as he did so.
‘Monsieur Soutine?’ Sam asked, moving smartly across the arcade.
The man started violently. ‘
Mon Dieu
,’ he gasped. He peered suspiciously at Sam in the thin light of the arcade lamps. ‘
Qui est-ce?
’ He had a flat, loose-skinned face given some distinction by a snowy white Vandyke beard. His small, blue eyes shone like two sapphires dropped in a bowl of porridge.
‘
L’héro de la guerre, c’est moi!
’ came the slurred bellow.
‘Are you Monsieur Soutine?’ Sam asked.
‘You are English?’
‘Yes. But are—’
‘I am not Soutine.’
‘
L’héro de la merde, c’est moi!
’
‘But . . . this is your gallery.’
‘Yes, yes. But I am Laskaris, not Soutine. You are looking for my partner?’
‘Er, yes. Yes, I am.’
‘I am also looking for him.’
‘Any idea where he is?’
‘No. Of course not. Otherwise—’
‘
L’héro de la guerre, c’est moi!
’
‘Ach. Come inside.’ With an impatient flap in the direction of the drunkard, Laskaris retreated into the gallery, beckoning for Sam to follow. He vanished somewhere amid the shadows, then threw a switch. A lamp standing on a desk in a corner came on, its light a particularly sickly hue of yellow-green.
Laskaris rested the Gladstone bag on a stone sarcophagus bearing faded carvings on its side and sighed wearily. His shoulders dropped and Sam noticed how dusty his clothes were. Laskaris appeared to notice at the same time and started to brush some of the dust off.
‘I do not normally come here, Mr . . .’
‘Twentyman.’
‘Twentyman?’ Laskaris gave all three syllables of Sam’s name a lot of studious emphasis. His accent was not French, though he was certainly not English. Sam would not have been able to place him on a map of Europe. ‘Does Soutine owe you money?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’
‘You surprise me. Most of the customers I have heard from since Soutine’ – he pursed his lips and made a plosive noise accompanied by a gesture symbolizing disappearance into thin air – ‘have wanted to be paid for something. Or paid back for something they did not receive. I am Soutine’s
commanditaire
, you understand. His . . . inactive partner.’
‘Sleeping partner?’
‘Sleep? I wish I could. Telephone calls. Telegrams. Callers. I am besieged. See that?’ Laskaris pointed to an elephant’s foot standing by the door. ‘Would you believe that belonged to one of the elephants who crossed the Alps with Hannibal?’
‘Er, I don’t think so, no.’
‘Wise of you, Mr Twentyman. It seems others are less wise. Or perhaps my partner is more persuasive than I am. Ach, Alphonse. How could you do this to me? It’s too much.’
‘How long . . . has Monsieur Soutine been gone?’
‘I do not know. It is a week since I began receiving complaints about him. Unpaid bills. Undelivered goods. And I am liable for them. I am an honest man. I have a reputation. I
had
a reputation. Now I have migraines.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Here.’ Laskaris pointed up the spiral stair. ‘In the rooms above. So he told me, anyway. “I do not need a large house, Viktor, when I travel so much to buy antiquities.” Ach, another lie. No, no. There is a house somewhere. A chateau, where he reclines on his chaise longue with his mistress. But I do not know where it is. I do not know where
he
is.’
‘It’s important I find him, Monsieur Laskaris. I, er . . . It’s very important.’
‘But not because of money?’
‘No. Not because of money.’
‘Then it cannot be so important.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘Alphonse? Ach, too long. We met in Tunis, many years ago. He owned a vineyard then.’ Laskaris chuckled at some bittersweet memory. ‘Probably he did not own it. Probably he has sold things here that he did not own. It seems to be what he does. And I am left to answer for it.’
‘I’m sorry for your predicament, but I do need to find him.’
‘Yes, yes. I understand. But you must understand also. I do not know where he has gone. What do you want from him if it is not money, Mr Twentyman?’
‘Have you, er, heard of someone called . . . le Singe?’
‘Le Singe?’ Laskaris frowned. ‘You mean the burglar they call le Singe? I read about him at my barber’s. I only read newspapers when I visit my barber. It is something to do while I wait. I think perhaps I should find something else to do. The news upsets me.’
‘I believe . . . Monsieur Soutine knows le Singe, you see.’
‘He knows le Singe? Then it is worse than I thought. Why would he know such a person?’
‘I’m not sure. I—’
‘I must go to the police. Alphonse has left me no choice. Yes, yes. Tomorrow. No more . . . shilly-shally. Now, I must go home and rest.’
‘But how—’
‘I cannot help you, Mr Twentyman. I cannot help anyone. Even myself. I am useless, it seems. But here.’ Laskaris took something from his pocket, hoisted his Gladstone bag off the sarcophagus and advanced to join Sam by the door. ‘My card. Telephone me – or call, if you must – in a few days. I may have news of Soutine. I may not. I think it is unlikely. But . . . you may contact me if you wish.’ He gave a heavy, heartfelt, sigh. ‘I will do as much as I can.’
Sam headed back to the Majestic in a pessimistic frame of mind. He strongly suspected Laskaris would have no news for him if and when they spoke again. The man was Soutine’s dupe, nothing more. They might both end up suffering for what they were wrongly thought to know: where le Singe was hiding. Soutine had decided to drop out of sight and evidently knew how to. Sam would have to try some other way of tracing le Singe. But he had no idea what way that might be.
In Stromness, the evening fused with the night. The town was quiet to the point of eeriness. Max tried to sleep for a couple of hours after dinner, but could not seem to. Then, within minutes of finally dropping off, he was woken by the alarm. It was midnight. The waiting was over.
A FIGURE LOOMED
out of an inky slab of shadow into a patch of lamplight as Max reached the gate of the builder’s yard. Wylie was a short, wiry fellow in a skipper’s cap and pea jacket, with a smell about him of coarse tar and rough tobacco.
‘You’re early,’ was all he said.
‘Tom Wylie?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’m Max Hutton.’
‘I know who you are. Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s go.’
It was a short, dark walk from the yard to the harbour. The drizzle had seeped into the stillness of the night. The sea was an unseen presence, though audible as it lapped and gently slapped at the quay and the hulls of moored vessels.
‘We’re here,’ said Wylie, leading the way down a short flight of steps to a small fishing boat roped up to the quay. Her engine was turning over, smoke curling up from the funnel. Evidently Wylie was intent on a prompt departure. ‘Cast off as you come.’
Max unwound the rope from the bollard and jumped aboard.
‘Are you much of a seagoer?’ Wylie asked.
‘Not really, no.’
‘You’ll be glad it’s such a calm night, then. And there’s no moonlight for anyone to see us by. I’ll take us out.’
Wylie headed for the wheelhouse. He throttled the engine and, as he steered the drifter away from the quay, lit a lamp fixed to the wheelhouse roof. It shone ahead of them, out through the mouth of the harbour into Hamnavoe.
‘There’s some sort of barrier across the sound,’ said Max, joining Wylie by the wheel. ‘I saw it earlier.’
‘The hurdles,’ Wylie responded. ‘There’s a gate in the middle. You needn’t worry about them.’
‘And a Royal Navy patrol ship.’
‘You needn’t worry about her either. I come and go across the Flow day and night. They all know me.’
‘You won’t be stopped – or asked to explain why you’re out at this hour?’
‘I ferry supplies around the shore bases and there are the Yankee minesweepers to see to as well. I’m always on some errand or other. No one will challenge me.’
‘Good.’ Max understood from Fontana that smuggling was the real key to Wylie’s immunity. There were a lot of bored and homesick sailors in these waters to be furnished with alcohol, tobacco and other luxuries. And Wylie was the man to do it. He was thin-lipped and keen-eyed, white hair cropped close to skull and jaw. He looked aptly named.