The Corners of the Globe by Robert Goddard Page B

callers?’
    ‘None, sir.’
    That was exactly what Max wanted to hear. No messages. No callers. All was well. ‘Do you have a
Bradshaw
I could borrow?’
    ‘Certainly, sir.’
    ‘Thanks. I’ll drop it back in the morning. Goodnight.’
    ‘Goodnight, sir.’
    Max took a look at the contents of the Grey File as soon as he reached his room. There was a page per name, typed on flimsy paper, in German, naturally, and in code, so that the names made no sense. There were lots of uncoded dates, though, stretching back to the turn of the century, and sums of money, paid in marks. Many ran to four figures, a few to five. Running a spy network was evidently not cheap. He could make no more of the documents than that. But the Secret Service had experts who could break the code and unlock every name and every detail of their treachery. All Max had to do was make sure the file reached them intact.
    He left the curtains of his room open to ensure the dawn roused him. He would have liked to be on his way at once, but the mail steamer to Scrabster sailed at 10.45. He had no choice but to sit it out in Stromness until then.
    He busied himself writing a letter to Susan Henty explaining his sudden departure from Orkney. Then he pored over the timetables in
Bradshaw
for his journey south.
    After breakfast, he headed along to the post office, where he posted the letter and dispatched a telegram – to H. Appleby, Hotel Majestic, Paris:
Coming south with precious cargo. Please advise. M
.
    Wandering back through the town, Max found himself remembering his last meeting with Appleby, in Paris, three weeks before. ‘
You’ll be on your own once you catch that train
,’ Appleby had said with some emphasis as they sat in his office at the Hotel Majestic, in the quiet of early morning. ‘
You shouldn’t contact me unless it’s absolutely vital
.’
    Lemmer’s message to Max had instructed him to board the 11.35 Melun train from the Gare de Lyon if he wanted to accept his offer of employment. It was a step into the unknown he had resolved to take. ‘
What would you deem absolutely vital?
’ Max had asked.
    ‘
Something that gives us Lemmer or his network of spies. Preferably both
.’
    ‘
A tall order
.’
    ‘
That’s why I’m not expecting to hear from you
.’
    ‘
And you won’t. Unless I can deliver the goods. But if I can . . .
’
    ‘
Let me know at once. I’ll render all necessary assistance
.’
    ‘
I may need it
.’
    Appleby had smiled wryly at that. ‘
I imagine you may
.’
    And now he did.
    Though Max was not to know it, Paris was colder than Orkney that morning. Snow was falling from a gun-metal sky, causing Sam all manner of difficulties in arranging for tyre chains to be fitted to several cars at short notice. He welcomed the problems as a distraction from worrying about his failure to track down Soutine – and hence le Singe. He did not know where to turn next. But he had to turn somewhere. The Paris edition of
The Times
, which he had scanned anxiously in the hotel’s lobby earlier, carried a small but disturbing mention of Count Tomura, the very man Kuroda had warned him about.
    Rumours are rife that the Japanese have persuaded President Wilson not to oppose their retention of the portion of the Shantung peninsula they seized from Germany early in the war. If this is true, it suggests the arrival in Paris of Count Tomura as joint deputy head of the delegation has invigorated their negotiating tactics. There has been some criticism of Marquess Saionji for representing Japanese interests with insufficient assertiveness. It appears Count Tomura may have been dispatched from Tokyo to insert an iron fist into Saionji’s velvet glove.
    An iron fist? Sam did not like the sound of that. He did not like the sound of that at all.
    A more leisurely start to the Parisian day was being enjoyed by George Clissold at the Hotel Mirabeau, in Rue de la Paix. Proximity to the Opéra and the Place Vendôme suited his vision of