The Ways of the World by Robert Goddard Page A

consent. There was a delay while a colleague of his was summoned to escort Max. ‘Can’t have you wandering around the hotel on your own, sir. You might get lost.’ The clerk supplied the key and they set off.
    The colleague was younger and friendlier and considerably tubbier. He introduced himself in the course of a lengthy tramp up two separate flights of stairs and along various winding corridors as Sergeant Benson, drafted in from the Suffolk constabulary, who was enjoying himself in Paris – ‘as far as they’ll let me, sir, if you catch my drift’. He was considerably out of breath by the time they reached Sir Henry’s room.
    It was at the back of the hotel, with a view of chimney-stacks and little else, smaller than Max had expected and poorly lit. Sir Henry’s relative unimportance in the British delegation was depressingly obvious.
    ‘Looks pretty empty … to me, sir,’ Benson panted.
    ‘I’ll just make sure.’ Max embarked on a careful inspection of the desk, wardrobe, chest of drawers and bedside cabinet. It revealed nothing. He crouched down for a view under the bed and saw only dust and what might have been mouse droppings. He did not know what he was looking for, of course, nor if there was anything to be looked for. But he knew his father to be cautious, if not secretive, by nature, despite the ample evidence of his recent recklessness. It would not have surprised Max to discover that the old man had hidden something there. It was becoming clear he had hidden a great deal about his life of late.
    Max was himself no stranger to hiding things. It had been a valuable skill in the camp. Rising to his feet, he remembered therole of bunk-posts in concealing material from the guards. Surreptitiously sawing off the top of the posts supporting the prisoners’ bunks and hollowing out their interiors created a space in which all manner of articles could be stashed. Max recalled mentioning this when recounting some of his POW experiences to his father during their dinner at the Ritz.
    The bed in Sir Henry’s room had stout brass posts topped with umbrella-shaped finials. Max was standing close to one of the posts at the head of the bed. He grasped the finial and gave it a speculative twist. There was brief resistance, then it began to unscrew.
    ‘You certainly do believe in making sure, sir,’ said Benson.
    ‘May as well, while I’m here.’ Max completed the unscrewing and lifted the finial off. He peered into the hollow post and saw nothing, though it was too dark to be sure. ‘You don’t have a torch, do you?’ he asked.
    ‘Not on me, sir. I’d have to go back downstairs to fetch one.’
    ‘Would it be too much trouble?’
    Benson gave a put-upon sigh. ‘I suppose not. You’d better come with me.’
    ‘If you insist.’
    Benson frowned. ‘Oh well, perhaps it’d be all right if you just waited here. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    Benson set off and Max tossed the finial down on the bed. He lit a cigarette and wondered how long the sergeant would be. He strongly suspected he had sent him on a pointless journey. There was surely nothing to be found. He sat down on the bed.
    The depression of the mattress caused the finial to roll off the coverlet and fall to the floor with a clunk. Max bent forward to pick it up. Then he stopped.
    Lying next to the toppled finial was a small brass key. It had been dislodged from some crevice inside the finial by the impact. Max seized it at once and glanced guiltily round at the open doorway. But there was no one watching him.
    The warding on the bit of the key suggested it fitted a Yale lock or similar. It was surprisingly heavy as it rested in Max’s hand. It did not rest there for long.
    Benson found Max sitting on the bed, smoking a second cigarette, when he returned, his arrival announced from some way off by his heavy tread and heavier breathing. Max thanked him for putting himself out. Armed with the torch Benson had brought, he took