a look inside all four bedposts. They were all empty.
Max added further thanks as they headed downstairs. He had no wish to linger now. He had got what he had come for. True, a key was of little use if you did not know where the lock was that it fitted. But Max backed himself to find that out, one way or another, sooner or later. If there was a key, there was a lock. If there was a lock, there was something worth locking away. And he was on the trail of it.
But leaving the Majestic was not to prove as straightforward as entering it. On the last half-landing before the lobby, they nearly collided with a bulky figure hurrying up the stairs. It was Appleby.
‘I gather you’ve been taking my name in vain, Mr Maxted.’ Appleby’s basilisk stare revealed a colder, harder side to the man than he had chosen to display the day before. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘I didn’t find anything.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Benson.
Appleby ignored the sergeant’s intervention and went on staring at Max. ‘I think you and I need to have a word.’
APPLEBY HAD A small office in the basement of the hotel, guarded by a gorgonian secretary. He appeared to have bolted a breakfast in order to intercept Max: an egg-smeared plate and a half-drunk cup of tea stood beside two telephones on his desk. A large map of Paris, sporting a patchy forest of red-headed drawing-pins, dominated one wall. Sallow light seeped in through frosted windows set near the ceiling, along with blurred impressions of the feet and legs of passing pedestrians in the street outside.
Benson had been sent on his way with a flea in his ear, leaving Max to plead his case for himself. Appleby had left him to stew while he spoke to his secretary, then he had returned, closing the door of the office firmly behind him.
‘I’ll ask you again, Mr Maxted,’ Appleby began, slumping down in his chair. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘As I’ve already told you,’ Max replied, smiling casually at Appleby across his desk, ‘I didn’t find anything.’
‘Using my name to gain access to your father’s room suggests to me you had a compelling reason for going there.’
‘I wanted to establish nothing belonging to my father had been left behind.’
‘Did you have any reason to think it had?’
‘No.’
‘Then why the subterfuge?’
‘I didn’t want to bother you. I felt sure you’d have agreed to my request if I’d put it to you.’
‘You didn’t want to bother me? How very considerate. It won’tdo, Mr Maxted, it really won’t. You tricked Sergeant Benson into leaving you alone, presumably in order to remove whatever it was you knew to be hidden in the room without being observed.’
‘It was no trick. I asked him to fetch a torch so I could look inside the bedposts.’
‘And he, credulous idiot that he is, trotted off in search of one. Bedposts, my aunt Fanny. It was obviously a blind.’
How ironic, Max thought, that he should be credited with such deviousness, when the bedpost was indeed where the key had been concealed. ‘If you’re right, Appleby, I have this … hidden object … somewhere on my person. Do you want to search me?’ He felt secure in the bluff. He could reasonably claim personal ownership of the key. Appleby would know no better.
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Appleby took out his pipe and laboriously filled it, while looking at Max with fixed studiousness. ‘What’s this all about, Mr Maxted?’ he enquired at last.
‘Are you a police officer, Appleby? Nobody ever seems to mention your rank.’
‘I’m not a Scotland Yard man, if that’s what you mean. I have no official rank. Why do you ask?’
‘I’d just like to know who’s interrogating me.’
‘No one is,’ Appleby sighed. ‘This is a conversation. Believe me, if it were an interrogation, you’d notice the difference. Now, are you going to tell me why you came here this morning?’
‘Are you going to tell
Max added further thanks as they headed downstairs. He had no wish to linger now. He had got what he had come for. True, a key was of little use if you did not know where the lock was that it fitted. But Max backed himself to find that out, one way or another, sooner or later. If there was a key, there was a lock. If there was a lock, there was something worth locking away. And he was on the trail of it.
But leaving the Majestic was not to prove as straightforward as entering it. On the last half-landing before the lobby, they nearly collided with a bulky figure hurrying up the stairs. It was Appleby.
‘I gather you’ve been taking my name in vain, Mr Maxted.’ Appleby’s basilisk stare revealed a colder, harder side to the man than he had chosen to display the day before. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘I didn’t find anything.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Benson.
Appleby ignored the sergeant’s intervention and went on staring at Max. ‘I think you and I need to have a word.’
APPLEBY HAD A small office in the basement of the hotel, guarded by a gorgonian secretary. He appeared to have bolted a breakfast in order to intercept Max: an egg-smeared plate and a half-drunk cup of tea stood beside two telephones on his desk. A large map of Paris, sporting a patchy forest of red-headed drawing-pins, dominated one wall. Sallow light seeped in through frosted windows set near the ceiling, along with blurred impressions of the feet and legs of passing pedestrians in the street outside.
Benson had been sent on his way with a flea in his ear, leaving Max to plead his case for himself. Appleby had left him to stew while he spoke to his secretary, then he had returned, closing the door of the office firmly behind him.
‘I’ll ask you again, Mr Maxted,’ Appleby began, slumping down in his chair. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘As I’ve already told you,’ Max replied, smiling casually at Appleby across his desk, ‘I didn’t find anything.’
‘Using my name to gain access to your father’s room suggests to me you had a compelling reason for going there.’
‘I wanted to establish nothing belonging to my father had been left behind.’
‘Did you have any reason to think it had?’
‘No.’
‘Then why the subterfuge?’
‘I didn’t want to bother you. I felt sure you’d have agreed to my request if I’d put it to you.’
‘You didn’t want to bother me? How very considerate. It won’tdo, Mr Maxted, it really won’t. You tricked Sergeant Benson into leaving you alone, presumably in order to remove whatever it was you knew to be hidden in the room without being observed.’
‘It was no trick. I asked him to fetch a torch so I could look inside the bedposts.’
‘And he, credulous idiot that he is, trotted off in search of one. Bedposts, my aunt Fanny. It was obviously a blind.’
How ironic, Max thought, that he should be credited with such deviousness, when the bedpost was indeed where the key had been concealed. ‘If you’re right, Appleby, I have this … hidden object … somewhere on my person. Do you want to search me?’ He felt secure in the bluff. He could reasonably claim personal ownership of the key. Appleby would know no better.
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Appleby took out his pipe and laboriously filled it, while looking at Max with fixed studiousness. ‘What’s this all about, Mr Maxted?’ he enquired at last.
‘Are you a police officer, Appleby? Nobody ever seems to mention your rank.’
‘I’m not a Scotland Yard man, if that’s what you mean. I have no official rank. Why do you ask?’
‘I’d just like to know who’s interrogating me.’
‘No one is,’ Appleby sighed. ‘This is a conversation. Believe me, if it were an interrogation, you’d notice the difference. Now, are you going to tell me why you came here this morning?’
‘Are you going to tell
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