The Corners of the Globe (41 page)

The city was still quiet. He threaded his way through a labyrinth of narrow streets, passing from respectability to squalor and back again before he reached the Rue du Baignoir, where there was a bare hint of poverty behind the genteelness.

The Pension Marguerite occupied a handsome terraced building gone faintly to seed. Max took it in at a glance as he passed by. The simple course of going in and asking to speak to Camille Strauss did not commend itself. He had to find a way of manipulating those who were trying to manipulate him. He pressed on.

A few more minutes brought him to the Canebière, the city’s main thoroughfare. He walked up it, heading back in the direction of the station, until he came to his hotel: the Grand.

It was the city’s finest, which he had been pleased to have a good reason to choose. It was a pound to a penny the Tomuras would stay there before sailing for Japan and the chance to observe them was not to be missed. They did not know what he looked like and he would naturally be using an assumed name. According to Malory, the next sailing to the Far East was on Tuesday, so by Monday evening the Tomuras should be there.

Max’s next requirement, second to a bath, was assistance with his enquiries about Anna Schmidt alias Camille Strauss. Gaspard, the young porter who showed him to his room, spoke serviceable English and had a promising pliability about his manner.

‘Very kind, Monsieur Morris,’ he said, acknowledging Max’s generous tip.

‘Do they pay you well here, Gaspard?’

‘Not as well as I would like,
monsieur
.’

‘Well, if you want to earn a bit more, I could put some work your way.’

The work was to visit the Pension Marguerite, sweet-talk the staff and find out as much as he could about the recently arrived Camille Strauss and any visitors, letters, cables or telephone calls she might have received. For the promise of five francs Gaspard was happy to take on the task, although it would have to await the end of his shift at the Grand at four o’clock.

The delay could not be helped. Max needed as much local intelligence as he could obtain and Gaspard’s twinkle-eyed exchanges with a chambermaid suggested he was the man to gather it.

After his bath, Max explored the city. ‘
The better you know a place the likelier you are to be able to get out of it alive
,’ Appleby had advised him at the outset of Max’s highly irregular attachment to the British Secret Service.

He walked down to the Vieux Port and watched from a café terrace the comings and goings of the boats and the wanderings of the people. France’s imperial reach was more evident in Marseilles than it had been in Paris, with many Arabs and Africans to be seen.

He ambled round the headland separating the old harbour from the docks at Joliette. A ship just arrived from Algiers was unloading cargo and crew. He watched the operation for a while before returning to the Vieux Port. There he crossed the harbour on
le pont à transbordeur
, as a helpful fellow passenger told him it was called. A wide-planked nacelle suspended from a high bridge between towers either side of the harbour was winched across the gap, with nothing but a frayed rope-barrier to prevent anyone unsteady on their feet falling off it into the sea.

It was while he was aboard the transporter bridge that Max first suspected he was being followed, by a shifty, flat-capped fellow in a leather jacket he had noticed out at the docks.

His suspicions turned into virtual certainty when the man took the same route as his after leaving the bridge. Max was annoyed rather than alarmed. Lemmer could easily have deduced he would pursue Anna Schmidt to Marseilles. But why, in that case, show his hand so obviously? Leather-Jacket did not exhibit much subtlety. He dogged Max’s footsteps along the Rive-Neuve canal that led away from the Vieux Port and then back to it, a wholly unnecessary diversion, stopping and starting in obvious unison with Max as he went.

Max reached the Quai de la Fraternité at the head of the harbour. The Restaurant Basso, directly ahead of him, looked a good place for lunch and rather too smart for Leather-Jacket to follow him into. Max’s judgement proved right on both counts. He enjoyed a peaceful lunch, at the conclusion of which he used the size of the tip to buy a discreet and, so far as he could tell, unobserved rear exit.

Gaspard reported back to him at six o’clock, as agreed.

‘There is a Madame Camille Strauss staying at the Marguerite, Monsieur Morris, but she did not arrive yesterday. She ’as been there more than a week.’

‘Impossible.’

‘
Mais non, c’est vrai
. I spoke to the daughter of the
patronne
. She is very pretty, very friendly. She is not trying to deceive me.’

‘Then she’s mistaken.’

‘
Non, non
. Madame Strauss ’as been staying at the Marguerite for nine days. Thérèse showed me the entry in the register when I said it could not be so.’

‘She was in Paris until last Friday, Gaspard.’

Gaspard shrugged helplessly ‘I cannot explain it,
monsieur
. Madame Strauss ’as been there the time I ’ave said. Thérèse ’as seen ’er every day. She ’as no visitors, no letters, no messages,
rien
, though often she asks if there ’ave been any messages, as if she expects there to be. Would you like to know what she does?’

‘From day to day, you mean?’

‘Thérèse ’as a young brother, Luc. He is like me when I was his age: curious. Madame Strauss goes out every afternoon at the same time and does not return until the evening. There was no school for Luc on Thursday. So, he was at ’ome when she left. ’E and ’is friend, who was there with ’im, decided to follow ’er: to see where she went.’

‘And where did she go?’

‘Up to the Basilica Notre-Dame de la Garde. She went, in, er,
l’ascenseur
up to the bridge across to the basilica. She stopped at a bench ’alfway over the bridge and sat down. And she stayed there for . . . a long time. Luc and ’is friend became bored. They went for a walk. There is much exploring for boys to do there. Later they climbed up to the basilica from the other side and looked along the bridge. She was still there, nearly two hours later. A neighbour told Thérèse she also ’as seen Madame Strauss waiting on the bridge.’

‘Waiting for what?’

‘
Les paris sont ouverts, monsieur
. No one knows. Unless . . . you do.’

‘Hardly.’

‘But . . . you know ’er. No one else does.’

‘What time does she usually return to the
pension
?’

‘Around eight.’

‘So, she could still be up at the basilica now.’

‘
Oui
.’ Gaspard winked at Max conspiratorially. ‘She could.’ And then he rubbed his fingers together in a transparent gesture. It was time for him to be paid.

Max took a taxi from the Grand to the foot of
l’ascenseur
in Boulevard Notre-Dame. It was a funicular, designed to spare worshippers a stiff climb up to the basilica set high above Marseilles on a limestone outcrop. By the time Max arrived there were many more people coming down than going up. A mellow evening was advancing, the lowering sun casting a honey-hued light across the city.

It was a short ride to the top. Max stepped out onto the bridge that led across to the bare, rocky setting of Notre-Dame de la Garde, a huge golden statue of the Virgin Mary glistening atop its high belfry. Halfway along the bridge was the bench Gaspard had mentioned. A woman was sitting on it, her features obscured by a parasol. She was wearing a pale dress beneath a light grey coat.

She might well be Camille Strauss. But logically she could not be Anna Schmidt. That was clear to Max, though little else was. Why had he been brought here? What purpose was the deception designed to serve?

He set off along the bridge, wondering what he would do if she did not look up when he reached the bench.

The distance closed between them. As it did so, a strange sensation of familiarity crept over him. Surely he knew the woman sitting on the bench. Surely . . .

She looked up. And he knew.

She was Corinne Dombreux.

AT FIRST THEY
were both speechless. It seemed Corinne could no better comprehend Max’s presence in Marseilles than he could hers. She stared at him in open-mouthed amazement, as he did at her.

Then she stood up and spoke. ‘What . . . are you doing here?’

She had dropped her parasol behind her as she rose. The breeze caught it and carried it over the railings behind the bench. Max jumped forward to catch it, but too late: it floated away, then down, slowly, like a petal falling from a flower, towards the sloping ground beneath the bridge.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Corinne murmured.

Max stepped back, surprised by how close he was to her. They looked searchingly at each other, Corinne’s eyes partially hidden from him by the shade of her straw-brimmed hat.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘Neither do I.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I came looking for Camille Strauss.’

‘What?’ She frowned. ‘That was just . . . a name I invented.’

‘I was told – I was led to believe – that it was the pseudonym of Lemmer’s former secretary, Anna Schmidt.’

‘Lemmer’s secretary? You’re here because of Lemmer?’

‘He was ultimately responsible for my father’s death. And he’s a threat to the peace of Europe, if not the world. I’m determined to bring him to justice.’

‘But how can you have thought – how can anyone – that I was . . .’ She seemed to have forgotten the secretary’s name already.

‘Anna Schmidt.’

‘It makes no sense.’

‘You can be sure it makes sense to Lemmer.’ Max looked around. Their position was not overlooked, other than from the basilica, but it was exposed. A sniper in a window of one of the houses below would have a clear shot at both of them. ‘It’s dangerous here. We should leave.’

‘I can’t leave.’

‘Why not? What brought you here?’

‘I . . .’ She looked away. ‘I can’t say.’

‘You must.’

She gazed at him oddly, as if she still could not believe he was truly there. ‘When I wrote that letter to you in Paris, I did not think I would ever see you again.’

‘It was a hard letter to read.’

‘But what I said in it was right.’

‘That I should stop looking for answers?’

‘The irony is . . . I did not take my own advice.’

‘Why
are
you here, Corinne?’

She sat down. Reluctantly, he sat down beside her. He could not force her to leave the bridge, short of physically manhandling her. And he could not simply leave without her. The longer they stayed there together the less likely it seemed that they were in immediate danger. He could think of no reason why Lemmer would want to kill them in such a public place. But he could think of no reason why he should want them to meet again at all. He looked at her, the breeze stirring her hair beneath her hat as she stared ahead. At last she said, ‘I don’t understand what’s happened.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Do you have a cigarette?’

He gave her one and proffered his lighter. Her hand trembled as she held the cigarette to the flame. She looked at him, aware that he had noticed.

‘I went to Nantes, as I said I would. I didn’t stay long with my sister. I found lodgings in the city and work as a seamstress. Then, two weeks ago, I received a letter via my sister. The letter instructed me to come to Marseilles.’

‘Who gave you this instruction? Why did you act on it?’

‘Because the letter was from my husband. Pierre.’

‘
Pierre?
He’s dead.’

‘No. He isn’t. It was his handwriting, Max, I recognized it at once. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. But there was no doubt. It was from him.’

‘You told me he died in Petrograd.’

‘So the embassy informed me. His body was identified by a former colleague. But it can’t have been him. In the letter, Pierre said it was safer for him – and for me – if he was thought to be dead. He implored me not to alert the authorities. He wanted to explain everything that had occurred after he sent me home from Petrograd. He asked me to come to Marseilles and meet him here, in this spot. I was to wait for him, every afternoon, until he showed himself.’

‘You’ve been here more than a week. You can’t seriously believe he’s really going to turn up.’

‘He said he could not say when he would be able to come. He had to be very very careful. But he would come eventually.’

‘This is absurd, Corinne.’ Max’s protest was heartfelt. But he knew there was something much worse than absurdity at play. They had both been put in this position for a reason. And only Lemmer knew what it was. ‘You told me how badly Pierre treated you. You don’t still love him, do you?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Then why is it so important you see him again – even if he truly is still alive?’

‘Because . . . he said there were things he needed to tell me about Henry and . . . and you.’

‘Me?’

‘He seemed to know a lot about what had happened in Paris. He’d read of Henry’s death. Henry had talked about you to him, apparently. They were actually good friends until Pierre discovered how close I was to Henry. But they were reconciled after I left Petrograd. According to the letter, they even discussed the future: what should happen if either of them died, which was quite possible considering how dangerous the city became under the Bolsheviks. Pierre claims he went so far as to give Henry his blessing to marry me.’

‘Did Pa ever tell you that?’

‘No. But I don’t think he would have, even if it’s true.’

‘Which it almost certainly isn’t. My guess is the letter’s a forgery. Lemmer has the resources to manage such things with ease.’

‘A good enough forgery to fool a man’s wife? No, Max. It was from Pierre. He mentioned things only he could possibly know.’

‘Unless he was forced to disclose them to others.’

‘And to write the letter? It was his hand, Max. I have other letters, from before we were married, to compare it with. I recognized his turns of phrase. He wrote it.’

‘You still haven’t explained why you think it’s so important to take the chance that he’s alive – to come here and wait all this time for a man you no longer love.’