The Ends of the Earth (27 page)

‘You know the truth now. There are no more secrets. Despite what they say, injustice does fade with time. The dead can’t be brought back to life, Max. Let them rest in peace. You’ve done a great thing by crushing Lemmer’s hopes and plans. Leave it there. And leave Japan. You were born here. Don’t die here. You’re young. There’s a lot of life ahead of you to enjoy. So, enjoy it. I hardly knew her, but I’m sure that’s what your mother – your original mother – would want you to do.’

‘
LIONEL BRIGHAM IS
not your father. Believe me in this if in nothing else. If I had a Bible with me I would be willing to swear upon it. You are Henry’s son. There is no margin for doubt or uncertainty. You are his son and no other man’s.
’

Max remembered his mother’s words – the words of the woman he had always thought of as his mother – as he stood in the Ginza bar he had gone to after leaving Uchida Apartments. He had drunk a lot of sake and
shochu
since then and could hardly recall how he and Hodgson had parted following Hodgson’s revelations. What he could recall, very clearly, was standing in the wind and rain on Dover Marine station three months before, listening carefully and incredulously as his mother assured him of what he now knew to be true: he was Henry’s son.

But he was not
her
son. Not truly. Not actually. He was the son of Matilda Tomura, born in Kawajuki Castle – Zangai-jo – near Kyoto on some unrecorded day in early May, 1891. She had died soon afterwards, put to death on her husband’s orders. Her brother had followed her, also on her husband’s orders, twenty-eight years later. And her lover, the father of her child? He was dead too, thanks to Lemmer.

Max had worsted Lemmer. He should have been drinking to celebrate his victory. Instead, he was drinking to drown the bitterness he felt. What satisfaction was there to be had – what peace of mind – if, despite all those things, he allowed Count Tomura Iwazu to dwell in the knowledge of his impunity? No one would call such a man to account. No one would bring him to justice.

Unless Max did. Now. Tonight. Without pause for doubt or reflection or counsels of caution.
Now
.

He emptied his glass and studied the steadiness of his hand. Yes. His heart was ice. His mind was clear. Yes. This
was
the right thing to do.

Marcel Dulière returned to his office in Ouchy from a late lunch, with dyspepsia already setting in. He was not surprised. His digestion had never fared well under stress. The two cognacs he had drunk after the wine-accompanied meal had probably been a mistake, as Madame Dulière, who disapproved of spirits, particularly in the middle of the day, would certainly tell him if she ever knew of it.

Dulière’s secretary looked as fretful as he felt and promptly doubled his anxieties by reporting that an Englishman called Meadows was waiting in his office, having refused to wait outside. She described him as ‘
impoli
’, which did not surprise Dulière, and ‘
boiteux
’ – lame – which did.

Dulière considered the possibility of flight for a moment before rejecting it. Meadows would certainly come after him, lame or not. He could not run the risk of the man calling on him at home. He summoned what remained of his nerve and went in.

‘The boss sent me,’ Meadows announced, without rising from the chair Dulière normally occupied at his desk. ‘Got any news?’

‘
Ah, non. Pas de nouvelles.
’

‘Speak English. Where have you been? Your secretary said lunch.’

‘
Oui. C’est
—’ Meadows’ scowl prompted him to switch languages. ‘Yes. I was at lunch.’

‘The boss will be charmed to hear that.
Lunch
. Something you look as if you could do with missing once in a while, Marcel.’ Meadows heaved himself out of the chair and limped round to Dulière’s side of the desk. It appeared his right foot was troubling him. He did not look happy. ‘Where’s the boy?’

‘I … do not know.’

‘You’ve heard nothing from the school today?’

‘
Ah, non
. No. Nothing.’ It was a lie he had no choice but to tell.

‘So, you’ve not cabled the boss today?’

‘No. I have nothing to tell him.’

‘According to your secretary, a couple of Englishmen came to see you this morning. The descriptions she gave made me think I know one of them. What were their names? She didn’t have them.’

‘Brown … and Green.’

‘Not Black and White? Or Smith and Jones?’

Dulière grinned awkwardly. ‘No.’

‘A boy was found drowned on the lake shore this morning at a place called Morges. Did you know that?’

‘Er … no.’

‘Too busy planning lunch to ask around, were you?’ Suddenly, from inside his jacket, Meadows pulled a gun and levelled it at Dulière. ‘I reckon the police are bound to have contacted the school, them having reported a boy missing. Especially since the word in Morges is that the dead boy was wearing football kit, with a Le Rosey badge on the shirt. So, I’ll ask again. Has the school been in touch with you?’

Dulière swallowed hard. He might have foreseen this. He
should
have foreseen this. ‘They, er …’

‘If you give me the wrong answer, Marcel, I
will
shoot you. Your secretary too if she makes a fuss, as I expect she will. So,
has
the school been in touch?’

‘Yes,’ croaked Dulière.

‘What did they tell you?’

‘The dead boy is Eugen Hanckel.’

‘Why didn’t you cable the boss as soon as you heard?’

‘Brown … and Green … threatened me.’

‘Well, now I’m threatening you. Was one of them a balding, jowly, self-satisfied type in his late fifties or early sixties?’

‘Yes. That would be Brown.’

‘OK. Where’s your file on the boy?’

‘In there.’ Dulière pointed waveringly to the cabinet.

‘Get it out.’

Dulière unlocked the cabinet and pulled open the drawer holding the file on Eugen Hanckel. He took it out and laid it on the desk in front of Meadows.

‘Is that everything?’

Dulière nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Best there’s nothing left connecting the boy with the boss. The school are bound to refer the police to you in due course, I reckon, don’t you?’

‘I will say nothing.’

‘
C’est vrai, mon ami.
’ Meadows raised the gun then and shot Dulière between the eyes.

The Tomura mansion was invisible behind high, broad-stoned walls and tall trees. Akasaka was a quiet part of the city by night. Vehicles were few. The rattle of the trams several streets away was clearly audible in the still, humid air. Max could hear his own rapid footfalls just as clearly and knew he was making himself conspicuous to anyone who might be watching. But he had tired of creeping in shadows. He meant to present himself at the gate and demand to see Tomura. Somehow he felt certain Tomura would not refuse to face him. The man was too proud for that. So they would meet. And then …

There was a single car parked at the side of the street thirty yards or so short of the mansion’s main gate. The gate itself was closed, but lights were shining in the small building just inside. The treelined drive to the house could be seen sloping upwards beyond it. Max quickened his pace, bracing himself for the events that would be set in motion once he reached the gate.

Then the passenger door of the car opened and a figure jumped out into Max’s path: Commissioner Fujisaki.

‘What has brought you here, Maxted-san?’ he asked breathlessly.

‘What’s brought
you
here?’

‘A telephone call from Hodgson. He was worried about your intentions. He thought you might try to harm Count Tomura.’

‘Did he tell you why I might want to?’

‘No. But to go in there’ – he pointed over his shoulder towards the house – ‘as you are now would be crazy. Tomura could have you shot as an intruder. There would be nothing I could do.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘Go back to your hotel. You have been drinking. You are not thinking sensibly.’

‘Maybe I’m tired of being sensible.’

‘Maybe. And maybe I am sometimes also. But I am a police officer. And I must do my duty.’

Some faint nod of Fujisaki’s head was the signal for three men to leap on Max from the deep shadow of the wayside hedge. His reactions, slowed by the amount he had drunk, came far too late for him to evade them. His arms were yanked behind his back. He heard the click of handcuffs round his wrists as he cannoned against the side of the car. And then he heard Fujisaki’s voice, soft and regretful, close to his ear.

‘I am sorry, Maxted-san. You are under arrest.’

A SAKE/
SHOCHU
HANGOVER
was not a pleasant thing to wake to. Max’s head also hurt because of a collision with the doorframe of the unmarked police car he had been bundled into. His throat was as dry and rough as sandpaper. The breakfast he had been roused to confront comprised brackish tea and over-boiled rice. And the cell he was in, deep in the basement of Tokyo Police headquarters, was as hot as an oven, with a mere wisp of marginally less hot air entering through a grille at ceiling height. All in all, Max felt a long way short of his best.

Sobriety and a new day – evident from sallow shafts of light admitted through the grille – cast his discoveries of the previous night in a fresh perspective. His determination to make Tomura suffer for what he had done had not weakened. But he knew – though he might be reluctant to admit as much to Fujisaki – that arresting him had been an act of kindness. It had saved him from himself as much as from Tomura.

Fujisaki’s kindness did not extend to the provision of comfortable accommodation, however. The cell was rank with the odour of former occupants, some of whom had scratched messages on the walls. They were all in Japanese, of course, and thus unintelligible to Max, though a sketch of a hanged man was successful in making its point.

Most of the morning had passed, according to Max’s watch, when the door of the cell was unlocked and opened for the first time since the removal of his breakfast cup and bowl. The guard signalled for him to come out and escorted him with a few prods of his truncheon by way of direction, along a corridor, up a short flight of steps and into another room.

It was about twice the size of his cell and was furnished with a table and two chairs. Windows set behind bars high in the wall stood open to a faint breeze. The guard gestured for Max to sit down, then closed the door and stationed himself by it, truncheon in hand.

A few minutes passed, then the door opened and Fujisaki came in, carrying a file, which he laid on the table before sitting down opposite Max.

‘
Konnichi wa, Maxted-san
,’ he said. ‘How was your night?’

‘Long. Am I still under arrest?’

‘Technically, yes. Although it is debatable whether you have been under arrest at all. There will be no official record of your detention. I hope you feel now that I acted in your best interests.’

‘Let’s say I do.’

‘Good. A smoke?’ Fujisaki proffered a pack of cigarettes. Max accepted one. Fujisaki lit it for him. Then he lit another for himself.

‘When can I leave?’

‘Do you still intend to harm Count Tomura?’

‘Yes. But not immediately. And not so clumsily.’

‘Then you can leave whenever you like. But I suggest we have a talk here first. There is no danger of being overheard.’ Fujisaki nodded to the guard. ‘He understands no English.’

‘All right. What’s in the file?’

‘Reports on events I must tell you about. Firstly, the dead bodies of two Western men were found in a sewage cart at Shibuya early this morning. Both had been shot. They were naked, so identification will be difficult. As far as we can establish, the sewage was collected from the Akasaka area of the city. Where you were, last night. I wonder, do you know who the men are?’

‘Dombreux and Monteith.’

‘You are very specific.’

‘They were killed on Lemmer’s orders. Probably at Tomura’s mansion.’

‘If that is true, it proves I was right to stop you entering.’

‘I suppose it does. From your point of view. A sewage cart, you say?’

‘Yes. It seems to me … contemptuous.’

‘Contemptuousness is something Lemmer and Tomura have in common.’

‘And you, of course. They have the problem you pose to them in common. I had a long conversation with Hodgson this morning. He told me everything he told you. About Count Tomura and the Farngolds … and you, Maxted-san.’

‘Then you know what I mean to make Tomura answer for.’

‘Yes. And as a Japanese man I cannot object to a son seeking to avenge his murdered mother. If she
was
murdered.’

‘I hold Count Tomura responsible for her death. I don’t intend to let him get away with it. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Yes. I understand.’ Fujisaki extinguished his cigarette and lit another. He offered Max one. Max declined with a shake of the head. ‘Hodgson also told me you have exposed Lemmer’s spy organization. That means his scheme to sell his organization to the Japanese government has failed. A disaster for him. And a defeat for Tomura. This is true, yes?’

‘I’m not sure how much of a defeat it is for Tomura. He may actually welcome getting Lemmer out of his hair.’

‘Which will only increase your determination to attack him.’

‘It’ll make no difference to it, Commissioner.’

‘No. Of course not. That was stupid of me. Tell me, do you think Lemmer knows yet what you have done to him?’

‘Probably not. But he soon will.’

Fujisaki paused for a slow draw on his cigarette, then said, ‘I ask because of the other event I must tell you of. Anna Staun – Anna Schmidt – was found dead in her room at the Imperial Hotel this morning. She had slit her wrists in the bath.’

‘Good God.’ Why? Why should she do such a thing? It made no sense to Max. She was doing all she could to secure her son’s release. For her to kill herself at such a time was incomprehensible. ‘Did she leave a note?’

‘No. That is, no note was found. But it is interesting that Frederik Boel – Lemmer – had already booked out of the hotel by then. We do not know where he is now. He told the hotel manager he planned to travel to Kyoto.’