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Authors: Robert Goddard
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question. The building is locked at night,
oui
. The concierge, Madame Mesnet, assures me of this. But she is forgetful. She likes to take a drink. She may have forgotten to lock the door. Or else Sir Henry had a key, given to him by Madame Dombreux, which slipped from his pocket when he fell and was … not noticed on the pavement.’
‘Yes,’ Max conceded. ‘I suppose one of those explanations must be correct.’
‘You’re satisfied on the point, then?’ Ashley asked, glaring at him.
‘Yes. As far as one can be.’
‘Good. Well, I’m sure Commissioner Zamaron is a busy man. I think we’ve taken up enough of his time, don’t you?’
ASHLEY WAS CLEARLY seething with irritation at Max – all the more because he could not express it – when they left Police Headquarters and travelled to the British Embassy. There the atmosphere was calm and orderly, hushed, it struck Max, almost ecclesiastical.
Fradgley had Sir Henry’s passport and his travel-hardened leather suitcase, packed with his belongings from his room at the Hotel Majestic, waiting in his office for them to collect. More crucially, he had a tranche of documents – permits of one kind or another, some in duplicate, some in triplicate, and the terse but essential death certificate. From an administrative viewpoint, nothing now stood in the way of Sir Henry’s posthumous repatriation to his homeland.
Fradgley suggested they should repair promptly to the undertaker he recommended in order to arrange the next stage in the process. To this they readily agreed. Appleby explained he would not be accompanying them. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you, gentlemen.’ They did not argue.
As he left, Appleby said, looking at Max as he spoke, ‘If you do find you need me, I can be contacted via the security office at the Majestic.’
Ashley hardly seemed to be listening. But Max was.
Their business at the undertaker’s was handled with sombre efficiency. Monsieur Prettre,
entrepreneur de pompes funèbres
of the fourth generation (with the daguerreotyped likeness of hisgreat-grandfather casting a faded gaze over his shoulder) assured them of his best and swiftest attention. He saw no reason why they could not take their father home on Tuesday’s noon train. He suggested they telephone him later to confirm everything was in order.
Through gritted teeth (it seemed to Max) Fradgley offered them lunch ‘at the Embassy’s expense’ after they had left the undertaker’s. If this was intended as an acknowledgement of the service Sir Henry had rendered his country over the years, Max reckoned it erred on the side of paltriness.
The conversation over lunch was as dull as the food. Handshakes afterwards on the pavement outside the restaurant marked, Max assumed, the end of their dealings with Fradgley, but it transpired he was assuming too much.
‘I’ll be at the Gare du Nord tomorrow to see you off, gentlemen,’ the wretched man announced. ‘And to ensure there aren’t any last-minute hitches. You can’t take any chances with the French.’
Ashley interpreted this as a further indication of the lengths the Embassy was going to in order to smooth their path. If anyone’s path was being smoothed, Max thought it more likely to be Fradgley’s. But much of Ashley’s anger at him for asking unhelpful questions at unhelpful times had dissipated, so he chose not to offer this interpretation.
A somewhat testier version of the discussion they had had on their way out of 8 Rue du Verger ensued as they walked back to the Mazarin through the dank grey afternoon. But Max was well aware it would have been testier still a few hours earlier.
‘You don’t seem to appreciate, James, just how helpful these people are being.’
‘Oh, I do, Ashley, believe me.’
‘Then why must you keep provoking them?’
‘I thought they might think it odd if one of us didn’t query a few things.’
‘What is there to query apart from Pa’s
oui
. The concierge, Madame Mesnet, assures me of this. But she is forgetful. She likes to take a drink. She may have forgotten to lock the door. Or else Sir Henry had a key, given to him by Madame Dombreux, which slipped from his pocket when he fell and was … not noticed on the pavement.’
‘Yes,’ Max conceded. ‘I suppose one of those explanations must be correct.’
‘You’re satisfied on the point, then?’ Ashley asked, glaring at him.
‘Yes. As far as one can be.’
‘Good. Well, I’m sure Commissioner Zamaron is a busy man. I think we’ve taken up enough of his time, don’t you?’
ASHLEY WAS CLEARLY seething with irritation at Max – all the more because he could not express it – when they left Police Headquarters and travelled to the British Embassy. There the atmosphere was calm and orderly, hushed, it struck Max, almost ecclesiastical.
Fradgley had Sir Henry’s passport and his travel-hardened leather suitcase, packed with his belongings from his room at the Hotel Majestic, waiting in his office for them to collect. More crucially, he had a tranche of documents – permits of one kind or another, some in duplicate, some in triplicate, and the terse but essential death certificate. From an administrative viewpoint, nothing now stood in the way of Sir Henry’s posthumous repatriation to his homeland.
Fradgley suggested they should repair promptly to the undertaker he recommended in order to arrange the next stage in the process. To this they readily agreed. Appleby explained he would not be accompanying them. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you, gentlemen.’ They did not argue.
As he left, Appleby said, looking at Max as he spoke, ‘If you do find you need me, I can be contacted via the security office at the Majestic.’
Ashley hardly seemed to be listening. But Max was.
Their business at the undertaker’s was handled with sombre efficiency. Monsieur Prettre,
entrepreneur de pompes funèbres
of the fourth generation (with the daguerreotyped likeness of hisgreat-grandfather casting a faded gaze over his shoulder) assured them of his best and swiftest attention. He saw no reason why they could not take their father home on Tuesday’s noon train. He suggested they telephone him later to confirm everything was in order.
Through gritted teeth (it seemed to Max) Fradgley offered them lunch ‘at the Embassy’s expense’ after they had left the undertaker’s. If this was intended as an acknowledgement of the service Sir Henry had rendered his country over the years, Max reckoned it erred on the side of paltriness.
The conversation over lunch was as dull as the food. Handshakes afterwards on the pavement outside the restaurant marked, Max assumed, the end of their dealings with Fradgley, but it transpired he was assuming too much.
‘I’ll be at the Gare du Nord tomorrow to see you off, gentlemen,’ the wretched man announced. ‘And to ensure there aren’t any last-minute hitches. You can’t take any chances with the French.’
Ashley interpreted this as a further indication of the lengths the Embassy was going to in order to smooth their path. If anyone’s path was being smoothed, Max thought it more likely to be Fradgley’s. But much of Ashley’s anger at him for asking unhelpful questions at unhelpful times had dissipated, so he chose not to offer this interpretation.
A somewhat testier version of the discussion they had had on their way out of 8 Rue du Verger ensued as they walked back to the Mazarin through the dank grey afternoon. But Max was well aware it would have been testier still a few hours earlier.
‘You don’t seem to appreciate, James, just how helpful these people are being.’
‘Oh, I do, Ashley, believe me.’
‘Then why must you keep provoking them?’
‘I thought they might think it odd if one of us didn’t query a few things.’
‘What is there to query apart from Pa’s
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