Free The Corners of the Globe by Robert Goddard

weeks the source has dried up. No one’s seen le Singe. Or even had cause to suspect he’s paid them a clandestine visit. And Soutine’s had nothing to sell but antiquities. As to whether he could lead you to le Singe, I guess the answer is maybe – if he wanted to. But he won’t want to. And I don’t rightly see how you’d be able to persuade him.’
    ‘I have to try.’
    ‘Good luck, then.’
    ‘You know this man personally, Mr Morahan – Soutine?’
    ‘I’ve met him a couple of times. Wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him. Maybe not even as far as that, considering he’s no heavyweight. He’s a dealer, Sam. You’ll get nothing from him without paying over the odds for it. And what you want could be very expensive. That’s if you get the chance to talk to him in the first place. Last I heard from Travis on the subject, Soutine had left town. Have you thought of doing that yourself?’
    ‘They’d probably come after me wherever I went. Then I’d have chucked in a good job for nothing.’
    ‘You could ask Appleby for help.’
    ‘I can’t do that. This has to stay . . . unofficial.’
    ‘Then try Soutine.’
    ‘I will. Thanks.’
    ‘Don’t mention it. Literally, I mean.’ Morahan looked hard at Sam until he had extracted a nod of understanding. ‘My advice is: if the threat’s serious, make yourself scarce. I could give you some hints on how to do that without leaving a trail. A job is just a job. You can always get another.’
    ‘I’ll think about it.’
    ‘OK.’ Morahan drained his mug and stood up. ‘But don’t think too long, huh?’

DUSK IN STROMNESS: the greyness of the town intensified by the greyness of the light. Max trudged through the drizzle back along the main street towards his hotel, dismally aware that he had many hours to wait yet before his rendezvous with Wylie. There was nothing to do and no one to speak to. His experience with the Hentys was a warning against making the acquaintance of strangers. He wondered what Sam was doing at that moment in Paris: downing a bottle of Bass at the Majestic, perhaps, before a meat-and-two-veg dinner rustled up by the imported English chefs. How Max envied him. How he wished he was in Paris himself, taking it easy, like lucky old Sam.
    But Sam was not taking it easy in Paris. He had taken the Métro to République, emerging into the square to find Morahan’s prediction had been correct: it was snowing hard. He wondered bitterly whether there would be a spring at all this year. One of the mechanics had suggested all the shells fired in the war had poisoned the atmosphere. Sam had pooh-poohed the idea. Now he was not so sure.
    Passage Vendôme was an arcade linking Place de la République with the street behind it. Most of the shops and offices were closed and in darkness. He had to pirouette his way round a drunken old soldier to make progress, the man’s rantings echoing boomingly in the arcade. ‘
L’héro de la guerre, c’est moi! L’héro de la merde, c’est moi!
’
    There it was.
Laskaris et Soutine, Antiquaires
. Like the other premises, the gallery was in darkness, with a
Fermé
sign on the door. But there was a lamp on in the room above, light from it spilling down a spiral staircase into the gallery itself, illuminating assorted paintings and statuary and objets d’art.
    Sam was about to knock on the door, when the light went out, casting the gallery into deep shadow. A few seconds passed, then a figure that was no more than a shadow itself appeared on the stairs. It descended slowly into the gallery and moved towards the door. Sam took a step back, then another into the doorway opposite.
    A key was turned in a lock. A latch was slipped. The door opened. A small man in a dark overcoat and homburg emerged, jangling a bunch of keys. He was carrying an umbrella and a bulging Gladstone bag that was heavier than he was used to, to judge by the grunts he gave as he manoeuvred to close the door behind him, casting