Free The Corners of the Globe by Robert Goddard Page B

him.’
    ‘Yes, yes. I understand. But you must understand also. I do not know where he has gone. What do you want from him if it is not money, Mr Twentyman?’
    ‘Have you, er, heard of someone called . . . le Singe?’
    ‘Le Singe?’ Laskaris frowned. ‘You mean the burglar they call le Singe? I read about him at my barber’s. I only read newspapers when I visit my barber. It is something to do while I wait. I think perhaps I should find something else to do. The news upsets me.’
    ‘I believe . . . Monsieur Soutine knows le Singe, you see.’
    ‘He knows le Singe? Then it is worse than I thought. Why would he know such a person?’
    ‘I’m not sure. I—’
    ‘I must go to the police. Alphonse has left me no choice. Yes, yes. Tomorrow. No more . . . shilly-shally. Now, I must go home and rest.’
    ‘But how—’
    ‘I cannot help you, Mr Twentyman. I cannot help anyone. Even myself. I am useless, it seems. But here.’ Laskaris took something from his pocket, hoisted his Gladstone bag off the sarcophagus and advanced to join Sam by the door. ‘My card. Telephone me – or call, if you must – in a few days. I may have news of Soutine. I may not. I think it is unlikely. But . . . you may contact me if you wish.’ He gave a heavy, heartfelt, sigh. ‘I will do as much as I can.’
    Sam headed back to the Majestic in a pessimistic frame of mind. He strongly suspected Laskaris would have no news for him if and when they spoke again. The man was Soutine’s dupe, nothing more. They might both end up suffering for what they were wrongly thought to know: where le Singe was hiding. Soutine had decided to drop out of sight and evidently knew how to. Sam would have to try some other way of tracing le Singe. But he had no idea what way that might be.
    In Stromness, the evening fused with the night. The town was quiet to the point of eeriness. Max tried to sleep for a couple of hours after dinner, but could not seem to. Then, within minutes of finally dropping off, he was woken by the alarm. It was midnight. The waiting was over.

A FIGURE LOOMED out of an inky slab of shadow into a patch of lamplight as Max reached the gate of the builder’s yard. Wylie was a short, wiry fellow in a skipper’s cap and pea jacket, with a smell about him of coarse tar and rough tobacco.
    ‘You’re early,’ was all he said.
    ‘Tom Wylie?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘I’m Max Hutton.’
    ‘I know who you are. Ready?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Let’s go.’
    It was a short, dark walk from the yard to the harbour. The drizzle had seeped into the stillness of the night. The sea was an unseen presence, though audible as it lapped and gently slapped at the quay and the hulls of moored vessels.
    ‘We’re here,’ said Wylie, leading the way down a short flight of steps to a small fishing boat roped up to the quay. Her engine was turning over, smoke curling up from the funnel. Evidently Wylie was intent on a prompt departure. ‘Cast off as you come.’
    Max unwound the rope from the bollard and jumped aboard.
    ‘Are you much of a seagoer?’ Wylie asked.
    ‘Not really, no.’
    ‘You’ll be glad it’s such a calm night, then. And there’s no moonlight for anyone to see us by. I’ll take us out.’
    Wylie headed for the wheelhouse. He throttled the engine and, as he steered the drifter away from the quay, lit a lamp fixed to the wheelhouse roof. It shone ahead of them, out through the mouth of the harbour into Hamnavoe.
    ‘There’s some sort of barrier across the sound,’ said Max, joining Wylie by the wheel. ‘I saw it earlier.’
    ‘The hurdles,’ Wylie responded. ‘There’s a gate in the middle. You needn’t worry about them.’
    ‘And a Royal Navy patrol ship.’
    ‘You needn’t worry about her either. I come and go across the Flow day and night. They all know me.’
    ‘You won’t be stopped – or asked to explain why you’re out at this hour?’
    ‘I ferry supplies around the shore bases and there are the Yankee minesweepers