Free The Ways of the World by Robert Goddard

intently. Then she covered her mouth in surprise. He heard her sharp intake of breath. Somehow, she knew who he was.
    ‘I’m James Maxted.’
    ‘Of course. You have Henry’s eyes.’
    Her direct, unflinching reference to his father and the perfection of her English, in which an accent was barely detectable, took him aback. For a moment, he merely stared at her.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I did not mean to—’
    ‘I need to speak to you.’
    ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘And I to you. But we cannot speak here. Meet me in the Café du Dôme at a quarter to seven. It is on Carrefour Vavin.’

 
    WITH TIME TO kill, Max went into a café opposite the station, where he drank two coffees and smoked several cigarettes. The light outside started to fail and the streets became slowly busier as workers began their homeward journeys. Well-filled trams rattled by at intervals. He pondered the enigma of Madame Dombreux and her relationship with his father.
You have Henry’s eyes
. The phrase lingered in his thoughts, along with the manner in which she had spoken it. Whatever she had been to Sir Henry, it surely amounted to more than he had been led to believe.
    It was a short walk along Boulevard du Montparnasse to Carrefour Vavin. He diverted to Rue du Verger and paused to stare up at the roof of number 8. It was growing dark now. Lamplight gleamed from some of the windows. It was easy to convince himself Madame Mesnet was peering out at him from one of them. He headed on.
    There were several cafés spaced around the junction. The Café du Dôme appeared to be the busiest, with one or two hardy souls braving the terrace. Inside, most of the tables were occupied. There was laughter and shoulder-clapping banter and a miasma of cigarette smoke. Max could hear the click of billiard balls from an inner room. He found a perch on one of the banquettes close to the entrance and ordered a beer. He looked at his watch and wondered what he would say when she arrived.
    A quarter of an hour slowly passed. Then a large, bulky figure entered the café, colliding with Max’s table as he did so. He utteredno apology, probably because he had not noticed. He was a huge man, made to look huger still by a flapping, frayed tweed suit and wild head of hair, complete with bushy beard. He headed straight for the bar, waving his hand in acknowledgement as someone shouted his name. ‘
Eh, Raffaele!
’
    Several of those standing at the bar greeted him familiarly. And his response clinched his identity. ‘
Buonasera … mes amis
.’ A brandy was downed in mid-sentence and another promptly ordered.
    It was both an opportunity not to be missed and one fraught with difficulties. For all his bonhomie, Spataro looked every bit as volatile as an Italian artist might be expected to. Perhaps the shrewdest course of action would be to wait and see how he reacted to Madame Dombreux’s arrival.
    But shrewdness sat ill with Max’s impatience to learn as much as he could before he was obliged to leave Paris. He stood up and threaded his way to the bar.
    ‘Raffaele Spataro?’ There was no response until Max had added a tap on the arm – an arm that felt like a solid mass of muscle. ‘Raffaele Spataro?’
    ‘
Si
.’ Spataro swung round and looked at him. ‘
C’est moi
.’
    ‘I’m James Maxted.’
    ‘You are English.’
    ‘Yes. Could I have a word with you?’
    ‘Ah. Words. That is all the English have.’
    ‘I don’t think the Germans would agree with you there.’
    The remark seemed to make Spataro take stock of Max for the first time. ‘Do you want to buy me a drink,
mio amico
?’
    ‘I’d be happy to.’
    Spataro laughed. ‘Then I leave you to pay for my brandy.’ He drained his second glass and smacked it down on the bar. ‘
Grazie mille
. I must go.’
    ‘Wait.’ Max laid a restraining hand on Spataro’s elbow. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about the death in Rue du Verger on Friday night.’
    ‘What is that to