Free The Ways of the World by Robert Goddard Page A

you?’
    ‘The man who died was my father. Sir Henry Maxted.’
    ‘Then I am sorry for you. But I know nothing.’
    ‘Your studio faces the roof he supposedly fell from.’
    ‘Supposedly? What is “supposedly”? He fell.’
    ‘Did you see it happen?’
    Spataro shook Max off and gave him a glare in which there was just a hint of fear beneath the menace. ‘I saw nothing.’
    ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘
Si
. I am sure.’
    ‘You don’t look it.’
    Spataro’s eyes widened. Suddenly, he grabbed Max by the tie and collar. Max felt his feet being raised from the floor. He smiled, which seemed to baffle the Italian. ‘What is funny?’
    ‘You are, Raffaele. It’s a good thing you’re an artist, because you’d make a rotten actor.’
    Spataro’s face darkened and his grip on Max tightened. Then there was a shout from behind the bar. The
patron
intervened in a reproving volley of Franco-Italian that seemed to register with Spataro as something he was bound to take note of. He scowled and ground his teeth, then released Max and held up his hands in a placatory fashion. But it was the management of a favourite watering hole he was placating, not Max. ‘Leave me alone,’ he growled. Then he spun on his heel and stalked out.
    Max rather expected the
patron
to give him his marching orders too. But he was positively sympathetic, refusing to let Max pay for Spataro’s brandies and referring to ‘
les artistes
’ with an expressive roll of the eyes.
    One of the other customers massed at the bar spoke reasonable English and claimed to know someone who knew one of those who had found Sir Henry’s body. ‘A terrible thing,
monsieur
. Have the police found out what happened?’ Max assured him they had not. ‘
Naturellement
,’ came the cynical response.
    Max decided to finish his beer outside. It was growing cold, but that hardly mattered. He wanted to be able to suggest to Madame Dombreux that they go elsewhere for their talk. After his encounter with Spataro, he felt too conspicuous for comfort at the Dôme.
    He was not kept waiting long, but her arrival surprised him nonetheless. He was expecting her to approach from the direction of the station and to be recognizable by her uniform. Instead, she appeared suddenly beside him, dressed in her own clothes: skirt, coat and cloche hat. She had evidently gone home first.
    ‘Why are you out here?’ she asked at once.
    ‘I met your friend Spataro. He got a little … loud.’
    ‘Raffaele Spataro?’
    ‘The very same.’
    ‘He’s no friend of mine.’
    ‘That’s not what Commissioner Zamaron says.’
    She frowned at him and shook her head, as if surpassingly sorry that he should believe whatever Zamaron had told him. ‘Why are you here, James?’ Her freedom with his first name was disarming in its effect.
    ‘I want to know why my father died.’
    ‘You do?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, so do I.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I am sorry. I loved him. His death like that … was so awful.’ She dabbed away some of her tears with a handkerchief.
    ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,
madame
.’
    ‘But you want the truth.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And your brother? Madame Mesnet told me of your visit. I notice he isn’t with you. Does he want the truth?’
    Max shrugged. ‘I can’t speak for him.’
    ‘Will you buy me a brandy, James? I feel a little …’
    ‘Of course. Is there somewhere else we can go? We’ll attract a lot of attention here.’
    ‘Yes. The Parnasse. Next door. It’s quieter.’

 
    THE CAFÉ PARNASSE was, as she had promised, quieter than the Dôme: fewer customers, less badinage, calmer altogether. Max watched her sip her brandy and went on watching her as he flicked his lighter for her cigarette. She was older than he by a few years. And some of those years had been hard ones, costing her much of the bloom she must once have had. She was beautiful, but no longer flawless. The cuff of her blouse beneath her check jacket was ever-so-slightly frayed.