groaned and gave ground. ‘We certainly can’t relay such a story to our mother, Mr Appleby. It would be … impossible.’
‘Then I suggest you invent a more acceptable alternative.’
‘The commissioner’s lurid speculations will form no part of any official conclusion on the circumstances of your father’s death, Sir Ashley,’ said Fradgley. ‘You may rest assured of that.’
‘Is Madame Dombreux likely to be at home at this hour, gentlemen?’ Max enquired.
‘Most likely not,’ Appleby replied. ‘And, frankly, I’m not sure what you’d gain by speaking to her.’
‘We don’t want to speak to her,’ Ashley declared, apparently believing it was for him to declare their wishes in such matters.
Max had already decided he would speak to the woman with or without Appleby’s assistance. He did not bother to contradict his brother, but turned back to the window.
He could see at a glance that the parapet blocked the view of the attic of the building opposite. Out on the roof it would be a different matter, of course. To that extent, Zamaron’s theory was sound enough. ‘I believe I’ll take that look outside even so,’ he announced in a deliberately nonchalant tone. ‘Since we’re here.’
He stepped up on to the chair and out through the open window. It was quite a stretch down to the gutter. It was not difficult to imagine his father taking a fatal misstep out there at night.
Max steadied himself against the roof and stood upright. Paris stretched grey and smoke-wreathed around him. There was the Eiffel Tower away to his right. Below, a tram was clattering round a curve in the tracks in Carrefour Vavin. And directly opposite were the windows of the attic Sir Henry had supposedly climbed out there to see into. Max could not make out much of the interior. The windows were uncurtained but dirty. Something that might have been an easel draped in a sheet stood at one end of the room.Rectangular, stacked shapes that could have been paintings were also visible. Beyond that … nothing.
If Spataro fulfilled the archetype of a Montparnasse artist, he was probably asleep. At night, with lights burning within, it could have been very different. Had his father seen what he had feared he would see? Or worse than he had feared? Shock could have played its part in the disaster that overtook him. If so, it was a pitiful end.
The cooing of a pigeon close by drew Max’s attention to the chimney-stack behind him. He turned and glanced up at the bird, perched by one of the pots. The stack formed part of a wall supporting it and chimneys of the next building. Max noticed there were skylights set in the roof just below the apex, serving a second attic above the one he had just emerged from.
At that moment, a pale glimmer of sunlight pierced the prevailing gloom and was reflected off the rain-slicked roof. Something sparkled in Max’s field of view and he realized there were fragments of broken glass scattered across the tiles immediately below the nearest skylight. Then he saw that one of the panes in the skylight was broken. How had that come about? he wondered. How – and when?
Grasping the wooden finial above the window, he hauled himself up past the dormer roof.
‘Where are you going, Mr Maxted?’ Appleby called, leaning out to follow his progress.
‘There’s a broken window up here.’
‘One of the policemen probably put his boot through it. They’re a clumsy lot. Watch your step, now.’
‘I will, I will.’
Max doubted if any of the police had climbed up to the skylight. It was an awkward scramble, with little available in the way of foot- or hand-holds. One wrong move and Max could conceivably go the way of his father. A glance behind him was hardly reassuring.
But flying over the battlefields of Flanders in wire-and-canvas biplanes had immunized him against vertigo. He made it to the skylight with nothing worse than a few short slips to show for it. Ahole had certainly been punched in one
‘Then I suggest you invent a more acceptable alternative.’
‘The commissioner’s lurid speculations will form no part of any official conclusion on the circumstances of your father’s death, Sir Ashley,’ said Fradgley. ‘You may rest assured of that.’
‘Is Madame Dombreux likely to be at home at this hour, gentlemen?’ Max enquired.
‘Most likely not,’ Appleby replied. ‘And, frankly, I’m not sure what you’d gain by speaking to her.’
‘We don’t want to speak to her,’ Ashley declared, apparently believing it was for him to declare their wishes in such matters.
Max had already decided he would speak to the woman with or without Appleby’s assistance. He did not bother to contradict his brother, but turned back to the window.
He could see at a glance that the parapet blocked the view of the attic of the building opposite. Out on the roof it would be a different matter, of course. To that extent, Zamaron’s theory was sound enough. ‘I believe I’ll take that look outside even so,’ he announced in a deliberately nonchalant tone. ‘Since we’re here.’
He stepped up on to the chair and out through the open window. It was quite a stretch down to the gutter. It was not difficult to imagine his father taking a fatal misstep out there at night.
Max steadied himself against the roof and stood upright. Paris stretched grey and smoke-wreathed around him. There was the Eiffel Tower away to his right. Below, a tram was clattering round a curve in the tracks in Carrefour Vavin. And directly opposite were the windows of the attic Sir Henry had supposedly climbed out there to see into. Max could not make out much of the interior. The windows were uncurtained but dirty. Something that might have been an easel draped in a sheet stood at one end of the room.Rectangular, stacked shapes that could have been paintings were also visible. Beyond that … nothing.
If Spataro fulfilled the archetype of a Montparnasse artist, he was probably asleep. At night, with lights burning within, it could have been very different. Had his father seen what he had feared he would see? Or worse than he had feared? Shock could have played its part in the disaster that overtook him. If so, it was a pitiful end.
The cooing of a pigeon close by drew Max’s attention to the chimney-stack behind him. He turned and glanced up at the bird, perched by one of the pots. The stack formed part of a wall supporting it and chimneys of the next building. Max noticed there were skylights set in the roof just below the apex, serving a second attic above the one he had just emerged from.
At that moment, a pale glimmer of sunlight pierced the prevailing gloom and was reflected off the rain-slicked roof. Something sparkled in Max’s field of view and he realized there were fragments of broken glass scattered across the tiles immediately below the nearest skylight. Then he saw that one of the panes in the skylight was broken. How had that come about? he wondered. How – and when?
Grasping the wooden finial above the window, he hauled himself up past the dormer roof.
‘Where are you going, Mr Maxted?’ Appleby called, leaning out to follow his progress.
‘There’s a broken window up here.’
‘One of the policemen probably put his boot through it. They’re a clumsy lot. Watch your step, now.’
‘I will, I will.’
Max doubted if any of the police had climbed up to the skylight. It was an awkward scramble, with little available in the way of foot- or hand-holds. One wrong move and Max could conceivably go the way of his father. A glance behind him was hardly reassuring.
But flying over the battlefields of Flanders in wire-and-canvas biplanes had immunized him against vertigo. He made it to the skylight with nothing worse than a few short slips to show for it. Ahole had certainly been punched in one
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