Princes Gate (23 page)

“Just money, dear. Nothing to worry your pretty head about.” Joseph Kennedy thirstily drank the juice that Manuel placed in front of him, got wearily to his feet and walked towards his companion. He bent down and touched her redvarnished toes, ran his hand over her feet, along her legs, over her belly and her breasts, eventually cupping her chin in his hand.

“That was nice, Mr Ambassador. Did you have anything else in mind?”

“After lunch, Rhoda. I’ve still got a little work to do.” His glasses sparkled in the reflected light from the water as he leaned forward to kiss her on the lips.

“I can’t wait. Hurry up with that work.”

Rhoda, one of a string of perky contract actresses his people in Hollywood kept him supplied with, sat up and giggled cheekily at him before lighting a cigarette.

The Ambassador returned to the table and picked up another of his stock reports. This broker was doing a better job for him and he smiled. An hour later he had finished his reading. Diedrickson’s account at J.P. Morgan was the only one which was down, and since his position there had doubled in 1939 he could cut the guy some slack. He hadn’t gone over his foreign positions today but he knew he was doing very well there. Hitler would have done enough damage by the summer at the latest for him to close out all his short positions and provide a substantial top-up for the campaign fund. Then he’d show that stuck-up liberal cripple in the White House what was what.

A hummingbird fluttered by as he stood up and stretched his arms. He was still feeling a little stiff from yesterday’s golf round. After lunch and some fun with Rhoda, he’d get that nice young girl from The Breakers Hotel to come over and give him a massage.

He went into the house and ran a hand over the ivories of the grand piano that was backed-up to the French windows. On top of the piano were scores of family and business photos. Pride of place went to a picture of his two eldest boys sailing in the waters off Cape Cod. Strong, bright, fine-looking boys who took after their father in so many ways. Or so he was doing his damnedest to arrange.

“Call from London, sir.” Manuel appeared with another telephone receiver.

London, thousands of miles away and about to disappear in smoke if they didn’t listen to him. Why should he spoil his Sunday by talking to London? Only depressing things happened in London. The winter months had been particularly miserable, which was why he’d high-tailed it back to America. Not so depressing and miserable as to cause him great anxiety though. He’d done all sorts of things in his life but he prided himself on his strong nerve. It took a lot to rattle him and events in London had not done that. But he was glad to be out of it, for the moment at least. “Tell them I’m out. They’ll have to call me tomorrow.”

“Sir.”

CHAPTER 9

Monday February 5th

A blaring car horn somewhere below in Sloane Avenue woke him. Fraser pulled the bedclothes up over his head and wished the morning away. He’d called in sick on Friday and he thought he’d keep up the act for a few days more. For one thing, he’d be able to think things through. He’d given himself Sunday off from worrying but now he had to apply his mind calmly to the situation. Not many people would be able to do that, of course, to push such important matters away from the mind, but he’d just about managed with the assistance of a good supply of gin and Charles Dickens. In times of stress he’d always found Dickens a great comfort. He’d first read
The Pickwick Papers
when he was eight and it remained his favourite. The book lay on his bedside table now, open at the point of Mr Pickwick’s entry into Newgate Gaol. He considered whether he should telephone his smug colleague to confirm that he continued to be indisposed? No doubt Douglas had another week of nefarious machinations in prospect in which he’d be looking for support. No. He decided to leave it for now. As for his problems, they could wait a little longer. He reached out for his book.

The cuckoo made one of its brief appearances outside its little house as Bridges went through the office door. He could see that his boss was looking in much better shape as he enquired about his weekend.

“I had a superb Sunday lunch yesterday, Sergeant, courtesy of my sister-in-law who only nagged me just a little bit for once. Then I had an early night and slept like a log. We’re going to get somewhere this week on these murders. I’m determined. Now let’s – ”

Merlin paused as Johnson came through the door, fiddling nervously with his collar.

“I’ve just been upstairs to give the A.C. an update on the hit and run case, sir. He wasn’t very happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face so red.”

“Not to worry. That’s a regular occurrence these days with the man upstairs. Let’s put our heads together later and see what we can do with your Mr Fraser.”

“I would appreciate that, but unfortunately the A.C. now wants to see you in his office.”

“Hey, ho. When I get back, Sergeant, we’ll go and see if we can find Miss Donovan. Oh, and can you try and find out where the Johnny Morgan forensic report is?”

As he entered, the A.C was on the telephone. “Yes, dear. I’ll be sure to do that. No dear, of course. Yes, well you can tell your sister it’s all in hand. I’ll be speaking to Claire tomorrow. If she wants to she can. Yes. Now I really must go, dear.”

Merlin had met Mrs Gatehouse several times. A formidable lady in a formidable body frame. The A.C. was a tall man but his wife was taller and much broader and expected to be deferred to by one and all, not least her husband.

The A.C. cleared his throat noisily, successfully expelling all recent traces of sweetness and docility. His face reacquired the rosy hue noted by Johnson. “I have two bones to pick with you, Chief Inspector?”

“Sir?”

“The first concerns Johnson’s hit and run. I don’t know why you and he led me to believe that the case was solved when it clearly isn’t.”

“I don’t believe either of us told you that the case was solved, sir. You assumed that good progress was being made, which I believe was the case at the time you enquired. It still seems to me that we have a good suspect, but more work is necessary.”

The A.C. screwed up his eyes and strode from the window to his desk. He drew a piece of paper towards him. “More importantly, I was telephoned this morning by a – ” he consulted his notes, “a Mr Douglas from the Foreign Office. I told you to be careful in your dealings with these American diplomats but clearly you ignored me. Mr Douglas said that he had heard directly from the Ambassador himself, all the way from Florida indeed, that there was distinct dissatisfaction with, what were the words he used…?” He peered at the paper again, “‘the heavy-handed and offensive way in which the investigating officers were dealing with these unfortunate incidents’. Mr Douglas said that the Foreign Office took a very dim view of the police behaviour and that it was clearly highly prejudicial to the good health of Anglo-American relations. That this should be occurring in connection with the demise of people who were little more than domestic servants he found particularly surprising.” The A.C. pushed his piece of paper away with distaste. “What do you say to all that, eh?”

“As my father used, rather amusingly, to say, it’s a load of bull and cock, sir.”

“This is no occasion for levity, Chief Inspector. How so?”

“We have not been heavy-handed. In only one instance have feathers been ruffled and that was when one of the Ambassador’s aides wouldn’t answer our questions properly.”

“Well, there you are. No doubt you could have been more diplomatic with this chap and he’s complained to the Ambassador.”

Merlin could feel his own cheeks reddening. “I am sure you are right that this gentleman is the source of the complaint, sir. I have to tell you that, short of not doing our job and refraining from questioning the gentleman at all, we could not have been more diplomatic. The truth is that this individual was offensive to us from the outset and is, in my view, a nasty piece of work. I would put money on him having some unpleasant involvement with both Joan Harris and Johnny Morgan and propose to investigate him thoroughly. In any event, although I am obviously not as politically in the know as our friends at the Foreign Office, given that the American Ambassador is already doing his level best to keep America out of the war, I cannot for the life of me see how getting up his nose or the nose of one of his cronies can prejudice our chances of getting the Americans into the war, which I take to be the prime sensible target of British foreign policy at present! As for the comment about domestic servants, I think that can be treated with the contempt that it deserves.”

The A.C. twiddled a pencil in the fingers of his right hand. His face had regained its normal pallor. His eyebrows relaxed. He looked out of the window. “Looks like the weather’s improving.” He twiddled his pencil a little more. “Very well. I hear what you say. From all I’m told Kennedy’s a lost cause to all but the appeasers, but there are plenty of those in the Foreign Office as you know. You carry on then, but be careful. And keep an eye on Johnson, will you? I may have been a bit rough on him.”

“May I go now?”

The A.C. nodded. “Oh, and Frank?”

“Sir?”

“Just for peace’s sake, pop in and speak to this Douglas chap at the F.O. Let him know everything’s being done properly.”

“It will be my pleasure, sir.”

A small, impeccably dressed man was sitting with Miss Edgar when the policemen entered her office. Bridges nodded to the man. “This is Mr Herman Zarb, sir, the First Secretary at the Embassy. He and I spoke last week when you were otherwise engaged.”

Zarb rose and shook hands. “Pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector Merlin. This is all so terrible. Beyond understanding really. I hope everyone is being helpful. We must catch the criminals responsible.”

“Everyone’s been most accommodating, sir.” He decided to pass over Norton’s failings for the moment.

“Have you made any progress?”

“A little, but it’s slow.”

“If there’s anything Miss Edgar or I can do, please let me know.” He picked up his gloves. “I think we’ve covered everything, haven’t we, Philippa? I’ll be on my way. Good luck with your enquiries, gentlemen.”

Zarb retrieved his overcoat and trilby from a stand in the corner and departed.

“We’re keen, Miss Edgar, to have another word with Miss Donovan. Is she back at work?”

“I’m sorry, she’s not here. The state she was in on Friday I did tell her that she was free to take today off if she hadn’t fully recovered over the weekend. I think she has taken me at my word.” A siren began to wail nearby. “Oh, dear. There it goes again. I’d better get everyone down to the basement.” Miss Edgar reached down to a drawer in her desk and removed a brown box from which she pulled out a gas mask. “Will you be joining us, gentlemen?”

“No, thanks. We need to get on. Do you think Miss Donovan will be at her own lodgings or staying with her brother?”

Bridges leaned across to help Miss Edgar, who was struggling to close the box – it had an awkward latch mechanism. “Thank you, Sergeant. I should think she’s with her brother. That’s where she said she was going when she went off on Friday. The address is here in my address book.”

As Bridges took down the details, Miss Edgar grabbed her mask and bustled out into the corridor. “Come on everyone! Down to the basement please. Hurry up. Let’s have no stragglers.”

It was raining heavily outside and the policemen paused on the steps of the residence to watch the massed umbrellas race towards the shelters. A solitary plane moved in and out of the clouds above them.