Princes Gate (25 page)

“Shut up, Herman.” He pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose loudly, before falling heavily into the chair facing Zarb.

“I have important stuff to pass on and I can’t raise him on the phone.”

Zarb’s thin lips creased into a smile. “If it’s serious, you’d better tell me and I’ll make sure the Ambassador gets to hear it.”

“Come on, Mr Secretary, you know that the Ambassador likes me to plough my own furrow. He gets his official information from you and your colleagues and his unofficial stuff from me. You know he doesn’t like mixing them up.”

Zarb leaned forwards, steepling his hands in front of his face. “I don’t think there’s much I can do to help you then.”

Norton snorted angrily and a stale smell lingered in the air. “Look, tell me where the Ambassador is, will you? I rang Palm Beach. They said he wasn’t there and refused to tell me where he was. Same thing when I rang Hyannisport. Said they’d let him know that I needed to talk to him urgently but I’ve heard nothing.”

“Perhaps he’s keeping some pleasant female company and doesn’t want to be disturbed for a few days. Anyway, Arthur, if you’ve got something confidential to tell him, you shouldn’t be discussing the matter over an open telephone line. Our friends in MI5 are all over the telephones at the moment. I’d use some other safer form of communication if it’s something you don’t want the British to know about.”
“Depends which British.”

“Pardon?”

Norton shrugged.

“And as for the Germans,” Zarb continued, “our people and my friends in Whitehall tell me that there are spy-cells everywhere. Best to work on the assumption that the Post Office is not secure in either direction, I’d say.”

Norton shifted impatiently in his seat.

“Of course, Arthur, you could put a message into cipher and we could wire it over to the Ambassador. I’m pretty sure the cipher hasn’t been broken yet, but of course there are few absolute certainties in the world anymore.”

“To put something into cipher I’d have to trust one of your cipher clerks, wouldn’t I?”

“You would. You’re not cleared for access to the cipher, despite your exalted status with the Ambassador. You’d either have to trust one of my cipher clerks, or just put whatever message you want into one of our diplomatic bags, which, as you know, will take a while to reach its destination. But isn’t that perhaps the best method? Can this matter be so urgent?”

Norton rose stiffly and walked to the window. “Any idea when he’s coming back?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s going to be a few weeks yet. As you know there’s talk of him taking soundings about a run for the Presidency, and then again the weather is so lovely in Florida at this time of year.”

“I really would like to get this information to him as soon as possible.”

“I can arrange for you to meet one of our cipher clerks this afternoon.”

Norton mumbled his grudging thanks.

“I’ve got a few calls to make. Give me half an hour and I’ll take you along to the Cipher Department myself – there’s a reliable young man who I’m sure will be able to help.”

A procession of military vehicles slowly made its way into Victoria Street heading for the Duke of York’s barracks in Chelsea.

After the vehicles had passed, a crocodile of purple-blazered schoolboys processed across the pedestrian crossing and around their parked car.

“What now, sir?”

“I’d like to have a close look at Joan Harris’ belongings. They’re now boxed up somewhere in the Yard?”

“In one of the basement storage rooms.”

“And you say we’ll have the Morgan forensic report this afternoon?”

Bridges nodded.

“Good.”

“Shouldn’t we have another word with Norton, sir? Press him further about his dealings with Joan Harris?”

“Let’s leave him for a little while. We know he’s lied to us but if we push him now he’ll just deny everything and kick up a further fuss with the powers that be. We’ll bide our time for a day or two and see what else we can dig up.” He looked at his watch. “Speaking of the powers that be, let’s go and get an unpleasant task out of the way. We’ll smooth this Foreign Office chap out and buy ourselves a few more days of peace.”

They made the short journey to the Foreign Office in no time. Police badges gained their car access to the inner courtyard and a prompt response from the uniformed porter at the front door. “Please make yourselves comfortable over there. I’ll try and find Mr Douglas. Have you an appointment?”

“No, but it’s very important.” Merlin looked suitably grave.

“I see. Well, I think I saw him returning from lunch about ten minutes ago.”

The porter wandered off out of sight behind some ornate pillars, leaving them alone in the vaulted lobby.

The high walls around them were hung in every direction with colourful paintings chronicling the history of the greatest empire the world had ever seen. Bridges was fascinated. History had been his favourite school subject. “Quite a place, isn’t it, sir?”

“That it is.” Merlin wondered bleakly how much of the glory of the empire would remain intact by the end of the year.

Puffing a little, the porter reappeared. “I’ve found him. He’s prepared to see you in five minutes. I’ll take you to one of the meeting rooms.”

The policemen followed him up an elegant broad staircase and along a corridor whose canvases depicted memorable events in the history of the Raj. “If you’ll just wait here a moment, I’m sure Mr Douglas will be with you shortly.”

A long mahogany table filled the room. The one window revealed the dingy, grey back of another part of the building and let in a minimum amount of light. They sat down in the middle of the table, backs to the window.

“Should I take a note?”

“You’d better. Slippery customers these diplomats.”

As he was looking with interest at a detailed depiction of a Crimean cavalry charge, a door at the far end of the room opened and Freddie Douglas drifted through. “Good
afternoon. I understand you’re from Scotland Yard. I’m Douglas. How can I help you?”

“A courtesy visit, Mr Douglas, at the request of the Assistant Metropolitan Commissioner. D.C.I. Merlin and this is D.S. Bridges. As you know, we are currently investigating the violent deaths of two employees of the American Ambassador.”

“So you’re the chaps who are handling that case, are you?”

“We are looking into the deaths of Miss Joan Harris and Mr Johnny Morgan. Both particularly unpleasant deaths and naturally, in the course of our enquiries, we are having to interview members of the Embassy staff. We understand that you have had complaints about our handling of the case?”

Douglas sat down opposite them and looked thoughtful. He was immaculately turned out and Merlin wondered at the perfection of his skin. No matter how carefully he shaved he always found a few specks of bristle lurking on his chin or under his lip during the course of the day. Douglas’ face was as smooth as a billiard ball. “I have indeed received a complaint from the Ambassador himself. The charge is that you were unnecessarily harassing senior diplomatic staff.”

“I can assure you, sir, that there has been no such harassment. We have approached our task with awareness of the diplomatic sensitivities and will continue to do so.”

Douglas pursed his lips and shook his head sorrowfully. “Do you officers have any idea of what a perilous position this country is in? Within six months our country and empire may be utterly destroyed. Unless Mr Chamberlain can find a sensible, peaceful way out of this mess, our only hope is to see the United States join the war. In the circumstances it is essential that our relationship with the United States at all levels is kept as tranquil and regular as possible. We understand from the Ambassador that certain senior diplomats who have a key role to play in the nurturing of this relationship are being distracted and dismayed by your questioning concerning these grubby deaths. Surely you can see that it behoves you and your colleagues to tread very lightly and carefully in this area and I must insist that you do so. If we receive any further complaints, we shall be insisting on other, more sensitive officers, being given charge of the investigations.”

Merlin stared hard at the polished grain of the table. He was conscious of a low bubbling noise which he thought might be his blood boiling.

“I hope I have made the Foreign Office’s view clear. I think that will be all now gentlemen.”

“May I ask, sir, if you were in direct touch with the American Ambassador about this matter?”

“All you need to know, Merlin, is that the Ambassador communicated his displeasure to us, and on the basis of that I contacted the Assistant Commissioner.”

“Does that mean you spoke yourself to Mr Kennedy about the matter?”

“That is neither here nor there and I don’t care for your tone. You’re a foreigner, aren’t you? So my contacts tell me. You should learn to do things the English way and know your place.”

“I am British born as it happens, but that’s certainly neither here nor there. Would I be right in thinking that the complaint you received was not made directly by the Ambassador but by a Mr Arthur Norton?”

Douglas flushed and patted the table.

“Do you know that gentleman, sir?”

“I know most of the senior diplomats at the American Embassy, that’s part of my job.”

“And would it have been Mr Norton who complained? You see he is the only person at the Embassy with whom we have had any difficulty. And we had that difficulty because he didn’t want to answer our questions and was most unhelpful. We believe Mr Norton is hiding something which bears on the murders. And if we believe that, it is our job to investigate him further. And, in all the circumstances, I can’t see that that is going to prejudice our national security in any way.”

Douglas abruptly rose to his feet. “You’re a fool, Inspector. What can a little plod like you understand of our national security? These victims you talk about were people of no importance. Their deaths are meaningless – a tart from the back of beyond and…” Douglas paused to remove a speck of something from his eye, “and an ignorant oik from the valleys. Hardly worth the effort, are they? You must have more important things to do. I really must advise you and Sergeant Bridges, for your own good if for nothing else, to leave Mr Norton alone.”

Merlin counted to ten before lightly brushing the Sergeant’s shoulders with his hand. “I think we’ve finished. Let’s get along.”

They followed Douglas into the corridor. “Thank you, sir. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Tread carefully, Chief Inspector. That’s my strong advice to you.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, sir, but it’s my job to catch the murderers of these poor, unimportant people and do that job to the best of my ability for as long as I’m allowed to do so.”

“Very well. Good day to you both.” Douglas glided away but, as he was about to disappear around a corner, Merlin called out. Douglas’ head turned. “Do you know a Mr Edward Fraser? Works here, I believe.”

“He’s a colleague of mine.”

“Close colleague is he?”

“He’s in my department. What the hell is it to you?”

“Perhaps nothing, sir. Thank you again.”

Jimmy Reardon picked his way cautiously along Dean Street towards Soho Square. Although a thaw seemed to have set in, there were still odd pockets of ice and snow on the pavements. Sure enough he slipped on an icy puddle and landed hard on his backside. He struggled to his feet and leaned against a lampost to catch his breath. His right hand had been grazed and he mopped up the blood with his handkerchief.

“Lucky there, Mr Reardon. You could have done yourself some real damage. Alright are you?” A fat face under a bowler hat a size or three too large peered up at him.

“Yeah,” Reardon grunted. “I’m alright, ta.”

“Good. Well I’ll be seeing you soon, no doubt.”

Reardon watched the little man waddle down the street carrying, with difficulty, a bulging briefcase almost half his size. Close to the corner, the man turned into a doorway and disappeared.

With a deep sigh, Reardon resumed his journey, crossing into Soho Square then turning right onto Oxford Street. Narrowly avoiding a taxi, he crossed over then went left onto Tottenham Court Road. A little way along, he turned into a narrow alleyway. Before reaching the alley’s dead end, he halted outside a small shop window in which an easel and artists’ palette were displayed. “Myerson’s Artistic Supplies” was painted in fading black letters on the window.