Princes Gate (29 page)

“The usual quality, is it?”

The man removed his hat and scratched his bald head. “Good as ever. Got the dosh?”

Reardon held the bag to his nose, then handed over some notes. The little man counted them carefully before stuffing them into his coat pocket.

“Bloody peanuts. Hardly covers my expenses.” The man looked sourly at Reardon, who shrugged his shoulders. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to eat my supper now. Nice doing business with you, as always.”

The bar of the Carlton Club was beginning to clear as people made their way into dinner. Douglas was sitting at a corner table reading
The Times
when Norton hurried over to him. “Sorry, Freddie. I got tied up with something at the Embassy.”

Freddie Douglas cast a languid eye over Norton’s flushed face. “Glad you could make it, Arthur. I’m sure whatever delayed you was important.”

Norton sat down and mopped his glistening forehead with a handkerchief. “Yes, yes. It was. What’s that you’re drinking?”

Douglas swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “This, my friend, is a fine twenty year old Balvenie. You should try it. It’s a malt whisky as smooth and refined as Mr Chamberlain’s frock coat.”

Norton nodded and Douglas signalled to a waiter. “Late night again, Arthur?”

“No, not really. I think I’ve got a touch of flu or something.”

Douglas raised an eyebrow.

“No, really, I think I do have a bug of some sort.”

The waiter returned with Norton’s drink. “Well, here’s to your rapid recovery.” The men chinked their glasses.

“All fine at the Embassy?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And did you manage to pass on that little message?”

“I did.”

“What did the Ambassador say?”

“Well, I haven’t actually spoken to the Ambassador myself.”

Douglas drew hard on his cigarette and blew the smoke fiercely out of his nostrils. “How did you pass the message then?”

“I couldn’t get hold of the Ambassador at any of his residencies. I tried Palm Beach, I tried Hyannis, I tried New York, I tried Washington. Given the urgency I decided I should send him a cable.”

Two elderly men nearby burst into laughter. Douglas glanced at them with distaste. “Wasn’t that a little bit risky?”

“I sent the cable through official channels and had it encoded at the Embassy.”

“Hmm. And who did the encoding for you, may I ask?”

“A guy called Kent, Tyler Kent. I insisted on everything being highly confidential, of course.”

“Kent. I know of him. Should be alright. I understand he’s a good friend of Major St. John.” Douglas stubbed out his cigarette and lit a fresh one from a small, gold case. “When would you expect to get a message back from the Ambassador?”

“The message went off last night. I suppose I could get a response at any time. Then again, perhaps the Ambassador will simply act without acknowledging receipt of the message.”

“That would not be terribly satisfactory as I’d like to be able to report back on developments.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep on trying the telephone. I’m sure I’ll get through to him eventually.”

Douglas drained his glass. “Eventually isn’t a very encouraging word, Arthur. However, you will let me know when you speak to him, won’t you?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Oh, and by the way.”

“Yes?”

“I spoke to those jumped-up police officers. I think I got the message through. I doubt you’ll be bothered by them again.”

“Thank you kindly.”

“I do think we should all give The Blue Angel a miss for a while though, don’t you?”

“I suppose so. These policemen have got a damned nerve poking around as they have.” They heard Douglas’ name being called from across the room. “Ah, here’s Vivian. We have a dinner engagement, Arthur. I’d better be off. Let me know as soon as there’s any news.”

Norton watched the two Englishmen leave the room, then asked the waiter for a glass of water. He pondered whether he should have a quiet night for once.

CHAPTER 11

Wednesday February 7th

Through the rising steam Merlin watched a small spider scurrying across the bathroom ceiling. He closed his eyes and slid further down into the water. He had always found the bath a good place to think. Something said the previous night, when the A.C. had cornered him on the stairs as he was heading home, had been playing on his mind. Gatehouse had advised Merlin that he felt he was concentrating too much on Joan Harris’ case at the expense of Johnny Morgan’s. Merlin had pointed out that the two cases had to be interconnected and that finding Joan Harris’ murderer should lead him to Johnny Morgan’s. But was this really so? Morgan was Morrie Owen’s nephew and who knew what he’d got up to on Owen’s behalf before joining the Embassy? Maybe he’d picked up some enemies who had nothing to do with the Harris case. His sympathy was naturally more engaged with the innocent young girl than the lady-killing spiv. He dipped his head under the water and concluded that he should keep a more open mind. If there were parts of Morgan’s life which needed to be exposed and sifted, however, he felt they were most likely to emerge from a close scrutiny of Morrie Owen and his activities. He must try and re-read all the paperwork on the cases as well. He had almost fallen asleep at the Yard reading the forensics on Morgan and he hadn’t taken it all in. He was sure that there was something he’d come across which had struck him as odd and significant but, when he’d woken up, for the life of him he couldn’t dredge it from his memory. He’d have another look at the Harris forensics too. Something might appear in a new light.

His mind floated off briefly and he guiltily conjured up an image of his family, gathered around the kitchen table, his father pontificating on some literary matter while his mother bustled away at the oven. He could see his twelve-year old self, serious and thoughtful, listening diligently to his father’s words while his brother and sister squabbled over the last piece of bread and jam. He thought with a shiver about his brother Charlie fighting in France, and then with a sigh about the family members killed on both sides of the recent conflict in Spain. In Tuesday’s post he’d found a letter from his sister Mary who, on a visit to Spain eight years before, had met and married a second cousin, Jorge, and had settled down to raise a family in Galicia. She had lived through all the horrors of the Civil War and had amazingly come through it with her immediate family intact. It was through her that he had learned of the fortunes of his never seen paternal relatives. Mary, or Maria as she had inevitably reverted to in her new life, had recently settled down with her husband to run a small café in a village just outside Corunna. All was apparently well but she was naturally concerned about England’s prospects and had written several times to try and encourage Frank to join her in Spain. “We’re in Franco’s homeland here, the safest part of the country, and there won’t be any war here now. Come out and bring Beatrice and Paul. We are not rich but we can get by,” she had written again in her latest letter. If only things were so simple, he thought.

He put the flannel over his face. So now he had two new recruits. He had been annoyed at first when the A.C. foisted his niece on him. Having to baby her along was more likely to hinder his investigation than to help it, he’d thought. However, after chatting to her a little, his irritation had faded. She appeared to be a forthright and sensible girl. She’d passed out top of her year at the College and had made a point of saying she expected no special favours because of who her uncle was. She had volunteered and emphasised that she wouldn’t be discussing any of her work for Merlin with her uncle. He’d set her on to sifting the Dr Joneses. She certainly was a pretty thing and brightened up the office. And Cole was undoubtedly enthusiastic.

Reluctantly he pulled himself out of the bath. He picked up his watch. It was half past seven. Time to have another go at the Polish girl.

It was just after eight when he turned the car off Baker Street and parked outside the mews. He walked over the cobbles to the little pink house and rang the bell. This time he was in luck. A pale face peeped nervously out of the door.

He could see why Jack Stewart was impressed. Saucer-like blue eyes stared out at Merlin over a perfectly designed nose and full lips. A few brown freckles were scattered evenly over both cheeks. The girl was wearing a towel over her head but a few wisps of tawny auburn hair peeked out and trailed down over her ears.

“Can I help you?” The accent was strong but not impenetrable like her flatmate’s.

“Sorry to bother you so early. Detective Chief Inspector Merlin. I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions for me.” He waved his identity card in front of her.

The girl tensed. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“I’m sure you haven’t but I have reason to believe you might be able to help us in connection with a case which we are investigating. It’s quite straightforward, I assure you.”

“Very well. Come in. I am afraid I am not dressed yet.” She tugged on the belt of a white dressing gown which closely hugged the contours of her body.

He followed her into a cramped living room. A small kitchen area led off to the right and he could see piles of dirty dishes spilling out from the sink. The girl disappeared up some stairs at the back and Merlin sat down in a small, white armchair and leafed through an old magazine he found on the bamboo table in front of him.

The girl re-emerged wearing a bright blue dress. Her thick, coppery hair tumbled down attractively over her shoulders. She removed a lipstick from a small bag on the table and carefully applied it in front of a small mirror. Finally, satisfied with her work, she sat down, placing a cigarette between her now deep red lips. “Sorry. Would you like one?”

Merlin declined.

“I am useless without my morning cigarette.” She shrugged and flicked her hair out of her eyes.

“I won’t take up too much of your time. Could you tell me your name and how long you have been in England?” Merlin had a brief, enticing glimpse of black suspender as she leaned back in her chair. He felt a part of him which had been dormant for some time exhibit a spark of life. “My name is Sonia Sieczko. I have been in England for just over a year.” Merlin looked puzzled. “That’s S.I.E.C.Z.K.O, Sieczko.”

He wrote the name down. “And what brought you to England?”

“Huh! What brought me here? What do you think? Mr Hitler brought me here.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I am Jewish, or to be strictly accurate, half-Jewish, although that makes no difference to them. Poland has never been a good place for Jews at the best of times. With that maniac Hitler rattling his, how do you say, swords at Poland – ”

She pronounced the “w” in “swords”, rather charmingly, Merlin thought. “I think the word would be sabres.”

“Yes, well, with Hitler rattling his sabres at Poland, I thought I would not like to stay for his war.”

“May I ask on what basis you, er…?”

“I have a proper visa, you want to look at it? I have relatives here. They live in Manchester. I had no problems. They arranged it all.”

“And what brought you to London from Manchester?”

She leaned forward to flick ash into a heavy, black ashtray. “Money brought me to London. Isn’t it money which brings everyone to London?”

“Not necessarily, Miss Seeshko.”

“It’s pronounced with a ‘Ch’ not a ‘Sh’ – Seechko, you see.” Sonia laughed and threw her hair back.

Merlin shrugged apologetically. “Do you have a job?”

“I work in a shop. Swan and Edgar. You know it I am sure. In Picca …”

“dilly, yes, I know it.”

“I work in the ladies clothing department.”

“Does it pay well?”

“Well enough.”

“Do you have any other jobs?”

“What do you mean?”

“Our information is that you work in a club at night – a club in Soho called The Blue Angel.”

Sonia looked coolly at Merlin. Her eyes narrowed. “And who has given you such information?”

“I’m afraid I can’t reveal our sources. That information is correct, though, isn’t it?”

She stubbed out her cigarette and glanced at her nails. “What of it? I am a poor Polish girl and must do what I can to survive.”