Princes Gate (38 page)

Norton was nursing a cup of coffee when the telephone rang. He’d had another lively night, though this time not at The Blue Angel. He had decided to be sensible and follow everyone’s advice by giving the club a wide berth for a while. He had not, however, given Berkeley Square a wide berth and Edie’s friend Lucy, who was very adventurous for one so young, had only just left the flat. Norton was lying back thinking of little except the strange new rash around his groin. He was hoping it wasn’t something he was going to have to see someone about when the sound of the phone in the hall gave him a start. He eased himself out of bed and padded to the hall. “Mayfair 468.”

“Norton, is that you?”

“Yes, who’s that?”

“It’s Douglas.”

“Morning, Freddie. What’s wrong? You don’t sound yourself. I’ve got some news by the way. The Ambassador had an appointment to see the…”

“Not on the phone, Arthur.”

“No, of course. You sound terrible.”

“Yes, well, something’s come up. I think we should let this matter between us rest for the moment.”

“But, I thought…”

“Look. I’ve decided I need to keep my head down. And if I were you, I would do the same.”

“But what about when I get an answer back? I’ll need to let the Count…”

“All that’s up to you now. All I can say is that I’m dropping out of the picture. I’ve got other problems to worry about.”

“But…”

“But nothing. And by the way, I’d watch out for those policemen if I were you. I won’t be able to keep them off your back from now on. And your friend Morrie Owen is a viper, so watch out for him too.”

“What do you…”

“Must be off.”

The phone clicked. Norton sat down and looked at his blotched face in the hall mirror. In the silence he could hear his heart beating loudly.

Merlin was pacing up and down the cobbled mews impatiently when they heard a clattering noise, then saw P.C. Cole appear around the corner. “What took you so long?”

“Couldn’t find a car, sir, or a taxi. I had to come on my bike.” Cole dismounted hurriedly and slipped as his boots hit the cobbles.

“Careful, careful. Here, put the bike up against the wall and give me the doorkeys.”

Merlin opened the outer door to Morgan’s mews flat and led the way up the stairs and through the second door. They stood at the foot of the bed looking at a soothing picture of a yacht sailing into a sunlit bay.

“The photographs of the girls, please, Sergeant.” Bridges set the pictures down on the bed and Merlin studied them intensely before clapping his hands. “Look, you can just see the edge of the frame of that picture in these photographs. Ah… and here’s what looks like the shadow of that chest of drawers on the wall. It’s a different bedcover and there’s nothing to really distinguish the bed but I’d put money on these photos having been taken here.”

“It’s a match, sir.”

“Let’s have a look at the Douglas picture. This is a little more close in so it’s harder but, ah, yes, do you see? Behind Morgan’s head. There are two small plugholes on the wall and if we… yes look, here they are.”

Cole politely enquired as to the nature of the pictures.

“Sorry, Constable. I forgot that you were out of the loop on these. I’ll let Bridges explain in a minute but, first, can you tell us whether you’ve got an answer on the ownership of this place?”

“It’s quite a complicated situation, sir. Do you want all the detail?”

Merlin sat down on the bed and took his hat off.

“No. Just tell me the final name.”

“I went through a long chain of companies and I finally arrived at a person, the name of that person being Mr Harold Parsons.”

“That’s not who I was expecting. Did you find out who he is?”

“When I got back to the Yard late yesterday – you were both out – someone from Vice dropped by and asked me to give you a file of Morrie Owen’s previous convictions. Said you’d asked for it a few days ago and sorry for the delay. I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I had a quick leaf through the file. First thing I noticed was a case made against Morrie Owen in 1933 for living off immoral earnings. He got off, by the way, and at the bottom of the page I noticed the very same name.”

“The same name as who?”

“Parsons, sir. Harold Parsons was Morrie Owen’s solicitor.”

The wind was whistling hard against the windows when Merlin returned to his office. He found a note on his desk from Robinson saying that she had gone to get the forensic report on Myerson. There was nothing from Zarb as yet. He grabbed a pen and a piece of paper, paused for a moment’s thought, then started to write:

“Owen, through his lawyer, owns Kensington Mews flat. In flat Myerson takes nude pictures of Harris and Donovan. Assume photo of Donovan taken on night I followed her and Morgan back. Myerson must have been person I saw going in.”

He stopped writing and stared hard at his words. Then he got up, walked to his open office door and shouted. “Sergeant, bring me the photos.”

When Bridges had laid the pictures on his desk, Merlin took a magnifying glass out of one of his filing cabinets and stood poring over the images of the girls and Douglas. Eventually he sat down with a satisfied look.

“This is what I think happened, Sergeant, with the same method of operation for both girls. Morgan, a good-looking chap, attracts both girls – he takes them out, plies them with drink, gets them back to Owen’s flat and gets them to bed. In the photographs we have, the eyes of both girls are closed. Once he’s had his way, the girls, already very drunk, are knocked out by some sleeping draught, at which point our friend Bernie, waiting outside by prior arrangement, nips in and points his camera.”

Bridges nodded his agreement, then held up his hand. “But why?”

“That’s what we have to find out. Now with Douglas, I think things are clearer. Same method of operation but with a motive: Someone – Morrie Owen – knows Douglas’ tendencies. Johnny Morgan is a flexible sort of person. He’ll do anything if there’s money in it. Somehow or other he’s set up with Douglas. Pictures are taken in the flat of the two men, when Douglas has been knocked out with something as, again, his eyes are closed. The pictures are to be used to blackmail Douglas at the appropriate time.”

“How does Kennedy fit into all this?”

“I don’t know but I think we’d better pay Owen another visit.”

The telephone rang as they stood up. “Thanks. We’ll see you later.” He listened and nodded.

He replaced the phone in its cradle.

“Robinson. The forensic people confirmed that Bernie died of alcoholic poisoning and that his hands has been tied shortly before his death. She’s picking up the artist’s sketch later.”

After a wasted journey to Earl’s Court where they were told by Annie Owen that Morrie had gone early to work, Merlin was feeling distinctly edgy. He led the way down the stairs to the club, and at the bottom they heard voices which didn’t seem to be coming from behind the main entrance but from somewhere down the corridor. He saw a door at the end on the right and nodded to the others.

Owen and Reardon were sitting on opposite sides of a desk covered in bank notes.

“Robbed the Bank of England, Morrie?”

“Very funny, copper. Just counting our legitimate takings. What do you want?”

“I came to offer you my sympathy, Morrie. A close friend of yours has died. Bernie Myerson.”

Morrie Owen, his hands reaching out protectively to the pile of cash in front of him, just about achieved a look of surprise. Reardon’s gaunt features remained impassive. “That’s sad. Painful death, was it?” Morrie pulled some of the cash towards him.

“Someone poured a few too many bottles of booze down him. Not a very nice way to go.”

“From what I understand of Bernie’s habits, it would probably have been his preference, eh, Jimmy?” Owen snorted.

“Strange, isn’t it, how so soon after Bernie gave us a little information about you, he ended up dead?”

“I’ve got nothing to do with it, copper.”

“Really? I find that a little hard to believe.”

“Got any evidence? You need evidence if you’re going to start making allegations.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find some.”

Owen picked up a leather bag from behind his chair and started shovelling in the cash. “You’re full of shit, copper. Why don’t you just bugger off and leave me in peace?” Owen moved his chair back from the desk to relieve the pressure on his stomach.

Merlin reached over the desk and poked his finger hard into Owen’s gut. “And another thing, Morrie. Know anything about drugs, do you? Perhaps that’s where this cash comes from? Are those the weekly takings from your cocaine run?”

Owen glanced nervously at his inscrutable sidekick.

“Name of Braithwaite mean anything to you? A chemist round the corner. Jimmy here knows him, don’t you? In and out of the place like a regular little hypochondriac. Another of my officers has gone to pinch the gentleman and his lady wife. Apparently he’s come into a lot of money over the past year and we think we know the source. Good supplier, is he?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Owen rubbed his stomach with a pained look.

“That’s alright, because I haven’t cautioned you yet. We’ll have a longer chat when we get you back to the Yard. And I’ve got some other questions to ask about the little pad you own in Kensington. Sergeant, can you…” There was a sudden blur of motion on Merlin’s right as Reardon jumped to his feet and bolted for the door. His old legs had surprisingly carried him almost to the top of the stairs by the time Cole hauled him down.

When Merlin and Bridges reached the street, with Owen puffing and wheezing between them, Reardon was spread-eagled face down on the pavement, his hands cuffed behind his back.

“A nifty turn of speed there, Jimmy. If you were a bit darker I might have thought you were related to Jesse Owens. Well done, Constable. Let’s get them back to the Yard. We’ve got a lot to talk about, Morrie. And, we’ve got some more pictures to show you.”