Stalin's Gold

by Mark Ellis

  Back in the car, Merlin had another look at the cutting, admiring the intricacy of the portrayed object’s design. Even without his new glasses he could see that it was a beautiful work of art. Although the photograph was in black and white and he couldn’t tell for certain, he would bet that this beautiful thing was made of gold.

  He sat back and tapped a finger on the window as Robinson started the engine. “A few things to work with, Constable. This cutting, Count what’s his name—”

  “Tarkowski, sir.”

  “Yes, Tarkowski’s card.”

  “And we know Ziggy was a Jew, sir, and went up to London several times.”

  “Yes. We’ll have to find who he was seeing. And we’d better get the portrait from his file circulated.”

  Robinson nodded and Merlin waved to acknowledge the guard as they drove through the gates.

  * * *

  Francis Evans trudged wearily up the three flights of stairs that led to his poky flat just off Kensington Church Street. He struggled, as always, with the front door lock. He really should get a new lock installed, but at the moment every penny counted. It was the landlord’s responsibility really but he’d never get that old miser to do anything. Meanwhile, he now felt it had been rather stupid to lend Stewart his Turner book, if lend was what he had done. He’d left the terms of the transaction rather ambiguous, saying that he had another copy at home. One of his two great weaknesses was the delusion of or at least the pretension to grandeur. On consideration, pretension was probably worse – if one was deluded, at least one couldn’t help it. Anyway – he should have sold that book – sold all his books, in fact. He was, as usual, struggling to pay the month’s rent and he could get a modestly tidy sum from Sullivan, the bookseller round the corner. He still had some nice stuff. Remnants of his once soaring career in the halls of academe.

  He made his way to the tiny bathroom of his bedsit and took a pillbox out of the cabinet above the sink. There were a couple of aspirin left and he threw them into his mouth and sucked thirstily on the cold tap. Glancing in the mirror at the few wisps of hair clinging valiantly to his scalp, he returned to the main room and rummaged around on his desk for the letter he’d received from his old Cambridge colleague the day before. They’d had a bit of a fling at Cambridge. Well, more than a fling really. A full-blown passionate affair. They’d been friends, lovers and colleagues together. Two young fellows setting ablaze the relatively undeveloped discipline of the history of art. They shared the same interests and outlook and had shared everything else for a while. All had been going swimmingly until that fateful trip to London in 1938. He was researching Poussin and an expert from the Sorbonne was visiting University College briefly to give a few lectures on that subject. He’d booked himself in to the Strand Palace and had an evening to kill before his appointment with the Frenchman the following morning. After a steak dinner, he’d had a few drinks in a pub off Leicester Square and then headed home. Caught short, he’d popped into the nearest public convenience. A young man had approached him at the urinal. A moment’s glance. A nod, then an instant of madness. His second great weakness. While they were in the cubicle they heard a loud banging on the door. The constable who confronted them was fat and red-faced. “Come on, you disgusting little perverts. You’re nicked.” And so ended his academic career. He got six months in Wormwood Scrubs and not a word from his lover. His hair fell out. Afterwards he had a series of menial jobs in the bookshops of Charing Cross. He didn’t suffer fools gladly, of course, so holding on to the jobs was not easy. Then the war had come along and thankfully brought some relief, with the challenge of the AFS. He liked most of the crew and Stewart in particular, who was no fool, despite his impoverished background and lack of formal education.

  He found the letter written in an elegant hand. Elegance was a word that could always be applied to the writer, as once it would have been to Francis Evans.

  He took the letter and flopped on the bed. Better get a good sleep because his next shift was only six hours away. He sniffed the envelope, which still had a faint whiff of their favoured eau de toilette. Too expensive for him now, of course. His reading spectacles had fallen from the bedside table to the floor and he stretched to retrieve them. “Now then,” he said aloud to himself. “Let’s have another look at what Mr Anthony Blunt has to say for himself.”

  Chapter 10

  Wednesday, September 11

  It was seven in the morning, but the pub had already been open for a few hours and the atmosphere was thick enough to bottle. The Old Red Cow had stood in its corner of Smithfield since the Middle Ages or even before – no one quite knew how long. All the pubs around the market opened early in the morning to serve the butchers, wholesalers, buyers, sellers, delivery men, porters and other odd job men whose lives revolved around London’s ancient meat market. Jake Dobson knew Smithfield and the area surrounding it like the back of his hand as his family had had a wholesale stall there since the turn of the century. As the twenty-four-year-old black sheep of the Dobson family, he had nothing to do with the business, but still spent most of his spare time in and around the market. He kept his meagre belongings in a dosshouse just off St John Street and laid his head down there most days after an early morning session at the Cow. His nights he mostly spent on his new lucrative job with Billy. This job had prospects and he had high hopes of moving up in the world. Perhaps he could say goodbye to the world of smelly, damp, insect-ridden dosshouses forever. His older comrade Billy had a little more stability in his life – a small two-up two-down in Bethnal Green housed him, a crabby wife and two wild teenage boys, the older and nastier of whom Billy wanted to add to their little team.

  “Did you speak to that smooth bugger with the ginger bonce then?”

  “Yeah, Jakie boy. I got the geezer on the blower. He’s going to come over to the lock-up today.”

  “When?”

  “We’ve got to be there at four. You’ll have plenty of time for a nap.”

  Jake blew his nose into the cuff of his jacket and spat on the floor. “Is he coming on his own?”

  “Maybe with another geezer. ‘Someone to give an educated appraisal’, were the words he used.”

  “So after that we get our bees and honey?”

  Billy downed his pint of best and lit a cigarette. “That’s the general idea – they value it, then they pay for it.”

  “Think we can trust him?”

  “Came good with the dosh last time, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I know, but this stuff’s better quality and there’s more of it. I don’t want to be short-changed on it.”

  Billy laughed. “Get you! The man of business. For your whole life you haven’t had enough coppers to buy a pot to piss in. Now you’re worried about being short-changed. Don’t you worry. We’re not going to get stiffed on this. If they don’t come up with the goods, we can find someone else. There are plenty of other greedy buggers out there. Now finish your pint and go and have a rest. After we’ve seen these blokes, I think we’re in for another busy evening.”

  They pushed through the pub doors into a drizzly morning. Across the road, one of the market towers teetered precariously. Some scaffolding had been put up on Monday after the market had taken a bit of a pounding from the bombers, but it didn’t look to Jake as if it would hold for much longer. “Best keep away from that, Billy. Someone’s going to get clobbered by it if they don’t pull it down.”

  “Don’t you fear, Jakie boy. I’m off up here.”

  Billy strode away up Snow Hill and waved while Jake went in the opposite direction, cutting through a few back lanes to avoid the market itself. “Jakie boy.” How he hated Billy speaking to him like he was a kid. He yawned then smiled, thinking of what he was going to do with the money he was about to get.

  * * *

  The looting committee meeting had begun promptly at 8.30 and had finished two and a half hours later. Not a minute too soon in Peter Johnson’s view. Not much had been achieved apart from his m
eeting his co-members on the committee. The committee had been kept mercifully small – a couple of middle-ranking civil servants, a senior fellow from the ARP, a retired major from the Home Guard and the rather charming Scottish man from the AFS. In the hallway outside the meeting room this tall and languid man, Sir Archibald Steele, came over to Johnson. “May I walk you back to your office, Inspector? I think the rain has stopped now and I need a bit of air to blow the cobwebs away.”

  As they walked towards Parliament Square, Steele gave Johnson the benefit of his views on their fellow committee members. “Craig’s alright, I suppose. He’s quite on the ball for a young office civil servant, which isn’t saying a lot, and as for Matthewson, he’s just a time-serving nonentity. The ARP fellow’s a jumped-up little prat – I’ve had a few run-ins with him in the last couple of months. The major’s not a bad old stick, but I wouldn’t expect much of a contribution from him, which leaves us pretty much holding the ball.”

  Johnson swerved to avoid an oncoming taxi, as he struggled to keep pace with his colleague as they crossed the road.

  “Sorry, Inspector. I forget how fast I walk sometimes. Too much tramping over the moors of my homeland. My wife is always ticking me off for it.”

  “Not to worry, Mr, er… Sir… er.”

  “Archie, if you please. No point in pomp and ceremony with me. And may I…?”

  “Of course. Peter. Please.”

  “Well, Peter, I think you know one of my protégés.”

  They reached the turning on to the Embankment.

  “I do?”

  “Yes, Jack Stewart. He’s a friend of your boss, I believe?”

  “Oh, yes. Jack Stewart. An interesting man. He and DCI Merlin are great pals. Like to spout poetry at each other over a pint or two.”

  “Indeed. Indeed. A remarkable brain Jack has, all the more so considering the poverty of his childhood and education.”

  “Yes. I know he’s also been a great support to the Chief Inspector during his, erm…”

  “Yes, yes. I know. Poor fellow lost his wife and I understand Jack played a blinder helping him through it.”

  They came to a halt at the entrance to Scotland Yard. “I have no idea how we are going to make this committee effective, have you, Inspector? Our manpower in the fire service is already stretched to capacity and things are likely to get a lot worse. I believe you chaps are in the same position?”

  “We’re all doing pretty much double-time. I think a coordinated response to the looting problem is going to be very difficult. I was talking to Inspector Merlin about it yesterday. Obviously much of the looting, if it occurs as anticipated, will be one-off and opportunistic.”

  Steele nodded his agreement.

  “With such ad hoc looting, Archie, all we can hope to do is catch as many as possible and give them heavy sentences. However, where there is evidence of coordinated looting, we can perhaps aim to be more effective and influential.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Johnson set down his briefcase and folded his arms. “It’s possible that we may find looters operating in gangs with some sort of organised approach. They may target certain areas.”

  “The richer ones obviously.”

  “Yes, Archie. Mayfair, Chelsea, Kensington and so on. I would be surprised if we don’t find gangs working in partnership with professional fences and thieves.”

  Steele extracted a handkerchief from his jacket and blew his nose discreetly. “Excuse me. And how do we approach that problem?”

  “Well, I don’t think the committee is really going to achieve anything. You and I know it’s not an effective vehicle. However, if you and I and our people pool our resources to some extent then we can find a way to target those professional looters and bring them to justice.”

  Steele smiled. “I like your thinking, laddie. You and I’ll make up our own little sub-committee of action. I’ll get my boys to keep their ears to the ground, yours will do likewise, and we’ll work out a plan.” A couple of officers passing by on their way into the Yard raised their eyebrows as Steele’s voice increased in volume. “Then we’ll get these bastards! I’ll be in touch shortly, Peter. You can count on it.” Steele strode off down the Embankment at double-pace, turning briefly to wave.

  * * *

  Back at the Yard, Bridges had some unpleasant news. “Inspector Goodman died in the raid last night.”

  “Dios mio! And his family?”

  “The whole lot of them. Wife and three children and grandma. A direct hit on his house in Hackney. Not surprisingly, his department is in turmoil. Jimmy Edgar, his number two, also happens to be in hospital with appendicitis, which doesn’t help.”

  “Dear God. Poor man, poor man.” Merlin shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “What do you want me to do with the gold, sir?”

  “It’s not just the gold. Look at this, Sergeant. I was going to refer this to Goodman as well.” Constable Robinson, who was sitting opposite Merlin, passed an envelope across the desk to Bridges.

  Bridges opened it and removed the cutting. “Some sort of lady’s necklace?”

  “Perhaps, Sergeant. Found in Ziggy Kilinski’s trunk.”

  Robinson cleared her throat quietly. “May I say something, sir?”

  “Fire away, Constable.”

  “My brother Edward is an expert on South America. He used to teach Spanish history at Cambridge before the war. Perhaps I could show him the picture?”

  “Where is he?”

  “He scraped home from Dunkirk and is now based at Chelsea barracks.”

  “Alright, Constable, why not? Get round there now and see if he can help.”

  “What about the gold bar, sir?”

  “There must be a specialist in this sort of thing in London. Have another word with someone in poor Goodman’s department. At least one of the juniors there should be able to tell you where to look. Otherwise just trawl through the phone book for bullion or coin specialists.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “And there’s another lead, Sergeant. Chap called Tarkowski. Let me explain.”

  * * *

  Bridges had rung the London number on the business card Merlin had found in Northolt, which proved to be that of the Polish government in exile. Count Tarkowski, who, according to his loyal secretary, was a very highly regarded senior adviser to that government, was not planning to be in the office that day. His secretary was unaware of his exact plans, but agreed to try and contact him at home to arrange an appointment. She was successful and so Merlin and his sergeant drew up outside Tarkowski’s large, vine-covered property a half a mile or so off the Finchley Road at eleven o’clock precisely.

  Minutes later they sat together on a leather sofa in a warm, sunlit study before their well-groomed host who was perched on a high-seated chair behind a large partners desk.

  “My back, gentlemen. I am a martyr to my back. This is the only type of chair on which I can do my work. I was in the cavalry in the first war and had a number of unfortunate falls. Hence this, er…”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir. Now, as we said on the phone, we wondered whether you could tell us anything about this compatriot of yours, a pilot in the Kosciuszko Squadron?”

  “Ah, the Kosciuszko! You do not know what a pride wells in the heart of any Polish patriot when he hears that name. Perhaps you do not know the history of this—”

  “We know it, sir. Anyway, the pilot in question, known as Ziggy Kilinski, has gone missing. We are responding to a request from his squadron to find him. We searched his belongings in his room in Northolt and found your business card. Can you tell us what dealings you had with Mr Kilinski? This is a photograph of him by the way.”

  Tarkowski glanced briefly at the proffered photograph then cleared his throat. “Well, gentlemen—”

  At that moment the study door opened and a woman entered the room.

  “Ah, my dear. Gentlemen, may I introduce my wife, Maria.”

  The pol
icemen rose and nodded their heads in acknowledgement. Merlin was struck by the Countess’ understated, simple beauty. He was assuredly acquiring a keener awareness of the charms of Polish women this year.

  The Countess smiled a greeting. “Is there anything wrong, dear?”

  “No, no, my love. The policemen are simply making some routine enquiries about a fellow Pole. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Ah. Good. I am just going into town to have my hair done. I’ll see you at tea-time?”

  “Yes, I’m here all day.” The Count crossed the room, took up his wife’s hand and kissed it. As she withdrew her delicate hand, Merlin thought he detected a slight tremor in the fingers and the Countess’ still-present smile seemed to take on a rather nervous quality. She turned on her heels and departed with a little wave.

  “You have a charming wife, Count.”

  The Count perched himself back on his chair. “How kind you are, Chief Inspector. Yes, she is très charmante. Like all of us she has been through much, but she tries to keep her spirits up – as do we all, Chief Inspector.”

  Merlin coughed politely and tapped the photograph, which now lay on Tarkowski’s desk.

  “Of course, gentlemen. Back to business. Yes, I remember meeting a Mr Kilinski in this very study. He requested a meeting. One of my particular areas of responsibility with the Polish government in exile – how I detest the need for those last two words – is finance. Mr or rather Pilot Officer Kilinski was interested in knowing about our finances.”

  “By ‘our’ finances, I take it you mean that of the Polish government in exile?”

  “Just so, Chief Inspector. He wanted to know about our sources. I was unable to satisfy his curiosity.”

  “And who are your sources?”

  “I can’t really discuss that with you as it is obviously a matter of government confidentiality. That is the very response I gave to Kilinski.”