Stalin's Gold

by Mark Ellis

  Merlin scratched his cheek thoughtfully. Outside they could hear the sound of birdsong and the hum of distant traffic. “I wonder why he wanted to know about your government finances?”

  The Count twisted in his chair and winced with pain. “I’ve no idea. Sorry. My back. Forgive me for a moment.” The Count reached into one of his desk drawers and took out a couple of pills, which he took with the remaining dregs of a teacup on the desk. “I wish I could enlighten you. I did reassure him, as I would any Polish citizen, that what we had would be sufficient to keep up the fight until the glorious day when independence would be restored, but I could not go into specifics.”

  “We found a photograph of what looks like an ancient necklace. We are having it checked out now. One of my colleagues thinks it might have South American origin. Did Mr Kilinski show you anything like that?”

  The Count grimaced again and he stood up and walked to the window, flexing his arms above his head. He looked out of the window. “No. No necklaces. Nothing like that. Now, gentlemen, if that’s all, as you can see, I’m not having one of my best mornings.” The Count turned and shook his head wearily. “My doctor here tells me there is some kind of operation I could have, but I’d then be laid out on my back for six months, which is something I cannot afford.”

  “When was your meeting with Kilinski, Count?”

  “Perhaps two weeks or so ago. I can’t remember exactly which day. No doubt my secretary would have the details.”

  “And was there anything else you remember about Mr Kilinski?”

  “No. I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. Seemed a nice enough boy. A little anxious, but then that is what you’d expect in one about to face aerial combat, I think. No, I gave him my answer and he departed.”

  The Count raised an arm, shuddered, then closed his eyes. Without opening them, he rang a bell on his desk. “An agonising back spasm, gentlemen. Forgive me, but I really cannot continue.” A man appeared. “Andrei, I need to lie down. Help me upstairs.” Merlin cast a wary eye at Bridges and reluctantly rose to his feet.

  * * *

  Francis Evans reported in at the Chelsea AFS station at midday. He was perspiring for some reason although, despite the sun having come out, it felt like a brisk autumnal day. “Anyone seen Stewart?”

  “He’s just popped out for a packet of fags. Back in a minute.” Bill Cooper was lounging with his feet over the arm of a rackety old armchair in the corner. He had a copy of the day’s edition of the Daily Mirror in his hands. Evans saw the headline “Cloud Dodgers in the Blitz”. He thought “cloud dodgers” seemed a rather poetic description and wondered to what the story referred, but knew that if he asked the notoriously verbose Cooper he would be stuck there forever. He went into the washroom and splashed his face with water.

  When he emerged, Stewart was back. “Hello, Chief. Can I have a word?”

  Stewart opened his cigarette packet and offered Evans one. The two men lit up and sat down at the large table that took up most of the space in the back end of the station. “I need to get away for a couple of hours later today. Will that be possible?”

  “Better ask Goering not me.”

  “Yes, of course, if there’s a raid then I’ll be here, but if nothing’s doing around 3 or 3.30 do you mind if I pop out for a short time? I’ve not far to go.”

  Stewart thought for a moment. Evans had proven himself a brave and diligent firefighter and had never asked for anything before. He’d also been generous with that fascinating Turner book. He decided to cut him some slack. “Got to see a girl? Is that it?”

  Evans blushed. “No. No. Just a little bit of business someone’s asked me to help out with. Is it alright?”

  Stewart drew on his cigarette, then slowly exhaled. The smoke spiralled away above them. “Very well, Mr Evans. If nothing’s doing here you can get off at – is it 3 or 3.30 you want?”

  “I think 3.15 might be best.”

  “Very well, 3.15 and back at?”

  “If I see the bombers coming in, I’ll head straight back, but otherwise say 5.30?”

  “Fine. Meanwhile there’s a little bit of paperwork I could do with some help on.”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  Stewart withdrew to the other end of the station room and returned with some forms that required review and completion. Evans made short work of these, then walked over to the tea-urn and brewed himself a strong cup. He found himself a quiet corner to sit and pulled Blunt’s letter out of his jacket for one more read through.

  “My dear Francis,

  A thousand heartfelt apologies for being such a poor friend. You will, I hope, understand that when your unfortunate accident occurred I found it difficult to calculate the appropriate response. No doubt you will be able to advise me that it was not the one I took, but there appeared to be a number of difficulties, which I do not wish to spell out, but which I believe you will be able to divine. Leaving that matter aside, I happened to run into a common acquaintance of ours the other day who advised me of your current circumstances. I am sorry that you are finding it difficult to gain employment suited to your great intellectual ability or indeed as I understand to gain and retain gainful employment of any sort. I was told that financially things are very tight, although this has not held you back from offering your services to the country at this dire time – bravo for joining the AFS and, platitudinous as it is, I cannot refrain from asking you to look after yourself in your dangerous work. In any event, returning to financial matters, I may be in a position to help you earn some more money. A foreign friend of mine requires some artistic advice. I shall not spell this out here, but I have asked him to contact you at your address. If, of course, you do not care to undertake the work, I quite understand, but it would certainly be remunerative. The gentleman or one of his associates will visit you on Tuesday at 5pm. If your other duties call you away at the time, he will leave a note as to where he can be contacted. Good luck. Yours, Anthony.”

  Evans had indeed been contacted by a Russian gentleman named Trubetskoi, a stocky fellow of middle height with a shock of dyed red hair. He had explained that he had some paintings and other antique treasures in storage and would appreciate Evans’ opinion on them. Evans had explained that pictures rather than antiques were his speciality, but Trubetskoi had waved his hand imperiously and given him a card with an address in Shepherd’s Bush and a meeting time on it. This was the meeting he had to go to.

  He set down the letter. His heart was pounding. Whilst he was excited at the prospect of making some money for easy work, apparently on a regular basis, he felt uncomfortable. There was something worrying about Trubetskoi that he couldn’t put his finger on – and how was he a friend of Blunt? Blunt had often discussed his communist leanings with Evans. Was there some kind of connection there?

  Cooper wandered up and threw his newspaper in front of Evans. “Fancy a read? Some interesting stuff. Did you know…?” Evans tuned out as Cooper gave him a summary of all the stories he had read in the paper. Was there a word that meant the opposite of précis? If there was, it was applicable.

  * * *

  Merlin was sharing with Bridges his suspicions about Tarkowski, when Robinson came in, a little flustered but smiling. Merlin waved her to a seat as Bridges gave him his opinion. “He gave us the bum’s rush, sir. No doubt about it. Shifty is what I’d call him.”

  “Indeed, Sergeant. I think it’s fair to say he wasn’t completely open with us and he certainly overplayed the backache. I wonder why?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, Constable, you seem pleased. What have you to tell us?”

  “I found my brother at the barracks. He confirmed our initial thoughts, sir. He’s pretty sure the picture is of an Aztec amulet from the time of Montezuma. He remembers reading a study of artefacts from that period and believes he saw a picture of something similar if not the same piece.”

  “Montezuma? How fascinating. I was only reading about him the other night. And is it gold?”

 
; “Almost certainly, with gemstones for the eyes.”

  “Well, well. Something from one of the most interesting periods in history or certainly Spanish history.”

  “Would that Montezuma be the same one as in Montezuma’s Revenge?”

  “Very funny, Sergeant.”

  “What is Montezuma’s Revenge, sir?”

  “You don’t know, Constable? I am surprised. What a sheltered life you must have lived. How would you delicately define it, Sergeant?”

  “Begging the constable’s pardon, sir, it’s where you’ve got the runs after eating something too spicy.”

  Robinson smiled. “We called it something different at my school, sir.”

  “You know, I don’t think we’ll go any further down that road. So then, I wonder what Kilinski has got to do with Montezuma?”

  “One other thing, sir. Edward is also a very keen numismatist.”

  Bridges looked puzzled. “What’s that when it’s at home?”

  “Coin expert, Sergeant. And so, Constable?”

  “I mentioned the ingot to him and he said there was a coin shop in Soho whose owner knew more about that sort of thing than anyone.”

  “That’s excellent, Constable. I’ll go with you to see this fellow, but you should still have a word with Goodman’s team, Sergeant, to see if they can help. And don’t forget that Grand Duchy company. Let’s get to the bottom of that.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t really sunbathing weather at Northolt, but Jan Sieczko and his friends nevertheless awaited their next scramble in three rickety deckchairs, their eyes closed and their faces turned up towards an intermittently sunny sky. As Jan looked up he saw the trail of a small plane, probably a reconnaissance flight, cross in and out of the small patches of blue sky above them. To his right, Kubicki puffed lazily on an ancient Meerschaum pipe he had inherited from someone on his adventurous journey from Poland through Romania and the Middle East and ultimately to London. On close examination it looked as if it was going to fall to pieces at any moment, but somehow it survived. To his left, Kowalski petted a small mongrel puppy in his lap that he and Kubicki had found, apparently homeless, near the base. They had named it Sasha after some friend back in Poland.

  Jan stood up suddenly and did some bends and physical jerks. “Come on, you lazy sods. Do some exercise. You might have to run out to the planes at any second. You’ll be as slow as shit, sitting there like that!”

  Kubicki continued happily puffing away on his pipe, waving a hand dismissively. Kowalski’s dog, which had been dozing, woke up and snapped squeakily at Jan.

  “There now. Look what you’ve done. Disturbed poor Sasha’s sleep. Sit down, Jan, and don’t be an idiot.” Kowalski pulled his hat down over his eyes and made an obscene gesture with his right hand. Jan laughed and settled back in his chair. “I wonder how the policeman is getting on with finding Ziggy.”

  Kubicki removed his pipe from his mouth for the first time in an hour. “He’s gone, Jan. Don’t get your hopes up. Something bad has happened to him.”

  “Don’t say that, Miro. It’s… I’m sure Merlin will get to the bottom of it. Eh, Jerzy?”

  Kowalski grunted then began to whistle the tune to an old Polish ballad.

  Kubicki shook his pipe and tapped it on the side of the chair. “Certainly an unlucky room that one – first, Marowitz, then Kilinski. If they reallocate rooms, I’d avoid that one, my friends, if I were you.”

  Jan sank back into his chair. “Poor old Marowitz. I still don’t understand how he managed to walk into the propellor like that. It was dark I know, but still.”

  “And what a mess to clean up.” Kubicki reached to the ground for his tobacco pouch and refilled his pipebowl.

  Jan shuddered. “You knew Marowitz at university, didn’t you, Jerzy?” Another grunt from Kowalski before he threw Kubicki a lighter. His hat remained in position. The dog had gone back to sleep.

  “Leave him, Jan. You know he prefers to be a miserable sod before action.” Kubicki’s face was again enveloped in smoke. “I must say, I didn’t particularly know Marowitz, but he seemed alright. Very inquisitive though. Always asking questions about things. Nosy little bugger, really.”

  Jan closed his eyes again. Yes, that was true, he thought, Marowitz was always asking him questions about his family. Perhaps that’s why Jerzy seemed rather cool with him, despite the fact that they’d known each other for years. Studied law in the same year, if Jan remembered correctly. Then again Miro was one to talk. He also couldn’t stop asking personal questions. Oh, well. Marowitz was dead and gone and God rest his soul, but God now had more important things to do. He had to preserve the souls of Jan and his friends. Reconnaissance and radar told them a huge bomber formation was on its way. They’d be in the air for sure in a couple of hours.

  * * *

  Merlin and Robinson found Williams’ Coin Emporium in a small side street off Shaftesbury Avenue. The doorbell rattled noisily as they entered and a neat little man hurried up to them, followed by an enormously fat cat. “Get back, Boris, there’s nothing for you to fuss yourself about.” The man spoke with a delicate foreign accent. “Good afternoon, sir, madam. How can I help you?”

  Merlin removed his hat and made the introductions.

  The little man smiled politely and waved them towards a desk located in the back of the shop. “It is not often we get police in the shop, is it, Boris, and never, I think, a pretty, young policewoman?” Mr Williams, as Merlin assumed him to be, guided them to a battered, old, red divan before taking up his seat behind the desk. “And so, Chief Inspector, how can I help you?”

  Merlin nodded at Robinson.

  “My brother, Edward Robinson, suggested we come to you.”

  “Ah, yes. Young Edward. A very clever boy. And you are his beautiful sister. I hope he is well. I heard he got back safely from the beaches?”

  “Yes, he’s fine. He suggested, Mr Williams—”

  The shop owner chuckled. He was dressed very dapperly with a green handkerchief poking out of his top pocket, which matched the green of his tie and the mottled tweed of his suit. “Williams is the name on the shop, but the real name is Wyczinski, Josef Wyczinski. Joe Williams is a lot easier for your countrymen.”

  “Well, Mr Wyczinski.”

  “Very well pronounced, young lady. I sense latent linguistic skills.”

  Merlin brushed some cat hairs from his coat. “That would be a Polish name, would it not, sir?”

  “Indeed it would, Chief Inspector.”

  Robinson continued. “We have an item that may be relevant to an investigation we are conducting. We were hoping you might be able to identify it for us.”

  “I shall do my best.”

  Merlin had put the ingot in a small cloth bag, which he now produced and opened. He laid the gold bar on Wyczinski’s desk.

  Wyczinski put on a pair of white gloves, took a magnifying glass from the side of the desk and carefully picked up the gold. “Mmm. A fine piece of work indeed.” He switched on a small desk lamp to his right and held the ingot in the light. “Yes. Please bear with me a moment. I just need to confirm something.” He disappeared up a rackety spiral staircase behind the desk and returned some minutes later with a very large, leather-bound book, which he set down in front of him. Clouds of dust dispersed in all directions as he opened the pages.

  “I am sorry, but I haven’t had cause to look at this book for some time.” After a few minutes’ browsing, Wyczinski turned the book around. “Eh voilà! There is your piece of gold.” There indeed was a large black and white photograph of Merlin’s ingot. Wyczinski rose to join them on the other side of his desk. “This, officers, the unicorn surrounded by these two six-pointed stars in the right-hand corners and clusters of six swords in the left, is the family badge of the Stanislawicki family, a famous and noble Polish family. In its time, if I recall correctly, the Roman figure six in the badge related to the six brothers who laid the foundations of the family’s success in the fifteenth
century. Here, if I turn a page, you’ll see the notes. Yes, there, ‘the six Stanislawicki brothers were great warriors who helped destroy the power of the Teutonic Knights. All but one of them died at the great Battle of Grunewald in 1410 leaving Stanislaw Stanislawicki as the sole survivor. He was ennobled, given extensive lands in southern Poland by King Wladislaw Jagiello and his family remained one of the pre-eminent Polish dynasties for centuries. A specific reason for the use of the symbol of the unicorn is not known, save that of the general context of purity attaching to that figure in medieval thought.’ There you have it!” Wyczinski picked the book up and returned to his seat. He closed the book with a flourish, generating more dust clouds and picked up the small bar.

  “The eagle on the other side is a representation of the White Eagle of Poland. Legend has it that Poland’s founder, Lech, established the first capital of the country on the spot where he discovered a white eagle’s nest. Ingots like these would have been used as a form of currency in the regions controlled by the Stanislawicki family, but not as currency in general circulation. These would have been high-value tender used by noblemen, wealthy businessmen, the Church and, most importantly, by the family itself. Above all, I believe it would have served as a staple form of repository for the family’s wealth, kept under lock and key in the treasuries of their castles.” He held the ingot under his desk lamp again. “This example is in remarkably good condition. It looks as if it could have been minted yesterday. But of course it must date back many centuries. Remarkable! Remarkable!” He chuckled and reached out to stroke his cat, which, belying its corpulence, had jumped up nimbly to settle in an alcove next to the desk. “Remarkable, eh, Boris? I wonder how such an interesting artefact ended up in the hands of the London Constabulary?”

  “I found it in a bombed-out building in Marylebone.”

  “Indeed, Chief Inspector. However did it get there?”