Stalin's Gold

by Mark Ellis

* * *

  Trubetskoi had asked Evans to be available around lunchtime that day, which proved to be no problem as Stewart’s brigade had been given a day’s much-needed leave.

  The routine was the same. The dingy lock-up in Shepherd’s Bush, the cocky cockney duo and some items of surprisingly good quality. Evans gave his view again to Trubetskoi out of earshot of Jake and Billy and got his money again, but remained troubled. On this occasion, he followed the Russian to the end of the street where his driver was waiting as before. After they drove off, Evans hailed a passing taxi and asked him to follow Trubetskoi’s car. As they passed down Kensington High Street, traffic was held up by a fire engine that had somehow toppled onto its side in the middle of the street. Eventually they arrived at Eaton Square and Evans shuddered as they passed the nice place where Blunt and he had stayed on occasional trips up to London. The Russian car turned off the Square and parked by an imposing-looking detached house facing on to Upper Belgrave Street.

  It was drizzling as Evans got out of the taxi and he pulled up the collar of his threadbare raincoat. A siren had gone off as they had approached Chelsea and now Evans could see a small group of aircraft above. As he loitered on the pavement opposite the house Trubetskoi had entered, he heard distant explosions from the direction of Whitehall. He ought really to find a shelter, but his experiences of the Blitz so far were hardening him to danger. He decided to wait it out to see whether the house might reveal any secrets.

  He was rewarded half an hour later when the door opened and Trubetskoi stepped out onto the pavement with a large, bearded man. Trubetskoi’s driver, who followed them out, looked nervously up at the sky. The bearded man slapped the driver on the back and roared with laughter as he pushed him into the driver’s seat. Then he and Trubetskoi got into the back seat and the car drove away. Evans ran after a passing taxi, but it didn’t stop and he watched the car disappear from view. At least now, he thought, he had some better idea of the people paying him – and ritzy as their location was, Evans was far from reassured about the probity of his new employers.

  * * *

  A thin beam of sunlight struggled through the recently opened hole in the roof to illuminate the nave of the church.

  Merlin stood by the open cardboard coffin, regretting his decision to bring Robinson along with Bridges. As Air Warden Webster had explained, the corpse had been got at by a band of rats and the result was not a pretty sight. Merlin could not recognise in the mush of the ravaged facial features the young man in Kilinski’s file photo. The corpse was wearing a filthy RAF uniform on which the badge of rank and name seemed to have been unpicked. The man’s pockets were empty according to the medic in charge, Lieutenant Ross, a stocky, red-faced man with a limp. Webster said that he had not had time to do a proper search around the area as the bombs had started dropping again, but he had noticed something unusual near the body and he had given it to the lieutenant.

  “Here it is, Chief Inspector. Very decent of Webster to hand it in – I’m sure many men would have pocketed it for themselves.” Webster blushed and shuffled his feet. Ross reached into his jacket and produced a small gold bar.

  Merlin felt a strange sensation of excitement as he took the bar from Ross and turned it in his hand. “Madre de Dios! I suppose we should now call this a ‘Stanislawicki ingot’.” He held it up for the sergeant and constable to see. “So, Mr Webster, can you tell me exactly where you found this body?”

  Webster struggled to restrain a yawn. “Sorry, sir, a long night. I found this chap in the rubble of a building just off the Marylebone Road.”

  “That’s interesting. And where was the gold ingot?”

  “Just below the body, sir. Perhaps a yard or less away.”

  “Could it have fallen from his hand or pocket or somehow otherwise been dislodged from his clothing?”

  “Quite possibly, sir.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you could show us where you found him when we are finished here.”

  Webster nodded wearily.

  “Bridges, your eyes are better than mine. Have a look at the badge on the collar. It’s a bit grubby and torn, but tell me what you can see.”

  Bridges bent down and brushed some dirt from the badge. “I can make out three letters – ‘L’, ‘N’ and I think that’s an ‘I’.”

  “Kilinski then?”

  Merlin’s two colleagues nodded.

  “Looks to me like an attempt might have been made to obliterate the name deliberately, sir. Though, then again, it could just have been the rats.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. What’s the set up, Lieutenant? I know this is only a temporary location. Where do the bodies go from here?”

  “We send them up to the St Pancras mortuary. If they are not claimed in a few days, they are buried.”

  Merlin moved back as a couple of wardens pushed past with a loaded stretcher. The stink of putrefaction mingled with the smoke drifting down from the smouldering rafters. He could feel his stomach churning and his eyes beginning to water.

  “Please pass instructions to St Pancras not to dispose of this body. Any views on cause of death?”

  Ross smiled ruefully. “How about falling under the proverbial ton of bricks?”

  “But you haven’t examined the corpse.”

  “Inspector, look around you. Do you think I have the time to examine the dead ones? I have been up to my ears for the last forty-eight hours concentrating on the survivors. Somehow my superiors expect me to keep an eye on this place while also performing my duties with the injured arriving at St Barts. No, I haven’t examined the corpse.”

  Merlin reached out to touch Ross’ shoulder. “Sorry, Lieutenant, I didn’t mean to suggest any negligence on your part. It’s just that I’ll need to arrange a post-mortem for this chap. Perhaps you could mention that to the authorities at St Pancras. Is Bentley Purchase still the coroner?”

  Ross wiped some grime from his cheek. “He is. Sir Bernard Spilsbury also does much of his work there.”

  Bridges eyes widened a little. “Isn’t he the pathologist chap who nailed Crippen, sir?”

  “That’s him. When I was a young sergeant, I met him while working on the Brighton trunk murders. A very clever chap.”

  Merlin shook hands with Ross. “Well, Lieutenant. I’ll rely on you to ask Spilsbury or whoever else is in charge to look after this body carefully. We’ll get in touch with them about the post-mortem.”

  A loud creaking noise was followed by the sound of timber falling to the ground nearby, just missing a passing warden. “Come on, you two, before we join Kilinski in a box as well. Let’s see where Mr Webster found the poor chap.”

  * * *

  Jake Dobson tossed and turned on the flimsy bed in his dingy rented room. Last night had been very dodgy. Very dodgy indeed. Billy and he had found some good stuff in the wreck of an old residential house in Covent Garden and they had received prompt cash payment from the Russian that afternoon. He was worried though. The dangers were increasing – both the physical danger and the danger of apprehension. As they had been leaving the ruins with a nice load of artwork and gold and silver, Billy had tripped on something that he realised with horror was an unexploded bomb. Nothing had happened, but still… Then as they’d got out into the street a warden had accosted them. Before entering the building, they had tried, as usual, to gauge its distance from what seemed to be the bombers’ main target areas for the night and thus get a lead as to the likely absence of wardens, firemen and soldiers. That night the bombers’ focus seemed to be the City, and Covent Garden had seemed safe but… Anyway, he had smashed the warden’s head with a heavy silver lamp stand he had in his bag and they had got away safely this time.

  And then he knew for certain that the Russians were shafting them. Regardless of the value of the items – and, of course, they had to have their profit – he thought that danger money should be factored in. Billy thought he was the clever one while Jake’s pathetically unsuccessful life to date did not indicate great
talent or brainpower – but Jake knew when he was being diddled even if Billy did not. He had noticed that Trubetskoi made a point of lurking in a corner with the poncy valuer to discuss the goods. He knew that Trubetskoi was up to no good, but Billy seemed to be perfectly happy with the wodge of cash they got up front and the promise of a cut in the understated proceeds of sale. He’d like to get Evans in a dark alley and squeeze the truth out of him. Maybe after their next meeting he’d get a chance. He wouldn’t tell Billy about it as he’d probably be old womanish and warn him off. It wouldn’t take much to get the information out of Evans but then again, perhaps he was a straight shooter and wouldn’t have a problem giving him the proper valuation.

  He reached out a hand and grabbed the half bottle of brandy from the floor. Pleased that he had come up with a course of action that should resolve his concerns, he took a long swig, then lay his head back on the thin and grubby pillow. Within minutes he was asleep.

  * * *

  Inspector Johnson had arranged to meet Jack Stewart at his station to discuss the looting problem. The place seemed to be empty when Johnson arrived, but he could hear a faint sound of snoring somewhere in the back.

  In a small alcove behind the tea station, Jack Stewart was catching forty winks, perched a little precariously on two chairs. As Johnson approached, one eye snapped open. “Hello, Peter, how are you?”

  “Fine, Jack. Couldn’t you find somewhere more comfortable to take a nap?”

  Stewart swung his legs to the floor. “Wasn’t really intending to take a nap. Just nodded off waiting for you.”

  Johnson smiled. “Where is everyone?”

  “Day’s leave. Been at it pretty much non-stop since this all began. As the raiding intensity has softened just a little for the last few days, the powers that be said we could have a break. Battersea station is covering for us. We’ll be back at it tomorrow. I think it’s only the calm before another storm. What can I do for you, Peter?”

  Johnson rubbed his upper lip, still missing his late lamented Ronald Colman moustache. “DCI Merlin has mentioned the looting problems to you?”

  “Och, yes. That he has. As has my boss, Sir Archibald. He mentioned that the two of you were getting your heads together on this.”

  “Have you come across any looters?”

  Stewart stifled a yawn. “I’ve seen people around the action who didn’t appear to have any reason or right to be around… but as for people actually in the act of looting, no, I haven’t, as I told Frank. That’s not to say I don’t believe it’s going on.”

  “Hmm.” Johnson finished his tea and looked up at the rain spattering a nearby window. “Sir Archibald and I were chatting and we had an idea I’d like to run by you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “What if we attached a police officer to your team so he could keep an eye out?”

  Stewart rubbed his eyes. “You realise what we are doing is not a walk in the park?”

  “Of course, I know it will be extremely dangerous.”

  “Who are you thinking of?”

  “Myself actually, perhaps with one other officer.”

  Stewart chuckled. “Well, I always knew you Geordies were mad buggers and now you’ve confirmed it. I have no objection, provided you don’t get in the way of the team. Who’s the lucky fella who’s going to be your partner?”

  “I was thinking of DC Cole, you know him, I think?”

  “Aye, nice lad. The champion runner. Should come in handy bringing the bastards down, eh?”

  The two men stood and shook hands. “If you are back on duty tomorrow, how about tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow night it is, Peter. We’ll look forward to your company. Keep in touch with Sir Archibald. He’ll be able to tell you where we are being deployed.”

  * * *

  Merlin chewed on a soggy corned beef sandwich at his desk, puzzling as to why Bridges had not been able to find anything at all on the Grand Duchy and Oriental Trading company. It wasn’t registered as a British company and there was no record of it as a branch of an overseas one. Perhaps it was just a front for something else. The sergeant, who was sitting opposite him, had just telephoned the St Pancras mortuary. Neither Bentley Purchase nor Sir Bernard Spilsbury were around, but Bridges had managed to speak to one of the deputy coroners and passed on the message about the need for a post-mortem.

  Webster had shown them where he had found Kilinski’s body. It turned out to be just a hundred yards or so from the Grand Duchy building on the other side of the Euston Road.

  The office door swung open and A.C. Gatehouse strode into the room. Merlin lowered his feet from the desk and brushed the sandwich crumbs from his lapels. The A.C. smiled affably at the two men. “How’s your wife coming along, Bridges? Is the infant due soon?”

  “December, sir.”

  “Ah yes. I was a December child, you know. Born Christmas Day in fact. Well, best of luck to you both.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Mind if I have a private word with DCI Merlin, Bridges? Won’t be long.”

  Bridges hurried out and the A.C. seated himself at the desk opposite Merlin. “Frank, I was just wondering whether you could, er… let me know how my niece, I mean, Detective Constable Robinson is coming along? I’m seeing my sister at Claridges for dinner tonight and she’s sure to want a report.”

  Merlin had met the A.C.’s sister once. She was a female carbon copy of the A.C. – tall, gaunt and not exactly beautiful. He hadn’t been able to work out how this spectral apparition had given birth to the beautiful Claire. Presumably the father was very handsome, in spite of which he had ended up with her mother.

  “She’s doing exceptionally well, sir. A very bright girl. Willing to learn and very quick on the uptake. She is proving a valuable addition to the team.”

  A.C. Gatehouse’s thin lips stretched to their maximum extent as he beamed at Merlin’s summary. Then his features stiffened and darkened. “Constable Cole. I understand that she may, mmm, be spooning with him?”

  Merlin struggled to keep a straight face. “Spooning, sir?”

  “You know what I mean, Frank. And you can wipe that silly smirk off your face, if you please.”

  Merlin attempted to compose his unreliable facial muscles. “I understand they are good friends, sir. As you know, I am rather too busy to have time to register much about the private lives of my officers.”

  The A.C. harrumphed. “Yes, well. I have never condoned the development of relationships among my officers, Chief Inspector – and apart from that he’s entirely unsuitable, of course.”

  “Seems a very nice lad to me.”

  “Why hasn’t he been called up?”

  “As you well know, sir, short-staffed as we are, the services have been told to keep off our people.”

  “Why hasn’t he made a noise about it, eh? You made a noise about wanting to join up again. So did Bridges, despite his unfortunate condition.” Sergeant Bridges had been turned down for service at the beginning of the year, to Merlin’s relief, due to the misfortune of his having six toes on one foot. “He’s not yellow, is he?”

  Whatever remained of any smirk on Merlin’s face now mutated into a glower of anger. “As a matter of fact, he has been to see me about the subject. Said he was keen to do his bit and I gave him a version of the same speech you gave me. No doubt you remember it, sir. Something along the lines of the country and more specifically you, sir, needing our best officers here. How did you put it again? ‘If we didn’t keep our best officers here then chaos would ensue and chaos is worth a hundred divisions to Mr Hitler.’ I think those were the words.”

  A.C. Gatehouse shifted in his chair then gave Merlin a wry smile. “Yes, well put indeed, wasn’t it? Well, I’m happy to hear that about Constable Cole. Very happy, but he’s still the wrong sort of chap for Claire. You must discourage them. I shall certainly be having a word with Claire if you don’t.”

  Despite his own reservations about the relationship, Merlin was
about to speak further in defence of Cole by citing his volunteering to join Johnson in the looting investigation when Johnson himself came in to the room.

  “Oh, sorry, sir. Sirs. Didn’t realise you were, er…”

  The A.C. jumped to his feet. “Not to worry, Inspector. We are almost finished. Getting anywhere with that Polish goose chase, Frank? As I said, I don’t want you wasting—”

  “We found his body. Trying to arrange a post-mortem now.”

  “Oh? Come and tell me about it later. I have to go to another one of those interminable meetings in Whitehall.”

  * * *

  They were sitting in the mess at Northolt after lunch, staring into their cups.

  “Give me yours, sir. Let me have a look.”

  Jan Sieczko slid his cup over to Corporal Tom Reilley, one of the squadron mechanics.

  “I’m not sure I want you to do this, Corporal.”

  “Just a bit of a lark, sir. My old gypsy nan taught me how to read tea leaves.”

  “Go on, Jan, let him have a go. He’ll probably tell you something you don’t know such as you will be in danger and watch out for a man with an unfortunate haircut and a toothbrush moustache.” Jerzy was the third person at the table. Jan shook his head and pulled back the cup. “Oh, well, Reilley. If Jan is going to be such a faintheart, why don’t you read mine?”

  “Your English is coming on very well Mr Kowalski, sir, if I may say so. ‘Faintheart’, that’s a very good word for a Polish chap to be knowing. Now, let’s have a look.”

  Reilley picked up Kowalski’s cup, poured any remaining liquid into an ashtray, shook the cup then carefully examined the patterns made at the bottom of the cup by the tea leaves.

  “Very interesting. Mmm. Yes.” Reilley turned the cup this way and that for a while, before depositing it back on the table with a satisfied grunt.

  “Well. What did you see?”

  “Very interesting, in fact fascinating, Mr Kowalski, sir.” Reilley produced a toothpick from one of his jacket pockets and applied it to his protruding front teeth.