Merlin at War

by Mark Ellis

  “In what name was the room booked, Mr Noakes?”

  “Brown, sir. Mr and Mrs Brown.”

  “And did you yourself see this couple?”

  “I caught a brief glimpse of the gentleman when he left the hotel later. The unfortunate lady, of course, I saw when I discovered her in the room.” Noakes cast his eyes down respectfully.

  “The man left alone?”

  Noakes nodded.

  “And about what time would that have been?”

  Noakes looked across at the large oval clock on the facing wall. “I would estimate the time to be somewhere between one-thirty and two o’clock.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?” A door slammed somewhere and a draft blew through the reception area. Noakes pulled the cardigan tighter around his skinny body. “Alas no, Inspector. I was in the process of checking in another guest. I only caught a glance of him as he left. Appropriate to this dreadful summer weather, he was wearing a black mackintosh and a hat. He was normal height and weight, I should think.”

  “How do you know this was the gentleman from Room 14 if you hadn’t checked him in?”

  “Because prior to the arrival of the new guest I was checking in, the occupants of Room 14 were our only customers, so it seemed fair to assume…”

  “Did the man return?”

  “No.”

  “So the lady was left alone at this point?”

  “Well, no, sir. By then there were two other gentlemen in the room.”

  “Two other gentlemen? You’d better tell us about them, Mr Noakes.”

  “Around an hour after I came on duty, the first gentleman arrived. A short, fat gentleman with black hair and a little goatee beard. Getting on a little. Rather bedraggled, to be honest. He was wearing a navy overcoat and carrying a large black bag.”

  Merlin closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept very well the night before. The Blitz had been ruining everyone’s sleep for months but the German bombers had been taking a break recently. It was something else that had kept him awake this time. On a case the previous year, Merlin had taken a bullet in the shoulder and, every so often, the old wound played up. He had tossed and turned most of the night in the spare bedroom, where he had gone to give his girlfriend a chance of some rest herself. His shoulder was fine now but the lack of sleep was beginning to take its effect. His eyes opened. “And what did this new fat fellow do?”

  “He nodded at me. Said ‘14’ and headed up the stairs.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “Soon after at one-fifteen – I am sure of the time as I was listening to the radio then – at one-fifteen the second man arrived. Tall fellow. Dark-haired. I’m not sure if it was brown or black. As you can see, the lighting isn’t that great in here. He was wearing a grey duffel coat. He asked whether a young lady had checked in earlier under the name of Brown. I told him ‘yes’ and directed him to Room 14. He immediately disappeared up the stairs.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Not really. He was also very well wrapped up. Collar up, scarf covering his mouth. All I could really tell was his height and his accent.”

  “What about his accent?”

  “I think he was a foreigner of some sort. As was the other fellow. The fat bloke.”

  Merlin breathed out heavily in frustration at Noakes’ apparent inability to relate his story in a straightforward fashion. “I see. Two foreign men. Any idea where from?”

  “Sorry, sir. Not very good at accents.”

  “All right. What happened after the second man went to the room?”

  “Well, within the next half hour or so, the lady’s original companion came down, as we’ve already discussed, and disappeared. Another hour or so later the two other men, the fat one and the tall one, came down the stairs in a rush and hurried out the door. Another hour or so passed and I decided to check the room and enquire whether the young lady needed anything. There was no answer to my knock so I opened it with my pass key and discovered the poor young thing as… as you have seen her.”

  “Did you hear any noise from the room at all before the men left?”

  “As you’ve seen, sir, the room is at the far end of a corridor on the first floor. No, I didn’t hear anything.”

  “No screams?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you’re sure you can’t help us with the nationalities of the men?”

  “We don’t get much foreign trade here and I’ve sadly never been further out of London than Southend-on-Sea. I couldn’t say which country. Continental, perhaps, if that helps, Chief Inspector.”

  “Not much but thank you, anyway, Mr Noakes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to return to the Yard with us to make a full statement. Perhaps you’ll be able to fill out the descriptions a little more. It would be helpful if you could get word to Miss Evanston. We’ll need her statement as well.”

  A harassed-looking bespectacled man hurried through the front door.

  “There you are, Doc. Thanks for getting here so quickly. It’s not a pretty sight, I’m afraid.”

  “When are they ever, Frank? When are they ever?”

  * * *

  Merlin fell heavily into the chair and ran his hands over his unusually tidy desktop. Bridges had clearly been at work. He threw his new brown hat at the coat rack behind him and, for once, it landed successfully on one of the branches. He hadn’t expected to visit his office today, which had begun as a rare day off.

  A dental appointment had been booked in the afternoon and the morning had been reserved for his invalid brother, whom Merlin hadn’t seen for several weeks. At the neat terraced family home in Fulham, he had been pleased to find Charlie Merlin in much better shape than on his last visit. Since escaping from Dunkirk at the cost of a leg, Charlie had been mired in depression. Despite the loving care provided by his wife and son, there had been no improvement for months. Now, finally, there was a spark of life in his brother. Charlie’s wife, Beatrice, told him the good news. “They’ve given him his job back, Frank. Martin’s Bank. Say he can start at the beginning of July. What d’you think of that?”

  Charlie had allowed a half-smile to grace his face as Merlin had hurried to slap his brother on the back. “Well done, Charlie!”

  “Things may be looking up, Frank.”

  Beatrice was a wonderful cook, even with meagre resources, and Merlin had stayed for lunch to enjoy an excellent casserole concocted from bits of beef and mutton she had managed to scrape together.

  He had then made the afternoon dental appointment in the small mews surgery near his flat, where Merlin had been pleased to discover that his teeth were in good shape and no work was required. It was just as he was leaving the surgery, intent on taking Sonia to the pub for a post-work drink, that the receptionist’s telephone had rung. Sergeant Bridges had tracked him down.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir. I remembered you said you were checking your teeth this afternoon. I’m afraid there’s been a nasty incident. I thought you’d want to know. I’m at the Bedford Hotel in Newman Street just off Oxford Street. Are you happy to leave it to me or do you want to come?”

  “What sort of nasty incident, Sergeant?”

  “Young lady reported dead, sir. Very messy, apparently.”

  Merlin knew immediately that the pub would have to keep for another night. And so he had made his way to the hotel – and the poor girl they had found in Room 14.

  Now back at the Yard, Merlin leaned back in his chair and hoisted his feet on to the desk. He reached into his pocket and found the packet of Fisherman’s Friends he had bought in the small kiosk around the corner in Parliament Square. Few of his friends or colleagues appreciated his addiction to these strong menthol lozenges, but no-one yet, not even Sonia, had been able to wean him off them. He popped a couple in his mouth. As the menthol fumes passed upwards through his sinuses, he experienced the familiar feeling of his head being spring c
leaned. He closed his eyes and thought briefly of his father. What would Javier Merino make of his policeman son now? Of his professional accomplishments, his father would be very proud. Of that Merlin had no doubt. Would he, however, have accepted Merlin’s current domestic situation of living in unmarried bliss with Sonia, his beautiful partner? Probably, Merlin thought, although his mother… Anyway, here he now sat, Frank Merlin, a highly respected senior officer of Scotland Yard, born Francisco Merino to the said Javier, a wandering Spanish seaman, who had found love and modest fortune with Agnes Cutler, Cockney heiress to a Limehouse chandler’s emporium.

  Merlin swung his legs off the chair, stood up and went to hang his jacket beneath his hat. Turning back to his desk, he caught sight of himself in the new mirror Bridges had recently installed between the large map of London and the cuckoo clock, which was Merlin’s souvenir of a Swiss case from before the war. The man he saw was tall and ramrod straight, with a full head of jet-black hair, except for the odd strand of grey just above the ears. A few minor lines and crinkles marked his face but they were nothing untoward for a man of 43. His large green eyes gazed back at him, above the long, thin nose and wide mouth. Suddenly, he pulled away with a snort of derision at this brief moment of untypical vanity and returned to his desk.

  Sergeant Bridges was downstairs, interviewing the two hotel receptionists in an attempt to get better descriptions of the three men who had visited Room 14. The doctor’s summary of his report had been brief and to the point. “Botched abortion, Merlin. Mother dead. Baby, a little boy, dead. A butchering. Appalling!”

  This was, of course, not the first illegal abortion the Yard – and Merlin himself – had had to deal with. There had, in fact, been a spate of them in London over the past six months. In March, they had arrested a Dutch doctor, who had been very busy and very slapdash. Abortionists such as he were clearly in increasing demand since the war had fostered a more relaxed sexual environment. Most of the abortions took place in back-street hovels, where witnesses were few and far between. At least there were witnesses in this case, even if they weren’t proving to be much use.

  * * *

  Reginald Tomlinson watched his young secretary’s pert derrière disappear through the door. What he would give to be a young man again. A young man like the personable, young, sandy-haired specimen sitting on the other side of his desk.

  “Did I get it right, sir?”

  “Yes, Philip. Perfect. Well done. A good day’s work.”

  Philip Arbuthnot looked suitably gratified. Tomlinson had asked him to draft a long and complex affidavit for use in a client’s forthcoming divorce proceedings. The young man had been working as a clerk for the City law firm of Titmus, Travers and Tomlinson for four months. To his father’s great surprise and anger, he had dropped out of Cambridge in October the previous year and devoted himself exclusively to enjoying a playboy’s life in the capital for several weeks. His father had reacted by threatening the withdrawal of his son’s very healthy allowance. The young Arbuthnot had eventually surrendered to his father’s wishes and signed up for articles at the law firm his father used for the bulk of his business. Since the Arbuthnot file represented over half of the firm’s revenue, it was a given that the boy would be taken on and given the greatest attention. The task of supervising Arbuthnot had fallen to Tomlinson. Although the young man was clearly bright, Tomlinson had already been able to gauge that it would be a struggle to make a lawyer of him. He was rich, good-looking and not interested in detail. However, for the moment at least, he was pretending to make an effort.

  “Any news of your father?”

  “None yet, I’m afraid.”

  Tomlinson toyed with the silver ashtray on his desk and tried to ignore the barrage of noises coming from the demolition site across the road. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’ll never understand why he signed up. A man of 45. What was he thinking? And with all his responsibilities.”

  “For king and country, Mr Tomlinson. He obviously wanted to do his bit. He always regretted that health problems prevented him from serving in the last war.” Philip Arbuthnot adjusted his cuffs, which were fastened by a pair of large gold cufflinks. Tomlinson shrugged, reflecting not for the first time that the boy was always immaculately dressed in a Savile Row suit, Lobb’s shoes and an expensive silk tie.

  There was a moment’s silence, which Arbuthnot felt obliged to fill. “Sorry I was late this morning, sir. A few personal matters to deal with.”

  Tomlinson pursed his lips. “Please, Philip, try and keep the hours. I have other clerks here and it is undermining to their morale if one of their number doesn’t follow the rules, even if that person is the son of our biggest client. As Mr Titmus would say: ‘It’s not playing with a straight bat.’” In his younger days, Mr Titmus had played cricket for Surrey and was forever reminding his partners of this accomplishment.

  Tomlinson assumed that Arbuthnot had spent another night on the town but, if he had, the young man looked remarkably fresh. He was as good-looking as his father had been when younger, although his features owed more to his fair mother than the more saturnine Arbuthnot senior. As tall as his father, he had light, copper-brown hair, which was slicked down with hair oil, a creamy freckled complexion, an easy smile and a neat little moustache in the style of Douglas Fairbanks. Handsome, well set up and blessed with easy charm. The solicitor could only envy him.

  Tomlinson had also been an attractive young man in his day but now, in his 60th year, had most certainly run to seed. Overweight, stooped, balding and yoked for life to an equally unprepossessing wife, he had one consolation – he was very rich. He owed this to brains and hard work, leavened (as in most success stories) with a dose of luck. The luck was hooking up with Simon Arbuthnot, the prodigiously successful and active businessman who had generated huge fees for the firm. Tomlinson shuddered – now this man had, idiotically, enlisted in the army. He shuddered again.

  “The presumption is that your father was on the island?”

  “Last letter I got from him was in April. He was still in Greece. I understand that most of our forces transferred from the mainland to Crete shortly after. I’ve had no news since, other than what we read in the papers.”

  “You must be worried.”

  “The old man has always seemed indestructible to me. I’m sure he’ll have found his way on to the boats.”

  “Let’s hope so, Philip. Now run along to Mr Travers. I believe he’s got some more drafting for you to get your teeth into.”

  * * *

  Merlin was just about to go downstairs to see how Bridges was getting on with his interviews when he received the call from on high. His boss, Assistant Commissioner Gatehouse, had the room directly above his. According to Miss Stimpson, the AC’s venerable secretary, Mr Gatehouse would appreciate a little chat, even though it was after seven o’clock. Merlin made his weary way up the stairs. He wasn’t up to the usual spiky badinage with Miss Stimpson and ignored her welcoming smile as he entered the lion’s den.

  “Ah, Frank. Come in. Sorry to bother you at this late hour. Take a pew.” The lion seemed intent on being charming for once. Merlin sat. The AC, a gaunt-looking man in his late 50s, was wearing his usual outfit of dark jacket, striped trousers, wing-collared shirt and sombre tie. “Everything all right with you, Frank? Haven’t seen you for a few days. Did that latest counterfeiting case get sorted out in the end?”

  “Yes, sir. Inspector Johnson made the arrests.”

  “Johnson, yes. He’s done very well, I must say. The bogus food and petrol coupon business must have taken quite a hit thanks to him.”

  “Plenty still out there to catch.”

  “Indeed.” The AC fiddled idly with his wing-collar for a moment, then revealed his mouthful of mottled brown teeth in a wintry smile. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to relieve you of Johnson for a while, Frank.”

  Merlin sat up sharply. “Relieve me? That’s going to be awkward. He’s one of my best men.”
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  “I know, I know, but it’s out of my hands. I have received a request from the very highest authority to assign him to MI5 to help out with the Hess case.”

  “The Hess case? Why on earth do they want Johnson for that?”

  The AC stood up and strode to the window. It was still raining and heavy dark clouds sat over the London County Council building opposite. “Bloody awful weather.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The AC returned to his desk. “To be precise, the prime minister’s office asked me if I could contribute our best officer to the ongoing investigation of Mr Hess’s strange flight to this country. It is a few weeks now since his arrival but the authorities are apparently no closer to understanding why Hitler’s deputy flew himself to Scotland and parachuted in to have tea and biscuits with the Duke of Hamilton. He says he wanted to discuss peace terms but that’s hard to believe. Why on earth would he think he could discuss peace with Dougie Hamilton? A jolly good chap and everything but… well, I digress. Hess is currently being held in an MI5 safe house in Surrey.”

  “Surely the security services have sufficient manpower to deal with him themselves?”

  “You would think so but I am not sure they are the ones making the request. I think it might be a case of the prime minister wanting a different perspective.”

  “If Mr Churchill is seeking to impose someone on MI5 against their will, I doubt Johnson will be able to get very far. And why Johnson in particular, sir?”

  Gatehouse thrust his jaw out in irritation. “If you really want to know, Chief Inspector, the prime minister’s office requested you for the job. As I formed the view, based on the very same judgment you just expressed, that this was likely to prove a wild goose chase and as I really can’t do without you here, I decided that if I had to sacrifice one officer to such a likely waste of time, it would not be you. I volunteered Johnson as a credible alternative and, knowing his reputation, they reluctantly accepted the substitution.”