by Mark Ellis
Merlin sucked in his cheeks and looked up at the ceiling. “I understand, sir.”
“You might say, thank you, Chief Inspector.”
“I’ll say thank you, sir, but life is going to be difficult without Johnson. And on top of that, we don’t have Cole because you ordered him to be transferred away in light of… the situation. Cole was developing into a very useful asset.”
The AC’s face reddened. PC Tommy Cole had been transferred to Portsmouth in January because a relationship had developed between him and the AC’s striking niece, WPC Claire Robinson, who was now established as part of Merlin’s team. Cole was a bright but working-class boy, who was far from Gatehouse’s idea of a suitable partner for the young lady.
Merlin ignored his boss’s obvious discomfort. “Cole is a good lad and I miss him. Some months have passed. I understand Robinson is now walking out with a young barrister, sir. I would have thought it safe – if that’s the right word – for Cole to return now.”
The AC’s high colour dimmed a little. “I’ll give it some thought, Frank.”
“Any idea how long I’ll be without Johnson?”
“I think you should bank on at least a month.”
“Any chance of a temporary replacement?”
“There may be some options in other departments. I’ll look into it.”
Gatehouse relaxed and the mottled teeth reappeared. “Care for a sherry, Frank?”
Despite his Hispanic origins, Merlin had never developed a taste for sherry. He realised, however, that it would be politic to accept the offer and glasses were poured.
“Did you see that the Kaiser died?”
“The Kaiser, sir?”
“Yes, Kaiser Wilhelm the Second of Germany, as was. The Kaiser of the Great War. His death has been reported in The Times.”
“I can’t say I knew he was alive. I thought he’d died some time in the 20s.”
“No, no. He had a very nice and cushy retirement. After being obliged to abdicate, he was given a charming little estate in Holland. A place called Doorn. Spent his time gardening mostly, according to a friend of mine who was Dutch ambassador here before the war. He lived there very comfortably with his second wife.”
“What would she be called, then? Kaiserina? Kaiserea?”
“You know, Frank, I have no idea. Kaiser is another word for emperor, really, so perhaps she was known as the Empress. Doted on the old bastard, apparently. The ambassador said there was a brief moment in the 30s when Hitler thought about bringing him back to Germany and reinstating him as monarch. In a figurehead capacity, of course, but that came to nought. No doubt the great Führer decided he didn’t want anyone to dilute his national pre-eminence.”
“Sickening to think that a man responsible for all those millions of pointless deaths in the Great War should pass his declining years in peace and comfort.”
“Life isn’t fair, Frank.” The AC turned to look outside. “Ah, look, the rain has stopped.” He finished his sherry. “I think I’ll get off home to Mrs Gatehouse.”
The AC went to get his raincoat from behind the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll get back to you on the subject of manpower tomorrow. Help yourself to another sherry if you like. Goodnight.”
* * *
Colonel Bertrand Aubertin was a slim and elegant man of medium height. He had kindly eyes, a round, pink-cheeked face and would have passed for younger than his late 40s had it not been for his thick helmet of iron-grey hair. A career soldier, he had been stationed in north Africa when France had fallen to the Germans, and had made his way to London as a respected member of General de Gaulle’s entourage. Within the Free French organisation, he had been given responsibility for liaison and coordination with the embryonic British military team planning clandestine operations in France and other parts of occupied Europe. This team had just been given a new name – the Special Operations Executive. Aubertin and his subordinates were based in a large old building in Dorset Square in Bloomsbury, while de Gaulle maintained a headquarters in Carlton Gardens near the Mall.
The colonel had returned to the office after a busy day in meetings, and this was his first opportunity to address the paperwork piled on his desk. He was tired and massaged his forehead as he sat down. Problems, problems. Aubertin’s job was not easy and now he had a new problem to deal with. It was contained in the folder on the top of his pile. He had read it when first received the night before, and he had just read it again.
It had been compiled by Colonel Fillon, one of de Gaulle’s closest aides. The British intelligence services had recently complained, over Aubertin’s head, that they had sources alleging there was a leak within the Free French organisation. There were the early beginnings of a resistance movement in France and a small cell of French patriots had established radio contact with the Special Operations Executive. Somehow the existence of this cell had become known to the Nazis and the people in it had been liquidated. Suspicions of a leak had been communicated directly to the top. De Gaulle had given little credence to them but had asked Fillon to investigate. Now Fillon had been asked to join the general in Cairo, and the file had been passed to Aubertin, who, to his mind, should have been given the task in the first place.
The colonel closed his eyes for a moment then reached out to pick up the photograph that sat on a shelf to his right. It pictured his wife, Jeanette, in her prime in 1932. The scene was a charming restaurant overlooking the sea near the small hilltop town of Ramatuelle. They had been holidaying in the south of France and were celebrating his latest promotion. Jeanette was drinking a glass of champagne and directing her radiant smile at him, the photographer. He caught his breath. He hadn’t seen his wife in 15 months. She was in Vichy France at their rambling house in the Auvergne. There had been thoughts of getting her to England but they had come to nothing. Her health had been poor in the years leading up to the war, she had had a minor stroke and Aubertin worried endlessly about whether she had access to the right medication. He only received the occasional letter from her and she never addressed the subject of her health. Jeanette had good neighbours and friends and they would look after her, or so he hoped.
He replaced the photograph with a sigh and skimmed through the file yet again. It was not quite clear what Fillon’s methodology had been, but he had confined the investigation to three young officers, who had been privy to information concerning the resistance cell. There was nothing untoward about their seeing this information because they were on the distribution list that had emanated from Aubertin’s own unit. The only reason for suspicion, as far as Aubertin could see from the file, was that the three officers were the three most recent arrivals in London. The covering letter with the file emphasised that, sceptical as the general was regarding the alleged leak, a proper investigation must be carried out.
Aubertin got up and called for his secretary, a cheerless, middle-aged Frenchwoman, who had taught French in an English boarding school for 15 years before offering her services to the Free French.
“A coffee, please, Madame.” As he watched her thick tweed skirt disappear through the door, Aubertin fell back into his seat, looked up to the ceiling and began to consider how best to deal with this new problem.
CHAPTER 2
Friday 6 June
Cairo
Powell had not slept well. His bender with Watkinson the day before was partly, but not wholly, to blame. He had also been troubled by disturbingly vivid memories of his last days in Crete. He had been wide awake for a couple of hours when he heard the dawn call to prayer from the muezzins in the many mosques neighbouring the camp.
On his drunken return the night before, he had found a letter on the bed containing his new orders. ‘Lieutenant Powell, you will present yourself at the Cairo RAF airfield at 1500 hours on Friday 6 June and return to England on leave until you are notified of your next posting’. Someone must have taken pity on him. Wavell perhaps? Or had Rollo managed to pull some strings? If he had, he’d made no mention of it. Howeve
r it had been brought about, he was very grateful.
Powell sat up in bed and reached out for his new kitbag. After a quick rummage, he found the other letter. He was sorely tempted to open it. The story his cousin had told him about Simon Arbuthnot and his mysterious rise to power and riches was intriguing. He felt the envelope. It seemed like just one sheet of paper. If it were ‘a matter of life and death’, shouldn’t he have a look so he could work out who to pass the message to? Powell stiffened. No, no. It would be dishonourable to look at private correspondence. He examined Arbuthnot’s dying scrawl for the umpteenth time. ‘Si… So… Sa…’ Another Simon? Simpson, Simone, son, solicitor, Sarah, Sally, sister, Saint? Powell sighed and put the letter back in the bag. His head started to throb. He would try to forget about it for now and seek advice on his return to London. He had a friend in the police: Frank Merlin would know the best course of action.
* * *
London
Eyes closed, Merlin reached out to the other side of the bed. It was empty. Then he heard the sound of a kettle whistling. He rolled his naked body off the bed, grabbed his dressing gown and padded down the corridor of his flat towards the kitchen. Merlin could hear the patter of rain outside but sunlight was streaming through the windows.
Sonia Sieczko stood by the cooker wearing the cream nightdress Merlin had bought her for Christmas, her perfectly rounded figure silhouetted against the window light. Her shining auburn hair swung in a graceful arc behind her as she turned round to greet Merlin. Smiling, she rose on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek.
“Good morning, my darling. I have a surprise. I have eggs. Real eggs!”
“How on earth did you manage that?”
Sonia winked. “That is my secret, Frank.”
Merlin guessed that Sonia’s brother, an officer in one of the RAF’s Polish squadrons, had managed to scrounge the eggs for her in Northolt. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d brought her food from his flight base.
“I have three eggs. Two for you and one for me.” Merlin demurred but to no avail. “No, sweetheart. You are a big man with a demanding and important job. I am someone with an unimportant – though often very irritating – job. You will have the two eggs. How would you like them? Poached, boiled, scrambled? I am going to boil mine.” They settled on three boiled eggs.
Merlin sat at the kitchen table, mug of tea in hand, and watched as Sonia went about her business. She was a striking woman and he still couldn’t believe his luck in having her. They had met on one of his cases at the beginning of 1940. Half-Jewish, half-Catholic, she had managed to get out of Poland just before the war. Penniless, she had been obliged to take whatever work she could. When Merlin first met her, she had been working in a seedy Soho nightclub. She had soon found something more respectable and become a sales girl in one of London’s large department stores. Sonia Sieczko and Frank Merlin had hit it off pretty much straightaway and soon became lovers. Sonia had stayed in her own rented accommodation in Marylebone for a while but had finally agreed to move into Merlin’s Chelsea flat six months ago. So far they had been very happy together.
“There you are, Frank. Two lightly boiled eggs, as you like them, and some toast. Smacznego!”
Merlin had been slowly picking up the odd word of Polish and he knew that this word meant ‘enjoy’. He considered his first egg for a moment, looked circumspectly at Sonia, then tore some toast into strips and started dipping them into the yolk.
“There is no need to look so shifty, Frank. I know you loved your mother’s little egg ‘soldiers’. If you want to do it with me, there is no problem, my little baby boy.” Merlin chuckled.
The breakfast disappeared rapidly. Merlin stared contentedly across at Sonia’s beautiful face. A lock of auburn hair fell over her forehead. She carefully replaced it then looked up, her saucer-like blue eyes intent on him.
“Penny for them, Frank, as you English like to say.”
“A cat may look at a queen, may he not?”
“Is that another one of your silly English phrases?” She stood and picked up their plates. “This queen is going to tidy up, get dressed and go to work.”
“I may be a little late tonight. We have a new case and the AC told me I’d be without Peter Johnson for a while. He’s been seconded elsewhere for a few weeks.”
Sonia slid round the table and reached a hand up to his face. Her head came up to Merlin’s shoulders. He leaned down to kiss her freckled cheek and then moved on to her full and inviting lips. They lingered for a moment before Sonia pulled away. “Let go or I’ll be late for work. If you are going to be late tonight, let’s try and make sure that we are home some time together this weekend. If you’re not going to be here, I may go out for a drink with some of the girls after work. It is Friday, after all. There was some talk today about going for a drink at the Ritz.”
“The Ritz, eh? Very posh. Of course, you go and enjoy yourself, darling.” He leaned down to kiss her one more time.
* * *
“There you are, Auguste. Come in, please. Take a seat.”
The commandant entered with his habitual ebullient air and did as he was bid.
“No riding this morning, my friend?”
“Rougemont was busy and I didn’t feel inclined to go out on my own.”
The colonel smiled. “You are a gregarious soul, aren’t you, Commandant?”
Angers shrugged. “What can I say, Colonel? I like company.”
“Indeed you do, especially female company, n’est-ce pas, my friend?”
The commandant returned a conspiratorial smile. “I do not believe I am alone in that.” Aubertin leaned back and stretched his legs out under the desk. “As I hinted to you yesterday, Auguste, we have a new problem. I was hoping you might be able to help?”
“Of course.”
Aubertin slid Fillon’s file across the desk. “Please take a moment to read this.”
Angers picked up the file. As he read, he made a variety of musing grunts. When he set the file back down, his attitude was dismissive. “Surely no-one really believes we have a spy? This must be British mischief-making.”
“It may well be, Auguste, but the general has made it clear that we cannot afford to ignore the possibility, far-fetched as it may be. He requires me to follow up Fillon’s work with vigour. I would like you to lead this effort on my behalf.”
“You want me to investigate these officers?”
“I do.”
Angers winked. “In a perfunctory fashion?”
“Please treat this as a serious commission, Auguste. You will report to me regularly and I shall review the exact status of what we are doing as we go along. If there is a guilty party, well…”
The commandant scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Do you know these men?”
“I know one of the men socially. He seems a good fellow and very trustworthy. Of the other two, one is a Jew whose family was German, I believe. The third is a young man whose father I knew some years ago. An arrogant young man, I’m told. He has connections among those in power in Vichy.”
“Hmm. Interesting. Very well, I’ll get on with it.”
“This is a sensitive task, Commandant. Tact and delicacy will be required.”
“I understand, Colonel. You can trust me.”
“Excellent.” The commandant got to his feet. “Good luck, Auguste.”
* * *
“So, sir, I have the statements from the two hotel clerks,” Bridges began. “There is a pretty full description of the gentleman with the bag from Mr Noakes. However, he is still pretty vague about the other two men – both well wrapped up, one of normal height in a mac, wearing a trilby, and the other taller, in a blue duffel coat and having some unspecified foreign accent.
“Miss Evanstone saw the man who arrived with the lady but not the other two. Her description of him is as limited as that of Noakes. The woman wears the thickest spectacle lenses I’ve ever seen so, even if she had seen more, I’m not sure how reliable
that would have been. She says there was no conversation between the couple. The young lady just asked her for Room 14 and placed a £1 note on the desk. Again, a suggestion of an accent but Miss Evanstone couldn’t say what.”
Merlin considered his colleague. “The demeanour of the couple?”
“Pretty subdued, understandably. When the couple headed off to the room, Miss Evanstone thought she heard a sob or two from the girl.” Bridges paused to consult his notebook. “Oh, yes. Going back to Noakes, he mentioned at the end that he had an idea there was something unusual about the tall man in the duffel coat – in addition to his being foreign – but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.”
“Very helpful of him. You told him to call us if he did remember?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I think our best line of attack is to try and identify the man with the bag. The abortionist, we presume.”
Bridges pulled his chair closer to Merlin’s desk. “I’ve already drawn up a list of the usual suspects.”
Merlin sucked the last of his Fisherman’s Friends. He’d have to get another packet at lunchtime.
“And by the usual suspects, you mean…?”
“All the illegal abortionists we know of operating in London over the past five years.”
“With or without foreign accents?”
“I thought it best to make a comprehensive list, sir, regardless of nationality.”
Bridges walked over to the small table in the corner where he worked when in his boss’s office. Merlin’s eyes followed him with a little concern. The young man had recently become a father. Merlin wondered whether this was the reason for his noticeable loss of weight. Before fatherhood, the sergeant’s physique had been that of a rugby prop. Now he looked more like an outside half.