Merlin at War

by Mark Ellis

  Merlin glanced at a photograph of himself in the Metropolitan Police football team 17 years before. Standing beside him was his good friend Jack Stewart, now a senior officer in the Auxiliary Fire Service. Good memories.

  Bridges returned with the list. He could see the chief inspector’s mind was elsewhere. “Sir?”

  “Sorry, Sam, I was daydreaming. Baby keeping you up at night?”

  Bridges’ face lit up. “The lungs he’s got on him. Bet he’s going to be a sergeant-major like his grandpa.”

  “How much sleep did you lose last night?”

  “A couple of hours, I should think. Iris does all the work, of course, but it’s hard to go back to sleep once the boy’s announced himself.”

  “Never had the problem, Sam.”

  Bridges winked at Merlin. “Not yet, sir.”

  “Hmm. Come on, let’s get on with it. How many names have you got?”

  “Ten, sir. Trouble is, five of them are inside. I got confirmation this morning that two of the other five died in the Blitz. Another two haven’t been seen for a while and they might have copped it too. That leaves just the one we know for certain is alive and at liberty.”

  “And that is?”

  “Denzil Thomas.”

  “Ah yes, Deadly Denzil. He’s certainly got an accent, though I’m not sure Welsh counts as foreign. He’s six foot four and thin as a rake, though. Nothing like our description. What’s he up to these days?”

  “He finished a stretch at the Scrubs last November. I spoke to Sergeant Reeves downstairs, who knows the man of old. He believes Denzil’s trying to go straight. He’s helping out as a medic at the Red Cross.”

  “Good for him.” Merlin got his reading glasses out of a drawer in the desk. They had been a fixture in his life for several months and he had finally overcome his embarrassment at having to wear them. He examined the list.

  “These two men who haven’t been seen for a while, Ingram and Morris, I don’t think I’ve ever come across them. Descriptions?”

  “Ingram definitely doesn’t fit the bill, sir. Tall and thin like Denzil. Morris, however, is a chubby fellow who might. Don’t remember him having a beard, though.”

  “Maybe he fancied a change of look. Am I right in thinking Morris is not his real name?”

  “You are, sir. I think he’s originally Czech or Hungarian. Middle European at any rate. With a strong accent to match.”

  “Let’s track him down, Sergeant. Put WPC Robinson on it. Has she finished giving evidence in that armed robbery case in the Bailey yet?”

  “She has, sir.”

  “And you might visit a few hospitals. Start with Bart’s and Thomas’s. See if they’ve admitted any botched abortion victims recently. Check out any new gossip or intelligence they might have on the back-street trade. I would come with you but I need to collar Gatehouse. Inspector Johnson is being taken away from us for a while. He’s being seconded to MI5’s investigation of Hess.”

  “That’s not good news.”

  “No. Anyway, the AC said he’d see if he could help us out somehow. I asked him if we could get Cole back.”

  “Bet that didn’t go down well.”

  “No, but he did say he’d think about it. In any event, I want to see him again to press the issue. Is there anything else?”

  “Oh, I almost forgot, sir. As you know, forensics didn’t turn up anything of interest in the hotel room at first but one of the team, Johnnie Marsh – you know him, I think?”

  “I do. Young and keen.”

  “Well, he decided to go back to the hotel for another look last night. He rang me to say he’d found something down a small crack in the floorboards by the bed.”

  “And?”

  “It was a cigarette stub.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “No, too small for that but there was one interesting thing. He took it back to the lab and analysed the tobacco. Apparently he’s developed something of an expertise at identifying cigarettes.”

  “What did he find?”

  “It was the stub of a Gitanes cigarette. I know it’s not much but…”

  “Interesting, though just because it’s a French cigarette it doesn’t necessarily follow that the smoker was French.”

  “No, sir, but not many Englishmen smoke foreign cigarettes.”

  Merlin nodded. He had been a smoker himself once but had given it up a few years ago at the behest of his late wife. Before that, Jack Stewart had got him into the habit of smoking Russian cigarettes for a while. Very expensive they were, too, he remembered with a shiver. “You’re right, Sergeant. Tell Marsh good work. Now off you go and I’ll catch up with you later.”

  As Bridges disappeared into the corridor, Merlin opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a framed photograph. It was a portrait of a pretty young woman. Poor dear Alice, his wife. Dead of leukaemia more than two years ago now. He used to keep the photograph on his bedside table at home, but it had seemed strange to keep it there after Sonia moved in. Not that Sonia had any problem with him holding on to his memories of Alice. She was nothing but sympathetic and understanding whenever he spoke of his wife. He stared at the photograph and wondered whether Alice would have approved of Sonia. She had a very generous nature. He felt she would.

  * * *

  Le Poulet d’Or was a small bistro around the corner from the Free French office in Dorset Square. Formerly a long-established Italian restaurant called Gianni’s, it had remodelled itself successfully to reflect the recent influx of French refugees and military personnel. The owner, Gianni, had renamed himself Jean, although none of his patrons were taken in by this transformation. The cuisine was rustic French and some items, like the cassoulet the two Frenchmen were enjoying for lunch today, were nearly as good as they could get at home.

  “More wine, please, Jean.” The proprietor disappeared behind his counter. “I wonder where he got hold of that Burgundy? Not bad at all.”

  “It is very pleasant, Commandant.” Captain Rougemont had formed his view of the wine on the smallest of sips. He didn’t like to drink at lunchtime.

  “So, what do you think?”

  Rougemont dabbed his lips carefully with a napkin. “If the colonel doesn’t mind.”

  “I haven’t told the colonel but why should he mind?”

  “If you are sure, sir.”

  “You are our brightest officer, Captain. The colonel says I am to pursue this investigation diligently and sensitively. If I am to do that, I need your help.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  The commandant mopped up the remains of his cassoulet with a slice of bread. “And what about these three suspects? All recent recruits, I believe. I thought I didn’t know any of them but I remember now that I have met Dumont briefly, but neither Meyer nor Beaulieu have crossed my path yet.”

  Rougemont watched as Angers’ gaze shifted to the nearby table, where a pretty English girl was lunching with a bearded elderly man. She inclined her head in their direction and coquettishly returned the commandant’s smile.

  “Beaulieu is a new member of the general’s personal office. A brilliant young man who arrived here, via the Middle East, in February. He has excellent connections. I understand one of those connections was a close relative of the general, hence…”

  “Aubertin said he was connected with people in Vichy as well.”

  “Yes, I heard that, too. He worked under Darlan for a while, apparently. I understand the young man is not particularly popular. He is regarded as vain and distant.”

  The commandant laughed. “A cold fish, eh? Plenty of those around. Starting at the top. What about Dumont and Meyer?”

  “Also relatively recent arrivals working under the general, though I believe in slightly less exalted stations than Beaulieu. I am on nodding terms with both. I shall make enquiries. I think, however, we should take a look at Beaulieu first.”

  “Because of the Darlan connection?”

  “Yes. Perhaps I should invite him
out for a drink? Take a close look at him. Would you like to come? Saturday night?”

  “Yes. If he’s not too stuck up to decline your invitation.”

  “Very well.” Rougemont saw the commandant’s eyes flicker again in the direction of the young Englishwoman. “A pretty girl, sir.”

  The commandant peered back at him. “Invite Beaulieu for drinks at the Ritz tomorrow at seven o’clock. Perhaps we’ll go on for supper after.” Angers pulled his chair back. “Now, Olivier, if you’ll forgive me I think I might…”

  “Say no more, sir. You go ahead. I’ll sort out the bill.”

  The commandant sauntered over to the young lady’s table to present his compliments. How Angers would deal with the problem of the elderly companion was not clear, but Rougemont was sure he would find a way.

  * * *

  Buenos Aires

  Alexander Pulos had managed to put day-to-day business concerns to one side during his interesting and entertaining lunch in one of the Café Tortoni’s private rooms. Along with several other leading lights of Argentinian commerce, he had been the guest of a group of senior army officers keen on gauging the business community’s perspective on current events. He had been particularly impressed by one of the officers, a forceful colonel named Peron. The colonel had been outspoken about the weakness of the present government: President Roberto Ortiz was an invalid and had no business holding office, while his right-hand man, Vice-President Ramón Castillo, was a snake. Peron had just returned from a spell as a military attaché in Italy and was much enthused by the successes of Mussolini and Hitler. He did not spell it out but it was clear he thought Argentina would benefit from a similar dose of fascism. Pulos had been struck by the energy and confidence of the man. He resolved to keep an eye on him and maintain contact.

  Pulos managed very substantial property, business and shipping interests in Argentina. It was naturally crucial that he keep his finger on the pulse of the nation. The last military coup had been more than 10 years before. The Uriburu junta had tried its own version of fascism for a couple of years until democracy had been restored in 1932. Pulos was not alone in thinking that another coup was in the wind and there was nothing in the lunch to suggest this idea was unrealistic. It would be important to have an ally like Peron if things went that way.

  He decided to walk back to his office from the restaurant. Marco, his chauffeur and bodyguard, pulled up in the car but Pulos waved him away. It was only a 15-minute walk, the meal had been substantial and his short, increasingly portly body would benefit from the exercise. He continued to mull over the lunchtime conversation. Hector Martinez had been eloquent in his defence of the president and vice-president, but all those around the table were well aware that this was because he had them both in his pocket. Martinez had vast livestock, railway and oil interests and knew very well how to protect them from grasping politicians.

  Pulos had kept his own counsel during the lunch. He had his own arrangements with politicians to protect the Argentinian business empire he and his partner now controlled, but those arrangements were not cast in iron. A few local problems had arisen recently. They were manageable with skill and concentration but Pulos felt that his senior partner’s insane decision to enlist in the British army was not helpful.

  As he strolled along the wide boulevard, Pulos thought back to the previous autumn and their arguments on his last trip to London. “Why, Simon? You are too old for this. Let the younger generation do their bit. What on earth do you think you can gain? We have a huge business. It is going well but, as with any large enterprise, there are many problems. I cannot deal with them all on my own.”

  Simon Arbuthnot had mouthed some platitudes about doing his duty. “This is me you are talking to, Simon. You have never been much of a one for duty before. The only duty you have ever believed in is the duty to yourself and your self-enrichment. Since that duty has helped to enrich me, I am all for it, but duty to your country? Please. Give this little Greek boy a break. You owe nothing to your country. You have grabbed everything you have with no regard for your country’s rules or laws. If Britain goes under, you have plenty in Argentina to keep you in clover.”

  All to no avail. Arbuthnot had given up arguing and had just adopted that supercilious smile of his. “If anything goes wrong, the boy will step up for me.” Pulos had almost suffered an apoplectic fit. “The boy! That little wet-behind-the-ears playboy? You must be joking!” That irritating smile again. “He’ll come good, Alex, mark my words.”

  And that had been the end of it. Within a few weeks of Pulos’s return to South America, Simon Arbuthnot was an army officer in an English camp, and now he was on active service. A contact had run across him briefly in Athens, as the Germans chased the British army out of Greece, and now he knew from Reggie Tomlinson that Arbuthnot had been involved in the Cretan battle. He hoped to God he’d got out safely.

  Leaving the Avenida de Mayo, Pulos cut through some side streets until he reached the Avenida Belgrano. His office was in a side street a few blocks away. He pulled his scarf tight. There had been a frost that morning and it had been unusually cold all day. Pulos loved his adopted home country with a passion. Cold or sweltering – he didn’t mind the weather. This country had made him a wealthy man and he was grateful, even though an Englishman had been the principal mover in his success. Of course, some corners had needed to be cut but that was always the case in business, was it not?

  He arrived at the door of the small, elegant, 19th-century house that served as the headquarters of Enterprisas Simal. Pulos had never really liked the name, a confection based on the two partners’ Christian names, but, as the junior partner, he had had to defer to Arbuthnot’s wishes. Marco was already in his usual position in the corner of the lobby, behind the pretty young receptionist. Pulos walked up the one flight of stairs to his wood-panelled office suite. He had it all to himself this afternoon because his secretary had left early to visit a relative in hospital. Settling himself into an armchair in the corner of the room, he looked out of the window at the pine trees whispering in the breeze and lit himself a cigar. He had planned to ring Tomlinson in London to see if there was any further news of Arbuthnot. It would be well past office hours in London now but he had the lawyer’s home number. He puffed away and decided to leave it. No doubt he’d be called if there were anything. He rose, cigar in mouth, and moved to the desk, where he noticed a new folder concerning that damned litigation. He took a long draw on his cigar then opened the file.

  * * *

  London

  “May I come in, Frank?” The AC was standing at Merlin’s door, looking very pleased with himself. Merlin wondered what was up. The AC didn’t usually ask for permission to enter. Mostly he just barged in.

  Merlin stood up. “Of course, sir.” For once, late as it was, he was pleased to see the AC because he had been trying unsuccessfully to get hold of him all day. Gatehouse was not alone.

  “May I introduce Detective Bernard Goldberg of the New York Police Department.”

  Merlin held out a hand to the stocky young man now standing on the AC’s right. Detective Goldberg was an inch or two shorter than Merlin, with a closely cropped head of dark-brown hair and the crumpled face of a man who might recently have walked into a wall. A squashed, broken nose sat beneath a pair of intense brown eyes, the left of which was slightly higher than the right. The lower of Goldberg’s thick lips jutted out beyond the upper. Despite its imperfections and imbalances, the face was arresting and strangely attractive. “Pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector. I’ve heard a great deal about you. A privilege, sir.” Merlin shook hands and everyone sat down.

  “I’d offer you some refreshment but all of my people are out on the job at present. We are a little stretched, as Mr Gatehouse may have told you, Detective.”

  The AC shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Don’t worry about refreshment, Frank. We just had something from Miss Stimpson.”

  Goldberg chuckled. “I came to this country
last Friday. I’ve had more tea in the past week than in my entire life across the water, Chief Inspector. No need to worry about that.”

  Merlin nodded then looked expectantly at the AC, who was busy clearing his throat in his accustomed protracted way. Finally, he spoke. “Well, Frank, you are no doubt wondering what the detective is doing in London. Well, he has been sent over here for a few weeks as part of an Anglo-American policy of cooperation, encouraged at the highest level. The prime minister’s office, to be precise. He arrived, as he said, a week ago. His aim is to see how our forces are coping with things under the current, rather difficult, circumstances.”

  The American smiled. “I love that British understatement, Mr Gatehouse. Your great capital city has been bombed to hell and back for month after month since last summer. For all that time you have been under clear threat of invasion and, while I guess things have quietened down a little over the past few weeks, that threat continues. London’s criminals must be rubbing their hands at the opportunities presented by the destruction, by the blackout and by the huge disruption to the capital. And you say ‘under the current, rather difficult, circumstances’. Great!”

  The AC looked puzzled for a moment as he tried to work out whether he was being complimented or laughed at, resolving ultimately that it was the former. “Ah, yes, Detective. Ha! Ha! No doubt you will get used to our quaint British ways over the next few weeks. Anyway, Frank, the Detective is here to learn about our Scotland Yard policing ways.”

  Merlin stroked his chin. “It’s very brave of you to put yourself at risk in this way, Detective. As you point out, London is a pretty dangerous place at the moment.”

  “It may be dangerous but so is late Saturday night in the Bronx. When they offered me the trip here, I have to say I didn’t think twice. Some of my colleagues probably put that down to crass stupidity. Others might recall that one of my nicknames in the NYPD is the Lucky Jew.”