by Mark Ellis
“No need to apologise, Philip. Of course you had to go and see your family. How did your grandmother take it?”
“She’s not very well, as you know. Didn’t really seem to take it in.”
“I’ve not seen her since her stroke. Poor lady. If I know your aunt, though, I bet she took it like a brick. Always been a very plucky lady.” Tomlinson leaned forward to press a button on his telephone. His pretty secretary appeared, casting a sweetly sympathetic look at Arbuthnot. “Sylvia, do you think you could find Mr Arbuthnot a black tie. I think you might find…”
“I know where to find your spare ties, sir. There are a couple of black ones.” Sylvia departed with a swish of her behind. “I think you ought to suit up for appearance’s sake, Philip. That suit will do for today but I’d wear a darker one tomorrow, if I were you. Meanwhile, the tie is a must.”
Arbuthnot found Tomlinson’s suggestion presumptuous but he didn’t show his irritation, remembering that he would need to be on good terms with his father’s solicitors while his succession to the Arbuthnot fortune was being formalised. “Very good, sir.”
Tomlinson cleared his throat. “The firm naturally holds your father’s last will and testament and most of the key papers relating to his business interests. Whatever we don’t hold should be in the hands of Mr Sidney Fleming or your father’s Argentinian partner, Alexander Pulos. If other papers are held elsewhere, I am not aware of them.”
Tomlinson paused to remove two cigarettes from a silver box on his desk, one of which he offered to Arbuthnot. The two men lit up. “Philip, I’m not sure how much of his business affairs your father discussed with you?” Tomlinson disappeared momentarily behind a cloud of blue smoke.
“Very little.” The young man’s face clouded over. “It was a major bone of contention between us. I asked him many times to put me more in the picture. When he went off to fight, it seemed even more obvious that he should do so but he absolutely refused. My father just said: ‘If I pop off, Philip, Mr Tomlinson will be able to inform you.’ If I ever walked in on him chatting to Fleming or any of his other executives, he would clam up immediately and tell me to get lost.”
Tomlinson tapped some cigarette ash into the ashtray and gave Arbuthnot an understanding look. “Your father was a very secretive man, Philip. He preferred to compartmentalise things so that his advisers and executives only knew parts of the picture, while he alone knew the whole. That was how I saw it, at least. Perhaps his closest colleagues, Fleming and Pulos, were privy to the whole picture but I’d be surprised. In any event, the three of us should be able to piece everything together for you as you take the helm. Assuming, of course, that remained your father’s testamentary intent.”
A flash of concern passed over Arbuthnot’s face. “What do you mean by ‘assuming that was his testamentary intent’? Who else would inherit and take over the business? You drafted the will, didn’t you?”
“Calm yourself please, Philip, calm yourself. I was being a little too lawyerly in my observations. Yes, our firm drafted the will and, yes, you are his heir. I was only reflecting my usual professional caution in case there might be some codicil of which I am not aware.”
“Codicil? What codicil?” Despite his best efforts, Arbuthnot’s impatience with Tomlinson was beginning to show.
“Philip, please, I am not aware of any codicil. Your father did like to tinker with his will every so often, but usually this was in matters such as how much to leave his chauffeur and the like. I am sorry if my poor choice of words alarmed you.”
Arbuthnot took a couple of long draws on his cigarette and regained his equilibrium. Sylvia reappeared with a black tie, which he substituted uncomplainingly for his blue one.
Tomlinson sent Sylvia away again and stubbed out his cigarette. “And so, my dear boy, I shall speak this morning to Sidney Fleming and arrange a meeting so we can pool our knowledge of your father’s affairs. Then I’ll wire Mr Pulos in the Argentine.”
“Can’t we arrange a meeting of all the parties? A meeting that I can attend?”
“I think it would be easier at first if I attempt to collate the information for you. And of course, Mr Pulos is rather a long way away and it is not exactly easy or straightforward to travel from South America to Britain at the moment.”
“He’ll probably have to come here at some point or I’ll need to go there, don’t you think?”
Tomlinson frowned. “Just let me speak to Fleming. I’ll see what he has to tell me, then I’ll report back.”
Arbuthnot got to his feet. “Just remember, sir. I’m not a little boy.”
* * *
The Cromwell Medical Recruitment office was at the top of a steep flight of rickety stairs on the second floor of one of the terraced properties facing the Church of St Mary the Virgin in Putney. Putney Bridge and the River Thames were a stone’s throw away. At street level, there was a sparsely stocked electrical goods shop through which Bridges had to walk to reach the stairs. By the time he got to the top, the sergeant was a little out of breath. Before the war he’d been an active sportsman and had prided himself on his fitness. Bridges was a thinner man now but not a fitter one. He was grateful to see that the office door was open and that his climb had not been in vain. He knocked.
“Come in.” The voice belonged to a dumpy little woman with badly dyed blonde hair. Bridges flashed a warrant card and introduced himself. The woman gave him an anxious look before scurrying through the door behind her. Moments later, she reappeared with a smartly dressed little man sporting a crimson cravat.
“Henri Renard, proprietor of this modest establishment. Please come in.”
Renard led Bridges into a surprisingly large room. Behind Renard’s cluttered desk was a picture window through which the policeman could see the river, now sparkling in welcome sunshine.
“Be seated, Sergeant. How may I help you?”
Renard was a sharp-featured man in his 50s with a head of bouffant silvery hair.
“May I ask exactly what sort of business you run here, sir?” Bridges took out his notebook.
“As the name says, Sergeant, I recruit medical personnel. If there are hospital shortages or a medical practice needs support or requires temporary staff or, as you say, locums, I help out. My particular expertise is in the recruitment and placement of non-British doctors and nurses.”
“How long have you been in business here?”
“For almost 15 years. I came here from France in the late 20s to further my medical studies. My mother was English and I preferred the prospect of practising here. After a few years as a doctor, a friend asked me to help him launch this business. We set up here and named the business in honour of Oliver Cromwell because we face the church over the road.”
“Sir?”
“The Church of St Mary’s is famous, Sergeant, for what they call the Putney Debates. You have heard of them, perhaps?”
History had never been one of Bridges’ strong suits at school. He shook his head.
“They were important political debates that took place in 1647 during the English Civil War. Oliver Cromwell chaired these debates, hence…”
“Cromwell Medical Recruitment. I see. And is your partner still around?”
“Sadly no. He died of cancer in 1939.” Renard leaned forward. “Excuse me, Sergeant, fascinating as this potted history of my company may be, could you tell me why you are here? I am a law-abiding individual running a legal and moderately successful little business. What is your interest in me?”
“I am investigating a murder, sir.”
Renard reared back in surprise. “Mon dieu! Murder? And you think I have something to do with it?”
“We do not know who the victim is. We think you might be able to help us identify him. The murdered man went by the name of White. This was found among his belongings.”
Renard put on a pair of half-moon spectacles and examined the newspaper advertisement Bridges set before him. “I see. Every so often, Sergeant, I place an advert
in one of the London papers – this one I think was in The Evening News. Placed first in February and then in April.” Renard put his spectacles away. “So you think your victim might have responded to the advertisement? The name White rings no bells. Do you have a photograph?”
They were interrupted by a cacophony of foghorns outside. Renard went to the window to see what was happening. Two large barges had just narrowly avoided collision. “These boats! Many of the barges are now being crewed by inexperienced youngsters because of the draft. The Navy has taken many of the expert navigators. Nearly every week there’s a problem at the bridge. No disasters yet but it’s only a matter of time.” Renard returned to his desk. “Where were we?”
“You asked for a photograph, Mr Renard. Unfortunately, all we have is a head shot immediately after the murder. Very messy and not clear. We are expecting a better version later today.”
“I see. Well, give me your description then.”
“First of all, we think he was French.”
“I see plenty of French medical people, Sergeant. There has naturally been an influx over the past year. People escaping the occupation or Vichy. And there was a sizeable group of French practitioners established here before the war.
“Mr White was a plump man. Five foot seven. Over 14 stone. He was partially bald and wore a brown wig. He had a small goatee beard and…”
“I know the man.” Renard rose and crossed to a filing cabinet in the far corner of the room. After a brief rummage, he took out a thin folder and returned to his desk. He put on his spectacles again and opened the file.
“Your Mr White’s real name is Armand de Metz. He came to see me in early May. He was seeking employment having arrived in this country from north Africa some time in February. Like many emigrés, he had a tragic tale. In the pre-war period he was one of the most eminent surgeons in Paris. The war brought the loss of his practice and his family. He was a Jew. He knew that he would be in trouble once the Germans arrived so took the precaution of arranging for his wife and children to take passage to the United States. The ship they were aboard was torpedoed by a German U-boat last autumn. There were no survivors.
“After the German invasion, he managed to make it from Paris to Vichy France with some of his wealth intact, but it became clear to him that it was only a matter of time before life would become impossible for Jews there as well as in occupied France. He managed to get to Algiers and thence to London. The money he’d managed to hang onto went in payment to those who facilitated his escape. He arrived here pretty much penniless.” Renard looked up at Bridges. “Clearly his run of terrible bad luck did not end when he got here.”
“Did you find him a job?”
“No.”
“Why not? You say he was an eminent surgeon. Surely there would be work for a man like that?”
“He was a drunk, Sergeant. His hands were shaking. I could smell alcohol on his breath. It was apparent that the poor man’s experiences had broken him. I could not trust him with any of my customers.”
“So he left disappointed?”
Renard sighed. “He did indeed.”
“Do you know how he was managing to survive?”
“I have no idea, Sergeant.”
“Did you hear of him performing abortions?”
Reynard threw up his hands. “I most certainly did not.”
Bridges put his notebook away. “Well, thank you very much for your help, sir. A sad story.” The two men shook hands and Renard called for his secretary to escort Bridges out.
When he was certain that the policeman had gone, Renard picked up the telephone and dialled. After a short wait, he spoke. “It’s me, Henri. There’s something I think you should know.”
* * *
Sidney Fleming returned to the Ritz from a country outing late on Monday morning. He had passed a most enjoyable Sunday at the Compleat Angler in Marlow and, on impulse, had stayed the night. Back at the Ritz, he found a small pile of messages in his room, the topmost being an invitation to a meeting – the prospect delighted him but he only had 10 minutes to get there.
Ignoring the other messages, he hurried to the suite on the third floor and, with only the slightest hint of trepidation, knocked on the door. A uniformed man appeared and bowed him into an opulently furnished drawing room. In an armchair in the far corner sat his host, a svelte, middle-aged man sporting a neat little moustache and wearing a brown tweed suit similar to the one Fleming himself was wearing. He was holding what looked like a whisky and soda in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Fleming had heard that the King was a prodigious smoker. The sound of a young child having a tantrum could be heard from one of the adjoining rooms.
As Fleming approached, he became aware of two other older men, one wearing a uniform and one in morning dress, talking at a nearby desk. His arrival brought an end to their discussion and the civilian walked over to make the introductions. “Mr Fleming, I presume? I am the King’s cousin.” He gave his name, which sounded to Fleming like a random collection of consonants. “I have the honour to be the prime minister of Albania.” The gentleman made an abrupt bow. “Let me introduce you to His Majesty.”
The prime minister oozed over to his sovereign, bowed and introduced Fleming, who followed suit and bowed deeply. The King pointed with his cigarette to a chair opposite and Fleming sat. The King redirected his cigarette to the prime minister, who grunted and moved back unhappily to his desk.
“I believe I have you to thank, Mr Fleming, for some astute stock tips you managed to get to me.” The King spoke excellent English with only the faintest of accents.
“Yes, Your Majesty, assuming you bought and sold when I suggested?”
The King sipped his drink and signalled to another of his entourage for a second whisky to be brought. “I did indeed, Mr Fleming. I was advised against it,” he glanced in the direction of the prime minister, “but I decided to have a little, how do you English say it, a little ‘flutter’. I am obliged to you for the pleasing results.”
“Only glad to be of service, Your Majesty. One neighbour helping another, so to speak.”
“Ah, yes, neighbours. As it happens, Mr Fleming, we shall not be neighbours for much longer. I am moving to a place in the country, which should prove more congenial to my family and my government.”
Fleming lifted the glass of whisky he had just received. “Sorry to hear that, but cheers sir, and good luck.” The monarch raised his glass in response.
King Zog glanced towards his cousin again. “So, Mr Fleming, there sits my prime minister.” A smile parted the monarch’s thin lips. “But prime minister of what? This hotel room, that’s all. My Albanian government-in-exile is not recognised by your British government, unlike those of Poland, Czechoslovakia, Holland and the others. I am ruler only of this room. It is enough to drive a man to drink.” He finished off his whisky with a flourish.
“Ignominious as is our position here, Mr Fleming, it is made even worse by the knowledge that we have been ousted from our country by that obnoxious popinjay Mussolini and his pathetic army. He thinks he has revived the glory of Rome and its all-conquering armies but the abject level of Italy’s current military capabilities has just been exposed by Wingate and his men in north Africa. If only we had possessed a tiger like Wingate to lead our army! Things would have been different then. Unfortunately, all we had were sheep.” Fleming saw a door open behind the King and an elegant woman holding a toddler by the hand appeared and waved. “Yes, my dear, I’ll be with you soon.” The door closed.
“My wife, Queen Geraldine – half-American, you know – and my son, Prince Alexander, or Leka as we call him. The Queen is much happier now that we are to have the place in Surrey. I am a town man, myself. I will return here every so often and perhaps we may bump into each other again. In case we do not, I wanted to thank you in person for your help.” He gave Fleming a sharp look. “I must ask, was there perhaps a hidden motive?”
“Not at all, sir. Once, many moons ago,
I had some minor business dealings in Albania. Remembered my trips there with fondness. Heard you were here and thought it would be nice to do you a favour, for old time’s sake.”
“Ah, business dealings. And what, may I ask, is your business now?”
“I work with a chap called Simon Arbuthnot. We have interests here and overseas. I’m his oldest partner. I manage things in England.”
“Yes, I have heard of him. Something in the City, is he not?”
“Yes, there is a bank, a trading house and operations in South America.”
“South America? Some of my ministers wanted me to make my new home there but I wanted to stay as close as I could to my homeland.” The King stubbed out his cigarette, snapped a finger and someone hurried over with two packs of Player’s for him and Fleming. “Who looks after the South American interests?”
“We have a Greek manager out there.”
The King laughed. “A Greek? I hope you know what you are doing. We have had our problems with the Greeks over the years and they with us. As I am sure you know, Albania has always had a large Greek presence in its population and vice versa. I suppose our relationship is a little like the English and the Scots – with us cast as a poorer version of the Scots. Many Albanians have made their fortunes in Greece.” The King chuckled to himself. “I am reminded of that famous saying of your Dr Johnson, how does it go? ‘The noblest prospect which a Scotsman ever sees is the high road that leads him to England’.”
Fleming clapped his hands in appreciation. “I see they gave you a fine British education in Albania.”
“Indeed, Mr Fleming, indeed. No doubt the quotation could be adapted for Albanians and the high road to Greece.” The door behind the King opened again and this time the toddler cried out to his father. “I am afraid we shall have to end our interesting discussion of Dr Johnson and other matters there, Mr Fleming. Let me just say that I hope your Greek fellow is a good man and that my petty prejudices prove unjustified.” The monarch rose stiffly to his feet. “My back is plaguing me today, I am afraid. Thank you for coming. I wish you good day and good luck!”