by Mark Ellis
“Yes, sir. I have to say that I’d find it surprising if a man like de Metz had never come to the notice of anyone in the French exile community in London.”
“Well, I can’t speak for the French exile community but only for myself, Chief Inspector. I never came across the gentleman.”
“Mr de Metz had clearly fallen on hard times, Commandant. It would have been natural for him to approach other Frenchmen for help.”
The commandant shrugged. “De Metz… De Metz… Was he a Jew?”
Angers’ eyes flicked to Goldberg then back to Merlin.
“Yes, I believe he was.” Angers gave a knowing nod. “It’s a fact that Jews are not generally popular with the French military. I myself have no such prejudices, but…”
“You’re saying that Mr de Metz would have believed he wouldn’t be welcome so he didn’t bother?”
“Exactly so, Chief Inspector. Exactly so.”
Goldberg’s antipathy towards the commandant was clear in his face. “I wouldn’t have thought a man as desperate as he would have been deterred from speaking to you guys by the prospect of a little old-fashioned anti-Semitism.”
“What more can I say, Detective? I am just speculating. As I said, I did not know the fellow.”
Merlin had spotted lies from cleverer dissemblers than Angers and he knew he was being lied to now. He didn’t see how, however, he could press the issue further. The commandant was a senior officer of an Allied military force. He didn’t want to cause a diplomatic incident. Not this early in the investigation at least. He had experience of such things in the recent past. He got to his feet. “So, Commandant, I trust we can still look forward to hearing the results of the colonel’s enquiries among your colleagues? You have the significant added benefit of a name now. Also I know that there is another Free French outpost in Carlton Gardens. We propose to pursue further direct enquiries there.”
Angers looked doubtful. “There is no need for you to go to Carlton Gardens, Chief Inspector. Trust me. We shall contact everyone both here and there about the dead man. Then we’ll be in touch. There will probably be a similar answer but please, leave it to me.”
Their meeting over, the policemen waited for a taxi in Dorset Square. Merlin hadn’t been able to face driving through the West End again.
“The guy’s lying.”
“You bet he is, Bernie. The question is, is he lying because he’s just too lazy or too cussed or does he have a particular reason to do so?”
“He was obviously half cut. Pity we didn’t get to see someone else.”
“You noticed he wasn’t keen for us to go to Carlton Gardens?”
“Sure, but we’re not going to go by what he says, are we? Let’s go there now.”
“We’ll go tomorrow morning. I’ve got to be back at the Yard to see my friend back from Crete.”
A black cab pulled up and they climbed in. “All right, Frank. I’m meeting someone tonight too in a couple of hours. For a drink. Someone I met last night at the Embassy. An American journalist. Name of Murrow.”
“Ed Murrow. I’m impressed. He’s highly regarded here. Well connected too, I should think. You might ask him what he knows about the French in London. Perhaps he’ll be able to pass on something useful.”
* * *
WPC Robinson hoped when the telephone rang that it might be the kindly police officer from Belfast with whom she had exchanged missed calls throughout the day. The caller, however, was a man and he didn’t sound particularly kindly.
“I understand you have been making some enquiries, Robinson.”
Disconcerted by the man’s surly tone, Robinson remained silent.
“I understand you got hold of one of our special numbers.”
Robinson suddenly realised MI5 was on the line. She found her voice. “Yes, we found a telephone number on the body of a man. A murder victim.”
There was a pause before the reply. “Name of the man?”
“Armand de Metz. A surgeon and a refugee from occupied France. Do you know him?”
“It is not for you to ask me questions, young lady. Please tell me clearly and succinctly what happened to Mr de Metz and when.”
Robinson did as she was told and summarised the facts known about de Metz’s death.
“I see. Anything else of interest you might care to tell me?”
“It appears that de Metz was earning a living in London as a back-street abortionist.”
“I see…” There was another pause. “Well, thank you, Constable. I’ll have a chat with my colleagues and may get back to you.”
“Why did Mr de Metz have your unlisted telephone number?”
“As I said, Constable, it is for me to ask the questions. If we decide to release any information to you, it will be after careful consultation at this end.”
“And your name, sir?”
“Let’s say Smith for the moment, shall we? Pip, pip.” The line went dead.
Robinson was still mulling over this uncomfortable conversation when the telephone rang again. This time, thankfully, it was the officer from Belfast.
“Sergeant Callaghan. How are you?”
“Bright and breezy, Constable, just like the weather today. I have something for you. A colleague and I trawled through our missing person files but to no avail. However, I was having a snack by chance with a friend who works in another department here. It’s the one that has responsibility for Republican violence.”
“Do you mean Republican as in the IRA?”
“I do. We were just chatting about the cases we were working on when I mentioned your young woman. My friend – well, to be honest, he’s more than a friend, he’s my fiancé – was interested so I gave him the details. Your description, the birthmark, the missing toe and so on.”
“And?”
“He has a woman on his files who matches the description exactly. Her name is, or was, Bridget Healy, 22, from County Wexford. It must be your girl.”
Robinson hurriedly grabbed her notebook and pencil. “How did she end up on his files?”
“She was a suspected IRA activist. Her brother, Finian, is an IRA leader known to have committed various acts of violence against private individuals and against the authorities here in Northern Ireland. It is suspected that he involved his sister in some of those activities. Last November a bomb went off at a police station and she was found outside in the street with concussion. She was taken to hospital, hence our knowledge of her distinguishing features. Nothing could be pinned on her but our boys were keeping her under surveillance when she suddenly disappeared at the turn of the year. It was assumed she had gone to America or England.”
“Can you please send me a copy of the file, Sergeant?”
“Of course, my dear. I’ll get it over to you on the next packet-boat. You should have it by tomorrow night.”
“I’m very grateful.”
“Not at all, Constable. Just doing my job.”
“Good luck with your fiancé.”
“Oh, he’s got a bit of a temper on him but he’s a good boy at heart. He should do me fine.”
* * *
Edgar Powell had left a message for Merlin suggesting they change their arrangement and meet in a pub instead of at the Yard. Merlin telephoned and they fixed to meet at six-thirty in the Surprise, which was convenient for both of them because Powell also had a flat in Chelsea.
Merlin had spent many happy hours at the Surprise with Jack Stewart but hadn’t been in there since his friend had been posted north a few weeks before. Arriving a little early, he found a cosy corner table for two. The bar was crowded. London publicans were having a good war. Their pubs had been doing a roaring trade most nights, even with the Blitz at its peak. The prospect of sudden, violent death significantly boosted the average Londoner’s desire for alcohol. Merlin liked a drink as much as the next man but there had been times when he knew he liked it too much. He had gone a little overboard after Alice’s death. Stewart had been a great emotional support
but they had gone on far too many benders together. Things had eventually settled down around the time Sonia came on the scene, but Merlin realised that Stewart’s absence made restraint easier, ungenerous as that thought was to his good friend.
“All right, Inspector? Like a butcher’s?” One of the regulars, known to all as Peabody Pete, offered Merlin his copy of The Evening News. “Nothing in it as usual.” Pete was the sort of person who would say there was ‘nothing’ in the paper even if the front page was reporting that Martians had landed on the Old Kent Road. Always immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit and regimental tie, he was a retired draughtsman who lived in a tiny flat on one of the nearby Peabody estates.
Merlin took the paper with a nod of thanks and had a ‘butcher’s’. He loved Cockney rhyming slang. ‘Butcher’s’ was short for ‘butcher’s hook’, which meant ‘look’. ‘Apples and pairs’ – stairs. ‘Trouble and strife’ – wife. ‘Adam and Eve’ – believe. Pete had the full vocabulary and used it constantly to the bemusement of some of the Surprise’s more refined clientele. The news of the day was the expected Parliamentary debate on the management of the war. The prime minister was expected to have a difficult time but Merlin was confident that Churchill would be able to handle it. His belief in the prime minister remained strong and he remained convinced that no other man could lead Britain safely through the morass.
“Frank Merlin! How the bloody hell are you?”
Merlin stood to embrace his old friend. “Fine, Eddie. How the bloody hell are you?” Both men stepped back a pace to take each other in. Merlin tried to hide how shocked he was by Powell’s appearance. The man he knew had been well built with chubby cheeks and a bit of a paunch. The Powell he saw now was drawn, gaunt and seemed to have shrunk an inch or two. The bushy brown hair Merlin remembered had thinned considerably and Powell’s skin was cruelly sunburned.
“You had a rough time, then?”
“I know. I look bloody awful, don’t I? It was pretty rough but, what the heck, I got out. Many didn’t so I’ve got to be grateful for that. You are looking well! I could murder a pint and I see your glass is empty – get you another?”
When Powell returned to the table with the drinks he collapsed on the bench and immediately gulped his beer thirstily. “Ah – that’s good! I used to dream of London Pride in my Cretan foxholes.” He wiped the froth from his lips.
“I was very sorry to hear about Celia.”
“Celia? A disaster waiting to happen. We weren’t getting on at all well when I went off to the army. Arguments about the usual things – the job, money, the family (hers and mine). And Celia’s not the sort of girl to wait quietly at home for the return of her warrior husband. No darning socks and running soup kitchens on bombsites for her. Nor is she the sort to curl up on her own in bed with a good book either.
“I hoped otherwise but I guess it was inevitable that she’d find some fellow to fill in for me while I was away. The biggest surprise is that she has allowed herself to get attached to someone. As I think you know, Frank, a wallet beats where her heart should be. Whatever my shortcomings, I am a wealthy man. She appears to have given up on me despite that, which is, as I say, surprising.”
“Who is the man?”
“A penniless charmer apparently.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No. When I got back to the flat in Flood Street there was no sign of her. Just a letter on the desk spelling out the unsavoury facts from her viewpoint: I’m a cold, uncaring and, of course, absent, husband. She’s fallen madly in love with someone who understands her. Best for both parties if we call it a day. Would appreciate a cheque for £100 to tide her over. And, oh yes, she added an afterthought: ‘Glad you made it out of Crete.’
“I had managed to send her a cable from Cairo saying I was on my way home. That gave her the time to clear out as many valuables from the flat as she could.” Powell stared off into the distance for a moment. “Well, there it is. Probably for the best. No point moping, just move on.”
Merlin felt his sympathetic nod was a little inadequate but couldn’t think of anything else to do or say. He raised his glass and clinked it with Powell’s. The conversation moved on. Merlin asked about Powell’s adventures in Greece and Crete, and Powell asked Merlin about his work at the Yard. Another round was bought and Merlin disclosed his new relationship with Sonia.
“Delighted to hear that, Frank. You deserve some happiness after the terrible… what happened to Alice. Sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t mention her…”
“Not to worry, Eddie. I don’t mind talking about Alice. We had a happy time then a very sad one. I’ll never forget her, of course, but life goes on.”
“Quite. Life goes on.” The two men stared thoughtfully into their half-full beer glasses.
“I would be grateful for a little advice, Frank. Nothing to do with Celia.”
“Of course, Eddie.”
“It concerns something that happened in Crete. You remember I mentioned my brigade captain, the one who was shot down when we were only a few miles from the evacuation point at Sphakia.”
“Yes, poor chap.”
“His name was Simon Arbuthnot. A wealthy businessman with interests in the City and abroad. He…”
Peabody Pete interrupted them to request the return of his newspaper. “Sorry, Inspector. Need to do the crossword. Only way I can get to Bo-Peep.” Merlin thanked Pete and handed the paper over. Powell gave Pete a strange look as he left.
Merlin laughed. “Sleep, Eddie. Bo-Peep means sleep. You need to brush up on your rhyming slang. Anyway, you were saying, Simon Arbuthnot. The name sounds familiar.”
“A well known City figure apparently. So, as I told you, we were raked by German Stuka guns on open ground. I was lucky but Arbuthnot and the other soldier with us were not. Arbuthnot wasn’t killed outright. He was conscious and asked me to remove a sealed letter from his jacket pocket. The envelope was unaddressed. He tried to give me some instructions about the letter but was fading fast. He managed to convey that the letter was important and that it should get to someone but not whom. When he became unable to speak, he made a sign that he wanted a pencil and I gave him one.
“He managed to write a little. ‘Give to my’ is clear and then there’s a word clearly beginning with the letter S. After that it becomes a scrawl, which is open to interpretation. Of course, I promised I would try and get the letter to its intended destination but I’m in a bit of a quandary about what that destination is. Clearly I have to get it to someone. Arbuthnot was an influential man and the letter might be very important.”
“What do you know about Arbuthnot’s family?”
“I’ve been able to do a little research today. There’s a mother still living, a son, Philip, who is an only child, and a sister called Lucinda. The family has an estate in Northamptonshire. The son works in London and presumably lives here.”
“Have you got the letter with you?”
“No. I’ve put it in the safe in my flat. I was worried I might lose it walking around London.”
“Perhaps you could bring it into the Yard tomorrow? I’d be happy to have a look at it and help you decide what to do. I’ll be out for some of the day. Say five o’clock?”
“Thanks, Frank. That’s very good of you. You know, I’m absolutely famished. Do you think we could get hold of a pie or something here?”
CHAPTER 7
Wednesday 11 June
London
Robinson had just told Merlin the helpful news from Belfast. For the first time in what seemed like weeks, the office was bathed in bright sunlight and Merlin was feeling positive. “Good work, Constable. Ah, here are the others. Good morning, Sergeant, Detective. Take a pew. Robinson here has identified our dead girl. She was a suspected Republican fugitive from Ireland, name of Bridget Healy, last seen in Belfast when was it, Constable?”
“December, sir.
“Bridget Healy disappeared from official view in Northern Ireland at the end of 1940. Le
t’s make the assumption that she came to London in January. According to the medical report, she had been carrying the baby for three months when she died so she had conceived it in March. Perhaps she had a boyfriend in Ireland who came with her? Perhaps the boyfriend was already in England and she joined him? Or perhaps she only met the father of her child in London, although that is pretty fast work.”
“It doesn’t take long to make a baby, Frank.”
“No, it doesn’t, Bernie. So she’s pregnant. She or her lover or both don’t want the baby. Someone makes an introduction to hard-up French doctor Armand de Metz. He undertakes the abortion in the Bedford Hotel. The abortion is botched and Miss Healy dies. Three men are seen with Miss Healy or going to the hotel room. Two excluding de Metz. The hotel staff have been in again but their descriptions of these two men haven’t improved. All we have still is that the taller of the men might be foreign.”
A passing police car’s alarm rang loudly outside. Merlin waited until the noise faded away before resuming. “So we know what we know about de Metz. The officer we saw yesterday at Dorset Square still maintained ignorance of de Metz although Detective Goldberg and I are both convinced he was lying for some reason.”
“You bet he was.”
“Now, Constable Robinson did come up with some interesting new information about de Metz yesterday. That telephone number we found in his flat was an MI5 number. De Metz was a contact of our domestic security agency. An MI5 officer gave Robinson a friendly call yesterday.”
“Not that friendly, sir.”
“Well, he did say he might call back, didn’t he?”
“Possibly. After he’d talked to his colleagues.”
Merlin briefly recalled his various tiresome run-ins with MI5 and MI6 over the years. He felt a twinge of anger. “Well, we aren’t going to sit on our hands while we wait for those buggers to condescend to help us. I’ll see whether the AC can pull a few strings to get them to move.” He turned to Robinson. “Very well done again, Constable.” Robinson blushed. “See what else you can find out about Miss Healy. Friends, relatives and so on.”