by Mark Ellis
He picked up a pencil and started sketching. The young Anton Meyer had wanted to be an artist. His father had seen his talent and encouraged his son in the belief that all would be done to enable him to pursue his dream. Then everything had changed. His dreams of making a creative living had gone forever. Meyer still drew for fun, though, and the little sketch he now dashed off caught his brother Felix to perfection. The crooked smile, the eyes permanently crinkled with laughter, the small button nose and cleft chin.
He ought to telephone his brother and tell him about Pulos. Perhaps Felix could find out what was up. He would refuse, of course. His brother was in Ruth’s camp when it came to Anton’s legal adventures. “Let it alone, Anton. Our parents are dead. What was is no more. There is a life to be lived and greater battles to be fought. It is more important to defeat Hitler and his Nazis than to pursue personal vendettas. Yes, we were betrayed by those men but we can’t do anything about it. Your legal proceedings will get you nowhere. Ruth is right, she is a good girl and you can be very happy with her. Concentrate on that, just as I am going to concentrate on the war.”
Felix had a point, of course, but Anton just couldn’t let it go. He kept seeing the look on his father’s face as he died, slowly and painfully, in that dirty Parisian attic in the rue Berthe in Montmartre. There still lingered a flicker of hope that something could be done. Anton Meyer was desperate to keep that flicker alive.
The door opened and Kramer reappeared. He didn’t say a word but stared hard at the new box of files. Meyer sharpened his pencil in the machine attached to the side of his desk and picked up the audit file of Weinberg and Co, a ball-bearing company in Jersey City.
As Kramer slid away, Meyer resolved to call Felix the following morning before work. Ruth would still be away and he would be able to discuss things with his brother without her interrupting. At least now there was something specific he could ask his brother to do, assuming he was still in London. He had read something in The New York Times about Free French forces being sent to Syria but he was sure that Felix would have let him know if he was being posted overseas.
It would be good to know the reason for Pulos’s trip and Meyer would try to get his brother to investigate. He would book a call for six on Thursday morning – 11 his brother’s time – and he would send a cable during today’s lunch break to prepare his brother for the call.
Relieved to have worked out his little plan, Meyer picked up the new file and looked at Weinberg and Co’s draft trial balance sheet. Sharpened pencil in hand, he went to work.
* * *
London
Carlton Gardens was only a 25-minute walk from the Yard and Merlin felt the need for some exercise. Goldberg was more than happy to make the journey on foot and, as a bonus, received a running historical commentary from Merlin as they crossed Parliament Square, walked down Birdcage Walk, passed Horse Guards Parade and the Admiralty, and went over the Mall.
Merlin loved history almost as much as he loved poetry and was particularly knowledgeable about London. As they reached the Duke of York Steps, he was just explaining how the Mall had originally been a playing field for the game of pall mall, an early version of croquet, when Goldberg interrupted. “Sorry, Frank. That’s all fascinating but I just wanted to say that I had an uncle who died somewhere around here. He was a military scientist for you guys. Got run over by a hit-and-run driver. They found the man who…”
Merlin stopped abruptly. “Emmanuel Goldberg?”
“Yes. Poor old guy. You remember the case, Frank?”
“Of course, Bernie. I investigated it. Why didn’t you say before?”
“I… I don’t know. The sergeant told me it was one of your cases. I guess I was going to mention it sometime and that sometime turns out to be now. Where did it happen exactly?”
Merlin pointed back in the direction from which they’d come. “I told you the road we turned off to come past Horse Guards Parade was called Birdcage Walk.”
“Yes. Where you said James I had kept his aviary?”
“Right. Well, if we’d carried on 150 or 200 yards further down that road towards Buckingham Palace, that was where your uncle was hit.”
Goldberg nodded. “Perhaps when we’re going back we can make a short diversion.”
“Of course, if you like. And if you want to talk about the case any time…”
Merlin led Goldberg up the Duke of York Steps and into Carlton House Terrace. He halted briefly outside number nine. “This used to be the German Embassy before the war. Ribbentrop’s little citadel.” Workmen were doing something to the front door. “I’ve no idea what it’s used for now.”
At the end of the road there was Carlton Gardens. General de Gaulle’s Free French Headquarters was Number Three. A French flag flapped gently above them in the light breeze.
“Ed Murrow told me a few stories about de Gaulle last night.”
“He did?”
“The general’s not a very popular man in some quarters. Roosevelt detests him and he’s never met him. Murrow said that’s entirely due to Churchill’s influence. The PM finds de Gaulle a real handful. Murrow has himself interviewed de Gaulle and found him a little prickly. Always looking out for examples of English deceit and – what was that word Murrow used? – oh yeah, perfidy. English perfidy. De Gaulle doesn’t trust you guys, and I guess you guys don’t trust him.”
“It was ever thus between the English and French. Let’s hope the Frenchmen here go against type. By the way, I got a note from the AC enlightening me about the exact set-up of the Free French in London. This building houses the overall headquarters of the Free French forces and their commander, de Gaulle. It is also the headquarters of something called the French National Committee, the closest thing to a French government-in-exile, also headed by de Gaulle. The place in Dorset Square is the HQ of the French operational section of the SOE. That’s the outfit set up by our security services to infiltrate agents into France among other things.”
“I would guess from what you say, Frank, that there would be some British officers working in Dorset Square.”
“That would seem logical. But come on. Let’s see what this lot have to say.”
They walked through the door into an elegant foyer. On the right at the back, a young officer manned a desk. He appeared to be engaged in a heated telephone conversation. Merlin and Bridges waited patiently until the officer angrily slammed the phone down. Merlin explained who they were and asked if they could speak to someone in authority.
The officer replied tetchily: “The general is not here, if that’s who you mean by authority.”
Merlin smiled. “No, we do not wish to trouble the general. A competent officer involved in the administration of this place will do.” The Frenchman took Merlin’s card, then disappeared through a door behind him. He was away for some time before returning to lead them back through the door and down a long corridor. They were shown into a small windowless office, a partitioned space in a larger room, as could be deduced from the background hum of murmuring French voices and typewriters.
A serious-looking dark young man rose to greet them. He had closely cut black hair, uneven teeth and intense blue eyes. “Gentlemen, a pleasure. I am Lieutenant Felix Meyer. I understand from Villeneuve here that you have a few questions for us. I would be happy to assist you in any way I can.”
Merlin introduced himself and Goldberg as the detectives took their seats at Meyer’s cramped desk. “We are here pursuing an investigation into the death of one of your countrymen.” Merlin proceeded to tell Meyer about Armand de Metz, the botched abortion, his murder and their so far unsuccessful inquiries at Dorset Square. Meyer listened patiently, scribbling the odd note on a small pad in front of him.
When Merlin had finished, Meyer set down his pencil and nodded. “Why yes, indeed, Chief Inspector. We are aware of this gentleman. I am surprised that my colleagues in Dorset Square could not help you as there was much gossip among our officers about Monsieur de Metz. You wil
l appreciate, of course, that information is a precious commodity in wartime. Some of my colleagues are a little resentful of the limited information provided to us by our British military counterparts. Perhaps this feeling soured the meeting with my Dorset Square colleagues. Then again, perhaps I am wrong, and the gossip about de Metz never reached them. In any event, I am happy to tell you what we know.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Monsieur de Metz was indeed, as you say, an eminent man in Paris before the war, who lost his position, possessions and family in short order after the Germans arrived, then managed to escape to London. He came here several times. Initially he was just seeking financial help as a penniless Frenchman in exile. Unfortunately for him, we are not set up to act as some sort of welfare service here, Chief Inspector, so money was out of the question. I understand that Monsieur de Metz was pointed in the direction of some medical recruitment agencies by one of my colleagues – Lieutenant Dumont or Lieutenant Beaulieu, I think it was. He went on his way.
“This did not lead to anything and he returned here a few times more. He became something of a pest, hovering around this building and the pubs and cafés we frequent. I don’t know if he did the same at Dorset Square. At some point he began to claim that he had important security information he needed to discuss. I saw him and suggested it would be more appropriate for him to speak to an officer at Dorset Square about such matters. For some reason, he was not keen to do that. He produced an old photograph that he used to wave around as some sort of unexplained element of the information he wanted to impart. He spoke to a number of us about this. Little credence was placed in him. We thought it was just another creative way of trying to extract money.”
“Did he give you any idea of the nature of the information he claimed to have?”
“All he would say is that there were unknown links between Vichy and London. He could tell us all if we put him on a retainer as some sort of informer or spy. You may not know, Chief Inspector, but we are approached frequently by people with spurious stories suggesting shady dealings between our officers in London and our countrymen in France. It is a simple fact that everyone here has family, friends or business contacts who remain in Vichy France or the occupied zone. If we investigated all these stories, we would never have time to get on with fighting the Nazis.”
Goldberg frowned across at Meyer. “Was there really no-one in the French community here who could vouch for de Metz? I mean, the guy was a medical bigwig in Paris. Surely there were émigrés here who knew him and could help?”
“Perhaps there were, Detective. The last I heard of him, he appeared to have come into some money.”
“As I said earlier, Lieutenant, he was performing back-street abortions just before he died.”
Meyer shrugged. “The man was obviously desperate.”
Goldberg shifted in his chair. “Was one of the reasons he couldn’t get help here because he was a Jew?”
“There are no doubt some anti-Semites here, Detective.” Meyer paused. “But not everyone. I myself am a Jew. I don’t think his Jewishness had anything to do with it. He couldn’t get help because, as I said earlier, we do not operate as a welfare agency.” Meyer pushed his chair back and stood up. “Now I’m sorry, gentlemen. My duties call and I doubt I can tell you any more.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. You have my card. If anything further occurs to you, please do not hesitate to call. It’s also possible we may wish to speak to some of your fellow officers.”
“Of course, Chief Inspector.”
* * *
Rupert Vorster went regularly to a small gymnasium off Liverpool Street to do physical jerks or box a few rounds with one of the trainers. Pinson’s Gymnasium was run by former Regimental Sergeant Major Charlie Burns, with the help of a couple of old military colleagues. Vorster had caught an early-morning train from Cambridge, where he had been on a legal assignment for Titmus, Travers and Tomlinson the previous night, and decided to sneak in a session at the gym before going to the office.
He had some clean kit in his locker, changed and went in search of Burns. The sergeant, a wiry Scot who, despite his 60 years, packed a considerable punch, agreed to spar a few rounds with him. Vorster usually managed to hold his own with Burns but today he took quite a pounding. Afterwards, the sergeant put an arm around his shoulder. “What’s up, Mr Vorster? You weren’t yourself today – made it easy for me. Something on your mind?”
Vorster took off his gloves. “You were the better man on the day, Burnsie. That’s all.”
The sergeant threw Vorster a towel. “Och no! Something’s bothering you, I can tell. I think you might have had a few drams last night but there’s something else, isn’t there? Woman trouble, is it?”
Vorster sat down on a bench and wiped the sweat and blood from his forehead. “Let’s just put it down to a late night and leave it at that, eh, Sergeant?” Burns smiled wryly at him before disappearing into the locker room.
From where he was sitting, Vorster could see into the weights room. He recognised one of the men there as Roger Forbes, a senior manager at Sackville, the banking firm owned by his friend Philip’s father. Although he was feeling a little tired and battered, he resolved to be sociable. It always paid to keep up with City contacts. He was fed up with training for the law on a pittance and it would be a kick in the pants for his father if he managed to find himself a good job at a bank or broking firm.
“Rupert, you Boer dog, how are you?” Forbes set down the barbell he had been lifting. “Haven’t seen you since that party at Harry’s. Quite a do, wasn’t it?”
Vorster remembered a rather boring evening at the Kensington home of one of his father’s business protégés. It had not been a completely wasted night though because he had found a couple of takers for his friend Peregrine Beecham’s late-night entertainments.
“Yes, great. How are you, Roger? How’s business?”
Forbes frowned and stroked his chin.
“Surely you’ve heard the news?”
“News? What news?”
“Haven’t you seen Philip?”
“We had drinks last Friday but I haven’t spoken to him since. I had to go out of town on business. What’s happened?”
“His father died. Killed in the Cretan retreat. We found out yesterday. Announced it last night and naturally there’s been a lot of concern in the markets. Fleming – you know him, don’t you? Sidney Fleming, formerly deputy chairman and Arbuthnot’s right-hand man? – Fleming has assumed the chairmanship and has stated his intention to strengthen the board with two or three experienced City figures. Confirmed the businesses are in good shape, strong management still in position, no-one’s irreplaceable and so on. An announcement to that effect went out an hour or so ago and has calmed things down.”
Vorster was shocked. He thought for a moment before speaking. “I must get in touch with Philip. I’d better get off to the office.”
“Fleming told me that Philip was taking leave from work. You’d be better off calling him at home.”
“I’ll do that.”
“How’s the soliciting going, Rupert? Never quite saw that as your kind of thing.”
“It’s not, Roger. But my father…”
“Ah yes. Your father. Getting you prepared for the family company, eh?”
“Well, actually…”
“Sorry, Rupert. I’d better get on. I’m giving myself another 15 minutes before I go back. Shouldn’t really be here at all with what’s going on. Let’s meet for a drink after work one day.”
“Sure. I’ll call you soon.” Vorster turned and hurried to the locker room. As he showered, it occurred to him that there might be some way in which Arbuthnot’s death could be exploited to his advantage. Not a very nice thought, but there it was. The question was… how?
* * *
Vichy
Laval had arranged the interview for four-thirty. This was, in his experience, the best time to see the marshal, who was usually at his
most alert after a post-prandial nap. In the morning, when one might expect him to be at his most alert, it seemed to take a while for the cogs in his brain to gear up. Then, just when they were beginning to move smoothly, lunchtime came along to slow them down again. The afternoon doze, however, usually restored him to his best. Not that the best was that sharp, Laval mused, as he waited in the anteroom to the marshal’s suite. Henri Philippe Benoni Omer Joseph Pétain had been born on 24 April 1856, just a month after the end of the Crimean War. Napoleon’s nephew, Napoleon III, had already led the Second Empire for four years. Pétain was 85 years old. No-one’s brain was that great at 85.
As he checked his watch for the third time, the marshal’s office doors opened. The young lieutenant who served as the marshal’s principal aide beckoned Laval in. Pétain was seated at his desk. A little redness around the eyes bore witness to his recent nap but otherwise he looked good. He was stroking his bushy white moustache while reading some papers. He looked up. “Pierre, there you are! Take a seat, dear boy. Jean, bring up that comfortable chair by the window for my friend. You will forgive an old man for not rising to greet you, I hope?”
“Of course, Marshal, of course, and thank you for seeing me at such short notice.” Laval lowered himself into the chair and applied a handkerchief to his perspiring forehead.
“Yes, it is a warm day, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I don’t seem to feel the heat as I should. I am not sure if that is a benefit of old age or a disadvantage. Jean, open the balcony doors, will you? Let us have some fresh air for my friend.” Jean did as he was told and Laval immediately felt the relief of the light breeze from outside. The marshal waved a finger at his aide and the young lieutenant disappeared behind another door. “Well, Pierre, what news do you bring?”
“I doubt I have any news that you don’t already have, Marshal. I presume the admiral keeps you fully posted?”