by Mark Ellis
“And what is wrong with that? Simon was the boss.” Pulos rapped the table to emphasise his point. “He chose to take control of one of the bank’s investment accounts. Perhaps he had some great investment ideas that he wanted to try out. Simon was always buzzing with innovative ideas, was he not? Then, when he went away, he put Lawson in charge of the account. Paul has been with us since almost the beginning. A loyal, reliable man.”
“Not so loyal or reliable any more, Alexander. Lawson has, as they say in the colloquial, done a runner. He hasn’t been seen since Simon’s death was announced. Furthermore, once Brightwell was at last able to get into the account, he discovered, completely contrary to Lawson’s summaries, a very substantial deficit. There were numerous unexplained transfers out of the account. Brightwell is of the opinion that most of the companies named as recipients of these transfers are bogus. The unavoidable conclusion he has reached is that Simon was siphoning off client funds for his own purposes.”
Pulos snorted. “Oh come now, Sidney. Please forgive my relaxed Greek attitude but the fact is that Simon was the boss. If he did use company funds for his own purposes, so what? No doubt if the clients wanted their money back, Simon would find a way. We all know he was the most creative of men.”
Fleming flushed. “The fact is that those funds are missing and Simon is in no position to wave a magic wand and replace them. Besides, on top of that, Brightwell has identified other major discrepancies in the lending department where Simon got involved. There is a big hole.”
Tomlinson scratched his head. “How much are we talking here exactly?”
“Around £2m.”
Pulos whistled and Tomlinson looked astonished.
“If the Bank of England finds out about this, we shall be in serious trouble. While business as a whole has been steady, for various reasons cash flow has been poor. We haven’t at present got the funds elsewhere in the bank to cover this deficiency. The only solution I can think of is to arrange a remittance of that amount from the overseas arm of our business. The ball is thus in your court, Alexander.”
Pulos bridled. “I’m sorry but that will be quite impossible, Sidney. Apart from anything else, there are the Argentinian exchange control restrictions.”
“You have always been able to get around those before. And Brightwell has told me that while he has not received the up-to-date figures he requested from you, his most recent information put your cash balances at approximately $21m.”
“That would have been some six months ago, Sidney. Those balances have been significantly reduced since.”
“How so?”
“Investment, my dear fellow. My mandate from Simon has always been to expand, particularly since avenues for growth in Europe have been closed off to the business here. New land has been acquired, ships, rolling stock. He sent an investment programme to me before he went abroad.”
Fleming gave Pulos a look of disgust. “This has always been the trouble with your side of the operation, Alexander. A nice closed shop between you and Simon, with little or no information being conveyed to your other colleagues. We shall be managing things differently from now on. Meanwhile, I need to know quickly how much you can send us. I cannot believe for a moment that all of that cash has been spent. Besides, you must have substantial unutilised bank lines.”
Pulos’s eyes flitted shiftily back and forth between Fleming and Tomlinson. “I shall speak to Buenos Aires on Monday. Before I do that, however…” a sly smile split his lips, “should we not first talk about the ownership of Enterprisas Simal? Is that not in question in the absence of the bearer certificates?”
“As you well know, the shares are the subject of a declaration of trust by Simon in favour of Sackville. Sackville owns the company.”
“Except for my 10 per cent, Sidney, which, by the way, is also missing as Simon insisted on keeping all the certificates together. And, anyway, Simon is dead. There is no will and we don’t know where the shares are. The owner of the shares is whoever has them in his possession. In the circumstances, as the managing director of Simal, I think I would be bound to take legal advice before I could transfer any funds away from the company. Do you not think so, Reggie?”
Tomlinson opened and shut his mouth like a floundering fish a few times before offering his opinion. “Well, these are very unusual circumstances. Perhaps we need to consult counsel?”
Fleming banged a hand on the table. “Don’t play these games with me, Pulos, or you’ll have cause to regret it.” Fleming and Pulos exchanged venomous looks and a tense silence settled on the table. It was Tomlinson who eventually broke it.
“Gentlemen, please, calm yourselves. I am sure we can work this all out sensibly if we remain calm. Sidney, surely you must have some idea of what Simon was using this money for? Was there some new business project he wanted to keep temporarily secret from the board?”
“Would that were the case. However, I do have an idea of the use to which Simon put the money.”
“Yes, Sidney?”
“I think the money was used to fund Simon’s gambling debts.”
“But these are huge amounts!”
“So they are, but, as you know, Reggie, Simon never did anything in half measures. Some of us can well remember the young Simon’s love of gambling. After a while, he had enough sense to pack it in but I fear at some point recently the habit returned. He became very reclusive in the year or two before he joined up. For most of ’39 and ’40, I saw little of him in the office or out. I think he kept himself aloof so he could pursue his gambling habit without us knowing.”
“And how are you so sure about this?” Pulos produced a bright-blue silk handkerchief with which he mopped his forehead.
“I had my suspicions but they were confirmed by Philip this morning. You mentioned a list, Reggie, which Philip found in Simon’s flat. It contained a column of numbers. Long numbers. There were also two initials – PB. There is a dangerous chap called Peregrine Beecham, who runs a high-stakes private gambling den. I think the list records some of Simon’s gambling debts to Beecham.”
Pulos shrugged his shoulders. “Who is to say that it wasn’t a list of his winnings from this man?”
“I think that the circumstances favour my interpretation. I suggest…” Fleming was suddenly interrupted by loud voices outside. There were sounds of a scuffle and then the door burst open. A young man in uniform fell through, one arm held by Marco, the other by Fred Perkins.
“Who on earth is this, Perkins?”
“Sorry, Mr Fleming. This man came to the door and enquired about Mr Pulos here. I told him the gentleman was on the premises but in a meeting with you. Said he could wait in the lobby. I was just asking his name when he pushed past me and ran up the stairs. I chased him but I’m afraid he was too quick for me.”
Fleming examined the intruder carefully. “You are an officer of some sort. I take it you’ll behave like a gentleman if you are released?”
The man nodded.
“Check him for weapons, Marco. Good. He’s clean? Very well. You may release him. Sit down and tell us what this is all about, Mr…?”
“Lieutenant Meyer. Felix Meyer.”
Fleming paled at the sound of the name. The past came flooding back to him. He waved a hand at Perkins and Marco. “Please leave us.”
* * *
Sonia was a calm, unflappable sort of woman. Merlin had seldom seen her flustered. Understandably, she had got into a bit of a state when Jan had been shot up in his Hurricane during the Battle of Britain the previous September. That aside, she had maintained an air of admirable serenity for someone living in a city under frequent bombardment. Tonight, however, all serenity was gone. Sonia was extremely flustered. She was going out for dinner with Merlin’s boss and his wife.
The invitation had come at short notice. Merlin received the AC’s call late in the afternoon. There was a dinner reservation for four at Quaglino’s. The AC and his wife were to dine with his sister and brother-in-law but th
eir guests had belatedly pulled out. Would Merlin and his young lady like to make up the party? The AC and his wife would so much like to meet Sonia. Merlin could hardly refuse, although after the day’s tragic events he was not in much of a mood for socialising.
They were in a taxi on the way to the restaurant in Mayfair. “Please, Sonia, relax. Gatehouse is a dry old stick but he’s not all that bad. I bet he’ll be bowled over. You look wonderful!”
Sonia was wearing the same white cocktail dress she had worn at dinner on Thursday night. Having only had time to give it a quick iron, she was worried about not looking smart enough. She checked her face in her compact mirror for the umpteenth time and made some more lipstick adjustments. “It is not so much your boss I am worrying about, it is his wife. Does she know that we are living together unmarried? What if she disapproves and shows it?” Sonia shook her head, dislodging a curl that she hastened to replace. “What am I saying? She is bound to disapprove. She is an upper-class English lady. What else is she likely to think?”
Merlin smiled. “I didn’t realise you were so conventional.”
“What does conventional mean? Ah, yes, I think I know. The French would say bourgeois, yes? I am no bourgeoise, Frank, as you know, but I fear the condemnation of such a person, especially if that person is your boss’s wife.”
“For what it’s worth, darling, I have never discussed you in any detail with the AC. If they know anything, it is only through office gossip, which we can always dismiss as such. And, anyway, if they had any problem with our living arrangements, they wouldn’t have invited us out, would they? Now let’s try and enjoy ourselves. We have a night out at a top London restaurant. Let’s make the most of it.”
The taxi pulled up at the restaurant on Bury Street. Merlin’s last visit to Quaglino’s had been on police business. The Italian maître’d who was now hurrying up to greet them had made an important identification in a murder case.
“Chief Inspector, che piacere! A pleasure to see you again!”
“Likewise, Ernesto. This is Sonia.”
Ernesto brushed Sonia’s hand delicately with his lips. “Enchanted, signorina, enchanted. I think you are dining with Signor Gatehouse? He and his wife are already here. Follow me, please.”
As they made their way to the table, Ernesto whispered to Merlin. “Molto grazie, Chief Inspector. It came through, no problem.” Like Tony the café owner, Ernesto had faced difficulties because he was Italian. Merlin had put in a word in support of his British citizenship application.
“Frank, so glad you could make it.” The AC rose. “And this must be your young lady.” He beamed a brown-toothed smile at Sonia. “Darling, you remember Frank, don’t you? And this is Sonia. That’s the name, isn’t it? I’m Edward and this is my wife, Felicity.” After various nods and bows of greeting, the party settled at the table.
Gatehouse was in black tie while Felicity Gatehouse wore an elegant, long, green dress. Merlin knew she had been quite a beauty in her youth and traces of those good looks lingered on. Sonia was concerned that she and Merlin were not in evening dress but her concern evaporated as Felicity instantly put her at her ease. It turned out that Mrs Gatehouse had travelled in Poland before the war and was full of informed interest in Sonia’s homeland and her former life there. As Sonia relaxed so did Merlin.
Menus were read and food orders placed and the conversation meandered pleasantly along, Merlin and the AC being careful to avoid talking shop.
“I understand you have two teenage boys, Mrs Gatehouse?”
“Oh, call me Felicity, please, Sonia. Yes, two teenage boys. Thankfully they are in boarding school in the country and well away from all the bombing.”
“Do you think the bombing has really ended now?”
The AC tapped his nose knowingly. “Hitler has other things on his plate now, my dear. He needs all the Luftwaffe pilots he can get. I doubt we’ll see the bombers back here in any force for a long time. I think the Germans have given up on the idea of bombing us into submission. It is true that we appear to be on the back foot on nearly every other military front but I think this battle of the air in defence of Britain has been won.”
Felicity patted Sonia’s hand. “And I understand that your brother is one of those we have to thank?”
Sonia’s cheeks reddened a little. “Yes, Jan is a fighter pilot with the RAF. He has flown many missions. I am very proud of him.”
“And so you should be, dear.”
The best London restaurants could still offer meals up to pre-war standards. There was a comprehensive menu and the two couples ate well – Dover sole for the ladies and lamb for the men. A fair amount of wine was drunk and all were a little flushed when the desserts and cheese plate were removed. Felicity suggested that Sonia accompany her to the lounge area of the restaurant for coffee, leaving the men to their cigars and port at the table.
“You are a lucky man, Frank. She’s a beautiful girl.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Charming and intelligent as well. Thinking of making her an honest woman?”
“Perhaps.”
“Forgive me if I’m saying the wrong thing here but I hope you won’t allow loyalty to your poor late wife to prevent you from seizing a new chance of happiness.”
Sensitivity was not one of the AC’s strongest cards and these words of advice surprised and touched Merlin. “Fair point, sir. Thank you. And no, I won’t. I am sure Alice would have approved of Sonia.”
The waiter arrived. “I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I haven’t got much of a head for port. Nor cigars.”
“How about a brandy, then?” Merlin nodded and the waiter scuttled away. Gatehouse lit his cigar. “It’s been a jolly pleasant evening, Frank. I can see that Felicity is quite taken with Sonia. My wife needed a good night out. She finds it hard, you know, being at home without the boys and me working the hours I do. The hours you and I both do.”
The AC sent a small cloud of smoke off behind him. The waiter returned with two balloon glasses of Courvoisier. “I’m very sorry to sully the evening with work for a moment but, as we’re here together, I would appreciate a quick report on today’s sad events and any other case developments.”
Merlin held the brandy to his nose and savoured its aroma. “The body found today, as you know, was that of my friend, Edgar Powell. The initial medical findings suggest he was held down and drowned in his bath. I talked to you about him the other day. He had just returned from Crete and, you’ll remember, brought back a letter from Simon Arbuthnot. I had advised him, in line with your suggestion, to give it to Arbuthnot’s solicitor but he obviously never got a chance to do so. We found the letter this morning in Powell’s safe. It contains some sort of coded message. It’s my theory the murderer or murderers wanted to get hold of that letter, Edgar refused to cooperate, the murderer overdid the violence and my friend died.”
“Appalling! Any idea what the code means?”
“No, but Constable Robinson told me that one of your nephews is a cypher expert of some sort. She is trying to get hold of him.”
“Ah, yes. Robert. Clever chap.”
“On other matters, as regards the abortion case, we’ve been able to identify two men we believe knew Bridget Healy, although they deny it. One is a French officer and the other a young solicitor. We are going to bring them in for questioning. There is one odd coincidence. The solicitor, a South African called Vorster, works at the firm that acted for Arbuthnot. The firm to which Edgar was going to entrust the letter.”
“Ah, Frank, you hate those odd coincidences, don’t you? Well, if there’s anything in it, no doubt know you’ll dig it out. What about de Metz? Did you get anything from Swanton?”
“Yes, he was open and helpful. MI5 first heard of de Metz when he tried to gain access to that secret government operation in Bletchley. They pulled him in. He said he was trying to visit a nephew who worked there. This checked out and they believe he was just there to tap his nephew for money. In the cours
e of their interrogation, de Metz did, however, make insinuations that he had some intelligence information of value. Nothing to do with his nephew or Bletchley but concerning France.”
“As he’d told the French. Did MI5 get to the bottom of what he knew?”
“No. He wanted money and they decided he was just trying it on. The same view taken by the French. They let him go and his parting comment was that de Gaulle was surrounded by snakes.”
“No doubt he is. The whole French nation is a band of vipers as far as I am concerned, though don’t tell anyone I said so. So what do you think?”
“At the moment, it seems most likely that his murder is related to the illegal abortion practice rather than security matters. However, I’m going to continue to keep an open mind.”
“Quite right, Frank. Always keep an open mind.” The AC stubbed out his cigar and finished his brandy. “Drink up, Chief Inspector. I think it’s time to go and rejoin the ladies.”
CHAPTER 11
Sunday 15 June
London
Sidney Fleming was dabbing his eye with a flannel in the bathroom when he heard someone at the door. “Hang on a second!” He had been enjoying a grapefruit, a rare delicacy these days, for breakfast and had managed to squirt juice into his eye. Sight restored, he went to see who his visitor was. It was Pulos with Marco, as always, in attendance.
“You can come in, Alexander, but he can’t.” Marco bristled but did as he was told.
They walked through to the drawing room. “You don’t seem very friendly this morning, Sidney.”
“Can you blame me after your awful behaviour yesterday?”
“Really, my friend, you can’t blame me. As Tomlinson put it, we find ourselves in a legal morass.”