by Mark Ellis
They sat down by the open balcony door. It was going to be another hot day. Fleming impatiently flicked some fluff from his trousers. “In such circumstances, colleagues like us should stick together.” Church bells started ringing in the distance. “Been to mass, yet?”
“I gave up religious observance long ago, Sidney. If ever there were a God above, I believe he deserted us a long time ago.”
“You might be right there.” Fleming looked Pulos up and down. He was wearing brown trousers, a green checked shirt, a tan jacket and a yellow silk cravat.
“Looks like you’ve been shopping.”
“I went to Savile Row late yesterday to take my mind off our problems. What do you think?”
Fleming thought Pulos looked like a South American pimp. A successful one but a pimp nevertheless. “Very flamboyant. Did you buy anything else?”
“A couple of suits. Some ties, some shoes. Of course, we have some very good shops in Buenos Aires.”
“I know. I remember Simon saying he picked up some very nice shirts there on one of his trips.”
Pulos looked down admiringly at his shiny new Church brogues. “Ah, Simon.” He pursed his lips. “What a situation he has left us in. And now, on top of everything, the Meyer business has returned to haunt us. You knew Franzi Meyer and his wife, Adele, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“A beautiful woman, I was told. I never had the opportunity to meet her myself. Simon liked her very much, he told me. You know they had a little thing for a while?”
“Of course.”
Pulos eyed Fleming warily. “So, Sidney, Simon did what he did all those years ago. He screwed the husband just as he did the wife. To our mutual benefit.”
“He did, and now the chickens have come home to roost.”
Pulos snorted with laughter. “I love you English and your stupid English phrases. ‘The chickens have come home to roost’. What the hell do chickens have to do with the Meyer boy in New York issuing legal proceedings for ownership of the share capital of Enterprisas Simal? I remember Simon often used the phrase, ‘The early bird catches the worm’. I told him it was rubbish.”
“You think so?”
“Of course, because sometimes a bird that is patient and bides its time can get the fattest and juiciest worm late in the day.”
Fleming lit a cigarette. “So, Alexander, Anton Meyer issued proceedings against Enterprisas Simal in Buenos Aires. You omitted to report this significant fact to the Sackville board before now.”
“I reported it to Simon, the chairman of Sackville. He used that other English phrase he liked. Said it was ‘a storm in a teacup’. Whatever the merits of the case, he thought the right result in the Argentinian courts could be bought. He said the judicious application of bribery in appropriate quarters could stall and then kill Meyer’s case. In the circumstances, he remained sanguine and didn’t want to worry you and your colleagues.”
“And were you also sanguine?”
Pulos smiled a little uncomfortably. “I have lived in Argentina. It may not be perfect but, like everywhere, there is good and bad – and there is good and bad in the legal system. Despite what Simon thought, there are honest judges. If such a judge…”
“Into which category does the current judge in Meyer’s case fall?”
“He is the second so far. Up until two months ago it was Judge Rodriguez – he was happy to be influenced by us. Unfortunately, he has been taken ill with cancer. The replacement is Manuel Lopez. He has a reputation as an honest man but we think he will play ball in due course.”
“You have something on him, then?”
A flicker of a smile passed Pulos’s lips. “Perhaps. He is certainly not as pure as he pretends. In any event, going to law in Argentina is a long, drawn-out process. I doubt Anton Meyer would have the financial stamina even if the system were straight. Naturally, Simon had Meyer’s circumstances investigated. He is a poorly paid junior clerk in a mediocre New York accountancy firm.”
“Perhaps his brother, Felix, has resources? He certainly has the spirit, as he showed yesterday.”
Pulos fanned himself with his hand. Beads of perspiration trickled down his face and into the yellow cravat. “We must remember, Sidney, that while we may be on the wrong side of the case morally, the law favours us. This issue concerns bearer certificates for which possession is…”
“Nine-tenths of the law, I know.”
“No. In this case, possession is ten-tenths of the law. However Simon got them, once he possessed them he was legally entitled to exercise rights of ownership.”
Fleming took a long draw on his cigarette and looked up at the ceiling. “But Simon doesn’t have the certificates, unless they are with him in his Cretan grave, and neither do we. If the certificates are missing and continue to be missing, what is the position in Argentinian law?”
“I don’t know, Sidney. It was never considered because there was no question as to Simon’s possession of the shares.”
“Well, you’d better find out. And I hope you are going to be more constructive about the Sackville Bank problems than you were yesterday.”
“I am the senior executive of Enterprisas Simal. I cannot ignore my fiduciary duties. The legalities are complex.”
“Bollocks! Get on side or there will be hell to pay.”
* * *
Northamptonshire
The gardens of Sackville Hall were bursting with colour under the bright morning sun. Bees buzzed around the roses and hyacinths bordering the path from the kitchen garden to the large pond at the south of the house. Birds chirruped and, in the distance, Lucinda Cavendish could hear the contented lowing and bleating of the neighbouring farm’s livestock. When she got to the pond with her young black labrador, Archie, she disturbed some frogs basking in the sun on her favourite stone bench. They bounded into the water and disappeared from sight.
Lucinda sat down, remembering the unusually warm day last October, when she and Simon had last shared this view. It had been clear to her for some time that Simon was not himself but she had not been able to persuade him to confide in her. In the past, he had always shared his major problems with his sister. On that October day, he had sat silently gazing out over the water for a long time.
Eventually, Simon had said in a whisper: “You’re the only one I can rely on, Lucy. If something happens, it will be for you to pick up the pieces and look after the family.” Moments later, without another word, he had got up, hurried off to his car and returned to London. That was the last time she had seen him.
Lucinda had, to date, taken his words at their face value. Simon knew she had a fine commercial brain and had used her frequently as a sounding board as he had built up his empire. Lucinda had not condoned everything he had done and his methods, she had often felt, left much to be desired. But she had given her brother the support that she would now offer his son. She was more than capable of giving Philip the guidance he would need as he took up the reins of the family business.
However, sitting as she was in the place where Simon had uttered those words to her, Lucinda began to worry whether he had meant something more by them.
Philip had called her earlier to say that he wouldn’t be able to come up as arranged for Sunday lunch. There were some pressing matters to deal with and he thought it better he remained in town. When asked what these concerns were, Philip had been vague in response. He had muttered something about “missing papers” and “problems with South America” before abruptly ringing off. She would have to find out what these pressing matters were.
Also playing on her mind was the correspondence Lucinda had opened yesterday. Most of her brother’s correspondence went to his flat in London or the office but some came to Sackville Hall. Having received no instructions from Simon, Lucinda had allowed these letters to pile up, trusting that none of them could be urgent and would be read by Simon when he came home on leave. Now she knew he was dead, she had felt obliged to open them.
It had taken her a couple of hours to plough through them all. Most were of little account. People asking for charitable donations, product circulars, letters from the local golf and tennis clubs, and so on. There were only two letters of interest, of keen interest in fact, to Lucinda. They were from the Martins Bank branch in Northampton. The first had been sent last November, just after Simon had left for the army.
Dear Mr Arbuthnot,
I am writing to apologise for – and to correct – a small error in our letter of 10 September. In our summary of the mortgage loan arrangements agreed between Martins Bank and yourself on 26 August, we said that accounts statements would be sent to you at the mortgaged property, Sackville Hall, on a quarterly basis on the first working day of every month. You will no doubt recall that the loan agreement provided for six-monthly statements unless otherwise agreed. Accordingly, you will receive your first statement on 26 February 1941 and subsequently on 26 August, and so on. I apologise profusely for this clerical error.
I remain, sir, your obedient servant.
E Hardy esquire
Manager
The second letter was the February account statement, which showed a balance owed to the bank of £20,489.12 after the deduction of capital repayments and interest for the six-month period.
Lucinda Cavendish was a measured, unemotional woman. She refused to allow herself to become upset by the endlessly challenging behaviour of her elderly and demented mother. She had hardly ever been seen to cry by friends or family, even after the sudden deaths of her husband and son. She seldom raised her voice in anger. Her initial reaction on reading these bank letters, however, had been emotional. Tears had flowed. She was surprised and shocked. Her beloved brother had mortgaged what was now her home without a word to her. He had mortgaged it to the hilt. She had almost fainted at the desk. Her mother, sitting in her wheelchair at the other end of the room, had noticed something was wrong and, in a rare moment of lucidity, asked if her daughter was all right.
Now, in the peace of the garden, with Archie nuzzling his nose against her, Lucinda calmly tried to imagine what circumstances had driven her brother to such desperate measures and she considered again his last words to her. Eventually, with thoughts none the clearer, she resolved to put her brother out of her mind for the day. No doubt there would be funds at Simon’s bank to clear the debt and she would speak to Philip or Sidney Fleming about it on Monday.
“Come, Archie.” She led the dog back down the path to the house, stopping for a moment by an ancient oak. Archie’s father had been buried in the shade of that tree the year before. She and Simon had loved that dog so much. For the second time in 24 hours, tears fell from Lucinda Cavendish’s eyes.
* * *
London
Devlin spent all Sunday morning monitoring Beaulieu’s lodgings. Rougemont had told him that Beaulieu would be back in London by Saturday. There was, however, no sign of him and Devlin began to think that he was still out of town. At one o’clock, hungry and thirsty, he decided to catch a taxi and grab lunch in his Holloway local.
Half an hour later, he was seated in his favourite corner, a pint of Guinness and pork pie in front of him. Devlin rejected the invitations of his pub cronies to join them. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, which, for the moment, revolved entirely around the French, whom he desperately wanted to help. He was a Francophile, hated the idea of the Nazis lording it over his beloved Paris and felt disgust for the cowardly sell-out politicians in Vichy. If there were a Vichy spy in London, Devlin wanted to help find him. He was disappointed, however, at the lack of progress being made. He sipped his stout then opened the tattered black notebook in which he recorded his case observations at the end of every day. He turned to his most recent entry: the entry for Saturday.
Devlin had followed the taxis of Pulos and Meyer to a large commercial building off Fenchurch Street in the City. Pulos and his companion had gone in and then, after 45 minutes of nervous pacing outside, so had Meyer. After going up to check the nameplate by the door of the building, which announced Sackville Bank, Devlin had taken up position in an alleyway across the street and waited on events.
At just after three o’clock, Meyer had emerged from the building and disappeared in a taxi. Devlin decided not to follow him but to wait and see who else would appear from the building. Half an hour later, Pulos and his sidekick left, followed shortly thereafter by two more well-heeled City types. Devlin still stood his ground. He wanted to know more about this place and why Meyer had gone there.
His chance came at half past five, when the security guard he’d seen opening and shutting the bank’s doors came off duty. Devlin had followed the man through the City, past St Paul’s Cathedral and on into Fleet Street. Just before the Law Courts, the guard had ducked into a pub. The place was almost empty and it had not been difficult for Devlin to strike up a conversation with Bert Perkins.
After a couple of pints, Perkins was happy to tell Devlin all he knew. Thus Devlin had learned the identities of the people meeting at the bank, the story – as Perkins knew it – of the Arbuthnot family and Sackville Bank, of Simon Arbuthnot’s death and of the young officer who had barged into the directors’ meeting shouting out something about his family being defrauded.
Devlin realised, as he closed the notebook, that his long day’s work on Saturday had not been completely wasted. One thing he now knew for certain – Meyer was not the spy. No spy would draw the attention of others to himself in the way Meyer had at the bank. The young man obviously had a bee in his bonnet about a wrong done to his family. Devlin would bet his life that Meyer was not passing secrets to Vichy.
He considered Beaulieu again. The Irishman had found a note waiting for him at his digs when he finally got home on Saturday night. It read: ‘Be quick. Nail the redhead. Ignore the others. Definitive new orders’. The note was unsigned but probably from Angers, he thought. Devlin knew the commandant’s weaknesses. Drunk when he dropped it off, most likely, and forgot to initial it. Rougemont would have waited to speak to Devlin in person. The note only served to confirm his view that the officers were not serious about the investigation. For whatever reason, they wanted to make a show that they were investigating while simply pinning the guilt on the least congenial of the officers. Or that’s how it seemed to him.
Devlin polished off his pie and washed it down with some beer. One of Devlin’s strongest characteristics was stubbornness. Now that he’d started on this job, if there were a spy, regardless of what the officers thought, he wanted to catch him. After ruling out Meyer, the choice was now between Beaulieu and Dumont. He thought again about Beaulieu. Was there something fishy about his late return from Oxford? Probably not. Devlin had never been to the place himself but he understood it was beautiful. Beaulieu had probably just decided to grab another day’s leave in a lovely city.
And what about Dumont? He knew he liked to drink at the Ritz. He knew he was friendly with Vorster, as were they all. Perhaps Vorster and Dumont were closer than the others? They had been drinking together on Friday. Then they had gone with that other fellow to the flats in Arlington Street. Devlin had now solved the mystery that had been bugging him about those flats.
On the way home the previous night, he’d bumped into an old friend. Billy Craig, a small-time bookmaker, had cracked a big smile when Devlin asked him the question. “That’s where our old friend Percy Bishop lives. Very hoity-toity now. Changed his name to Peregrine Beecham but a nasty piece of work under any name. He’s done well, though, fair play.
“Runs the biggest poker game in London in his penthouse up there. Gets all sorts of rich punters in. He has a few runners, who keep a steady flow of customers coming in from the Ritz and places like that. Very high-stakes games. I think he runs a few other games as well as poker.
“He’s hard as nails, of course. Tough luck to anyone who doesn’t pay his bills. He has a gang of roughhouse collectors. You wouldn’t want to meet any of them in a dark alley. If you haven’t got the cas
h to pay your debts, they’ll take whatever you’ve got, your balls if they are in the mood, and if the circumstances require…’ Billy Craig had run a finger across his throat and laughed. “Best not get on the wrong side of Percy Bishop or Peregrine Beecham or whatever he wants to call himself these days.”
Devlin had known Percy Bishop in his boxing days in London before the move to Paris. Bishop had been a bookie then, like Craig, and had tried to persuade Devlin to throw a fight. A nasty piece of work and doubtless up to no good but did he have anything to do with the investigation? Dumont hadn’t gone into the block and who was to say the other two had actually visited Beecham’s flat? No, he didn’t have anything worthwhile on Dumont either.
He rose to get another drink but time was called as he did so. Devlin shrugged. It was probably for the best. He should get back to work. He’d go and check on Beaulieu one more time. In this type of work, persistence was everything. Something might break at any time. You never knew what might be just around the corner.
* * *
Sonia had arranged to go out to Northolt to see her brother for the day, so Merlin had no feelings of guilt as he headed into the Yard on a Sunday morning. He decided to walk in because it was another lovely day. There were several bomb-craters along the King’s Road where buildings had stood. As he passed one he found himself struggling to remember what exactly was missing.
He stopped, chewed thoughtfully on his Fisherman’s Friend, then remembered it had been some sort of non-conformist church. Most of the rubble had been cleared but, in what remained, he saw a small black-and-white cat scavenging for whatever it could find. Two young boys, short-trousered and shirtless, suddenly appeared and chased the cat away. Merlin heard their high-pitched laughter receding behind him as he walked off towards Sloane Square.
His walk took him through Eaton Square, around Buckingham Palace and into the Mall. In March, a police officer he knew had been killed when the North Lodge of the palace was demolished by the Luftwaffe. Several bombs had landed in the vicinity of the royal residence and its grounds and a few outbuildings had been seriously damaged. However, the main structure had survived, suffering only blown-out windows and the partial destruction of a ground-floor bedroom.