by Mark Ellis
But let me not digress. This letter is written more as one of advice rather than confession. Let me not bore you with all the details, but the pertinent fact remains that I have built up substantial gambling debts.
As is often the way of these things, my early gambling returns were positive and I made a lot of money. Hubris reared its ugly head, I raised the stakes and then I began to lose, and lose, and lose. All my not inconsiderable ready cash in this country was eaten up and then I had to find alternative sources. I mortgaged some properties, including, I am sorry to say, Sackville Hall.
When I had run through those funds, I thought of getting cash from Pulos but the funds in South America were bound up in business activities and working capital. In any event, transfers to me would have been difficult to cover up because of the difficulties of distance and the procedures in Argentina and the bank. I also didn’t want to make myself a hostage of fortune to Pulos, who has become much less reliable in recent years.
However, there were ways I could siphon money from Sackville without detection. I am afraid that I made use of some client funds or, to be blunt, I embezzled them – and I pulled a few tricks on the banking side as well. I further compounded my situation by making speculative market investments with some of this money. While I continued to breathe I had reliable people who could cover up my transgressions and, with a bit of time, might have found a way of repaying the money. I am, however, patently breathing no more and thus the shortfall will be discovered soon enough. This will, of course, precipitate problems for the bank and our business.
No doubt you will be aghast by now at the scale of the problems I have left behind me, without my even having mentioned a financial figure. As to that, I have cleared some of the amounts owing but estimate I still have personal liabilities of over £2.5m. Some of that is owed to a rather unpleasant individual called Peregrine Beecham, some to other gambling outfits and bookmakers and a large proportion, of course, to the bank and its clients. There are also a few more modest debts owed to other banks and individuals. Being the perspicacious girl you are, you will have realised by now that when I joined the army last year, it was less to do with patriotism than with the evasion of these onerous responsibilities.
So there is the mess. What to do? Obviously you and Philip are my principal concerns. Regarding the gambling debts, my advice is to go to the police and explain the situation. Nearly all of these debts are unenforceable in law because they result from illegal gaming operations. That will not stop Mr Beecham from seeking repayment and, despite his veneer of respectability, he is a violent crook. You and Philip will need protection from him. Get the help of the police.
As regards the bank, clearly there is the potential of litigation against my estate. There is also the chance that the bank will go under because of my fraud. There are other British assets around but most, as I mentioned, are heavily mortgaged.
However, there is the one very valuable asset mentioned earlier that should prove your and Philip’s salvation – the South American business. You know how I got that business and I know you weren’t impressed by what I did, but there it is. Those bearer shares are worth a fortune, which should secure the good life for you and Philip. The bearer shares are in one of the accompanying envelopes. Take good care of them. You need to be clever and ensure they do not fall into the hands either of my partners or my creditors.
There are some difficulties of which you should be aware regarding the certificates. First, Sackville Bank accounts for the South American businesses as part of its holdings. It does so on the understanding that I have made a formal declaration of trust of the certificates in its favour. I have not. I sorted out a personal problem for one of our auditors a few years back and he noted, incorrectly in the bank accounts, that there was such a written declaration in place. There is not. The bearer shares belong to whoever possesses them, which is now you.
Second, one of Franzi’s sons has initiated litigation in Buenos Aires for the recovery of the certificates. He is poorly funded, we have a good case – possession is everything in the case of bearer shares – and the Argentinian courts are malleable (I’m sure you know what I mean). Pulos is handling the litigation and is well on top of it.
That brings me to the third difficulty, which is Pulos himself. He has control on the ground of the businesses and I did verbally grant him 10 per cent of Enterprisas Simal, although I retained his certificate. He may well decide – in the light of my death and the imminent crisis at the bank – to assume and assert control of everything in his own right, even without the certificates.
In the envelope containing the bearer shares you will also find a card with the details of my personal lawyer in Buenos Aires. Thanks to me, he has a large file on Pulos, detailing his numerous fraudulent business dealings and associated violence and criminality. The fact that these dealings were undertaken with my approval is neither here nor there.
Excuse me, Lucinda, but there is also a voluminous record (including photographs) of Pulos’s energetic and imaginative sexual life. The lawyer is confident there is enough in the file to ensure Pulos will do as you wish. This lawyer is someone you can trust and that statement bears the weight of being made by someone who, as you know, has seldom trusted anyone. If Pulos does play ball and behaves in a gentlemanly manner, you can give him his 10 per cent. If not, it is one other thing to hold over him.
One final warning on the share certificates. Somehow or other, most likely through my own indiscretion, Beecham became aware of their existence and value. I would be surprised if he is not looking for them as some form of settlement for my debts.
The other envelope in the box contains my will. I wrote it myself and it is a simple document. I leave everything to you. I feel more comfortable if you are able to assume total command in these difficult circumstances. Philip will be disappointed but I know you will look after him and, in due course, make him your heir.
It may be a good idea to send him to South America to establish a family presence there and come to an appropriate accommodation with Pulos. That would get him away from this dreadful war as well. I did briefly give thought myself to the idea of doing a bunk to South America but couldn’t quite bring myself to face living with the ignominy it would bring down on our heads. Unfortunately, it now seems likely that you will have to live with the ignominy of my actions. I’m sorry.
On a minor note, Reggie Tomlinson is aware from my previous will of various small bequests I wanted to make to people. I would be grateful if you could honour those.
And so that’s about it, my dear Lucinda. We are about to enter into a rapid retreat to the south-east to get away from the advancing Germans, who appear to be about to win their first major battle of the war against us. Obviously I have not made it. Think of me.
Love
Simon
Take another kiss
X
Merlin put the letter down and removed his glasses. “Quite a story, gentlemen!”
* * *
Devlin was treating himself to a haircut at Arnie Cohen’s in Holloway. As the barber prattled on about Churchill and the war, Devlin considered yet again what, if anything, he ought to do. Worrying about it had given him a sleepless night. As he saw it, he had four options. He could keep quiet, move on and undertake something new – his partner Bill Parker had been chasing him about some juicy new divorce work that had just come in. Then again, he could stick at it freelance but find a different Free French officer in whom to confide. Meyer came to mind but he was probably too junior. The third thing he could do was to go to the police and lay everything out for them. And his final option was MI5. He had had occasional dealings with the secret services in the past and knew who to approach.
“You’d think they’d have taken some pictures of the Graf Spee when it was going down.” Devlin realised Cohen had finished and was brushing him down.
The Irishman scratched an itch beneath his collar. “I am sure they must have. Taken photographs that is.�
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“If they did, then why haven’t they shown them in the newsreels at the flicks? People need a boost, Mr Devlin. What with the Germans winning in Crete, the problems with Rommel in north Africa, Tobruk. If something good happened, even if it’s a few weeks ago now, don’t you think it would buck people up to see that famous German ship sinking beneath the briny?”
Devlin brushed a few stray hairs from his shoulders. “Perhaps they have film but it’s classified.”
Cohen, a chubby man with a surprisingly unkempt head of black hair for a barber, shook his head. “What can be classified about the sinking of a ship, which is public knowledge?”
Devlin had to agree. “Perhaps they are saving it up for when there’s a real calamity.”
“God forbid.” Cohen continued grumbling about the government’s public information failings as he walked over to the counter with Devlin, who paid him and added a small tip as usual. “Care for a bottle of my special hair tonic, Mr Devlin? Keep everything sleek and healthy.”
“Yes, all right, Arnie. Thanks.” Devlin handed over a few more coins and pocketed the small green bottle as he walked out the door. Heading north along Holloway Road, he realised that his mind had made itself up: he would go to the police. Rougemont had mentioned in passing the name of the detective who had visited the Free French office: Detective Chief Inspector Merlin. He would tell Merlin his story. If there were a Free French spy working against the allies, he didn’t feel capable of just walking away. He could, however, if he unburdened himself to a responsible police officer. Merlin could decide what to do with the information and Devlin would return to the pursuit of errant husbands and wives.
He saw a telephone box. He knew the Scotland Yard number by heart, although he had a note of it in his wallet. He dialled. Disappointingly, Merlin was not available. Devlin left his name and boarding-house telephone number with an officer and a message that he had important security information and would be coming in to see Merlin later in the day.
Even though he hadn’t been able to share his knowledge with the police, Devlin felt much happier now that he had committed to his decision. He smiled and as he turned into the alleyway that he often used as a shortcut to his digs, started to whistle. It was the tune of a song he had heard Charles Trenet sing in a Montmartre nightclub in ’38. He was trying to remember the words to ‘Boum’ as he made his way past the large rubbish bins that filled the lane. He switched from whistling to humming. Picasso had much admired Devlin’s light baritone and once encouraged him to try singing professionally, to the Irishman’s considerable amusement. The thought of the Spanish painter with the wild, staring eyes led him to wonder how Picasso was coping with the occupation. Perhaps he’d scarpered back home to Spain. But then he loved Paris so much. No doubt the artist would have landed on his feet somehow.
Finally, the words came back to Devlin and he began to sing but, after the first line, he was surprised to hear another voice singing along with him. It was a deep, gravelly voice that seemed to be coming from behind one of the rubbish bins he’d already passed. The song died on his lips and he turned to investigate. Then something hit him. Something heavy. Something very heavy. Blood began streaming into his eyes and his head started to pound. Through the blood he saw the glint of a knife before feeling a sharp pain in his stomach. His final sensations before losing consciousness were the smell of rotten vegetables and the sound of a whistle being blown.
* * *
Merlin could hear Dumont complaining loudly to Bridges and Goldberg as they brought him along Old Compton Street to the car. As he was bundled in, he turned his anger on the chief inspector. “This is a disgrace! When the general hears about this, he will…”
“Yes, yes, Lieutenant.” Merlin shifted along the back seat to make more room for Dumont. “We just need to ask you a few questions. Hopefully, we won’t detain you too long.”
The sergeant started the engine. “He had a lady friend with him in his rooms. Not too happy about the interruption, as you can see.” They made the journey back from Soho to the Yard within 10 minutes.
Dumont had calmed down by the time they’d got to the Yard and he’d taken his seat across from the policemen in one of the downstairs interview rooms. He declined the mug of tea Bridges offered him with a Gallic shrug of disdain. “Come on then, messieurs. Let’s get this over with. Ask away. You will understand, of course, that if your questions relate in any way to my military duties, I shall not be able to answer them.”
Merlin added a lump of sugar to his tea and stirred. “Rest assured, Lieutenant, that our inquiries only pertain to your personal life.” Merlin asked a number of preliminary questions about Dumont’s duties in London then nodded at Goldberg. “Do you remember this gentleman on my right?”
Dumont had a dark, narrow face with slightly hollow cheeks. His dark brown hair was neatly parted and combed. Small, piercing brown eyes were set above a small, thin nose and broad mouth, which turned up slightly on the left. He gave Goldberg a disgruntled look. “‘Gentleman’ is not the word, I think. A gentleman does not join other gentlemen for a drink under false pretences. I understood that you were a diplomat, monsieur, not a police – what is the American word? – stool pigeon.”
“Mr Goldberg is a policeman. He was working undercover for me when he met you. We were acting on information that you and your friend, Mr Vorster, were friendly with a woman called Bridget Healy.”
“I know no such person.”
“Are you sure, Lieutenant? Miss Healy was an attractive young lady seen frequently in the Ritz bar, sometimes as one of your party, according to our sources.” Merlin slid the photograph of Bridget over to Dumont.
After a cursory look, Dumont shook his head. “We often mix with large parties in the Ritz, Monsieur Merlin. Large, jolly parties. There is a war on, you know, and everyone is determined to live life to the full. But if you expect me to remember every good-time girl who attaches herself to our group, you ask too much of me. I notice, by the way, that you used the past tense in regard to this lady.”
“She is dead. Miss Healy was the victim of a botched abortion.”
“I am very sorry to hear that but what has it to do with me?”
Goldberg leaned forward. “You and your pal Vorster told me you knew some Irish girls.”
Dumont smiled. “Yes, my American friend, I have met some Irish girls in London. And I have met some Scottish, Welsh and, of course, English girls. But no, I did not know this Miss Healy and I did not discuss her with Rupert. It is possible that she may have been in the Ritz at the same time as me but I do not recognise her. I am naturally sorry she came to a sad end but…”
“I heard you and Vorster discuss her by name and I heard one of you use the word ‘pregnant’ in relation to her.”
Dumont’s face reddened with indignation. “No, sir, you certainly did not. You misheard. We never discussed someone of that name and I know no pregnant women.”
Merlin decided to change tack. “What about the gambling club to which Vorster took the detective? Run by a fellow called Beecham. What do you know of that?”
“Very little. Rupert goes there, I don’t. I am not a rich man, Monsieur Merlin. I have no money to gamble.”
“What can you tell us about Mr Beecham’s friendship with Mr Vorster?”
“They are friends. That is all I know.”
“Nothing more?”
“I believe Rupert runs occasional errands for Beecham.”
“Like finding him customers?”
Goldberg leaned forward. “The word we use back home, Lieutenant, is ‘shill’.”
Dumont leaned back and looked down his nose at the American. “Use whatever word you like, mon ami, but why on earth are you asking me about this? I have nothing to do with Mr Beecham’s operations. I have never met the man.” He relaxed his shoulders and smiled apologetically.
“Really, Monsieur Merlin. I did not know Bridget Healy. I have no knowledge of her pregnancy and her unfortunate abort
ion. I would be grateful now if you could let me return to my important work. We are fighting a war together, you know.”
Merlin and his officers kept on at Dumont for another half hour but made no headway. Eventually, Merlin conceded defeat. “Very well, Lieutenant. You may go, but we may want to see you again. If you are likely to leave London, please let us know.”
As they were getting to their feet, Sergeant Reeves appeared at the door. “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but there are two gentlemen here who say they have an appointment with you. I told them you were busy but one of them got rather irate so I thought I’d better let you know. Names of Tomlinson and Vorster.”
Merlin thought he saw a flicker of concern cross Dumont’s face. “That’s all right, Sergeant. Please show them in here. We are finished with this gentleman.” Reeves disappeared down the corridor and quickly returned with Tomlinson and Vorster in tow.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. The sergeant will show you out.” Merlin watched carefully as Dumont squeezed past the new arrivals and avoided Vorster’s enquiring eye.
* * *
Doctor James McGregor and Constable Vernon Price were standing in a corridor of the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead. “Is he going to be all right?”
“He’s a very lucky man, Constable. You saved his life. What exactly happened again?”
Price, a stocky young officer attached to Holloway police station, had already explained that, during his morning round, he had been alerted by a loud cry from an alleyway. “Even in broad daylight, it was hard to see clearly into the alley, which was narrow, overhung by rickety guttering and roofing, and cluttered with large bins. I didn’t have a torch with me but I could just make out three men, two of whom appeared to be tipping the third into a bin.