by Mark Ellis
CHAPTER 4
Wednesday January 31st
Bridges arrived outside Princes Gate a few seconds after his boss, who greeted him with a concerned look.
“You’re looking a little peaky, Sergeant. Are you alright?”
“I’m not feeling great, to be honest.”
“What’s up?”
Bridges took a deep breath of the morning’s freezing air and rubbed his stomach.
“Might have been something I ate.”
“Weren’t you having a special meal last night?”
“Yes – it was a little, er, exotic.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow.
“The thing is, her old dad, he spent a long time in India in the army. Got keen on the local food. Curry and so on. He taught Iris a few recipes and she tried one last night. Very nice it was too, but I’m afraid it was rather spicy.”
“How’s Iris?”
“She’s right as rain. A cast-iron stomach, she has.”
“Better get her to stick to plain English fare from now on. Or if she wants to try some foreign stuff, I can give her a few wholesome and safe Spanish recipes.”
“Sir.”
Bridges took in another lungful of air and followed his boss up the stairs.
The reception hall smelt wonderful. Vases of freshly-cut flowers had been scattered about the place. He’d had a girlfriend years ago who had been passionate about flowers and he had learned much from her. She had written learned articles for magazines about her favourites. She had been particularly interested in orchids. There were no orchids as far as Merlin could see, but pansies, primroses and several other winter varieties he couldn’t name.
“Take in some of this wonderful scent, Sam. Should help clear the system.”
“I’m surprised you can smell anything, sir, with all those lethal mints you eat.
“Very funny, Sergeant.”
Miss Edgar appeared from behind the staircase and hurried up to them.
“There you are, Chief Inspector. Enjoying the flowers I see. I thought I needed to do something to cheer the place up. Everyone is so affected by poor Joan’s…” She dabbed a handkerchief to her nose then pulled herself together. “Come along. I’ll put you in my office again.”
They followed her up the stairs. On the way they met Kathleen Donovan hurrying down, her arms piled high with files. As they stepped aside for her she tripped and fell, spilling papers everywhere. She jumped to her feet before they had a chance to help her, and ran down to the lobby in tears.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with that girl this morning. I know she’s upset about Joan but so are we all. I’ll be back in a second.”
Miss Edgar went back down and they made their own way to her room.
“Poor girl. Perhaps she had a dodgy meal last night too.”
“Drink in her case rather than food, Sergeant.”
“You seem to be speaking from knowledge.”
“I’ll tell you about it later. Here’s our first interview.”
A smartly-dressed male figure hovered at the door to Miss Edgar’s office. He didn’t look happy.
“Come on in, Mr Norton. I believe we’ve met before. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Merlin and this is Detective Sergeant Bridges.”
Arthur Norton ignored Merlin’s extended hand. “You realise that it is an impertinence to request this interview. I am an accredited US diplomat and have no obligation to speak to you. It is highly inconvenient and I am only here because Miss Edgar, whom I respect, made a particular request that I do so.”
“Well, thank you very much indeed for agreeing to speak to us. I apologise if this interview is in any way inconvenient. I doubt very much that we shall detain you long. We are just asking a few simple questions of the staff here…”
“Staff, Inspector? I would hardly call myself staff. I am one of the Ambassador’s key aides. A senior diplomat in my own right.” Norton’s squeaky twang reverberated around the small room.
“Didn’t mean to cause offence, sir. All I was saying was that we have a small number of straightforward questions to ask and then you can be on your way. Would you like to remove your overcoat before we begin – or are you comfortable as you are?”
“As you assure me, Inspector, that this is likely to be a brief interview, I think I’ll keep my coat on. Please proceed.” Norton sat down heavily in the indicated chair.
“As you know, an Embassy employee, Miss Joan Harris, has died in unfortunate circumstances. We’d just like to know about any dealings you may have had with the lady?”
“I hardly knew the girl, Inspector. She did a little typing for me. That’s all.”
Norton identified a few flecks of dirt on his otherwise immaculate grey trousers, and picked at the offending areas with his forefinger.
“She was a very good typist, I understand.”
“She was competent, Inspector. Nothing to brag about, though, I’d have thought.”
“I understand that you preferred her to do your typing.”
Satisfied with his trousers, Norton looked up and faced the policemen directly for the first time. “I probably used her more because most of the others are incompetent.”
“What sort of things would she type for you?”
“My reports, of course, and occasional correspondence.”
“Would there be anything particularly confidential in those reports, sir?”
Norton snorted derisively. “Of course there was confidential stuff in there. All of my reports are confidential.”
“And what exactly are your reports about?”
“Are you off your head? You can’t expect me to tell you that.”
Merlin bit his lip. Before his marriage he’d been known for having a short fuse. Alice had worked hard to cure him of it and since her passing he’d resolved to live up to her standards in this regard. He felt that Norton was going to test this resolution severely. “I am not attempting to pry into state secrets, Mr Norton. I am simply attempting to pursue one potential line of enquiry with regard to Miss Harris’ death, that being whether her possession, through her work, of confidential information might in some way have had a bearing on her murder. Can you assist me in any way on this point?”
Norton crossed his legs and yawned. “I am retained by the Ambassador for a number of purposes, one of which is to be his eyes and ears among London society. I report to him on a regular basis details of my encounters with, and observations on, leading figures in British life. I do this, primarily, you understand, in order to contribute to his evaluation of British morale and to the development of political trends. While he is resident, of course, my reports are merely supplementary to his own wider experience of political and social developments. While he is away consulting our government, as at present, I would pride myself that my reports are of great importance.” Norton paused to remove a cigarette from a silver case and to light up. “No doubt my reports contain much that might interest other people. That being said, I can’t conceive of a poor mite like Miss Harris being able to understand the content of the reports to such an extent that her safety might in any way be put at risk. Now, if that’s all you want to know I take it we are finished and that I may take my leave of you.”
He rose to his feet.
“Just a couple more questions, if you please. Did you ever see Miss Harris socially?”
Norton sat back down with a petulant grunt. “What in heavens would I be doing seeing Miss Harris socially?”
“Pretty girl wasn’t she, sir?”
Norton pursed his lips. “You are sorely mistaken, Sergeant, if you are suggesting that I had any kind of relationship with this girl.”
“Miss Harris was a natural beauty, I’d say. It is not unheard of for men of the most exalted position to have affairs with their secretaries, particularly pretty ones, so the Sergeant’s question is not out of order. You have given us a clear answer for which I thank you.”
“I’ll be damned if I don’t complain to
your superiors, Merlin.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. We wouldn’t want your highly valuable time ‘encountering leading figures in British life’ to be sullied by the requirements of the Metropolitan Police complaints process.”
Norton scowled across the desk and got to his feet once more. “I take it I may leave now?” Merlin nodded but as Norton went through the door he had an afterthought.
“Sir?”
“Goddamit! What now?”
“A man like you, out and about amongst London society, would know most of the fashionable clubs and nightclubs in town, would he not?”
Norton’s features relaxed a little. “I am sure I know most of the best places.”
“Do you know a club called ‘The Blue Angel’ by any chance?”
Norton studied the ceiling. “The Blue Angel – sounds familiar. It’s a film, isn’t it, with Marlene Dietrich? A sleazy nightclub in Berlin I think. I can’t say I know of one in London. Sorry I can’t help you there.”
“That’s alright. I’ll find it one way or another. I am something of an expert on sleazy clubs – sleazy people as well for that matter.”
Norton sneered before making his departure. They listened to his steps clattering down the corridor.
“Quite a charmer.”
“Indeed, Sergeant. ‘Culo pomposo’, as my father would have said.”
Bridges returned a bemused look.
“Pompous arse, Sam.”
“I think I might have ruder words, sir. Think he’s got anything to do with this?”
“Probably not, although it’s tempting to think the worst of a man like that.”
Merlin sucked on a lozenge and breathed eucalyptus fumes on his colleague as he smoothed out the list of the day’s interviewees that had been left for him on the desk.
“You were going to tell me about Kathleen Donovan, sir.”
“So I was.” Merlin related as succinctly as he could the story of his adventures of the previous night.
“If my stomach wasn’t already turning of its own accord, it would be now. Poor girl. Do you think it bears on the case?”
“Perhaps. Morgan likes girls. They like him. Joan Harris was pretty.”
“He says Joan was never a girlfriend. Says he hardly knew her.”
“We’ll just have to find out if he’s telling the truth.”
There was a knock at the door, followed by the diffident entrance of a little man in a chauffeur’s uniform. Merlin looked at his list. “Mr Priestley. Come on in.”
Johnny Morgan made his way carefully down the steep unlit stairs. Snow showers had turned to sleet in the Soho streets outside. At the bottom he looked to his right. There was a faint light at the end of the corridor and he made his way in that direction. Arriving at a door, slightly ajar, he pushed against it gently. A dull glow emanated from a single hanging bulb. He saw a desk around which were three unoccupied chairs. From the other side of the room he could hear rhythmic breathing. Slumped in an armchair was a very fat man whose huge bald head lolled forward on to a barrel chest. A few greasy strands of hair hung down to one side like ivy creepers.
Morgan nudged the man, who responded with a grunt.
“Come on, Uncle. Wake up. It’s early.”
From another corner of the room, Morgan heard a snort. A second dozing man materialised.
“Christ, come on, Uncle. Shake a leg.”
Eventually the large mound of flesh beneath his hands began to move of its own accord. “Wassat? Jimmy? Who’s there?”
The other figure rose from its chair, moved forward in the murk and swore as it stumbled on something.
“It’s me, Uncle. No need to panic. It’s me, Johnny”.
His uncle’s piggy eyes gradually obtained focus. “What the hell are you playing at?”
“Not playing at anything, Uncle. Just came to pay you a visit. Didn’t realise that seven o’clock was your bedtime.”
“You little bugger.” The voice retained elements of its Welsh origins but was predominantly cockney, reflecting the forty years or so of life that Maurice Owen, known to all as Morrie, had spent in the metropolis.
Morrie lifted a small object from his lap and threw it at the prostrate figure on the floor. “And you, Jimmy. You useless bugger. You’re meant to be on the lookout for me, aren’t you? Not bloody sleeping in a corner while I take my evening nap. Don’t know why I bother to employ you. Get up off your arse and make yourself useful for once. Turn on the corner lamp so I can see what I’m doing.”
Jimmy Reardon raised himself stiffly from the floor and moved back towards his own chair. The gloom lifted as he turned on the lamp, and the full squalor of Morrie Owen’s office was revealed.
“And you can give me back my account book, thank you.”
Reardon, a bent, haggard-looking man with greying hair, dark bags beneath his eyes and a large wart on his cheek, picked up a black book from the floor and passed it back to his boss.
“And now I’ll have a nice little chat with my idiot nephew here. Off you go.” Owen struggled to his feet and waddled over to the desk. It was strewn with papers and the remains of his fish and chips supper.
Turning to a dingy mirror behind the desk, Owen dabbed his fingers to his tongue and moistened his eyes. He lifted the cats-licks hanging down from his head and laid them carefully across the giant dome of his skull. He applied further moisture from his fingers on to the hairs in an effort to keep them firmly in place.
Satisfied at last with his efforts he turned round, pulled his dangling braces up and over his shoulders and lowered himself carefully into the chair behind his desk. “OK, Johnny. What do you want? I always take a little nap before the club opens, as you know. If I don’t have my nap I get quite tetchy, see. So tell me something to cheer me up and forget that you were the one that ruined my nap.”
Morgan pulled over a chair and faced the quivering jowls of his mother’s favourite brother. “Sorry, but I haven’t got anything particularly jolly to tell you. I just thought you might like to know a little about what’s been going on at the Ambassador’s place?”
Folds of flesh in Owen’s neck rippled as he reached to scratch his chin. “Can’t say that’s a very good reason to disturb my beauty sleep, Johnny boy. You got yourself into some trouble there or something? I wouldn’t like to hear that you’re in trouble after all the effort I put in to get you that job.”
“I’m not in trouble. It’s just that the police are taking an interest in the Ambassador’s staff and are poking around like. I thought I’d better let you know.”
“The police are poking around, are they? Why’s that then?”
Morgan sighed. “A girl who worked at the Embassy, Joan, was found dead. So they’re just sort of investigating about that.”
“Joan, eh? Dead is she? Nice looking girl. That’s sad but what’s it to us?”
“Nothing, Uncle. Just thought you’d like to know. Because Joan and I, you know…”
Beads of sweat running from the top of Owen’s head made their tortuous way down the valleys and crevices of his face.
Morgan shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Look, Johnny. I know you love the girls and I know they love you. You have a talent, a talent which, as you know, I am prepared to back.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“And you like them particularly sweet and innocent don’t you, just like many of our other friends and clients.” Owen stared into the distance for a moment then looked back gloomily at his nephew. “I don’t want any more detail. Just keep your head down and keep the police out of my affairs. You’re a bright enough boy to manage that, I think.”
“Just thought you’d like to know what was going on.”
“Indeed, Johnny. And I thank you. And all you need to tell the boys in blue is that you had nothing to do with the girl, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Uncle. But they’re going to be talking to others. And what about Norton? They’ll be talking to him.”
Arthur Norton was not feeling at his best. The interview with the two schmucks from Scotland Yard had unsettled his equilibrium. As he tetchily completed his toilette, his temper was further aggravated when he noticed a red spot next to his left nostril. He applied a fingernail to the offending item and removed the head. The eruption of pus splashed against the bathroom mirror. Grabbing a handkerchief from his dresser he removed the stain. What the hell was he doing having spots at the age of forty-six? The police had unsettled his physical equilibrium as well as his mental equilibrium. He must calm down and maintain a level head.
He was meeting Freddie Douglas at the Café Royal. Douglas had promised that he would be making an important introduction tonight.
In normal circumstances it would be a twenty minute walk for him to the Café Royal. In the blackout and with the pavements and roads iced over, it would be longer. He stood around for a few minutes hoping that a taxi might emerge from the darkness. Eventually he gave up waiting and headed off in the direction of Piccadilly. In Berkeley Square a voice from a doorway made him jump. “Fancy a bit of fun, dear?”
A woman emerged from the dark, a torch pointing up at her heavily made-up face. As street prostitutes go, Norton thought, she wasn’t so bad-looking. The lipstick and foundation plastered on to her face couldn’t conceal the fact that she was younger than most.
“No thanks, honey. Not tonight.”
“Where you from then? You a Yank dearie? I love Yanks. Come on. Don’t be a spoilsport. I’m very reasonable. Give me a couple of quid and I’ll make it worth your while.” The woman moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder. Her other hand brushed against the front of his trousers and remained there briefly before starting to move slowly up and down. Norton couldn’t help himself and stiffened. This girl was good at her job. His eyes closed.