Princes Gate

by Mark Ellis

  “What key?”

  “You know which key. It’s not as if you’ll have any use for it now. Wouldn’t be very wise, would it?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  He disappeared down the corridor and returned with a key on a piece of string.

  Norton watched sulkily as Owen waddled away. “I’ll, er, still be getting the latest package, won’t I? I mean, when it’s ready.”

  Owen rolled his eyes and snorted. “Yeh, you’ll be getting it. Don’t worry.”

  Reardon was snoring gently in his chair. Owen kicked him and he slowly came to life. “Come on, you decrepit old git, I’ve given Mr Norton a clean bill of health, for now.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Sunday February 4th

  In the distance, church bells were ringing in the City. The sound always reminded him of his days as a choirboy in the small Catholic church in Limehouse. Merlin had not been a very good choirboy. Briefly he had had a reasonable treble voice but his voice had broken early and never really settled into anything else. Still his father had insisted, and his father’s will was not to be brooked.

  Last night he had dreamed about his father who was riding an ageing piebald through a bleak landscape like his hero Don Quixote. In the middle of a long poetic declamation, Harry Merlin had disappeared in a puff of smoke, rather like he had in real life. When the smoke had settled, he’d seen his brother Charlie emerging, bloodstained, from a muddy trench, asking for his help. His sister Maria had then appeared from somewhere, guiding him away from the battlefield to a room in which various uniformed men, including Hitler and Franco, had been playing cards. He had just been asked to join them when he’d awoken with a parched mouth.

  He sat down at his desk and methodically laid out his own notebook, the notebook he’d taken from Bridges on Saturday morning, a clean sheet of paper and a pencil. He drew a straight line down the centre of the paper. At the top to the left of the line he wrote down Joan Harris’ name, and at the top on the right Johnny Morgan’s. He flicked through both notebooks then stared for a while at the ceiling before picking up his pencil. Under Joan’s name he wrote: “Johnny Morgan, Kathleen Donovan, The Blue Angel, Arthur Norton”. Glancing at his own notes, he looked at the inscription he’d found in Joan’s copy of Huckleberry Finn. He turned back to his list and wrote in the Harris column, “Who is J (inscription)?” He skimmed through Bridges’ notes again and wrote down, “Letter to Joan (upset/old ladies)”. He sucked on his pencil. Turning to the right column he listed the same names and added that of Morrie Owen. Staring up at Van Gogh’s cornfields he ran over his conversations with the Assistant Commissioner. Picking up his pencil again, he wrote across the central line, “Love/Sex?” and beneath that he wrote, “Secrets?”

  Sitting back in his chair he stared at the paper for a while. He had an uncomfortable feeling that this case was driving him rather than as it should be, vice versa. He needed to assert greater control over the still somewhat amorphous set of facts and events. Leaning forward he turned the paper over and wrote with a flourish, “Action” at the top of the page. Under this he wrote:

  Identify J (Johnny Morgan – unlikely – ask Kathleen Donovan) Find letter (JH’s belongings stored downstairs)

  Speak to Vice about Morrie Owen

  Merlin turned the paper over and stared at it again before adding to his ‘Action’ list:

  Find out owner of Johnny’s mews house.

  Give Norton a wide berth for the moment but put tail on? (Tail on Morrie Owen?)

  He heard the sound of marching boots outside and walked over to the window. A long line of khaki-clad soldiers were making their way in the crisp morning sun past Scotland Yard, heading towards Charing Cross and then, Merlin guessed, to France. He wondered how many of those boys would survive until the spring.

  Just after noon he hopped on a bus and made his way to Fulham. He got off on the New King’s Road, crossed over Eel Brook Common and turned down a side road, arriving promptly, as promised, at one o’clock at the end of terrace house. His sister-in-law smiled and gave him a warm embrace, while his nephew tugged excitedly at his trouser legs.

  Lunch was, as always, excellent. Beatrice had somehow got hold of a huge leg of lamb and cooked it in the Spanish style, just as he and Charlie loved it. Unusually for his generation, their father had liked to cook and Aggie Merlin had been happy, at occasional Sunday lunches, to make way for him in the kitchen. Lamb was his father’s speciality and Bea had learned well from Charlie how to replicate the recipe.

  Afterwards Frank Merlin sat, stuffed, in Charlie’s armchair with his four-year-old nephew on his lap. He’d promised to take him out onto Parson’s Green with a football once he’d had his cup of tea. For now, thankfully, young Paul was dozing, his stomach also full of meat and rice pudding.

  Bea emerged from the kitchen and removed her apron. “A glass of port wine for you?”

  “No thanks, dear. A cup of tea will be fine. No rush though. Rest your feet for a moment.”

  She fell back into the other armchair in the front room of the spruce little house which Charlie had been able to buy after his promotion to Assistant Manager at the local Martin’s Bank.

  “I’m sure you’ll hear something soon, Bea.”

  “Let’s hope. It doesn’t sound as if things are progressing very well over there, does it?”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  Little of the anxiety she felt for her husband was reflected in her face which, pretty and serene as always, returned Merlin’s sympathetic gaze stoically. “What will be, will be. Now what of you, Frank? Have you stirred your stumps yet?”

  Paul quivered and whimpered softly as Merlin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “How do you mean?”

  “You know very well what I mean. It’s time you got yourself out of those lodgings and into a proper place of your own. It’s not as if you can’t afford it.”

  Merlin attempted to loosen his trouser belt but was unable to achieve this with the young boy on top of him. “I’m quite happy where I am, as you know.”

  “Nonsense. Time you put the past behind you and a new place of your own will help you do that. And, with no disrespect to Alice, time you found yourself a new woman too. I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted you to mope around in misery forever.”

  Merlin decided that it was best to say nothing. He’d already had this conversation with Bea several times. She was right of course and he’d already accepted the wisdom of her words but he was too stubborn to admit it to her face.

  Bea ignored his silence. “Just look at how happy young Sam is now he’s hooked up with Iris. And he was miserable too but he got up and did something about it.”

  Bea had a soft spot for Sam Bridges as she had been an orphan as well. They had both done well after dreadful beginnings.

  Paul stretched out an arm and opened his eyes. Merlin grasped his opportunity. “Time for that game of football I think, eh, Paul? Hold the tea for the moment, Bea. Back in a while. I’ll have that cup of tea then, please.”

  Paul trailed him happily out of the door, ball in hand, as his mother shook her head ruefully.

  The Florida sun was high in the sky but there was a cool breeze and the Ambassador shivered a little. He put down the papers with irritation and stared briefly at the sea twinkling beyond the garden wall before raising his hand. A small, white-jacketed man emerged promptly from the house. “Bring me my tennis sweater, Manuel – and an orange juice. Oh, and get me Diedrickson on the phone – his home number’s in the book on the hall table.”

  He noticed a new sunspot on the hand he had raised and made a mental note to fix a check-up with his dermatologist when he got back to Boston. Manuel re-emerged holding a telephone receiver which he plugged into a wall-socket by the marble table.

  “The Señor is on the line, sir.”

  “Diedrickson. What are you doing to me? The account’s down twenty per cent in three months. What’s that? Well I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your lunch but I thin
k servicing your most important client might perhaps feature higher in your priorities than knocking back Long Island Teas or whatever else you people drink in East Hampton. Oh, very well, you didn’t do too badly for me last year so go ahead and have your lunch. Call me tomorrow, alright?”

  “Something wrong, honey?” A small blonde head rose from its resting place on a lounger at the far end of the pool. The head was attached to a tanned body shown off to near perfection by a tight polka-dotted cream swimsuit.

  “Just money, dear. Nothing to worry your pretty head about.” Joseph Kennedy thirstily drank the juice that Manuel placed in front of him, got wearily to his feet and walked towards his companion. He bent down and touched her redvarnished toes, ran his hand over her feet, along her legs, over her belly and her breasts, eventually cupping her chin in his hand.

  “That was nice, Mr Ambassador. Did you have anything else in mind?”

  “After lunch, Rhoda. I’ve still got a little work to do.” His glasses sparkled in the reflected light from the water as he leaned forward to kiss her on the lips.

  “I can’t wait. Hurry up with that work.”

  Rhoda, one of a string of perky contract actresses his people in Hollywood kept him supplied with, sat up and giggled cheekily at him before lighting a cigarette.

  The Ambassador returned to the table and picked up another of his stock reports. This broker was doing a better job for him and he smiled. An hour later he had finished his reading. Diedrickson’s account at J.P. Morgan was the only one which was down, and since his position there had doubled in 1939 he could cut the guy some slack. He hadn’t gone over his foreign positions today but he knew he was doing very well there. Hitler would have done enough damage by the summer at the latest for him to close out all his short positions and provide a substantial top-up for the campaign fund. Then he’d show that stuck-up liberal cripple in the White House what was what.

  A hummingbird fluttered by as he stood up and stretched his arms. He was still feeling a little stiff from yesterday’s golf round. After lunch and some fun with Rhoda, he’d get that nice young girl from The Breakers Hotel to come over and give him a massage.

  He went into the house and ran a hand over the ivories of the grand piano that was backed-up to the French windows. On top of the piano were scores of family and business photos. Pride of place went to a picture of his two eldest boys sailing in the waters off Cape Cod. Strong, bright, fine-looking boys who took after their father in so many ways. Or so he was doing his damnedest to arrange.

  “Call from London, sir.” Manuel appeared with another telephone receiver.

  London, thousands of miles away and about to disappear in smoke if they didn’t listen to him. Why should he spoil his Sunday by talking to London? Only depressing things happened in London. The winter months had been particularly miserable, which was why he’d high-tailed it back to America. Not so depressing and miserable as to cause him great anxiety though. He’d done all sorts of things in his life but he prided himself on his strong nerve. It took a lot to rattle him and events in London had not done that. But he was glad to be out of it, for the moment at least. “Tell them I’m out. They’ll have to call me tomorrow.”

  “Sir.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Monday February 5th

  A blaring car horn somewhere below in Sloane Avenue woke him. Fraser pulled the bedclothes up over his head and wished the morning away. He’d called in sick on Friday and he thought he’d keep up the act for a few days more. For one thing, he’d be able to think things through. He’d given himself Sunday off from worrying but now he had to apply his mind calmly to the situation. Not many people would be able to do that, of course, to push such important matters away from the mind, but he’d just about managed with the assistance of a good supply of gin and Charles Dickens. In times of stress he’d always found Dickens a great comfort. He’d first read The Pickwick Papers when he was eight and it remained his favourite. The book lay on his bedside table now, open at the point of Mr Pickwick’s entry into Newgate Gaol. He considered whether he should telephone his smug colleague to confirm that he continued to be indisposed? No doubt Douglas had another week of nefarious machinations in prospect in which he’d be looking for support. No. He decided to leave it for now. As for his problems, they could wait a little longer. He reached out for his book.

  The cuckoo made one of its brief appearances outside its little house as Bridges went through the office door. He could see that his boss was looking in much better shape as he enquired about his weekend.

  “I had a superb Sunday lunch yesterday, Sergeant, courtesy of my sister-in-law who only nagged me just a little bit for once. Then I had an early night and slept like a log. We’re going to get somewhere this week on these murders. I’m determined. Now let’s – ”

  Merlin paused as Johnson came through the door, fiddling nervously with his collar.

  “I’ve just been upstairs to give the A.C. an update on the hit and run case, sir. He wasn’t very happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face so red.”

  “Not to worry. That’s a regular occurrence these days with the man upstairs. Let’s put our heads together later and see what we can do with your Mr Fraser.”

  “I would appreciate that, but unfortunately the A.C. now wants to see you in his office.”

  “Hey, ho. When I get back, Sergeant, we’ll go and see if we can find Miss Donovan. Oh, and can you try and find out where the Johnny Morgan forensic report is?”

  As he entered, the A.C was on the telephone. “Yes, dear. I’ll be sure to do that. No dear, of course. Yes, well you can tell your sister it’s all in hand. I’ll be speaking to Claire tomorrow. If she wants to she can. Yes. Now I really must go, dear.”

  Merlin had met Mrs Gatehouse several times. A formidable lady in a formidable body frame. The A.C. was a tall man but his wife was taller and much broader and expected to be deferred to by one and all, not least her husband.

  The A.C. cleared his throat noisily, successfully expelling all recent traces of sweetness and docility. His face reacquired the rosy hue noted by Johnson. “I have two bones to pick with you, Chief Inspector?”

  “Sir?”

  “The first concerns Johnson’s hit and run. I don’t know why you and he led me to believe that the case was solved when it clearly isn’t.”

  “I don’t believe either of us told you that the case was solved, sir. You assumed that good progress was being made, which I believe was the case at the time you enquired. It still seems to me that we have a good suspect, but more work is necessary.”

  The A.C. screwed up his eyes and strode from the window to his desk. He drew a piece of paper towards him. “More importantly, I was telephoned this morning by a – ” he consulted his notes, “a Mr Douglas from the Foreign Office. I told you to be careful in your dealings with these American diplomats but clearly you ignored me. Mr Douglas said that he had heard directly from the Ambassador himself, all the way from Florida indeed, that there was distinct dissatisfaction with, what were the words he used…?” He peered at the paper again, “‘the heavy-handed and offensive way in which the investigating officers were dealing with these unfortunate incidents’. Mr Douglas said that the Foreign Office took a very dim view of the police behaviour and that it was clearly highly prejudicial to the good health of Anglo-American relations. That this should be occurring in connection with the demise of people who were little more than domestic servants he found particularly surprising.” The A.C. pushed his piece of paper away with distaste. “What do you say to all that, eh?”

  “As my father used, rather amusingly, to say, it’s a load of bull and cock, sir.”

  “This is no occasion for levity, Chief Inspector. How so?”

  “We have not been heavy-handed. In only one instance have feathers been ruffled and that was when one of the Ambassador’s aides wouldn’t answer our questions properly.”

  “Well, there you are. No doubt you could have been more diplomatic
with this chap and he’s complained to the Ambassador.”

  Merlin could feel his own cheeks reddening. “I am sure you are right that this gentleman is the source of the complaint, sir. I have to tell you that, short of not doing our job and refraining from questioning the gentleman at all, we could not have been more diplomatic. The truth is that this individual was offensive to us from the outset and is, in my view, a nasty piece of work. I would put money on him having some unpleasant involvement with both Joan Harris and Johnny Morgan and propose to investigate him thoroughly. In any event, although I am obviously not as politically in the know as our friends at the Foreign Office, given that the American Ambassador is already doing his level best to keep America out of the war, I cannot for the life of me see how getting up his nose or the nose of one of his cronies can prejudice our chances of getting the Americans into the war, which I take to be the prime sensible target of British foreign policy at present! As for the comment about domestic servants, I think that can be treated with the contempt that it deserves.”

  The A.C. twiddled a pencil in the fingers of his right hand. His face had regained its normal pallor. His eyebrows relaxed. He looked out of the window. “Looks like the weather’s improving.” He twiddled his pencil a little more. “Very well. I hear what you say. From all I’m told Kennedy’s a lost cause to all but the appeasers, but there are plenty of those in the Foreign Office as you know. You carry on then, but be careful. And keep an eye on Johnson, will you? I may have been a bit rough on him.”

  “May I go now?”

  The A.C. nodded. “Oh, and Frank?”

  “Sir?”

  “Just for peace’s sake, pop in and speak to this Douglas chap at the F.O. Let him know everything’s being done properly.”

  “It will be my pleasure, sir.”