Princes Gate

by Mark Ellis

  “To put something into cipher I’d have to trust one of your cipher clerks, wouldn’t I?”

  “You would. You’re not cleared for access to the cipher, despite your exalted status with the Ambassador. You’d either have to trust one of my cipher clerks, or just put whatever message you want into one of our diplomatic bags, which, as you know, will take a while to reach its destination. But isn’t that perhaps the best method? Can this matter be so urgent?”

  Norton rose stiffly and walked to the window. “Any idea when he’s coming back?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s going to be a few weeks yet. As you know there’s talk of him taking soundings about a run for the Presidency, and then again the weather is so lovely in Florida at this time of year.”

  “I really would like to get this information to him as soon as possible.”

  “I can arrange for you to meet one of our cipher clerks this afternoon.”

  Norton mumbled his grudging thanks.

  “I’ve got a few calls to make. Give me half an hour and I’ll take you along to the Cipher Department myself – there’s a reliable young man who I’m sure will be able to help.”

  A procession of military vehicles slowly made its way into Victoria Street heading for the Duke of York’s barracks in Chelsea.

  After the vehicles had passed, a crocodile of purple-blazered schoolboys processed across the pedestrian crossing and around their parked car.

  “What now, sir?”

  “I’d like to have a close look at Joan Harris’ belongings. They’re now boxed up somewhere in the Yard?”

  “In one of the basement storage rooms.”

  “And you say we’ll have the Morgan forensic report this afternoon?”

  Bridges nodded.

  “Good.”

  “Shouldn’t we have another word with Norton, sir? Press him further about his dealings with Joan Harris?”

  “Let’s leave him for a little while. We know he’s lied to us but if we push him now he’ll just deny everything and kick up a further fuss with the powers that be. We’ll bide our time for a day or two and see what else we can dig up.” He looked at his watch. “Speaking of the powers that be, let’s go and get an unpleasant task out of the way. We’ll smooth this Foreign Office chap out and buy ourselves a few more days of peace.”

  They made the short journey to the Foreign Office in no time. Police badges gained their car access to the inner courtyard and a prompt response from the uniformed porter at the front door. “Please make yourselves comfortable over there. I’ll try and find Mr Douglas. Have you an appointment?”

  “No, but it’s very important.” Merlin looked suitably grave.

  “I see. Well, I think I saw him returning from lunch about ten minutes ago.”

  The porter wandered off out of sight behind some ornate pillars, leaving them alone in the vaulted lobby.

  The high walls around them were hung in every direction with colourful paintings chronicling the history of the greatest empire the world had ever seen. Bridges was fascinated. History had been his favourite school subject. “Quite a place, isn’t it, sir?”

  “That it is.” Merlin wondered bleakly how much of the glory of the empire would remain intact by the end of the year.

  Puffing a little, the porter reappeared. “I’ve found him. He’s prepared to see you in five minutes. I’ll take you to one of the meeting rooms.”

  The policemen followed him up an elegant broad staircase and along a corridor whose canvases depicted memorable events in the history of the Raj. “If you’ll just wait here a moment, I’m sure Mr Douglas will be with you shortly.”

  A long mahogany table filled the room. The one window revealed the dingy, grey back of another part of the building and let in a minimum amount of light. They sat down in the middle of the table, backs to the window.

  “Should I take a note?”

  “You’d better. Slippery customers these diplomats.”

  As he was looking with interest at a detailed depiction of a Crimean cavalry charge, a door at the far end of the room opened and Freddie Douglas drifted through. “Good afternoon. I understand you’re from Scotland Yard. I’m Douglas. How can I help you?”

  “A courtesy visit, Mr Douglas, at the request of the Assistant Metropolitan Commissioner. D.C.I. Merlin and this is D.S. Bridges. As you know, we are currently investigating the violent deaths of two employees of the American Ambassador.”

  “So you’re the chaps who are handling that case, are you?”

  “We are looking into the deaths of Miss Joan Harris and Mr Johnny Morgan. Both particularly unpleasant deaths and naturally, in the course of our enquiries, we are having to interview members of the Embassy staff. We understand that you have had complaints about our handling of the case?”

  Douglas sat down opposite them and looked thoughtful. He was immaculately turned out and Merlin wondered at the perfection of his skin. No matter how carefully he shaved he always found a few specks of bristle lurking on his chin or under his lip during the course of the day. Douglas’ face was as smooth as a billiard ball. “I have indeed received a complaint from the Ambassador himself. The charge is that you were unnecessarily harassing senior diplomatic staff.”

  “I can assure you, sir, that there has been no such harassment. We have approached our task with awareness of the diplomatic sensitivities and will continue to do so.”

  Douglas pursed his lips and shook his head sorrowfully. “Do you officers have any idea of what a perilous position this country is in? Within six months our country and empire may be utterly destroyed. Unless Mr Chamberlain can find a sensible, peaceful way out of this mess, our only hope is to see the United States join the war. In the circumstances it is essential that our relationship with the United States at all levels is kept as tranquil and regular as possible. We understand from the Ambassador that certain senior diplomats who have a key role to play in the nurturing of this relationship are being distracted and dismayed by your questioning concerning these grubby deaths. Surely you can see that it behoves you and your colleagues to tread very lightly and carefully in this area and I must insist that you do so. If we receive any further complaints, we shall be insisting on other, more sensitive officers, being given charge of the investigations.”

  Merlin stared hard at the polished grain of the table. He was conscious of a low bubbling noise which he thought might be his blood boiling.

  “I hope I have made the Foreign Office’s view clear. I think that will be all now gentlemen.”

  “May I ask, sir, if you were in direct touch with the American Ambassador about this matter?”

  “All you need to know, Merlin, is that the Ambassador communicated his displeasure to us, and on the basis of that I contacted the Assistant Commissioner.”

  “Does that mean you spoke yourself to Mr Kennedy about the matter?”

  “That is neither here nor there and I don’t care for your tone. You’re a foreigner, aren’t you? So my contacts tell me. You should learn to do things the English way and know your place.”

  “I am British born as it happens, but that’s certainly neither here nor there. Would I be right in thinking that the complaint you received was not made directly by the Ambassador but by a Mr Arthur Norton?”

  Douglas flushed and patted the table.

  “Do you know that gentleman, sir?”

  “I know most of the senior diplomats at the American Embassy, that’s part of my job.”

  “And would it have been Mr Norton who complained? You see he is the only person at the Embassy with whom we have had any difficulty. And we had that difficulty because he didn’t want to answer our questions and was most unhelpful. We believe Mr Norton is hiding something which bears on the murders. And if we believe that, it is our job to investigate him further. And, in all the circumstances, I can’t see that that is going to prejudice our national security in any way.”

  Douglas abruptly rose to his feet. “You’re a fool, Ins
pector. What can a little plod like you understand of our national security? These victims you talk about were people of no importance. Their deaths are meaningless – a tart from the back of beyond and…” Douglas paused to remove a speck of something from his eye, “and an ignorant oik from the valleys. Hardly worth the effort, are they? You must have more important things to do. I really must advise you and Sergeant Bridges, for your own good if for nothing else, to leave Mr Norton alone.”

  Merlin counted to ten before lightly brushing the Sergeant’s shoulders with his hand. “I think we’ve finished. Let’s get along.”

  They followed Douglas into the corridor. “Thank you, sir. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Tread carefully, Chief Inspector. That’s my strong advice to you.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, sir, but it’s my job to catch the murderers of these poor, unimportant people and do that job to the best of my ability for as long as I’m allowed to do so.”

  “Very well. Good day to you both.” Douglas glided away but, as he was about to disappear around a corner, Merlin called out. Douglas’ head turned. “Do you know a Mr Edward Fraser? Works here, I believe.”

  “He’s a colleague of mine.”

  “Close colleague is he?”

  “He’s in my department. What the hell is it to you?”

  “Perhaps nothing, sir. Thank you again.”

  Jimmy Reardon picked his way cautiously along Dean Street towards Soho Square. Although a thaw seemed to have set in, there were still odd pockets of ice and snow on the pavements. Sure enough he slipped on an icy puddle and landed hard on his backside. He struggled to his feet and leaned against a lampost to catch his breath. His right hand had been grazed and he mopped up the blood with his handkerchief.

  “Lucky there, Mr Reardon. You could have done yourself some real damage. Alright are you?” A fat face under a bowler hat a size or three too large peered up at him.

  “Yeah,” Reardon grunted. “I’m alright, ta.”

  “Good. Well I’ll be seeing you soon, no doubt.”

  Reardon watched the little man waddle down the street carrying, with difficulty, a bulging briefcase almost half his size. Close to the corner, the man turned into a doorway and disappeared.

  With a deep sigh, Reardon resumed his journey, crossing into Soho Square then turning right onto Oxford Street. Narrowly avoiding a taxi, he crossed over then went left onto Tottenham Court Road. A little way along, he turned into a narrow alleyway. Before reaching the alley’s dead end, he halted outside a small shop window in which an easel and artists’ palette were displayed. “Myerson’s Artistic Supplies” was painted in fading black letters on the window.

  He banged on the small black door next to the window, shuffling his feet impatiently until he heard the sound of bolts being unfastened. A crack of light spilled out over the cobbled pavement.

  “Whaddya want? Who is it?”

  “It’s me – Jimmy. Morrie sent me round to pick up that stuff. Come on. I almost broke my neck to get here, so now I’m here, let me in.”

  The door opened slowly and a head appeared. It was covered with a thick thatch of dark black hair parted down the middle. Two small, black eyes peered out over a bulbous, red nose and a chin thick with grey stubble. “Ah, it’s you. Sorry.” Bernie Myerson’s rasping voice still clearly revealed his Middle European origins but the half a lifetime spent in London had also made its mark.

  He opened the door wide and beckoned Reardon in. “I was just having a late lunch. Want some?”

  The shop was dark and poky. A bulb at the far end lit a shop counter on which sat a half-empty bottle of Bell’s Whisky, a glass and a plate of bread and cheese. On a wall was a poster advertising the virtues of a brand of paintbrushes against a backdrop of snow-topped mountains and woodland. Opposite were dusty shelves containing a variety of unmarked boxes.

  Myerson led his guest to a tall stool at the counter. “Sorry to hear about Johnny. Such a nice young man. And talented too. Who could have done such a thing?” The two men shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders. “Do you want anything? Piece of cheese? Glass of whisky?” Myerson went behind the counter and poured himself a shot. “To Johnny. God rest him.” He raised the glass and downed it. “I’m sure I’ve got another glass somewhere.” He rummaged beneath him and produced another tumbler. “Eh, voilà. Fancy a bit of rat poison, my old friend, yes?”

  A large measure was poured and as Reardon drank, he examined the cheese and noticed several green spots around the edges. “I’ll pass on the cheese. I had a pie at the club before I left.”

  Myerson refilled his own glass and gulped it down again. Reardon glanced around at the empty shelves and shabby surroundings. “Business booming, I see.”

  Myerson took a large bite out of the slab of cheese and chewed it noisily. “The shop? The shop don’t matter. You know that. I’ve got better ways of making money.”

  “Have you got the latest stuff?”

  Myerson nodded as he was overcome by a coughing fit which he brought under control with another shot.

  “Shouldn’t you go a little easier on that stuff, Bernie?”

  “It’s like medicine to me, Jimmy, the booze. Don’t do me any harm.”

  “If you say so. Where is the stuff then?” Reardon set his empty glass down.

  “I was up till late finishing it off. Only got to bed at three. Another nice piece of work if I say so myself. I’ve got it downstairs. Hang on a tick.” Myerson disappeared through a shabby brown curtain. Reardon heard his shoes clattering down the stairs and then heard him wheezing and coughing as he climbed back up. He re-emerged with a large brown envelope in his hand.

  “Got the money?”

  Reardon drew a bunch of shiny white fivers from his coat. Myerson’s eyes lit up as he reached out. “Uh, uh.” Reardon held the money above him.

  “I’ll check first, thank you.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Reardon opened the envelope, pulled out the contents and, after a quick glance, put them back in. “Looks satisfactory.”

  “Good. So give me my money.”

  The notes were placed in Myerson’s clammy hand. “If I were you, Bernie, I wouldn’t splash it all out on the booze. You’re looking very pasty. All this time in the dark can’t be good for you. Take a trip into the country. Get a bit of fresh air.”

  Myerson carefully counted the money. “It’s very good of you to worry about my health but you’re looking pretty pasty yourself. All that time in Morrie’s dingy club can’t be so good for you either. Perhaps we can make up a twosome. Have a weekend by the sea, somewhere. How about it? Brighton, Eastbourne, Margate?”

  Reardon rose from his stool and smiled thinly. “Very funny. You take care of yourself. Morrie appreciates your talents, Bernie. I don’t think he’d care to have to find someone else because your liver exploded, that’s all.”

  “I’ll do my best not to peg out. Wouldn’t want Fat Morrie to be put out in any way, would I?”

  “I’ll probably be back for that other stuff tomorrow, alright?”

  “It’ll be here, don’t worry.” A dog barked in the distance as Myerson showed his visitor out.

  Merlin had been back in his office for an hour, mulling over the meeting with Douglas. He’d met quite a few toffee-nosed twerps in his time but he thought Douglas took the prize. The office, which was normally under-heated, seemed stuffy today for some reason and he was struggling to open one of the windows.

  “Can I help you with that?”

  Merlin gave one last heave to the window and it juddered open a few inches. “No thanks, Sergeant. Now off you go and get the box containing Joan Harris’ stuff from the basement.”

  As the door closed, Merlin fell back wearily into his chair, swung his legs up onto the desk and threw a couple of Fishermen’s Friends between his lips. Whatever work had been going on at the top of County Hall had stopped. If new gun emplacements had been installed he couldn’t see them from his positio
n. Perhaps the camouflaging techniques employed by Civil Defence were improving at last.

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds before reaching for his notes of the previous day. He took up a pen and added Freddie Douglas to his list of names. It was obvious that Arthur Norton had used his influence to get Douglas to complain to the Assistant Commissioner. Although he was a strange kind of non-career diplomat, he was still a diplomat and would naturally know people like Douglas. The coincidences were, however, piling up – Norton knew the two victims, Norton was a regular customer at Morrie’s club, Norton knew Douglas who worked in the same office as Fraser who, while a suspect in a completely unrelated case, knew Norton and was a customer at Owen’s club. It was Owen’s club that Joan Harris had visited with Norton and it was for Morrie Owen that Morgan had worked before Owen got him the job with the Ambassador.

  The conversation with Douglas replayed in his mind. He had been warned that ‘a little plod’ like him could have little understanding of ‘our national security’. He couldn’t see how upsetting an associate of the Ambassador was likely to have any negative impact on America’s possible entrance into the war. The Ambassador was doing everything he could to keep America out of the war anyway. Was there something else? Was there some other issue of national security involved which Douglas couldn’t spell out?

  A disturbance in the corridor alerted him to the return of Bridges who entered, breathing heavily and perspiring, carrying a large cardboard box with the help of a young constable. The box landed heavily on the flooring in front of Merlin’s desk.

  “Thanks, Tommy.” Bridges paused for breath. “You’ve been a great help.”

  The young man smiled nervously at Merlin as he went out of the door.

  “You need to take a bit more exercise, Sergeant.”

  “Excuse me, sir. I am perfectly fit. We had to lug that box up five flights of stairs. I’d challenge anyone to do that without getting a bit puffed.”

  “The constable seemed to manage it.”

  “Tommy’s a cross-country runner. Bit of a champion in Surrey he is.”