by Mark Ellis
Alas they pass unheeded by
And, as they fly,
I, being dry,
Sit, idly sipping here
My beer.’”
Merlin relaxed as Stewart ummed and aahed for a couple of minutes before signalling defeat with a shrug.
“George Arnold.”
“That is bloody obscure, Frank! Have you nothing from Cervantes? You’ve usually got something from him.”
“Here’s one for you. ‘Cada uno es hijo de sus obras’.”
“Enlighten me.”
“‘Every man is the son of his works’. Nothing to do with pubs but I think it covers you nicely.”
“And not you?”
“No, I’m the son of my father. He’s the one who drilled Don Quixote into me. And all that English poetry. ‘My two heritages’, as he kept on saying before the Zeppelin got him. Anything in the paper?”
“Nothing. Don’t know why I’m bothering to read it. You’d think wee old Adolf would have the courtesy to advertise his plans, wouldn’t you? We’re going mad with boredom at the station. Cups of tea, biscuits, incredibly dull conversations with one’s colleagues, more cups of tea. If only the Fuhrer would just put a neat little notice in the paper, you know: ‘Herr Hitler requests the presence of your company at his bombing party which will commence at 7pm in the West End of London on Thursday, March 1st, helmets will be worn, etcetera,’ well, that would give us all something to focus on, wouldn’t it?”
Merlin smiled and took the froth off his beer.
“Gather you saw my Polish friend this morning.”
“News travels fast.”
“I saw her at lunchtime. Asked me if I had any coppers for friends.”
“Did she?”
“I denied any such friendships.”
“Naturally.”
“Find out anything worthwhile?”
“From your perspective, she vehemently denied being on the game. Said she was just supplementing her meagre shopgirl’s income with the tips she gets at Morrie’s club. She was most indignant in pointing out that she never went home with customers.”
“Think she’s telling the truth?”
“You know, I think I do.”
“That’s nice of you, Frank.” Stewart doffed an imaginary hat in appreciation. “Did she have anything to say which helped your case?”
“She recognised Joan Harris. Said she was in the club a few times with Arthur Norton. She also saw Joan Harris another time and I was hoping you might be able to help me there.”
“Me. How so?”
“She says she was on a date at Quaglino’s with, she thinks you, before Christmas, in November or December. She can’t remember, and she saw Joan Harris at another table. Do you remember?”
“I have taken her to Quaglino’s a couple of times. Once before Christmas and once a few weeks ago. How can I help?”
“She says she saw Joan Harris having dinner with a man she thinks had a New England accent. It could have been Norton, but as she herself pointed out, Norton is a pig and Joan was very happy with the man she was with, so the chances are that it was another man. Did you notice this couple? Apparently they were at a nearby table next to a pillar.”
Stewart stared into his drink.
“Sorry, Frank. I have to say rather cornily that, whenever I’ve been with Sonia, I’ve only had eyes for her. Can’t say I noticed any Americans or other beautiful young things. But maybe I can help a little. I’m quite friendly with the maitre d’ at Quaglino’s. Usually getting these types to give information is like trying to prise open an oyster with a toothpick. Ernesto owes me a few favours, though. I’ll see if I can get him to open up his reservations records to me.”
“Thanks, Jack, but I’d already thought that we could do that.”
“Trust me. If you go as the police to see him you won’t get any worthwhile information. Leave it to me please.” Stewart rose and tapped their empty glasses.
Merlin stretched his legs under the table. “I should tell you something else.”
Stewart paused, tankards in hand.
“If the American gentlemen in question was not Arthur Norton, I have an idea who it might have been, and if it was that person, I’m going to be in something of an awkward position.”
“Oh?”
“Sergeant Bridges found a record of some very fine jewellery being bought for Joan Harris by a very well-known New Englander.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Joseph Kennedy.”
Stewart sat back down and whistled. “Well, well. I heard he was a bit of a ladies’ man from a reporter friend of mine. That could be difficult for you. Are you telling me that if Ernesto says that it was the American Ambassador dining with Joan Harris that night, you don’t want to know?”
“No, no. I want to know who it was. I’m just telling you so that you know. And perhaps Ernesto will be even more circumspect than he would otherwise be in providing you with information.”
Stewart rose to his feet again, chuckling. “Don’t you worry Francisco – old Joe Kennedy, eh!”
Merlin looked around anxiously, a finger on his lips.
“Och, relax man. I’ll get them in.”
CHAPTER 12
Thursday February 8th
The lift was working now and they rode up to the third floor. They knocked and heard muttering behind the door to No. 32 which, after a clattering of chains and deadbolts, opened a few inches. Mrs Owen’s head, covered with paper curlers as before, poked out. “He’s fast asleep in bed. Works late hours you know. He won’t like being disturbed. He’ll kill me if I let you in without his say-so.”
She raised a bony hand to her small red parrot nose and scratched it.
Merlin lost patience and pushed hard against the door. Mrs Owen squawked and retreated down the hallway. As she bent to pick up their cat, Merlin had the misfortune to spot a scrawny breast making an appearance from beneath her dressing gown. He walked towards her, eyes on the floor. “Will you have another attempt at waking your husband or shall we do it?”
“You might as well have a go. I’m in for trouble either way.” She shrugged and stepped into the living room, making cooing noises to the animal in her arms.
They had little difficulty locating Owen. Loud snoring could be heard at the far end of the corridor off the living room. In his bedroom, Owen’s vast stomach rose and fell under a bright red eiderdown. As Merlin leaned over the bed, Owen exhaled noisily. Flinching at the halitosis, Merlin almost knocked over a glass of water, which on closer examination contained a set of teeth. Some water from the glass slopped onto his jacket sleeve and he grimaced. Bridges couldn’t contain himself.
“Yes, yes, Sergeant, very amusing I’m sure. Perhaps you’d like to have a go.”
“We’ll need an electric shock machine to wake him up.”
“Go on.”
Bridges took a firm grip of Owen’s shoulders and shook them energetically “Morrie Owen. Wake up please. It’s the police!”
Owen’s eyes slowly opened. A pudgy arm emerged from the bedclothes, then another, and he attempted to lever his body into a sitting position. Surprisingly, the manoeuvre succeeded. “What the bloody hell’s all this about then? Where is she? Annie!”
Owen’s spouse stepped timidly into the room. “I couldn’t stop them. They barged their way in. Honest.”
“Shouldn’t have opened the door, should you? Stupid woman. Bugger off and make me a cup of tea. And you two. Get out. Doesn’t a man get any privacy in his own home? Can’t I at least get dressed in peace?” Owen’s jowls quivered with indignation.
“We’ll wait for you in the living room. We have questions and we want the right answers this time.”
Eventually, Owen emerged from his lair. For him, getting dressed had involved putting on a dressing gown and applying a dab of haircream to his few strands of hair. He hadn’t bothered to shave but had had the grace to put his teeth in. “You may as well get on with it.” He lowered himself int
o his armchair and his wife crept in nervously with his tea.
“Bernie Myerson. What can you tell us about him?”
Owen’s hand twitched and some tea slopped into his saucer. “Never ’eard of him. Who is he. Some Jew-boy friend of yours?”
Merlin raised his eyes to the ceiling. “No games please. You know very well Myerson’s a pornographer off the Tottenham Court Road who supplies your club with girls.”
Owen looked out of the window and belched. “Oh, that Bernie Myerson. Yeh, I know Bernie. What of it?”
“I gather he’s been doing a few errands for you recently?”
“Well, as you say. He sometimes introduces girls to us. Girls who want to earn a bit of money in the club.”
“And you sometimes introduce girls to him as I understand.”
“I don’t know about that. I can’t stop the girls in my club doing other work. If one of my girls finds out from another girl that there’s a bit of money to be made by having a few snaps taken, there’s nothing I can do about it, is there?” Owen set down his cup and rested his hands on his stomach.
“We understand from Bernie that he’s been doing some speciality work for you?”
“Speciality work? What’s that when it’s at home?” “Bernie would probably call it ‘classical male studies’ but I suppose I’d call it dirty pictures of homosexual men.”
Owen narrowed his eyes as Merlin showed him the photograph. “Seen this picture before?”
The fat man grudgingly removed his spectacle case from his dressing gown.
“Recognise anyone?”
Owen moved the picture back and fore in front of him. “Bit tangled up, aren’t they? Hard to recognise anyone like that, but no. Never seen the picture and I don’t know the men.”
“I’m surprised. This chap here. This is Freddie Douglas. Works at the Foreign Office. He’s a friend of your friend Arthur Norton. But you know that, don’t you?”
Unpleasant rumbling noises sounded from Owen’s stomach. A lick of hair slid down his forehead into his eyes and he picked it up and smoothed it back on the top of his head. “I don’t know anything, copper.”
“As for this other chap. Well, the picture’s not so clear, is it? Myerson rather unconvincingly says he doesn’t know. As far as I can see, Douglas’ eyes are closed. Perhaps he’s asleep or perhaps drugged. As for his friend, I can see one eye and that seems to be open. There’s a glint in that eye which seems familiar, don’t you think?”
Owen stared at him blankly.
“Myerson says that your sidekick Reardon drove him somewhere in Kensington, took him into a room and asked him to take pictures of these two lovebirds. No questions asked, as he said. Says he didn’t know the men. Now I’m sure he hasn’t told us everything but it’s pretty easy to put two and two together. There’s Douglas, successful chap at the Foreign Office. No doubt quite well off. Got unconventional sexual tastes. Set him up with a compliant male and then blackmail him.”
“You’ve got a good imagination, copper. Myerson’s hardly a reliable witness, is he? I’ve got nothing to do with this.”
“And what about the compliant male, eh? Who do you think that is?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s your boyfriend here.” He sneered at Bridges who returned a look of disgust.
“I’m really shocked, Morrie. I thought you were a good family man. Fancy letting your sister down and letting her son in for this sort of activity. It’s Johnny, isn’t it?”
Owen’s face suffused with blood. “You bastard. How dare you! You can both get the hell out of here. This is…”
Merlin placed his hands on the arms of Owen’s chair and leaned down into his face. “Look, Morrie. My main interest is in finding your nephew’s killer and the killer of Joan Harris. I find it hard to believe that you topped your own nephew but…”
“I wouldn’t kill my own blood, would I?”
Merlin stepped back. “Who knows with a specimen like you? Spiders sometimes eat their young don’t they? And what are you but a grubby grotesque money spider. All I can tell you is that things are opening up. If you want us to find Johnny’s killer and if you want to protect your own skin, I’d think of coming clean sooner rather than later. I’ll need to know how far your little blackmail plan went. And I want to know a lot more about Norton. I know he brought Joan to your club. I’m sure you can tell us more about that.”
Owen scowled. “Look, copper, I don’t know who killed this Harris tart. Alright, maybe she did come to the club with Norton, but what of it? Norton’s a grown-up. Speak to him about it. As to what Myerson says, well he doesn’t put me in the picture, does he? You’d better speak to Jimmy, but as Myerson’s a lying kike, I’m sure you’ll get nowhere. Perhaps Bernie had some nice little sideline going. Who knows? You’ve got nothing on me and I don’t recognise these buggers. As to Johnny’s murder, I’ll tell you something. I’ll find the bastard who killed Johnny myself.”
Merlin rubbed his brow and shook his head sorrowfully at Bridges.
“I thought you were more intelligent, Morrie. Have it your way but we’ll be seeing you again. Sooner than you think too, the way things are going.”
The wipers fought hard to make headway against the driving rain as they entered Parliament Square. The two men had been quiet with their thoughts on the way back from Owen’s.
“Shouldn’t we have taken him in, sir?”
Merlin closed his eyes and pinched his nose. “When we’ve got a little more hard information, Sergeant. I’d like to have our forensic people have a closer look at the pictures to confirm it’s Morgan, and I’d like to see Myerson again and get him to be a little more forthcoming. We’ll obviously need to speak to Reardon and Douglas.”
A pedestrian abruptly loomed up in front of them and Bridges swerved to avoid him.
“Assuming we’re alive to do that.”
“Sorry. It’s not easy driving in this stuff.”
Back at the Yard they removed their sopping coats and threw them onto the radiator. “Go and see if Robinson and Cole are around and let’s take stock.”
When Bridges returned, he found Merlin warming himself next to the coats. “Both still out.”
“Ah.” He bent down and removed his shoes. “Excuse me, Sergeant. I need new ones. One of these has got a hole in it.”
“Sir.”
Merlin sat in his chair and rested his feet on the radiator, watching small clouds of steam drift upwards from his socks. “We’re going to have to divvi up our tasks again.”
“Douglas and Reardon?”
“No, not yet, Sam. There are a couple of other loose ends I’d like to deal with first. You haven’t heard from Brighton?”
“Still no message. I rang but the officer in question was out.”
“And we still haven’t got Bernie’s negatives back?”
Bridges shook his head.
“While we’re waiting on those items, I think you should go and see this chemist Cole saw Reardon visiting. See what he can tell us about Owen.”
Bridges nodded.
“And when my socks are dry, I am going to see if Jack can help me identify the mystery man at Quaglino’s.”
A blue light shone in the window of Evergreen Chemists, illuminating a display of soaps, cosmetics, toothpastes, bandages and surgical tissues artfully scattered against some low screens. Bridges pushed the shop door open and a bell rang. A stunted, bald, white-coated man appeared and smiled in greeting as he plucked a bowler hat from a hat-stand and planted it on his head. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?” The chemist’s odd appearance was complemented by a squeaky, high-pitched voice and he reminded Bridges of an old comedy music-hall act his long-lost mother had liked, what was his name, Tommy Dakins, Deakins – something like that.
“Detective Sergeant Bridges. I’d like to ask a few questions.”
The little man’s smile vanished. “Police? What on earth can you want with me?”
Bridges motioned towards the door behind the
counter. “Perhaps we could discuss this in a more private place. It might be wise to shut the shop while we have a chat.”
The chemist puffed out his cheeks, nodded and went to lock the shop door. He reversed a white card hanging on the door to show that he was closed. Bridges could see that the man was agitated. He was muttering under his breath and shaking his head. The bowler hat was too large for him and was wobbling precariously. “Couldn’t you have called on me outside shop hours? Things are difficult enough as they are with this war and everything. And what if someone has an emergency? I’m the only chemist open today in this part of London. Morton around the corner has had to go to the country for a funeral. Said he’d be away for a couple of…”
“If we just get on with it, sir, I’m sure you’ll be back in place in a jiffy to deal with any crisis.”
The chemist led the way behind the counter and through the door into a small living room. A tattered, green lamp cast a dull glow over a worn, brown three-piece suite. Bridges shivered as he sat down in an armchair facing a dying coal fire. Still shaking his head, the chemist sat down opposite him.
“Am I right in thinking that I am speaking to Mr Frederick Braithwaite?” Bridges had seen the name above the shop door.
“You are.”
“Had this shop for long, have you?”
Braithwaite picked nervously at his fingernails. “Since 1935.”
“Business good?”
“Not so bad.”
“I thought you said that things were difficult with the war and so on.”
Braithwaite flicked part of a nail into the fire. “Quite a few of my local customers skipped to the country when war was declared. Knocked business a bit but most of them seem to be coming back now seeing as how Hitler hasn’t done anything yet, and they’ve got fed up of life in the sticks.”
“So things are picking up?”
“A little – but look, I can’t think that the business prospects of a small chemist in Soho are of interest to you. Perhaps you can get to the point of whatever it is you’re here for.”
“Patience, Mr Braithwaite. I am interested because I was wondering whether poor trading conditions had tempted you to open up any new lines of business to supplement the income from your shop?”