by Mark Ellis
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m a chemist, that’s what I do.”
“Do you know a Mr Jimmy Reardon?” Bridges thought he detected a nervous flicker of the eyes. “Reardon? I think he’s a customer. Yes, Mr Reardon. Works locally at one of the clubs.”
“And do you know his boss, Morrie Owen?”
“I know Mr Owen. Not a very well man, you know. Carrying all that weight, what do you expect?”
“May I ask you what products you have provided to Mr Reardon and Mr Owen?”
“I can’t tell you that. Professional etiquette you know. These are confidential matters.” Braithwaite rose and walked to the fireplace, where he picked up a poker and daintily riddled the fire.
“Come on. It’s not like you’re their doctor, is it?”
Having induced no discernible increase in heat, the chemist returned to his chair. “Very well – if you insist. Normal run of the mill, off-the-shelf stuff and occasional prescriptions – Mr Owen has an asthmatic condition, amongst other things.”
“Does Mr Owen pick up his prescriptions himself?”
“No. He always sends Reardon.”
“If Reardon always picks up, how have you met Owen?” A small carriage clock, which was the only adornment to the mantelpiece above the fire, pinged to indicate the half-hour. “On occasion, I’ve had to drop medicine off at his club round the corner.”
“So you’ve been to The Blue Angel?” Braithwaite nodded. “Have you ever supplied illicit drugs to Reardon or Owen?”
“What do you mean, illicit drugs?”
“You know. Cocaine, opium, that sort of thing.”
The chemist reddened. “Certainly not. How can you suggest such a thing. I never…” They heard a rattling noise.
“The front door. It might be an emergency. I’d better go and see who it is.” As Braithwaite got to his feet, a well-dressed and heavily made-up middle-aged woman came through the door. Pink lipstick delineated a small aperture of a mouth, which began to move rapidly. “What on earth is going on, Fred? Why is the shop closed at this time of the day? And who is this? Lucky I had my key on me or I might have been stuck outside in the cold forever while you gassed here to your mate. And why haven’t you kept the fire up? It’s like the Arctic in here. Come along. Get your friend out and open the shop up. You haven’t been having a little tipple in here, have you? You’ll be in trouble if you have, believe me.”
Mrs Braithwaite briefly paused for breath and examined Bridges more closely. “And who are you?”
“This is Sergeant Bridges, dear. He’s a police officer come to ask a few questions.”
Mrs Braithwaite’s hands went to her mouth and then fluttered theatrically in the air. “A police officer? My God! I told you not to…” She collapsed into a chair gasping for breath.
“Now, dear, the policeman will soon…”
Tears began to run down the thick powder on Mrs Braithwaite’s cheeks. Her breathing became more steady. She tried to say something but couldn’t get the words out.
“I’ll go and get you your pills, dear. Sergeant, my wife has a condition. She’ll be alright once she has her medication but I’ll have to tuck her up in bed. You’ve asked your questions and I’ve given my answers. Perhaps you could now leave us in peace.
“Alright, sir. But I’ll be back.”
Merlin pulled up at the restaurant and found Jack Stewart sheltering under an awning. It had started to bucket down again. “Nice weather for it, eh, Frank? Be careful you don’t ruin your nice new hat.”
“Nice weather for what? Answers let’s hope, amigo.”
“Just so. At any rate, contrary to my expectations, Ernesto was more than willing to be of assistance when I telephoned him but insisted on speaking to you in person.”
“Good.” A heavy gust of rain blew in their faces. Water trickled down Merlin’s neck. “Can we get inside? I don’t want to drown before I find out who your waiter saw.”
The men entered a brightly-lit lobby. Beyond glass doors they could see that the restaurant was filling up. “Look, Frank.” Stewart lowered his voice. “I think Ernesto is less reluctant than I expected to talk to you because he knows there’s a good chance that Mussolini will side with Hitler in the war. No doubt if that happens we’ll start interning Italian nationals. He’s been in England for over ten years, tells me he hates the fascists and wants to bank some credit for being helpful to the authorities.”
Merlin removed his hat and shook it. “I don’t care about his reasons as long as I leave here knowing who was dining out with Joan Harris that night.”
“Here he is.” A small, neat, smiling man in tails approached. He had a receding hairline from which a glossy layer of jet black hair proceeded to a point halfway down his neck. “Mr Stewart. And this must be your friend from Scotland Yard. Ernesto Santangeli, sir, at your service.”
“Pleased to meet you. I understand from Mr Stewart that you can help me with some enquiries I am making?”
“Yes, signor. Please come with me.” Ernesto spoke sharply in Italian to a passing waiter before leading the way to his office in a corridor off the lobby. “My apologies, gentlemen. It is a little cramped in here, but unfortunately this is the only quiet place where we can talk.”
The men seated themselves around a small desk. “Not a problem, sir. I’m sure you’re very busy so let’s get straight to the point. As Mr Stewart has no doubt told you, I am interested in knowing the identity of one of your customers. He was accompanying an unfortunate girl called Joan Harris who has since been murdered.”
The maitre d’ sighed sympathetically. “Mr Stewart has told me what you are seeking. Normally, of course, I treat matters like this with the discretion that my customers expect. We serve very many influential and wealthy people here, as I am sure you know. However, there can be no room for delicacy in such a tragic case. I have a great respect for the British police, Inspector, so very different from the police of my old homeland. I say ‘old’ homeland, because I am about to become a British citizen. My application should be approved any day now. I wish to be a good British citizen.”
“Please be assured that your good citizenship in assisting us will be noted down for future reference, sir.”
The Italian smiled unctuously. “You are very kind. Very well, I learned from Mr Stewart that the couple you are interested in dined here on the same night as Mr Stewart and one of his lady friends. So I check for Mr Stewart’s reservations, but not the recent ones, those before Christmas, is that right?”
Merlin nodded and leaned forward.
“I found that Mr Stewart dined here on Tuesday November 14th. And I understand from Mr Stewart that you are looking for an American gentleman, someone from New England?”
“Yes.”
“Quaglino’s has many American customers, of course, but I did recognise the name of one of the regular customers who had a table for two on that same night. A customer who comes from Boston.”
“And the name?”
“The name, Inspector, is that of a very powerfully-connected man. I hope that there will be no repercussions for me and the restaurant if…”
“The name, sir, please.”
Ernesto’s nose twitched as he straightened his cuffs. “The customer was a Mr Joseph Kennedy.” “I was right then. The American Ambassador.”
Ernesto shook his head.
“No, Inspector, not the American Ambassador. He has dined here many times, but no, not him. No, his son, Joseph Kennedy; his eldest son, he has the same name. A very attractive young man. It was he who dined here that night, I presume with this unfortunate Miss Harris of yours.”
A barrage balloon which had somehow come adrift from its moorings sailed away past his window towards the City. The rain had finally cleared over Scotland Yard to reveal a pale, watery sun sinking slowly behind the Houses of Parliament. Merlin heard the door open behind him.
“I finally got that call from Brighton, sir. Not much of a description but definitely a youn
g man. Tall and handsome according to one of the maids, and an American accent according to the concierge.”
“Have we got a photograph of the younger Mr Kennedy yet?”
“Got one coming over from the Press Association any minute now.”
He sat down and finished his cold cup of tea. “And the negatives?”
“They’re being brought over from the lab by motorcycle tonight.”
“What’s the story on Braithwaite?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s trading drugs to Owen and Reardon, though he denies if of course. My interview was cut short but I spoke to a couple of his neighbours and apparently a year ago or so he was in dire financial straits. Tried to tap them for a loan, unsuccessfully, and then talked of selling up or going bankrupt. In the next few months his situation changed. His wife had some nice new outfits, he bought a car and so on. Claimed to the neighbours that he’d come into an inheritance but they didn’t buy it. They noticed Reardon, and various other unsavoury characters who’d not been around before, visiting the pharmacy.”
“So you think Owen bailed him out in return for a direct supply of products?”
“I do.”
“Well, we’ll have to see what we can make of that. We should pull the husband and wife in when we get a chance. Anything from the others yet?”
“Robinson had a problem. Dr Jones was away on a call when she went round with the sketch artist. She was going to try and see him this afternoon. There’s no sign of Cole. I presume he is still trawling through the files at Companies House.”
Merlin eased himself out of his chair, briefly returned Dr Gachet’s sullen stare, then glanced meaningfully up at the ceiling. Bridges caught his drift and reached to open the door.
“My God, Frank. The Ambassador’s son? You’re surely not suggesting…?”
The A.C. irritatedly set down the small can with which he was watering the three pots of cardinal red geraniums which his wife had insisted he transfer from the greenhouse at home in Richmond to his office earlier in the week ‘to make the place more welcoming for Claire.’ He hated geraniums.
“I’m not suggesting anything, sir. I’m just bringing you up to date with the progress of my investigations. Clearly this is a little awkward…”
“Awkward is putting it a little mildly, I think. And then this, this photograph…” The A.C. wiped his hands before picking up Freddie Douglas’ incriminating photograph and holding it in front of him as if it was a dead rat. “Halifax will have a fit when he sees this.” He dropped it distastefully on to an outer corner of his desk.
“I wasn’t proposing to show it to Lord Halifax just yet, sir.”
The A.C. raised an eyebrow, sniffed, sneezed and sat down. “Bloody weather’s given me a stinker of a cold.”
“Care for one of these, sir? They’re pretty good decongestants.”
The A.C. rejected the proferred packet of lozenges with a grimace. “Well, Chief Inspector, what is your line of approach?”
“With your permission, I’ll need to have a chat with the US Embassy. The First Secretary there seems a decent chap. Make some enquiries about Mr Kennedy Junior.”
“Do we know where the younger Kennedy is?” The room resounded as the A.C. noisily blew his nose.
“No, sir. I’ll be getting onto that now. I know next to nothing about him but, as you know, the old man has a somewhat chequered background. If the son is a chip off the old block, well…”
“What do you mean?” With painstaking care the A.C. folded his handkerchief once then twice and returned it to his pocket.
“I’m not sure, but I’d like to get all the facts. What we have at present suggests that the younger Kennedy took a shine to Miss Harris and showed her a good time. All this in the weeks leading up to Christmas. After Christmas Miss Harris had a pregnancy test, which proved to be negative. She appeared to be unhappy about this result.”
“You’re not suggesting that Kennedy arranged for something unpleasant to happen to Miss Harris, are you? Because she threatened him with her possible pregnancy?”
“It’s one line of enquiry.”
The A.C. cast a malevolent look at the offensive flowers. “Hmm. I hope to hell you’re barking up the wrong tree there, but if you insist, I won’t stop you speaking to the people at the Embassy about him. Be as discreet as you can, that’s all I ask. And what are you going to do about Douglas?”
“I propose to confront him with the photograph and see what he says.”
“Are you certain the other party is Morgan?”
“I am. The scientists blew up the photo and matched a small skin blemish on the subject’s back to that of Morgan.”
The A.C. stared up at the ceiling and twitched his lips. “I suppose this makes Mr Douglas a suspect for Morgan’s death.”
“If Owen’s blackmail plan had been set in motion, then yes.”
A look of disgust again descended on the photograph as the A.C. leaned forward. “No need to go easy on my account. Do what you must. Just keep me informed.”
A police car siren sounded from somewhere across the river as Merlin got to his feet.
“What’s happened with Norton? Is he out of the picture now?”
“Far from it, sir. I had been treating him with kid gloves, as you may recall…”
“Yes, yes. Well, you can take those off now. This is a messy business and the best thing to do is clear it up as quickly as possible.”
“Sir.”
The Wisemans were feeling happy with life. Things were on the up again. In the last couple of weeks their normal fare of street robbing had been supplemented by some choice paying jobs. Jimmy Burgess had passed on some protection work in Hackney, while his brother had given them a little enforcement job up West. Steady Eddie Duncan had tipped them off about a lucrative burglary in Wandsworth and, with these jobs and a good run of street hits, they were quids in. As long as there was no conflict between paymasters, they would take anything on. Jimmy B had tried again to get them fully on board with his crew but they had managed to remain free without acrimony. Independence suited them. Of course, they paid their dues to the main men. Not to do so would be madness.
They ducked under a shop awning to shelter from the sudden cloudburst. Stanley’s stomach rumbled loudly. “Shall we grab a sandwich first?”
“Nah. Let’s get on with it.”
“He’s an ugly tight git, Sid, but it’s good to get back on his list again, eh?”
“I s’pose. Nice little earner for an easy job like this.”
A double-decker raced past them, splashing through the puddles. They ran to the other side of the road where scaffolding outside a department store provided further shelter. “You’ve got the downpayment safe, have you?”
Sid patted his pocket and nodded. “Unlike him to hand over such a large wedge of cash like that. He was always a slow payer before.”
“I’m not complaining. Keen to get the job done. Something to do with a family tragedy his sidekick told me when we were leaving.”
“Whatever. If you’re ready let’s get on with it.” A gust of wind almost removed Sid’s hat. Holding on to it tightly, he lowered his head into the drizzle and followed his brother round the corner.
Merlin was deep in thought and failed for a moment to register the Sergeant’s excited arrival. He had been thinking about the A.C.’s question about the younger Kennedy. Even if Joseph Kennedy had led Miss Harris on to get his way with her and left her embittered or just a nuisance, could a potential pregnancy really have provoked him to arrange her death? He knew that the Kennedys had been closely involved with gangsters in the prohibition era, but he felt pretty sure that they had smoother ways of dealing with awkward women than having them end up as corpses in the river. “Sorry, Sam. Miles away. What did you say?”
“I’ve got the developed negatives.”
Bridges threw a pile of photographs onto the desk. “Look.” He picked out two and pushed them across. They were similar to the other exampl
es of Myerson’s work they had seen. Sprawling limbs and naked young flesh. Two black and white photographs, two women, both beautiful in their different ways.
Merlin scrutinised each one carefully.
“Any more of these two girls?”
“A few, yes, similar poses.” Bridges slid the other photographs across to Merlin.
“And the rest of the batch?”
“Different girls, same sort of stuff. None that I recognise.”
Merlin kneaded his forehead for a moment before struggling to his feet. “Come on, then. I think it’s time we pulled Bernie in.”
Darkness had fallen on Tottenham Court Road. Merlin gazed at the reflection that stared back at him from the car side window. He thought of Sonia and essayed another sheepish smile.
“The background in those pictures seemed a little different from the others we saw, don’t you think, sir?”
Merlin rubbed his eyes and looked at one of the photographs. “I can’t see in this light. We’ll have a closer look at the pictures inside.”
“Or perhaps Bernie Myerson will tell us.” The car pulled up at the end of the grubby alley.
There was no answer from the shop. “Come on, Bernie, we know you’re in there.” Merlin shone a torch through the shop window. He could see someone sitting in a chair in front of the shop counter and rapped at the window, but the figure remained immobile. “I think he’s in the land of nod. We’re going to have to force the door.”
Bridges stood back, braced himself and ran at the door. There was a loud splintering noise but the lock held fast. He ran at the door again and this time it gave way. They were hit by an overpowering stench. Bridges reached the chair first. The seated man’s head lolled on to his chest as Bridges shook his shoulders. “Come on, Bernie. Rise and shine.”
Merlin found the light switch and as the dismal décor of the shop revealed itself, Myerson slipped from Bridges’ grip and slumped to the floor.