by Mark Ellis
Merlin bent down and rolled the photographer’s body face up. He recoiled as vomit spilled onto him. Bridges produced a clean white handkerchief. “Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll buy you a new one.” Grimacing, Merlin hurriedly wiped his coat before feeling for Myerson’s pulse. After trying a few times he shook his head, took a deep breath and walked over to the counter, where he found four empty bottles of whisky and one of gin. “I made a mistake. We should have brought him in for his own protection.”
“Wasn’t this an accident waiting to happen?”
“Strange how he finally succeeds in drinking himself to death the very day I tell someone about the information he’s given us.” He knelt down again and ran his torch over the body. “Look, Sam. On his wrist. See that red mark. And there’s one on the other wrist. Not as professional a job as they thought. This was no accident – his hands were tied and the booze poured down his throat.”
“Owen, sir?”
“If not, who?”
“Someone else connected with these photographs?”
“We’ll see.” He stood up. “You’d better make the usual calls.”
Bridges looked unsuccessfully around the shop for a telephone before going outside to find a police box. Merlin sighed and shone his torch down on Myerson’s face. “No need now to worry about being interned, Bernie. No need to worry about anything at all.”
At last they got away, leaving three other officers, the police doctor and a couple of forensic people at the scene.
“The Yard, sir?”
“Not yet. It’s late but let’s see if we can find Douglas. I’ve got that other photograph in my pocket.”
They drove through Soho and Piccadilly towards Whitehall, where they drew to a halt outside the Foreign Office.
Bridges entered the building and returned with the information that Douglas had left a short while ago. “Porter suggested we try the Carlton Club. He usually goes there for a tipple when he knocks off.”
Five minutes later, standing outside the grand façade of Douglas’ club, Merlin pondered briefly why so many men liked to spend so much of their free time in these all-male mausoleums. Something to do with single-sex public school education, he supposed.
In the lobby an elderly man in a frock coat bedecked with medals approached them. “I’m afraid the club is open to members only, gentlemen.”
“We are from Scotland Yard, chum. We’d like to speak to one of your members. You can get him out quietly or we can go in noisily. It’s up to you.”
The man’s bushy grey eyebrows jumped. “Who is it you want to see?”
“Mr Freddie Douglas.”
“He’s at the bar, I think. Please wait here and I’ll inform him of your presence.” The porter muttered something to a younger colleague before disappearing down a corridor.
“Seeing some fancy places these days, aren’t we, sir?”
Merlin looked up at the rows of portraits of former Prime Ministers and other Tory worthies lining the walls. “We certainly are. Here’s our friend.”
A purple-faced Douglas was hurrying from the far side of the lobby. “What on earth do you mean by this, Merlin? How dare you call on me at my club. This is quite unacceptable. I am now going to withdraw. Kindly arrange an appointment with me at my office in the normal way!” Douglas turned on his heels.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sir.”
Douglas looked back over his shoulder, eyes glaring. “Dammit, Merlin. Clear off.”
“Not before I’ve shown you something. Something involving you.”
Douglas turned round to face the policemen properly. A flicker of interest registered in his eyes. “What is it?”
“A photograph, sir. A rather embarrassing photograph. We can look at it here if you like, or we can find somewhere more private.”
After a moment’s thought, Douglas looked at the porter. “Can you suggest an appropriate place for me to talk in private to these gentlemen, Randall?”
“I believe the billiard room is empty, sir.”
“Thank you. Come on then. Let’s get on with it.”
The cherry-red leather armchairs were unoccupied. The green baize table displayed evidence of an uncompleted snooker game. The brightly-coloured balls sparkled in the glow of the overhead lamp. Bridges pulled three chairs together in the corner of the room furthest from the door.
Merlin produced the photograph and slid it across the arm of his chair to Douglas, who went very pale as he stared at it with an open mouth.
“Have you seen this photograph before, sir?”
“No.” The word came out in a hoarse whisper.
“Have you any idea how it came to be taken?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Just for the record, sir, could you tell us who the other gentleman is?”
Douglas again shook his head.
“Happen a lot, does it? You getting into bed with other young men, that is. Too many to remember? Never mind, we know who it is, don’t we Sergeant? It’s the recently deceased chauffeur at the American Embassy. You remember, don’t you? Johnny Morgan. That was the investigation you wanted me to go easy on. Perhaps you’d like to tell us about the circumstances in which this photograph was taken.”
Douglas’ deep-set eyes retreated further into their sockets before he closed them and lowered his head.
A waiter came in and waved. “Can I get you anything, gentlemen?”
Merlin looked at Douglas’ shaking hands. “Nothing for us, thanks, but bring a brandy for this gentleman.”
Zarb was just leaving the office when the phone rang. He had had a long and tiresome day and was looking forward to a late supper at The Connaught with his wife. He briefly considered ignoring it, then sat back down at his desk with a sigh. The time difference was so much more convenient if you were the person at home calling Europe, rather than being the person in Europe called from home. This job would be the ruin of his marriage, he thought as he picked up the receiver. “Secretary Hull on the line.”
“Put him through.”
“Can you hear me, Zarb?” The receiver crackled.
“Just about, sir. It’s a poor line again.”
“I thought I’d better bring you up to date with our conversation with the Ambassador.”
“Yes, sir.” Zarb leaned back into his chair and looked over at the wall to his right and the portrait of the powerful Southern gentleman to whom he was talking.
“After listening to the usual harangue about the pathetic state of Britain’s defences, and the inevitability of a Hitler walkover in the event of hostilities really getting going, the nub of what he had to talk about was some story about the Germans wanting to float terms for a settlement with Britain by us, so that we can then exert pressure on Chamberlain and Halifax to get a deal sewn up before England goes down the plughole – I think the Ambassador used slightly more colourful language. Apparently, his idiot sidekick Norton has been having discussions on this with the Italian embassy, who are acting as a conduit for the passage of this message from the Fuhrer. Kennedy says that he thinks there is likely to be a receptive attitude to these terms among several senior British government members – Halifax he regards in particular as a pragmatic man. Apparently, Norton has been talking to some senior Foreign Office officials who have fingers in this pie and who have been encouraging the Ambassador’s involvement. That fellow called Douglas you mentioned is involved. Is this all news to you?”
Zarb felt one of his migraines coming on. “As I said before, Norton doesn’t keep me informed about his activities. That said, I don’t find the story of terms being floated so surprising. As you are aware, the Ambassador is not alone in his pessimistic outlook. There are many members of the Establishment who talk in private perhaps, but quite freely in some cases, about the need for an accommodation with Hitler. You know the sort of stuff. He’s got nothing against us. Just wants a free hand with Europe. No designs on our empire. Oh well, yes, perhaps we can give him an African colony or
two. And as for the Jews. Well, he’s not so wrong about them is he? That sort of thing. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the terms being floated, if they are genuine, aren’t far from that assessment.”
“You’re right, Zarb. More detailed of course, but you’ve got the gist of them. And aside from the fact that the Ambassador trusts an idiot like Norton to be a go-between on them, the President and I are inclined to view them as genuine, bearing in mind all the information we’ve been collecting at the State Department.”
Zarb dipped his purple handkerchief in a jug of water on his desk and applied it to his forehead. “Do you want me to take any action?”
“No. After we got shot of the Ambassador, the President and I had a long chat. First of all, the President said, it is apparent from his track record that any proposal or undertaking from Hitler will not be worth the paper it’s written on. Any vacillation while peace is negotiated might slow up Britain’s rearmament programme. Secondly, the President wants us to stay as well-removed from the scene as we can at present. Despite the strength of the isolationists in the American heartland these days, the President can see no value, electoral or otherwise, in setting ourselves up as some kind of honest broker between the home of parliamentary democracy and a thuggish dictatorship. Above all else, it would stick in the President’s craw to do anything significant at the behest of Joe Kennedy – you know he’s plotting to go after the party nomination against the President later this year, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In any event, I wanted to keep you informed. You’re not required to do anything at present, oh, except one thing. I’d like you to get Norton on the next ship home. He’s a liability. It’s bad enough having the Ambassador sporting his defeatist appeasement views to all and sundry – and that’s not going to go on much longer, I can assure you – but to have his shady crony hanging around with English diplomats who might be regarded as teetering on the edge of treason – it’s too much. Get him back here please.”
“Does the Ambassador know that Norton’s being sent home?”
“No, and I don’t give a damn.”
Zarb felt his migraine lifting. “Very good, sir.”
The car was held up behind a bus just before the crossing on the corner of Sloane Square. A group of drunken sailors on leave were clumsily making their way from one pub to another. Bridges tapped the steering wheel impatiently.
“Do you believe him, sir?”
“His story has the virtue of simplicity.” Merlin stifled a yawn and shivered. “Let’s sleep on it. It’s going to be another busy day tomorrow. You can drop me here. I’ll walk the last bit. It’ll warm me up. Can you pick me up from home at eight-thirty?”
“Where are we going first?”
“Resolving the Kennedy issue is the next priority, so let’s go and see Zarb. Seems an accommodating sort of fellow so I’m sure he’ll see us without an appointment.”
“Tomorrow then.”
Merlin blew on his hands, pulled his coat collar close around his neck and disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER 13
Friday February 9th
The Stars and Stripes flapped noisily on its flagpole in the stiff morning breeze as the policemen climbed the Embassy steps. They were swiftly ushered through the labyrinth towards Herman Zarb’s white doors.
“Good of you to see us, sir, at short notice. I know you’re a very busy man.”
“Not at all, Chief Inspector. Please sit down. Can I offer you refreshments? No? So what can I do for you?”
“There have been some developments in our investigations. I thought it would be prudent to keep you informed.”
Zarb smiled appreciatively.
“Taking the case of Miss Harris first, we have discovered some rather surprising things. One is a little delicate from a diplomatic viewpoint.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Were you aware, Mr Zarb, that Miss Harris was involved in some sort of relationship with the Ambassador’s eldest son, Mr Joseph Kennedy Junior?”
Zarb’s cheek twitched. “No. I was not. Are you sure about this?”
Merlin paused as a large ornate clock in the corner struck the hour. “Pretty sure. Probably over the last three months of last year.”
“Is there any suggestion that the Ambassador’s son had anything to do with Miss Harris’ death?”
“Not at present, but it would be very helpful if you could give us details of his movements over the past few months.”
“I’ll have to check with Miss Edgar. I’ll speak to her and get a schedule of his movements sent over. They’re all out of the country now, you know.” He briefly closed his eyes. “Well, this is disconcerting. Most disconcerting.”
“In any event, sir, her involvement with Mr Kennedy and its likely abrupt termination does appear to have contributed to a deterioration in her mental and emotional outlook.”
“What makes you say that?”
“We are trying to explain to ourselves another surprising discovery.”
Zarb raised his eyebrows.
“We found some compromising photographs of her.”
“What exactly do you mean by compromising, Chief Inspector?”
Merlin struggled momentarily for the appropriate words.
“Naked, sir.” Bridges chipped in. “There are pictures of her with nothing on, taken by a shady character we’ve just found dead in his shop.”
Zarb’s look of curiosity resolved itself rapidly into one of perplexity.
“We are trying to piece together the circumstances which led to these pictures being taken. What is apparent to the Sergeant and me is that, somehow or other, Miss Harris fell in with a disreputable bunch of people and we think this somehow led to her death.”
Zarb leaned back in his chair and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. The sound of an angry car horn outside briefly filled the room. “This is all very worrying. If I can speak in confidence…” Zarb cleared his throat. “I am not surprised about your information about the young Mr Kennedy. I know I shouldn’t say it, but ‘like father, like son’ is the phrase. Joe Junior certainly has an eye for the girls, as does his brother Jack, but that said, I cannot believe that he is implicated in any way in this poor girl’s death. As to the photographs, well… What could have possibly led her to…?” He looked away and shook his head gravely. “And where are you, Chief Inspector, as regards Morgan?”
“We know that Mr Morgan was involved with the disreputable people I mentioned. His uncle is a crook who runs a nightclub where Miss Harris was seen. We suspect that the uncle may have been responsible for the photographer’s death. We’ve also now discovered some compromising pictures of Mr Morgan.”
“You’re losing me.”
“I’d prefer not to go into every detail at the moment. I would say that we now have an idea as to where these photographs might have been taken and that may take us closer to the truth.”
“Is there anything you need from me apart from Joe Junior’s schedule?”
“No thanks, but you should know that we are quite certain that Arthur Norton was also involved in some way in all of this and we plan to question him further. We may not be able to go as easily on him as we did last time. As you know, I think, Mr Norton got the Foreign Office on our back the last time.”
“That was nothing to do with me.”
“So we guessed. Anyway, we think it unlikely that the Foreign Office will come riding to the rescue again as the official involved last time is himself a little compromised with Mr Norton in these affairs.”
“Not a fellow called Douglas, by any chance?”
A thin smile played across Merlin’s lips. “That’s the one, sir. You know him too?”
“I know of him.”
“In any event, Douglas has provided us with further information and we’re going to speak again to Norton. I just wanted to make sure that I wasn’t treading on your toes by doing so.”
“Not at all. I should just mention
two things. First is that as an accredited servant of this Embassy, he does have the benefit of diplomatic immunity. The second is that I have just been requested by Washington to return him home. I was planning to speak to him this morning to tell him to get on the first available ship, so I should see him sooner rather than later if I were you.”
Norton was nursing a cup of coffee when the telephone rang. He’d had another lively night, though this time not at The Blue Angel. He had decided to be sensible and follow everyone’s advice by giving the club a wide berth for a while. He had not, however, given Berkeley Square a wide berth and Edie’s friend Lucy, who was very adventurous for one so young, had only just left the flat. Norton was lying back thinking of little except the strange new rash around his groin. He was hoping it wasn’t something he was going to have to see someone about when the sound of the phone in the hall gave him a start. He eased himself out of bed and padded to the hall. “Mayfair 468.”
“Norton, is that you?”
“Yes, who’s that?”
“It’s Douglas.”
“Morning, Freddie. What’s wrong? You don’t sound yourself. I’ve got some news by the way. The Ambassador had an appointment to see the…”
“Not on the phone, Arthur.”
“No, of course. You sound terrible.”
“Yes, well, something’s come up. I think we should let this matter between us rest for the moment.”
“But, I thought…”
“Look. I’ve decided I need to keep my head down. And if I were you, I would do the same.”
“But what about when I get an answer back? I’ll need to let the Count…”
“All that’s up to you now. All I can say is that I’m dropping out of the picture. I’ve got other problems to worry about.”
“But…”
“But nothing. And by the way, I’d watch out for those policemen if I were you. I won’t be able to keep them off your back from now on. And your friend Morrie Owen is a viper, so watch out for him too.”
“What do you…”