Murder at the Ritz

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘We don’t know,’ lied Lampson. ‘The question for you is: was he one of the men who took the body from the mortuary yesterday?’

  Nugent shook his head as he handed the photograph back to Lampson.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing like any of ’em.’

  We’re getting nowhere, thought Lampson miserably as he re-entered Scotland Yard and headed up the stairs to the office. We’re never going to find out who the dead man is.

  Coburg was on the phone when Lampson walked into the office. Coburg finished his conversation and hung up as Lampson dropped the photograph on the desk.

  ‘Your mate at the Foreign Office came up trumps,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, Nugent says he wasn’t one of the crowd who took the body away.’

  Coburg gave him a broad grin. ‘Luckily, we have a lead,’ he said. ‘According to someone I met our dead man is a certain Joe Williams, who, under the name of Antonio, was a tango dancer at El Torero near Waterloo Station. I was on the phone to the club just now making sure they’re open at this hour. They are, and we’re on our way to talk to the manager, a Mr Stavros Higgins.’

  ‘Stavros Higgins?’ echoed Lampson incredulously. ‘What sort of name is that?’

  ‘If it’s real, I expect he’s half-Greek, half-English,’ said Coburg. ‘On the other hand, it could be an adopted name for professional reasons.’

  In the car, Coburg filled in Lampson on Julie. ‘She shares a house with the jazz singer Rosa Weeks, who’s the lady I was meeting for lunch.’

  ‘Oh, so it was a lady, eh?’

  Coburg chuckled. ‘Come on, Ted, you know it was. You hung around after you dropped me off, and you saw us.’

  ‘I wasn’t being nosy!’ protested Lampson. ‘I was worried you might have been late and she might have left. In which case, you’d have needed a lift, that was all.’

  ‘Your interest in my welfare is appreciated,’ said Coburg.

  ‘So, are we going to pass this info about Joe Williams on to all those others who are interested? You know, MI5, MI6, the Foreign Office …’

  ‘After we’ve checked it out ourselves. Now we’ve got something concrete to look into, I don’t want things being messed up with everyone else getting involved.’

  El Torero was a small low-ceilinged room in a basement beneath a parade of shops opposite the station. The decor was predominantly red: the lights had red shades over them, the walls were painted red and were decorated with paintings of bulls and bullfighters. A long bar ran the length of one wall with a variety of bottles on display behind it. Small tables with stubs of candles in jars on them were cramped around a space where the artistes performed. Next to it was a small stage for the musicians. At this time of day the only people inside were the manager and a barman stacking up glasses in readiness for the evening, along with Coburg and Lampson. Stavros Higgins did, indeed, look partly Greek, but his accent was pure London. He looked at the photo of the dead man in the same bewildered manner as Julie had.

  ‘Yeh, it’s Joe all right,’ he said. ‘But what was he doing at the Ritz? And in a suite belonging to a king, you say?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Coburg. ‘Did he ever mention the Ritz to you in any way? Or people who might have worked there, or been staying there?’

  Higgins shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But then, I’d have been surprised if he had. The Ritz was way out of Joe’s league.’

  ‘Where did he live?’

  ‘Just round the corner from here. I’ll give you his address.’

  ‘What about friends of his? People at the club? Ones he danced with, say.’

  ‘He only had one partner, Alice, and it was purely professional. She’s the wife of the bandleader, see, and if Joe had tried anything on with her he’d have been spitting out teeth. Bert’s a tempestuous type.’

  ‘Bert?’

  ‘Bert Watkins. Good bloke, but he’s got a bit of a temper on him when he gets riled.’

  ‘Did he ever get riled with Joe?’

  Higgins shook his head. ‘No. Joe did everything right, kept in time to the music, didn’t try it on with Alice.’

  ‘So, who might have killed him?’

  Higgins shrugged helplessly. ‘I’ve got no idea. And as he got killed at the Ritz, I can’t see it was anything to do with working at the club.’

  ‘Still, we’ll need a list of the club’s employees. Names and addresses. Bar staff, waiters, cleaners, musicians – everyone Williams would have had contact with.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To talk to them. One of them might be able to throw some light on what happened.’

  ‘They won’t,’ insisted Higgins.

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll be the judge of that. So, if you’ll let us have the list …’

  ‘I’m not sure if I can do that,’ said Higgins. ‘Don’t I need to get their permission first?’

  ‘No,’ said Coburg. ‘This is a murder enquiry so everything else is superseded.’

  Higgins looked at him sourly, obviously very reluctant to comply.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  Coburg shrugged. ‘Of course, if that’s difficult, I can always send people to do it for you. They can go through your books and make the list for me. The thing is, because everyone’s short-staffed, with a war on, I expect they’ll be people from lots of different places drafted in to do it. You know, the Foreign Office, the Tax Office, Customs, who might be interested in some of the bottles in your storeroom—’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Higgins with a scowl. ‘When you do want this list?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘It’ll take me a while.’

  ‘We’ll wait,’ said Coburg.

  It took Higgins half an hour, but finally, reluctantly, he appeared from his office with two sheets of paper.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Coburg.

  He and Lampson took the list to a small cafe set amongst the parade of shops and ordered refreshments: coffee for Coburg and tea for Lampson.

  ‘They say it won’t be long before coffee can’t be got,’ said Lampson. ‘I’ve already heard tales of people grinding up acorns to make their own.’

  ‘I can imagine few things more disgusting,’ said Coburg sagely. ‘But I’m sure we’ll get used to it. We got used to eating almost anything during the last war, especially in the trenches.’

  ‘I heard you ate rats,’ said Lampson.

  ‘Not me, particularly,’ replied Coburg. ‘Although I know some did. Mind you, some of the rats in the trenches were the size of dogs, so they had a bit of meat on them.’

  He took one page of Higgins’s list and passed the other to Lampson.

  ‘See if there’s anyone we recognise,’ he said.

  They studied their respective lists, while sipping their drinks.

  ‘There’s a name here I know,’ said Lampson. ‘Billy Thackeray, a waiter. If it’s the same Billy Thackeray, I grew up with him.’

  ‘In Somers Town?’

  Lampson nodded. ‘Then he moved. Well, he had to while he still had his arms and legs.’

  ‘A bad boy?’

  ‘Indeed. A slimy burglar who specialised in robbing old people. And in his own locality. When word got out what he was up to he scarpered pretty quick.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Years. He was seventeen then. Word was he went south of the river. He’d be safe there. No one from the north of the Thames ever goes south if they can help it. It’s a foreign country.’

  ‘What’s even more interesting is this,’ said Coburg. He pointed to the addresses. ‘He and Joe Williams lived in the same house.’

  ‘So, shall we go and see him?’

  ‘I think before we do, it might help to have a word with Barry Moss, the station sergeant at Waterloo nick. If this Billy Thackeray is still a bad lad, then Barry will know about him. And he might be able to tell us about Joe Williams.’

  Nick Phelps, the barman at the Blue Cat club, looked up in surprise as Julie Staf
ford walked in and sat at the bar. At this time of day the club was empty except for the cleaners, and Nick, who virtually lived at the club.

  ‘You’re in early today,’ said Nick. ‘You ain’t due on for hours.’

  Julie sighed. ‘I didn’t feel like being at home. The other girls are out just now, and the house has that empty feel. I wanted to come somewhere with company, and company I don’t have to pretend with.’

  Nick grinned. ‘That’ll be me. Drink?’

  ‘Gin,’ said Julie.

  Nick poured her a gin and slid the glass across the bar to her.

  ‘You look down. What’s happened?’

  ‘A friend of mine has just died,’ sighed Julie unhappily. ‘Been killed.’

  ‘Oh no. The war?’

  Julie shook her head. ‘Do you remember Antonio? I bought him in here a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ said Nick.

  ‘He’s a tango dancer, works at the El Torero.’

  ‘What is he, Spanish?’

  ‘No, his real name’s Joe. Anyway, I heard that he’s dead. He was killed in a suite of some foreign king at the Ritz.’ She hesitated, then gave a shudder as she added: ‘Someone cut his throat.’

  Nick stared at her, stunned. ‘Murdered?’

  ‘That’s what the police told me.’ She shook her head, bewildered. ‘What was he doing at a place like the Ritz in the first place?’

  ‘It’s a mystery,’ agreed Nick. ‘Who is this king?’

  ‘King?’ asked Julie, puzzled.

  ‘The one in whose place he was found.’

  ‘I can’t remember. It’s a funny sort of name. But the copper who gave me the news said he’s the King of Albania.’ She frowned. ‘Where’s Albania?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Nick. He pointed at Julie’s glass as she emptied it and put it back on the bar. ‘Do you want another?’

  Julie shook her head. ‘No. I don’t feel right being out and about when Joe’s just been killed. I think I’ll go back home.’

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ said Nick.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Julie. ‘I don’t think I’ll be up to it. Can you tell the boss I’ve had some bad news? Tell him I’ll be in tomorrow night.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Nick.

  He watched her as she wandered towards the stairs that led to the street. He waited until he was certain she was out of sight before picking up the telephone and dialling a number. When a familiar gruff voice answered, he said: ‘It’s Nick at the Blue Cat. I’ve just heard something you may be interested in.’

  When Rosa got home after her Rivoli Bar performance that night it was to find Julie and their other housemate, Donna, sitting at the kitchen table working their way through a bottle of wine and a packet of cigarettes. Julie looked miserable.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at the club?’ Rosa asked her.

  ‘I couldn’t face it, not after what hapened to Joe,’ said Julie. ‘Putting on a happy face for the punters.’

  ‘Won’t they mind?’ asked Rosa.

  ‘I’m just in the chorus line,’ said Julie. ‘It’s not like you, solo. If you don’t turn up there’s an audience and an empty piano. Me, I’m one of a dozen girls and no one’s counting. Except the manager, and he’s OK. I think he’s got the hots for me.’ She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to Joe.’

  Rosa sat down and poured herself a glass. ‘I didn’t think you two were that close.’

  ‘I didn’t think so either, until your pal told me he was dead. It’s the shock, him being killed. He was fun. A nice bloke.’

  ‘It’s the war,’ sighed Donna. ‘People you know and love dying suddenly.’

  ‘It wasn’t the war,’ protested Julie. ‘It was at the Ritz!’

  ‘I lost my brother at Dunkirk,’ said Donna, and she gave a heartfelt sigh of deep sadness. ‘Twenty-five he was. Tom. A plumber. He had such a great future ahead of him. There was all this hoo-ha about the number of soldiers they managed to get off the beaches there, but they never rescued Tom.’

  The sudden wailing tones of the air-raid siren from outside made all three women sit up.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Donna.

  She ran to the hallway and grabbed her coat and gas mask, Rosa and Julie hurrying after her.

  ‘Gas mask!’ shouted Rosa at Julie when she saw her friend had left hers behind.

  Julie ran back and snatched it from the dresser, then all three women hurried outside, locked the front door and ran towards Oxford Street and the entrance to the shelter beneath one of the large department stores. The sound of the sirens was deafening, the sirens and whistles from the patrolling air-raid wardens adding to the cacophony. Above them the broad beams of the searchlights criss-crossed as they searched the night sky for approaching German bombers, trying to pinpoint them for the crews of the enormous anti-aircraft guns surrounded by protective banks of sandbags.

  The three women joined the masses of people pouring out of their houses and making for the shelter. It was going to be another sleepless night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Thursday 22nd August

  Coburg’s first call the next morning was to Rosa’s house. Rosa opened the door to him, a welcoming smile on her face.

  ‘This is unexpected,’ she said. ‘But a pleasure.’ She opened the door wider. ‘Are you staying? Donna’s left for work and Julie’s still in bed.’

  ‘Sadly, no,’ said Coburg. ‘I wanted to check you were all right after the raid last night. Any plans to get a telephone put in? I could have called you rather than surprising you.’

  ‘I like being surprised this way,’ said Rosa. ‘As for the telephone, that’s down to the landlord and he doesn’t want to spend the money.’ She gave a nervous shudder as she said: ‘We were fine, but it was a bit close for comfort. We actually felt the explosions in the shelter.’

  ‘Where is your nearest shelter?’

  ‘Just round the corner in Oxford Street. How near was the bombing?’

  ‘Harrow,’ said Coburg.

  ‘That’s just up the Edgware Road,’ said Rosa, concerned.

  ‘It’s still a few miles away,’ said Coburg. ‘And it’s in Middlesex.’

  ‘You think the Luftwaffe are sticking to postal districts and county boundaries?’ commented Rosa sarcastically.

  ‘Central London still hasn’t been touched,’ insisted Coburg.

  ‘So why are they bombing Harrow?’

  Coburg shrugged. ‘Navigational error.’

  ‘How can you take this so calmly?’ demanded Rosa.

  ‘I’m not taking it calmly. That’s why I came, because I was worried about you.’ Tentatively he suggested: ‘Maybe, if you’re worried, you should come and stay with me?’

  ‘They bombed Harrow last night. Who’s to say they won’t bomb Hampstead tonight?’

  ‘We have shelters at the flats. Two Anderson shelters have been erected in what were the gardens at the back.’

  Rosa looked scornful. ‘Those things look pretty rickety to me. Just a sheet of corrugated iron.’

  ‘Properly shaped and covered with earth,’ Coburg insisted.

  ‘The basement in Oxford Street is deeper and stronger,’ countered Rosa. ‘And I can get there in four minutes.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘You sure you won’t come in? After last night I could do with some comfort.’

  Coburg pulled her to him and kissed her. ‘I want nothing more, but my sergeant’s waiting for me. Tonight?’

  She gave a rueful grin and a sigh. ‘If that’s the best you can offer, it’ll have to do.’ She hugged him tight and kissed him, then released him. ‘Off you go and be a policeman.’

  Coburg and Lampson stood in the reception area at Waterloo police station and watched Sergeant Barry Moss as he studied the two pages of names. Like Coburg, fifty-year-old Moss was a veteran of the First World War where a burst of machine-gun fire tearing through his right leg had left him with a pronounced limp, meaning that most of his duties were now at the station. Moss was happy
with this as he didn’t have to be out patrolling in bad weather, and the police station was near enough to his home that his family could get hold of him in an emergency.

  ‘Just two names stick out,’ said Moss. ‘Joe Williams and Billy Thackeray. Both as crooked as they come.’

  ‘So, why haven’t we got any record of them at the Yard?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘Too small-time,’ said Moss. ‘Petty offences, and as far I know they’ve never been convicted. Mostly they’ve been involved in knocking over warehouses, but on the rare occasions when they’ve been lifted, they’ve always got an alibi.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Different people, but each time the same name seems to come into the frame. Mel McGuinness.’

  Coburg smiled. ‘Ah, now you’re talking. Big Mel. Yes, we know him. So, you think that Williams and Thackeray are part of his outfit?’

  ‘Small fry only,’ said Moss. ‘But Big Mel looks after his own.’

  ‘What was the last thing Williams was picked up for?’

  ‘Suspected of being part of gang that lifted a load of sugar from a warehouse, along with Thackeray,’ said Moss. ‘With sugar being as tightly rationed as it is, there’s a big black market out there for it.’

  ‘And they didn’t go down for it?’

  Moss shook his head. ‘Their alibi was they were in a card game when the robbery went down, and they had these blokes who backed them up. Plus, the witness we had who’d identified Williams and Thackeray as being part of the gang – he was storeman at the warehouse which was robbed – backtracked and withdrew his statement. Said he must have been confused.’

  ‘After a visit from Big Mel,’ said Coburg.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Moss. ‘Not that we could prove anything.’ He pushed the two sheets of paper back to Coburg. ‘And now Williams is dead.’

  ‘He is,’ confirmed Coburg.

  ‘I guess his past finally caught up with him,’ said Moss. ‘So, justice of a sort prevails.’