Murder at the Ritz

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘You again,’ he grumbled as Coburg got up from the hard seat where he’d been waiting. ‘What’s up this time?’

  ‘I wondered what you could tell me about Rajmond Hoxha?’

  Hibbert shot a wary glance towards the receptionist who appeared to be occupied with ticking boxes on forms.

  ‘We’ll talk in my office,’ he said.

  Coburg followed through the door to the interior of the building and down a long, stone-walled corridor.

  ‘Right,’ he said when they were in his office. ‘Who were you asking about?’

  ‘Rajmond Hoxha, but you might know him better as Raymond Harris. He’s an American record company executive. At least, that’s his official position.’

  ‘And why would I know him?’

  ‘Because I’ve been informed by a very reliable source that British Intelligence are working with him.’

  ‘Who’s your source?’

  ‘Sir Vincent Blessington at the Foreign Office.’

  Hibbert scowled. ‘That man talks too much.’

  ‘He wants the murder at the Ritz solved.’

  ‘Maybe it’s best to forget it.’

  ‘King Zog doesn’t see it that way. He seems very keen to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘King Zog doesn’t run things in this country. He’s got no power.’

  ‘But he has clout with the Foreign Office. They want to keep him sweet. Or is your concern that if we investigate Mr Harris too deeply we might find he’s involved.’

  ‘Involved?’

  ‘He’s a spy, so for my money that also means he’s been trained in assassination techniques.’

  ‘Supposition,’ snorted Hibbert.

  ‘He’s also Albanian.’

  ‘He’s American,’ Hibbert corrected him.

  ‘He comes originally from Albania.’

  ‘There are lots of Albanians in London,’ countered Hibbert.

  ‘So, are you telling me you haven’t considered that he might have been involved in what happened at the Ritz? Especially now we have two murders.’

  ‘Why are you coming to me with this?’ demanded Hibbert. ‘If this bloke’s a foreign agent you should be talking to MI6.’

  ‘British agents abroad are Six, foreign agents here are Five,’ said Coburg. ‘Also, I’ve met with Six twice about this case. Atkinson. I don’t like him, and more importantly, he doesn’t like me. He won’t share any intelligence with me.’

  ‘And you think I will?’

  ‘You care about the security of this country. Atkinson’s priority is protecting the reputation of MI6. And you at Five seem to know more about what Six are up to than they do themselves.’

  Hibbert gave a grunt that seemed to confirm Coburg’s opinion.

  ‘Raymond Harris is an American citizen under the protection of the American government,’ said Hibbert. ‘As far as we’re concerned, the fact he’s residing at the Ritz is coincidental.’

  ‘It’s interesting you know he’s staying at the Ritz,’ commented Coburg. ‘Which suggests some kind of communication between him and MI5.’

  Hibbert regarded Coburg with a look of quiet exasperation.

  ‘These are difficult times, Coburg. There’s a war on, which means it’s important that we maintain all levels of communication, but as far as Harris is concerned, we’re at arm’s length with him. There’s no collusion or co-operation, if that’s what you’re suggesting. We know him and we know where he is. As far as we’re concerned, we have the same aims, but we’re not in each other’s pockets. The business at the Ritz is about the money. Two million is a tempting target for anyone. But it’s not an Intelligence issue. If there are politics involved, they’re not the concern of MI5. That’s for the Foreign Office and Six.’

  ‘Five looks after what happens on home soil,’ countered Coburg. ‘Hoxha is here, on British soil.’

  ‘And he is not a problem for us,’ said Hibbert flatly. ‘As far as we’re concerned the murders at the Ritz are a criminal investigation, not one for Intelligence. So, it’s a matter for the police. You want my advice?’

  ‘Any advice is always welcome,’ said Coburg.

  ‘Drop the case,’ said Hibbert. ‘No money was stolen. A known thief was killed, and some kitchen hand. People whose deaths have much greater impact are being killed every day. There are bigger crimes being committed out there.’

  ‘And if more people are killed linked to the deaths at the Ritz?’

  Hibbert shrugged. ‘Depends who they are. If anything happens to King Zog and his family, yes, of course. That has big implications. As to the rest? More low lifes and petty criminals getting bumped off? Good riddance. Makes our job a whole lot easier.’

  Mel McGuinness and Charley Barnes sat on one of the benches by the bandstand at the end of Victoria Embankment Gardens. Behind them the skeletal metallic structure of the Hungerford Bridge spanned the Thames to Waterloo, as did the white-stoned Waterloo Bridge further along, past the famous obelisk of Cleopatra’s Needle. McGuinness checked his watch.

  ‘Five to three,’ he said.

  ‘They’ll be here,’ Barnes assured him.

  McGuinness surveyed the gardens and his men stationed at irregular intervals, one on a bench not far away reading The Sportsman another standing by a bus stop just outside the garden, one waiting outside a telephone box, a fourth wearing a park-keeper’s uniform walking around picking up litter with a spiked stick.

  ‘I’ve always liked these gardens,’ said McGuinness. ‘I used to come here and sit and listen to the band, before north of the river got a bit dodgy. There’s nothing like a good brass band.’

  ‘Here they are,’ said Barnes, tensing, his hand slipping into the pocket of his overcoat.

  ‘Easy, Charley,’ said McGuinness. ‘We don’t want to spook ’em before we’ve started.’

  Reluctantly, Barnes removed his hand from his pocket, and the pistol in it, letting it rest on his lap.

  Den and Danny Bell were in their late thirties, Den the older by three years. Both were short and slim, but they looked bulky today. Bulletproof vests beneath their long overcoats, McGuinness thought. The brothers were accompanied by six men who were spread out in a rough semicircle around and behind them.

  ‘They’ve come tooled up,’ murmured Barnes.

  ‘Just as we have,’ said McGuinness. ‘I’d expect nothing less. It shows respect.’

  As the brothers neared the bench where McGuinness and Barnes were waiting for them, the men protecting them stopped and fanned out, melting into the background. Barnes rose to his feet and moved to another bench a short distance away. Den acknowledged Barnes with a nod, then he and his brother sat down on the bench alongside McGuinness. When they were together the resemblance between them became more obvious. They might have been twins. Both had long, thin, pale faces, the same style of haircut, a neat back and sides, both had piercing greenish-blue eyes. The difference between them was the pencil-thin moustache that Danny sported.

  ‘Mel, we’re glad Charley reached out, cos we were going to get in touch with you,’ said Den. ‘This is a tragedy. A real tragedy.’

  ‘And we can assure you that what happened to the Four Feathers was nothing to do with us,’ added Danny earnestly.

  ‘What about Billy Thackeray and Joe Williams?’ demanded McGuinness.

  Den held up his hands. ‘Again, nothing to do with us.’

  ‘We had nothing to do with them,’ put in Danny. ‘Not when they was alive, and certainly nothing to do with them dying.’

  ‘You go to the Ritz,’ said McGuinness.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ acknowledged Den. ‘The food is the finest to be had in London, and as it’s on our patch …’

  ‘So, what was Joe Williams doing there to cause him to end up dead?’ asked McGuinness.

  ‘Mel, on our mother’s life!’ protested Danny. ‘We didn’t know he was there. How could we? We don’t stay there, though we could if we wanted to. We just go there to eat now and then.’

  �
�Which is why we’re here,’ said Den. ‘Whatever’s happened is nothing to do with us or any of our lot. We keep out of your way, and you keep out of ours. That’s the way it’s been, and it works for all of us because of that. There’s no way we’d do anything to jeopardise that.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘We have no idea,’ insisted Den. ‘We’ve got people asking around because we knew you’d think it might have been us and the last thing we want is to spend our time fighting a war with you. Times are hard enough as it is without courting trouble.’

  ‘It wasn’t us or any of our blokes, we can promise you that,’ said Danny. ‘Like I say, we’re asking around, and as soon as we get anything we’ll let you know straight away.’

  ‘And if it turns out it was one of your blokes acting on his own?’ asked McGuinness.

  ‘If it was, and trust me, Mel, it wasn’t, but if it was we’d deal with him. And we’d make sure you’d be there when we do,’ said Den. ‘We can’t say fairer than that, can we?’

  Lampson was at his desk in their office when Coburg returned to the Yard.

  ‘Took you a bit longer than expected, guv?’ said Lampson. ‘Problems?’

  ‘No, the information I got at the Foreign Office led me on to MI5 at Wormwood Scrubs.’

  ‘You should have had the car after all,’ observed Lampson.

  ‘The walk did me good.’

  ‘You walked to Wormwood Scrubs?’ said Lampson, horrified.

  ‘No, to the Foreign Office. I got a taxi to The Scrubs,’ admitted Coburg. ‘I’ll tell you what I learnt in a minute. How did you get on? Did you find Billy Thackeray’s girlfriend?’

  ‘I did,’ said Lampson. ‘From what she told me, it looks like Williams and Thackeray were planning to steal the money from the King’s suite.’

  ‘She told you as much?’

  ‘She said Thackeray told her that him and Joe Williams had a job on which was worth two million, and they were going to split it, a million each.’

  ‘Yes, that seems fairly conclusive,’ said Coburg. ‘So, why was Thackeray killed before they made their attempt?’

  ‘Vera reckons Joe Williams might have killed him.’

  ‘Why? If he was going to do that surely he’d have waited until after the job was done. They would have needed both of them to handle the bullion, if not the money.’ He frowned doubtfully. ‘In fact, that much bullion would need more than two blokes to move it. Gold’s heavy.’

  ‘Maybe there were others involved and they were with Joe that night, and it was them who killed him.’

  ‘Again, why? It wasn’t as if there was a fight over the money; nothing was taken.’

  ‘So this King Zog says,’ pointed out Lampson. ‘He could be lying.’

  ‘Yes, he could. That’s a good point,’ said Coburg approvingly. ‘Maybe the robbery did take place after all. Not all the bullion and cash, but some of it.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Face the King out with it, see what he says?’

  ‘No,’ said Coburg unhappily. ‘He’ll just deny it. No, the person I need to talk to is his private secretary, Count Ahmed. Him, I might be able to lean on.’ He picked up the phone, dialled the Ritz and asked to be put through to the hall porter.

  ‘George,’ he said genially. ‘It’s DCI Coburg. Is Count Ahmed back yet?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Coburg, he’s not and there’s no word about him. I’ve tried asking some of the royal staff, the junior members, but discreetly of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Coburg.

  ‘I shall do my best to find out, I promise.’

  ‘Thank you, George. I know you will.’

  Coburg hung up and Lampson said: ‘No joy there, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ sighed Coburg.

  ‘So how did you get on, guv? You said you had to go to MI5.’

  Coburg nodded. ‘According to Sir Vincent Blessington, Raymond Harris is actually Rajmond Hoxha, born in Albania before he moved to America.’

  ‘Bit suspicious that, using an alias,’ commented Lampson.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Coburg. ‘Many Americans have come from somewhere else, and it helps them to fit in if they anglicise their name. The interesting thing I picked up is that it seems that Harris is an undercover agent for the American government.’

  ‘A spy?’

  ‘Indeed. But one who’s been working with British Intelligence.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief, anyhow.’

  ‘Yes, except it raises an interesting possibility. Spies are usually trained in all manner of subversive activities, including opening locks, theft and assassination techniques.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Lampson. ‘I see where you’re going with this. You think he could have been involved in trying to nick the money, and he may have been the one who killed Joe Williams.’ Then he frowned. ‘But why would a secret agent get involved in a robbery?’

  ‘He’s Albanian,’ Coburg reminded him. ‘And there are those who think that the King, in liberating the money from the Albanian National Bank, was stealing it from the people of that country.’

  Lampson looked at him dubiously. ‘It’s a bit far-fetched, guv. He’d have to have been working with other like-minded people to do that.’

  ‘Like a kitchen hand from Macedonia?’ said Coburg. ‘Or others of Albanian extraction? There are quite a few of them in London at the moment.’

  Lampson let out a heavy sigh. ‘Well, it certainly adds a complication.’ He sighed gloomily again. ‘As if this case wasn’t complicated enough already.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  That evening Coburg returned to the Ritz to see if there were any tables free for Rosa’s performance in the Rivoli Bar, but was told very apologetically and with many sad looks from the maître d’hôtel that every one was booked. ‘She is very popular, monsieur. It’s not just the hotel guests coming to see her; word has been spreading even wider.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Coburg. ‘Might I be permitted to stand just inside the door?’

  ‘We don’t usually permit that, but as it’s you, Monsieur Coburg …’

  There was still an hour before Rosa was due to appear, so Coburg made his way to her dressing room.

  ‘Edgar!’ She smiled happily as he tapped at her door, and then opened it at her call to enter. ‘Coming to see the show again?’

  ‘Yes, however, fortunately for you, but unfortunately for me, every available table is booked, so the maître d’ is allowing me to stand by the door.’

  ‘That’s horrible!’ exclaimed Rosa.

  ‘Not to see you,’ said Coburg. ‘It’s worth any amount of leg cramp I may suffer. So, I thought I’d call in first and see how you’re fixed for afterwards.’

  Rosa sighed and shook her head. ‘I really need to be at home with Donna tonight,’ she said. ‘Despite all your good words, she’s really edgy. Did you have a word with the man you think took Julie?’

  ‘I did,’ said Coburg. ‘A very firm word. But I understand how things are. Will you at least let me drive you home, get you to your door safely?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Rosa. ‘And maybe tomorrow night, providing there’s been nothing bad happening, Donna might feel able to face being in the house alone.’

  There was a knock at the door, then it opened and the smiling face of Raymond Harris looked in. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers.

  ‘Miss Weeks?’ His smile wavered as he saw Coburg, then he recovered it. ‘My apologies, I didn’t realise you were busy.’

  ‘Mr Harris, this is Detective Chief Inspector Edgar Coburg. Edgar, this is Raymond Harris, the record executive I was telling you about.’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ said Coburg. He held out his hand.

  ‘And to meet you too, Chief Inspector,’ said Harris. ‘The flowers, though, are for Miss Weeks.’

  Rosa beamed. ‘Why, thank you.’ She took the flowers from him. ‘I have a vase here that will be perfect for them. If you’ll excuse me, I’
ll just go and get some water.’

  ‘Allow me,’ offered Harris.

  ‘Staff only behind the scenes in the kitchen,’ said Rosa. She picked up the vase and left, saying: ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  ‘So, Chief Inspector, are you here to watch the show?’

  ‘I am,’ said Coburg. ‘The maître d’ is allowing me to hover discreetly by the door.’

  ‘You don’t have a table booked?’

  Coburg shook his head. ‘I didn’t know how things would go today, so I didn’t want to take the chance of making a booking I might not be able to keep and risk having an empty table in the audience.’

  ‘Why don’t you share mine?’ offered Harris. ‘I’m on my own and it will be great to have your company.’

  ‘You sure you don’t mind?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘Not at all. In fact, it will be my pleasure to share the experience of listening to her in the company of someone who also really appreciates her talent.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Coburg. ‘It will be a pleasure to accept your generous offer.’

  ‘And far more comfortable than standing by the door,’ said Harris.

  Rosa returned, carrying the vase now filled with water.

  ‘The chief inspector has agreed to be my guest this evening,’ said Harris.

  Rosa shot a quick look at Coburg. ‘How nice. You’ll both have someone to talk to in the interval.’

  Harris looked at his watch. ‘I guess we’d better leave you for your final preparations. Are you ready, Chief Inspector?’

  Coburg nodded, and he and Harris made for the door. Just before he left, Coburg turned and gave Rosa a wink.

  Damn, thought Rosa as she looked at the now-closed door. That man is just too damned attractive. Why did I have to fall for a policeman, for God’s sake? Why not a musician, someone I’d have been able to travel with?

  I don’t want to lose him again, she decided. I don’t know how we’re going to make it work because I’m not going to give up doing what I love, and I know he sure isn’t, but there’s got to be some way. Other people did it. She knew married couples who rarely saw one another, but who were completely together.