by Mark Ellis
“Well, come on then. Let’s have it.”
“Very nice meat pie at lunch that was.”
Jan chuckled as he watched Jerzy squirming impatiently in his seat. “Oh come on, Reilley, put him out of his misery. It’s all rubbish anyway. Get on with it before he explodes.”
Reilley put his toothpick back in his pocket and folded his arms.
“I saw a dark and beautiful lady. An unhappy lady.”
“Must be that nice WAAF girl you were leading up the garden path the other night in the pub.”
“This lady has a secret. A secret she has shared with you, sir.”
Kowalski laughed rather nervously as he lit a cigarette. “All the ladies have secrets, do they not?”
Jan picked up his friend’s cup and examined the tea leaves carefully. “So which tea leaf says ‘lady’ and which says ‘secret’?”
“Oh, this is rubbish, Jan. Come on. Let’s get some fresh air.” Kowalski got to his feet.
“It’s a very ancient art, gentlemen. No need to be so rude. Even has a fancy name. Now what was it?” As Reilley pondered, Jan saw Squadron Leader Kellett come into the room, look round briefly, then head in their direction.
“Tasseography!”
“What?”
“That’s the name for it, Pilot Officer Sieczko. Tasseography. A good word for you to get your Polish tongue around. Now, let me have a look at your cup? It’s—” Reilley was cut short by Kellett’s arrival at their table. The three men stood to attention.
“Sit down, gentlemen. Not you, Reilley. I need to speak to these officers in private, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s alright, sir. I need to get back to the kites anyway.” Reilley offered a rather slapdash salute and wandered off to the main door. Kellett sat down. “I’m afraid I have some rather bad news for you. I just got a call from DCI Merlin. Apparently Kilinski has been found dead.”
Jan closed his eyes for a moment and raised a hand to his mouth.
“Where, sir?” Kowalski reached out a hand to pat Jan’s shoulder.
“In the rubble of a bombed building in the centre of London.”
Jan lowered his hand and absentmindedly lifted his empty tea cup to his lips. “So he got killed in a raid?”
“Sounds like it. Merlin didn’t say any more, other than to ask that you, Sieczko, might help identify the body. It’s pretty banged up apparently.”
“How do they know for certain that it’s him?”
“He didn’t say. Presumably he’s in his uniform and we are not missing any other Polish pilots.”
“Where do they want me to go?”
“St Pancras mortuary.”
“But how can I go, sir? There might be—”
“I’ve checked with Bomber Command and there seems to be nothing brewing at the moment. I’ll organise a car for you straightaway and you could be there and back in a couple of hours. A straight run on the A40. Come on.”
* * *
Augustus Wertheim sat thinking in the small reception area he called his own just outside de Souza’s office. He had been named for the great Roman Emperor. His father had been a successful grain merchant in a small town that had at various times in its history been Polish, Lithuanian and Ukrainian. Ignatius Wertheim had a great passion for all things Roman and had passed this passion on to his son. Of course, none of his father’s extensive collection of Roman artefacts and coins had made their way with his son to London, but Augustus Wertheim remembered that collection very well. His father had asked him to catalogue it for him and if he concentrated just a little he could reproduce that catalogue almost photographically in his mind.
Wertheim had made his way to London just before the First World War. His father and the rest of his family had perished in one of the pogroms which every so often flared up in that part of the world. Young Augustus had been returning from market at a neighbouring town where, from a distance, he could see the flames. The Wertheim house was clearly visible on the edge of town and there was no mistaking what was happening. He approached to what he thought was a safe distance and watched from behind a cart. Though small and wiry, he had stood up for himself many times at school and proved himself no coward, but he knew that bravery in this situation was futile. There was nothing he could do. He could still hear the cries of his parents and sisters as the flames licked higher and higher over the house. When it was dark he walked up to the charred skeleton of his home. He retched as he saw what appeared to be the remains of his family. Under the charcoaled floorboards at the back of the house in what had been the main dining room, he found what he was looking for. A box with some money. A very tidy sum. Enough to get him far away – to Berlin maybe or to Paris. Perhaps even as far as London. And, yes, he had got to London and he had made a life. The tidy sum, however, was long gone and now he had to rely on a not overly generous clerk’s salary. The fact was he needed more money and was always looking for ways to make it.
He pushed the button and the coins dropped into the machine of the telephone box behind the Bank of England. A gruff voice growled a greeting down the line.
“He came in on Tuesday.”
“Why haven’t you told me before?”
“I haven’t had a chance.”
The voice at the other end chuckled rather unpleasantly. Wertheim obviously wasn’t going to explain that he’d been having second thoughts about this arrangement. The money in prospect was attractive, but the danger was not. “And so, what did he want?”
“I don’t know everything, but I know that he made a deposit.”
“Of what?”
“I can’t say. De Souza sent me out on an errand. One of the other clerks saw Tarkowski with a cloth bag. He thought it looked quite heavy. De Souza himself took the Count to the safety deposit room and put whatever it was away in one of the deposit boxes for which only he and Tarkowski have the keys.”
“Hmm. This is not much you are telling me, my friend. I shall need more, much more than this if you wish to profit by our association.”
Wertheim heard the pips and put some more pennies in. “But you asked me to tell you of Tarkowski’s dealings with the bank and I am doing so.”
Wertheim could hear voices in the background at the other end of the line.
“I shall put a small amount down on your account, my friend. I would put some more down if somehow you were able to get a key and tell me exactly what de Souza deposited. That would be worth something, I think.”
“But I can’t… I mean… I haven’t got a key.”
“A clever man will find a way, I am sure, my friend. A clever and inventive man like you, eh?”
The phone line clicked to show that the connection had been ended. Wertheim slipped out of the kiosk into Threadneedle Street and began walking back to the Polish Commonwealth Bank. He was thinking hard and didn’t see the small crater ahead of him. As he fell, he cracked his right elbow hard on the pavement.
“Ah, there you are, Wertheim. Are you alright?” De Souza bent and helped his employee to his feet.
Wertheim grimaced with pain. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve got to be careful, Wertheim. There are so many pitfalls to watch out for in this unfortunate city!”
* * *
Merlin looked out of the car window at another collapsed building and remembered that the date matched his bleak mood. “Do you realise it’s Friday the 13th today, Sergeant?”
Merlin and Bridges were driving back from St Pancras Mortuary, where Jan Sieczko had been able to confirm Kilinski’s identity despite the mess the rats had made of his face. Height, hair, the uniform and the gold had all been indicative, but the clincher was Kilinski’s right hand. Kilinski had lost part of his little finger in a crash-landing when defending his homeland from the Nazi invasion. Jan recognised the stump on Kilinski’s hand. Jan had assumed that Kilinski had been killed in the raid and his assumption had been allowed to stand. Merlin looked forward to hearing the results of the post-mortem.
Bridges eased their car past some heavy masonry that had tumbled into Charing Cross Road from a damaged office building. “Unlucky day for quite a few people, I’d say, sir.”
“Certainly for Kilinski.”
“Wouldn’t that have been the day he bought it?”
“I suppose so if you want to be pedantic, Sergeant.”
They passed St Martin in the Fields, which had so far escaped damage and was in fact being used as an air raid shelter. They were still having lunchtime classical concerts there and a sign advertised a performance of Handel’s Water Music for the coming Sunday. Perhaps he would take Sonia if he had time.
* * *
The Count summoned the waiter and ordered a bottle of Krug. He had brought his wife to Claridges for dinner to see if he could cheer her up and take her mind off things. He had also made some attempt during the day to see whether some further enquiries could be made about Karol. Voronov had told Maria that Karol was still alive in the Lubianka. The use of the word “alive” for an inhabitant of the Lubianka was, Tarkowski guessed, something of an exaggeration. In any event, one of Sikorski’s adjutants, Tomaczewski, a Pole of noble ancestry like himself, was a family friend of Sir Stafford Cripps, who in May had taken up the thankless position of British Ambassador to Soviet Russia. Thanks to the Ribbentrop–Molotov Treaty, under which Russia and Germany had agreed a non-aggression pact, Russia had joined Germany in carving up Poland and various other countries in Eastern Europe. Cripps had been given the herculean task of extracting Russia from this agreement and bringing Stalin into the fold. This seemed to the Count to be a very long shot and he doubted Cripps had any influence to wield in Moscow at all. However, Tomaczewski had promised to get word to Cripps to enquire about Karol’s current status. Any real news would be good news to Maria, he hoped. He told her of his efforts over the second glass of champagne, but she seemed little impressed.
“I know he is in prison and is alive. How can this Cripps person get him out? I don’t think Stalin and his cronies will give a fig for Mr Cripps.”
“Sir Stafford, my love. Sir Stafford Cripps.”
“You think Stalin will be impressed with this knighthood, Adam? Pfft.” She clicked her fingers in disgust. “We must deal with Voronov. It is a crook like him that Stalin will respect.”
Tarkowski finished off his champagne glass. “Are we not at risk of overstating Karol’s importance here? Perhaps the great leader is unaware of Karol’s existence. It is a case of dealing with lesser creatures.”
Maria laughed disdainfully. “I am sure Stalin knows of Karol. I should think that Stalin’s favourite bedside reading is a list of all his prisoners at the Lubianka and a record of their daily tortures.”
“Hmm.” Tarkowski was aware of several pairs of eyes looking over at the sound of Maria’s raised voice. “Perhaps we should order, dear.”
As he called for the menu, a tall, forbidding man in evening wear passed by his table in the company of an equally tall and forbidding female. The man caught the Count’s eye. “Ah, Count. Good evening to you. My sister Maud. This is Count Tarkowski, dear. A leading member of the Polish government in exile.”
The Count rose to his feet. “Good evening, Commissioner. We prefer to leave the ‘in exile’ bit out, of course.”
“Indeed, indeed, my apologies, Count, Countess. I hope all is well with you, insofar as it can be of course. Yes, well. Do enjoy your dinner. Come along, my dear.” Maud cast a glacial smile back at the couple as she followed in her brother’s wake.
As they watched the A.C. and his sister clumsily edge their way through the tables, the Countess giggled. “What a strange pair! Who is he?”
“The Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner, my dear. Quite a powerful man.” Pleased that his wife had relaxed enough to laugh, the Count decided to focus on the menu. The Dover sole was always good here. Little sign of shortage or restraint yet in Claridges. Thank God!
Chapter 13
Saturday, September 14
It was just after midnight and Johnson and Cole were standing in a corner of Buckingham Palace courtyard.
“Not quite where you imagined we’d spend the night, eh, Cole?”
“No, sir. My mum will never believe it.”
It had been raining on and off all evening and a gusty wind had just got up and was swirling down the Mall.
The Germans had not come in their greatest numbers that evening, but there had still been a steady flow of bombers. It seemed to Johnson that a plane was passing over them every ten or fifteen minutes. For the first time, bombs had landed in front of the palace, doing some damage to the Victoria Memorial, and also at the other side of the courtyard from where they stood and where Jack Stewart and his team were now dealing with a number of burning vehicles. The palace itself had not yet been hit as far as Johnson could see. A roving searchlight caught the bright colours of the Royal Standard fluttering high above the two policemen. As Johnson understood it, if the Standard was flying, the King was in residence. He wondered whether there was some special luxurious air raid shelter beneath the palace where the royal family were now huddling away from the bombs.
“The King and his family must be somewhere down below, don’t you think, Cole?”
Cole was about to answer when a look of astonishment came over his face. “No, I don’t think so, sir.”
Johnson followed Cole’s gaze and turned to see a slight man in evening suit approaching them. His face, illuminated by the glare of the fires around them, was instantly recognisable.
“G… good evening o… o… officers. Are you sure you are s… safe over here?”
Johnson seldom found himself tongue-tied, but he was now. It was Cole who found his voice first.
“We are fine, sir. Thank you.”
A voice sounded in the dark behind the King. “Bertie, where are you?”
“Here I am, d… darling. I am with these brave p… p… policemen.”
The slight figure of the Queen emerged from the murk to the right. She was wearing a fur coat despite the blasts of heat blowing across the courtyard. “Good evening, gentlemen. Is it sensible of you to be here? The firemen seem to have everything in hand.”
Johnson finally found his voice. “We are attached to the Auxiliary Fire Service, your… er… Majesty. On a special mission.”
The King withdrew a cigarette case from his pocket and lit up. His wife put her arm through his. “Oh, that sounds exciting, doesn’t it, Bertie? Might one enquire as to what that might be?”
“Well, your, er, well, we are trying to get to grips with the looting problem.”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely dreadful. Mr Churchill was telling us about the p… p… problem the other night. However, Mr… er…”
“Johnson, sir. Inspector Johnson and this is Detective Constable Cole.”
“G… good to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. I was just going to s… say that you might be in the wrong p… place for that… I… I think that these s… swine would have to be pretty stupid to try that game here, eh, my dear?”
The unlikely group was suddenly lit up by the glare of a bomb exploding behind them in St James’s Park. The air was quickly filled by the angry complaints of the park’s avian inhabitants. Then another explosion sounded, this time more distant, in the direction of Westminster.
“Bertie, my dear, perhaps we had better go back in. There’s courage and then there’s foolhardiness. It’s not going to help the country much if the next bomb lands on your head.”
The King flicked cigarette ash in irritation on the ground, then gave the policemen an apologetic smile. “Always d… do what your wife tells you, g… gentlemen. Isn’t that always b… best? Very well, my dear, l… lead on. Pleasure to meet you both. T… take care. Your country needs you.”
The royal couple disappeared into the dark and Johnson and Cole stood in stunned silence for a while. From the point of view of their mission, of course, Johnson knew that the King was quite right. Because the bombing had b
rought Stewart’s team to the royal home, they would learn nothing about looters tonight. They had, however, had an experience they would never forget. Suddenly they broke into laughter.
Jack Stewart came up to them, looking bedraggled, exhausted and confused. “What’s so funny then?”
“You wouldn’t believe it, Jack.”
“Why don’t you try me?”
* * *
Sir Bernard Spilsbury had passed a disturbed night in his St John’s Wood house. However, it was not the bombing this time that had ruined his sleep, as it had for most of the previous week. Rather, he thought, the improperly prepared haddock he had consumed at dinner at his club. Also, no doubt, his digestion had not been helped by the encounter after dinner with Sir Norman Birkett, the renowned advocate, who had given him such a hard time over his evidence in the “Brighton trunk” case a few years ago. During the inter-war period, Spilsbury, accepted by all as the founder of the science of forensic pathology, had been regarded almost as a god-like figure. Time magazine had described him as “the living successor to the mythical Sherlock Holmes”. He had been unchallenged as the leading medical expert witness in murder cases ever since his crucial evidence in the infamous case of Dr Crippen. However, in recent years there had been a slight weakening of his pre-eminence, which had all started with this blasted Birkett fellow. He brooded on this as his chauffeur-driven car drew up to the St Pancras Coroner’s Court. As his driver opened the door, he looked down to check that his habitual spats were as pristine as usual, or rather as pristine as usual at the start of his day – frequently by the end of it they were flecked with blood. He picked up his battered Gladstone bag from the seat beside him and extricated his long, thin body from the car.
As he entered the hallway of the building he spotted the chief coroner emerging from a door to his right. “Ah, Bentley, my dear man. How goes it?”
An elegant middle-aged man with a spray of silvery hair above his ears walked briskly over to him. “Busy, busy, Bernard, as always. There’s a body waiting for you downstairs, if you are free. Post-mortem requested by the Yard, chap by the name of Merlin requested haste. The deceased is a Polish pilot who seems to have suffered the natural consequences of being in the wrong place at the wrong time during a German raid, but the police think there might more to it. Can you do it?”
