Stalin's Gold

by Mark Ellis

  * * *

  Voronov pulled back the landscape portrait of one of the endless Russian steppes and dialled the combination 21121879. The figures derived from a seminal birth date in Russian history. Of course, the Georgian sheepshagger didn’t really like the idea that he had done anything as humdrum as to be born – in his mind he had been hewn out of granite or, perhaps more appropriate to his current assumed name, forged in a steel mill. Stalin, Man of Steel – well, it rolled a lot more easily off the tongue than Dzhugashvili, that had to be said. Josef Dzhugashvili and he went back a long way – both young revolutionaries, both criminals, both ruthless and violent. Voronov kept his violent side well hidden these days, cloaked in a general air of bonhomie and laughter. But it was still there and he could feel it bubbling close to the surface tonight. There was no particular reason for it, but this side of him needed an airing every so often so that it did not explode out of him unbidden.

  He reached into the safe and pulled out a bundle of notes, held together by a rubber band. Whistling tunelessly, he made his way back to his desk and fell into his chair. “Maksim, where are you?”

  His servant appeared at the door.

  “You are looking guilty, Maksim. What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing, Kyril Ivanovitch. I was just having a cup of tea.”

  “Laced with some of my best vodka, no doubt.”

  “No, no. I’d never do that.”

  “Do you take me for a complete idiot, Maksim? Anyway, I’m not going to get in to that now. I can’t find my Tokarev revolver in the desk. Where is it?”

  Maksim shuffled to his feet and stared miserably at his master. “I took it out to give it a good clean.”

  Voronov leaned back in his chair and belched loudly. He stared hard at Maksim. “You did, did you? And is the gun now cleaned and ready for use?”

  The servant nervously picked at his nose. “And who might you want to use it on, Kyril Ivanovitch?”

  Voronov banged his fist on the desk. “That’s none of your fucking business! And if you don’t bring it to me here tout de suite, it’ll be you I’ll be using as target practice.”

  Maksim scurried away.

  Voronov ran his hand through his beard under which the skin had started to itch as it usually did when he got irritated. To be truthful, he didn’t know what he was going to do with the revolver. He might take some pot shots out of the window at whatever domestic animals were foolish enough to come within range. He might just go for a walk in the park and shoot some birds. He needed to do something to relieve the violent tension he felt building in him. Was it Trubetskoi and his stupidity that had provoked this? Or the lack of progress on the gold? Perhaps he just needed another session with the Countess? She had seemed to enjoy the rough stuff or was he deluding himself? He rose from his chair. “Maksim, where the hell is that gun?”

  * * *

  Merlin arrived at the Junior Carlton Club just after five. He was shown by a porter to a large library cum bar at the far corner of which he recognised the eminent pathologist already sipping a small sherry. Sir Bernard Spilsbury rose briefly from his seat and extended a hand. Merlin shook it and took the only other seat at the table, which faced on to a busy Pall Mall.

  “Chief Inspector Merlin? Have we met before?”

  “Once, Sir Bernard. When I was a sergeant, I worked on the Brighton trunk murders.”

  Sir Bernard’s hawk-like features, naturally bleak, became a little bleaker. “Ah, yes, the worm Mancini. Not one of my favourite cases as you may imagine, Chief Inspector.” The pathologist’s heavy-lidded eyes momentarily closed as he sipped his drink. “A travesty of justice. The man was guilty.”

  “Yes, sir. I believe he was, but Norman Birkett—”

  “Was on top form, I have to concede, and Mancini gave a wonderfully theatrical performance in the dock. However, he murdered the girl, without doubt. One day my evidence will be verified, mark my words.”

  Merlin became aware of a strange smell, but then remembered that Sir Bernard famously carried everywhere with him a permanent scent of the formaldehyde and other chemicals associated with the investigation of dead bodies. He wondered what Lady Spilsbury thought about it.

  Now he had a chance to look at Sir Bernard more closely, he realised that the scientist had aged considerably in the six or so years since he had last seen him. He had heard something about a stroke. The man’s voice and demeanour though were as firm and self-confident as always.

  “So, Merlin, to this latest case. Pilot Officer Kilinski, Zygmunt, I think?”

  “That’s the name we have, sir, although I think it might prove to be an alias.”

  “Indeed. Well, that’s nothing to me, is it? I am here to give you the facts about the unfortunate man’s death.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Spilsbury leaned back slightly in his chair and signalled a waiter. “Please forgive my manners. I haven’t offered you a drink. Will you have a sherry? I am having a fine dry sherry from one of the best names in Jerez. Will that do?”

  Merlin nodded. “Thank you.”

  The waiter hurried away.

  “Now. The officer, as I guess you rightly surmised, did not die from injuries caused by being in a collapsed building. The man was already dead. Where was the building by the way?”

  “Marylebone.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, the cause of death was poison. Rat poison to be precise. Or to be even more precise, probably Battle’s Vermin Killer, the best-selling rodent exterminator, which, without getting too technical, is a paste laced with white phosphorous. This is, as you may imagine, highly toxic to rats and no less so to human beings.”

  “I see, Sir Bernard. How—”

  “Let me finish, Inspector. Death by this poison is a highly unpleasant and painful experience. In chemical terms, acid in the digestive system reacts with the phosphide to generate the toxic gas, phosphine. The process of death involves, at various stages, nausea and vomiting, delirium, cramps and various other unpleasant symptoms, and culminates in complete collapse of the central nervous system, jaundice, coma, failure of kidneys, liver and heart, and, ultimately, unsurprisingly, death.”

  Merlin’s sherry arrived, but he ignored it.

  “I hope I haven’t put you off your drink, Inspector.”

  Spilsbury finished his and asked for another.

  “Time of death, Sir Bernard?”

  “The body was in a dreadful state, of course. The best I can say is some time in the three or four days before it was found.”

  “I see. So any time from last Sunday or Monday. Is it possible that Kilinski consumed the poison accidentally?”

  “It is possible, Inspector. This poison is frequently spread on scraps of food to attract the vermin. If Kilinski consumed such a scrap of food, even a small dose can be quite lethal. But why would he?”

  “Could he have drunk it?”

  “Of course. Now, Kilinski appears to have been a fit, young man, as one would expect from a serving RAF officer. Unfortunately, because of the damage done to the body caused by falling timber and masonry, it is difficult to discern whether there was any other physical violence done to him, such as might occur, for example, in the forced administration of poison. His hands and wrists were badly mangled in the collapse of the building. I thought I saw some sign of constriction on the wrists, but, really, the evidence is inconclusive.”

  Merlin finally began his sherry. As part-Spaniard, he ought to like one of that country’s most famous products, but he had never really got the taste. It gave him a headache too, as did port and madeira or any other fortified wine.

  “By constriction you mean as in marks caused by a rope?”

  “Yes, but I cannot opine authoritatively. It is just a possibility.”

  “Hmm. Well, thank you very much, Sir Bernard. Is there anything else you would like to add?”

  “No, Inspector. A horrible death. Foul play is my guess. Best of luck finding the culprits. Any ideas?”

 
Merlin rose from the table. “A few lines of enquiry, Sir Bernard, but nothing concrete enough to share for the moment.”

  Sir Bernard rose stiffly to his feet. “Quite right, Inspector. Keep your lip buttoned until you have analysed everything thoroughly. That’s what I do, you know. But when I’ve completed my analysis, I come to a view that is always correct, whatever the jury in the Brighton trunk case might think!”

  * * *

  “How is Jan, doctor?” Kowalski stood outside the RAF Northolt base hospital, anxiously biting a fingernail.

  The RAF doctor was a young man who looked like he should still be in school. “Don’t worry, Mr Kowalski, he’ll live. He’s got a graze to his forehead and a bullet in his shoulder. He won’t be flying for a little bit, but he’s alright.”

  Kowalski relaxed a little. “Can he have visitors?”

  “No, I’ve just given him some morphine and I’d rather let him rest for now. Ah, here’s another friend.”

  Kowalski turned to see Miro Kubicki running towards the hospital.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, while you were swanning around over the estuary, I saved Jan’s life.”

  “What do you mean swanning around? I downed a Heinkel, thank you very much. How is he?”

  Kowalski explained Jan’s wounds. The two men stared together at the ground. “Come on, let’s get a drink.”

  The pub had only just opened and for once they were the only two RAF personnel in there. Both men ordered vodka rather than beer and they sat exhausted staring at their double measures, preferring for the moment the anticipation to the act.

  “Did you know anything much about Kilinski’s background, Jerzy?”

  “No, why should I?”

  Kowalski decided he’d had enough anticipation and knocked his glass back with a grimace. Kubicki followed suit, greedily wrapping his thick lips around the glass. “Takes it out of you, doesn’t it, my friend?”

  “You always were the master of understatement, Miro.”

  Kubicki grunted. “Of course, Kilinski was a Jewboy, wasn’t he? Marowitz knew a little. Said he had some bee in his bonnet about something that happened back in Poland.”

  Kowalski smiled. “The man owed you money, I believe, Miro. Bit of a turn-up for the book. Usually it’s the other way round, isn’t it, with Jews I mean?”

  “Yes, he owed me card debts. Didn’t seem to be fussed about paying them either. I—” Kowalski rose abruptly and headed to the bar, returning shortly with another round of vodkas.

  “I wonder how it is back there at home?”

  “It is hell, as you well know, Miro. Your family is there as is mine. God knows what is happening, but it will not be pleasant.”

  “Are your parents still in Warsaw?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “My lot are in Krakow. An apartment just off the Rynek Glowny.”

  “Yes, I know, a small flat off the main square. You’ve told me before, frequently.”

  Kubicki finished his second vodka. “Sorry. I am getting repetitious in my old age. There is some old saying that a week of war ages a soldier by a year. On that basis I’m about fifty-two years older, aren’t I? You too.”

  Kowalski stifled a laugh. “You are speaking some real rubbish tonight.”

  “You must forgive an old man. Of course, I have some cousins in Warsaw. I used to stay up there on holidays every so often. Big, old house in the centre. Where does your family live?”

  “In Warsaw town. My parents and my sister Agneta.”

  “Isn’t that your mother’s name as well?”

  “Yes, it’s a tradition in the family that the first-born daughter is called Agneta, the second Maria and the third Karolina.”

  “And is there a tradition for the boys’ names?”

  “No, just for the girls. My father, the first-born as am I, is called Aleksander.” Kowalski stubbed out his cigarette, ran a hand over the small scar on his cheek, then lit another. The bar was starting to fill up and the men nodded to a group of ground staff leaning against the bar.

  “I was looking at the dog the other day and wondering about my cousin Sasha. Any news on your Sasha?”

  “Let’s not talk about such things.” Kowalski was silent for a while. Then he looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his hands fiercely. “My friend, Miro, there are some English words that I need here for you. What are they again?” He closed his eyes.

  “What do you mean, Jerzy?”

  Kowalski’s opened his eyes and smiled. “That’s it. Nosy parker! You, Miro Kubicki, are being a nosy parker. In fact you are often a nosy parker! Now, keep your questions to yourself and go and get us another drink. I feel like getting, er, what’s that other good English word?”

  “Drunk, Jerzy?”

  “Yes, but there’s a jollier English word for it. Oh, yes! Blotto, Jerzy. Let’s get blotto!”

  * * *

  Sonia came to the door in the striped pinafore she always wore when she was cooking. “Oh, I thought we might go to Carlo’s round the corner, for a treat.”

  “Well, no, Frank, I am cooking as you can see.”

  He leaned down to kiss her. “Is there enough for two?”

  She pushed him away laughing. “Of course, you idiot Mr Policeman.”

  “I called, but, of course, you were working. I had to pop out for a meeting and then I thought I’d try pot luck.”

  “Well, your luck is in the pot, if that’s how you say it.”

  He laughingly attempted to grab her and she pulled away. “I must see to the food. If you want a drink, there is a bottle of beer in the kitchen.”

  Merlin followed her into the tiny kitchen, found the bottle of Bass and opened it. “Can I help?”

  “Yes, by getting out.”

  “What are we having?”

  “My special Polish goulash. Don’t ask what’s in it. I won’t claim to have the perfect ingredients, but given the way things are, I don’t think I have done too badly.”

  “When did you manage to shop?”

  “Between our going to the park and starting back at Swan and Edgar. They have some good food shops in Soho, you know.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, darling.” Merlin sat himself down on a sofa and enjoyed the beer. It managed to remove the taste of the sherry, which had lingered unpleasantly in his mouth on his long walk from Pall Mall.

  The goulash was wonderful. He hadn’t been able to work out exactly what he was eating, but he didn’t care. For once his belt was straining to contain his belly. He sat down on the sofa and put the radio on.

  Having decided that they would try and go to the Handel concert on Sunday, they were snuggling up together listening to the radio on which the Bert Ambrose Band were just starting to play a medley of dance tunes when the telephone rang. Merlin had pulled a few strings at the GPO to get Sonia a telephone ahead of the long queue. He felt a little guilty about using his position to get favours, but it had certainly made his life much easier. Sonia jumped up to answer the call, still excited with her new toy, but her excitement was soon dampened by the person on the other end of the line.

  “Can I see him? No. But surely… Very well. What number do I call? Wait, let me get a pen and paper.” Merlin rummaged in his discarded jacket and handed her his notebook and pencil. She wrote down the number. “And you are sure he will be alright? Yes. Thank you, doctor. Goodbye.”

  Sonia sat down by Merlin and started to cry. Merlin put his arms around her and hugged her tight. Between sobs she told him about Jan’s injuries. “I really should go and see him now. There don’t seem to be any bombers around tonight. Can we go and get your car and—”

  “The doctor said he was sedated and that there was no need to worry, didn’t he?”

  Sonia nodded meekly.

  “Well, let’s wait until tomorrow and then you can ring them. If he’s asleep and under medication, there’s nothing to be achieved tonight.”

  Sonia’s sobbing gradually subsided. “You ar
e right, Frank. Of course. I think we can forget the concert though. Come on, let’s go to bed. The washing up can wait until tomorrow.”

  As Frank lay with Sonia in his arms, her now calm and serene face lit up by the shaft of moonlight that shone through the half-closed curtains of the bedroom, he couldn’t help thinking about Ziggy Kilinski and his cruel death. Someone in the Polish squadron must know something that would help in the investigation. He must have confided in someone about his past. If he drove Sonia up to the base tomorrow, he could do some poking around. Maybe Kellett had some more papers on the man. He had been given a very basic personnel sheet, but maybe there was more information in the files.

  Sonia stirred, an eye opened and her hand played around Merlin’s bare stomach. He forgot about Kilinski.

  Chapter 14

  Sunday, September 15

  The car rumbled to a halt in the driveway outside 11 Group Headquarters at RAF Uxbridge. Hillingdon House, which had become RAF Uxbridge, was a rambling, old mansion dating back in parts to the eighteenth century. It was here that Air Vice Marshall Keith Park, a tall, craggy New Zealander, was overseeing the Royal Air Force’s struggle in the Battle of Britain.

  “It always amuses me, my dear, to recall that this estate was built by a German soldier. The Duke of Schamberg, for it was he, served under William of Orange. He got a knighthood in the Battle of the Boyne, if I recall correctly, and—”

  “Yes, Winston, you told me all this the last night. Now, do you not think we should get out of the car?”

  “Yes, dear.” The Prime Minister banged on the window and his young male secretary, who had already exited the front seat, opened the door. Struggling with his cane and his cigar, the PM finally made it safely onto the gravel in front of the main door. Keith Park was already waiting, with a small group of officers, and brisk greetings and introductions were exchanged.

  “Right, gentlemen and Mrs Churchill, I think you may recall the way, but best follow me.” Park led the party through the grounds, eventually arriving amongst some bushes at a small door, which appeared to be an entrance to nowhere. One of Park’s officers opened the door and led the way down a long and steep flight of stairs. They went down two levels then along a corridor with several doors. Park assembled the party outside one of them. “Alright, Mrs Churchill? And you, sir?”