by Mark Ellis
“Certainly, millions of pounds’ worth, I believe. The Count did not wish to have all his eggs in one basket, so to speak.”
“These bombed business premises. Would they, by any chance, operate under the name Grand Duchy and Oriental Trading?”
“Yes, they do, or anyway did.”
Merlin relieved the returning pain in his shoulder by standing up and walking to the window again. “And does the gold you hold earn him any interest?”
De Souza reached down into a drawer beneath him and produced a document. “It does not, Chief Inspector. It appreciates or not, as the case may be.” He fingered the document. “I hope I am not going to get into trouble for telling you, but this document is a loan agreement.”
“Between who?”
“Between the Count and the Polish government in exile. It enables the government to use the gold as collateral for funds that my bank makes available from time to time.”
“Didn’t you say that the government had its own funds?”
“Some, Chief Inspector, but I believe the task of running a government in exile and supporting resistance activities in Poland is an expensive one.”
Merlin resumed his seat. “So the Count is a true patriot?”
“It would appear so, yes.” De Souza opened a small packet. “Turkish cigarettes. One of my vices. Can I interest you?”
Merlin and Robinson declined. De Souza lit up, filling the room with a pungent aroma and smoke which made Robinson’s eyes water.
“Turning to Kilinski.”
“Ah, yes, the flyer. Well, as I said, he came to see me, wishing to open a deposit. We discussed the formalities. Then he produced the necklace or amulet or whatever you call it. Said he’d like to deposit it with us. Asked me if I thought it was valuable.”
“He had the actual amulet?”
“Yes, indeed, a very beautiful item.”
“Why on earth didn’t you tell us in the first place?”
De Souza shrugged. “A banker’s first reaction is to respect customer confidentiality.”
“Hmm. Well, what did you say?”
“Well, of course, I could see it was a beautiful item. Said I’d check out the gold content and get it appraised for him if he wanted. He declined forcefully, saying he could get someone else to do it.”
“Did he say where he got it?”
“Called it a family heirloom. I can’t pretend I wasn’t a little surprised. He seemed to be a very ordinary boy. Jewish, I should have thought. We can always tell our own, you know. A fellow from some poor ghetto in Warsaw or Krakow or Stettin or somewhere like that, I would guess, who had somehow elevated himself into the Polish Air Force. Where would a boy like that get such a beautiful thing? Perhaps he stole it or looted it in the invasion of Poland or maybe even here, in this blisskrieg of the Nazis.” The second whisky appeared to have gone to de Souza’s head and his words were becoming a little slurred.
“And the ingot? Did he show you the ingot?”
The banker picked up the gold bar, which Merlin had left on the desk, and held it up so that it caught the light from the window. “He did. Asked me whether I had seen any others like it.” De Souza set the ingot back down on the desk.
“And did you tell him?”
“I did not. That would have been a definite breach of client confidentiality.”
“And what did Kilinski say?”
“He was rather rude. Said he didn’t believe me. Mentioned Tarkowski and said that he must have plenty of them. Asked if Tarkowski had an account with us. I remained silent.”
“And then?”
“He stood up. Picked up his ingot and his amulet, said that he wasn’t sure about the account and that he’d think about it and then said good day.”
“And that was that?”
“Yes, that was that. Except…”
“Yes?”
“Except he returned to see me again the following week. The Friday before last it was, I think.”
“That would have been what date, sir?”
De Souza consulted his desk diary. “The 6th, Chief Inspector. September the 6th.”
“And?”
“He was here for minutes only just to tell me he had changed his mind about me valuing the amulet.”
Merlin raised his eyebrows at Robinson. “You mean you have it, sir?”
The banker rose and walked a little unsteadily over to a portrait of a smug-looking, Victorian gentleman on the wall to his right. The painting swung back to reveal a small safe. With surprisingly deft fingers he applied the combination, opened the safe door and removed something.
Back at the desk, he carefully laid the object, wrapped in a white cloth, in front of Merlin. “Et voilà.” With a sigh, de Souza pulled back the cloth to reveal the entwined snakes of Montezuma, which glinted in the light from the office window.
Merlin caught his breath. Robinson let out a gasp of admiration.
“Yes, a beautiful item, isn’t it? My contact in Hatton Garden valued it at ten thousand pounds, but to the right collector it might be worth much more.”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d better take this into my custody.”
De Souza looked wistfully at the sparkling necklace. “Very well, Chief Inspector. Although Mr Kilinski is no more, I had better have a receipt for form’s sake.”
Merlin removed a page of paper from his own notebook and scribbled on it.
“Thank you.”
Merlin rewrapped the amulet in its cloth and put it in his pocket. “When Kilinski left after his first visit, did you contact Tarkowski?”
De Souza removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his forehead. “Excuse me, Chief Inspector, I am not used to alcohol at this time of day.”
“Did you contact the Count?”
“I felt duty bound to let him know, as a major customer of the bank, that someone was going round asking questions about him and furthermore flourishing a gold ingot like those we had in our vaults . I sent him a message via his wife.”
“Did you mention the amulet?”
“No. I saw no need.”
Merlin felt a twinge of cramp and stretched a leg underneath de Souza’s desk. “What was the Count’s response?”
“When I last saw him he expressed his thanks for keeping him informed. That was all.”
A siren began wailing in the distance and Merlin looked over at Robinson. “Any questions, Constable?”
“Yes, sir. Just one thing, Mr de Souza. Or rather two. On the second occasion you saw him, did Mr Kilinski look in good shape? I mean did he look like he was sleeping rough?”
“He was perfectly presentable.”
“And was he in uniform or civvies?”
“He was wearing a dark suit, shirt and tie, on his second visit.”
“But you know he was a pilot?”
“Of course. He was wearing his uniform on his first.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s all I had to ask.”
The two officers rose and headed for the door from behind which the faint sound of scurrying footsteps could be heard.
* * *
Back at the Yard, Merlin listened intently as Bridges explained what he had learned from Lenke and then from Mikhail at the restaurant. When he had finished, he swung a leg onto the desk and looked thoughtfully out of the window.
“Shall I rustle up a drink, sir? Still got the taste of that awful cigarette smoke in my mouth.” Robinson coughed to emphasise her point.
As Robinson disappeared through the door, Merlin rummaged in the bottom drawer of his desk and found the two Fisherman’s Friends lozenges from the packet he’d discovered earlier underneath some old files in his filing cabinet. He didn’t bother offering one to Bridges, who, he knew, detested them and popped them both into his mouth. After sucking hard for a moment, he recounted the details of the de Souza interview to the sergeant.
“Well, at last we have found out about the Grand Duchy company. An unregistered foreign company, I suppose.
Why on earth do you think de Souza was so cagey about the amulet, sir?”
“Greed, Sergeant. He had the amulet, unknown to us, when I told him Kilinski was dead. He probably thought he might be able to get away with pocketing it for himself. Then, when I pursued further, he got cold feet.” Merlin could feel the adrenalin beginning to flow as it always did when things began to move and come together in a case. Robinson returned, he tidied the papers on his desk and cleared his throat.
“I think we can summarise the facts regarding Kilinski as follows –
One – He was in possession of an ancient Aztec gold amulet and a gold ingot stamped with the arms or design of the Stanislawicki family of Poland.
Two – The gold bar is part of, yes, let’s give it the word, a treasure owned or controlled by Count Tarkowski, a member of the Stanislawicki family, some of which is deposited at the Polish Commonwealth Bank and some of which is apparently stashed in his house, having previously been kept in the now ruined offices of his Grand Duchy and Oriental Trading company.
Three – Kilinski, an apparently loyal and well-regarded RAF pilot, having made several visits to London to make enquiries, was provoked to desert the service, for desert he certainly did, in pursuit of a mission to track down the treasure or the owner or owners of that treasure, or someone connected with such owners.
Four – Tarkowski has been unforthcoming to us about his contact with Kilinski and appears to have something to hide.
Five – A wealthy Russian émigré called Voronov somehow features in the mix as Kilinski met up with him recently. The importance of this apparently heated meeting is not clear.
Six – Kilinski’s body was found not far from Tarkowski’s business premises. Whatever Kilinski was seeking may have led someone to murder him at some time in the early part of last week. Perhaps Kilinski wanted some or all of the treasure for himself. Perhaps he had information with which he hoped to blackmail the owner of the gold. Then again perhaps someone known to us or unknown had a grudge against him unrelated to the gold. Perhaps… well, there are several perhapses.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Seven, sir, that, as Robinson pointed out, Kilinski was staying somewhere other than on the streets and that he had a change of clothes.”
“Quite so, Sergeant. Kilinski was missing, pursuing his vendetta or whatever it was for a week or so. He either stayed at a hotel or rented room or with a friend. We should check that out. But the first task for us, as I originally calculated, is to have another word with the Count. He might be able to open everything up for us, if we can get him to talk.”
“What about Voronov, sir?”
“Have a word with Five, Sergeant.”
“Five, sir?”
“That’s MI5, Constable. They might have something on a rich Russian émigré like him.”
“Should I—?”
“If you can dig anything up on your own, Constable, go ahead. Sergeant, make the call to Five and then let’s track down Tarkowski.”
* * *
Voronov put down the telephone. Wertheim was proving to be a useful addition to his payroll. More useful anyway than that hot-headed young Pole. If the police were closing in on Tarkowski, he had better move quickly if he was going to get his hands on any of the gold. The Countess had told him that all of the gold was at the Commonwealth Bank. He had suspected this was a lie and now, thanks to Wertheim, he knew it. What a fool Tarkowski was to keep what could well be a large portion of it in his house. However solid the cellar or attic or wherever it was that he had stored it, it would not keep Voronov out. He would have to move quickly. Maksim would have to track down Trubetskoi. Perhaps his looting gang could be put to a new use. Tonight might be too soon to organise everything, but he could aim at tomorrow.
“Maksim, where the hell are you?”
* * *
Bridges pulled the car to a halt outside the Polish embassy in Portland Place. The policemen understood that Tarkowski normally worked out of the embassy building on Mondays. It was raining heavily and they hurried through the front door. They presented their credentials, a phone call was made and they were ushered by an elderly porter through the austere entrance hall, along a long corridor and into an office at the back of the building. Merlin caught a glimpse of the BBC head office out of one of the windows. A pretty, red-headed girl sat at a desk to the left of a large door beyond which, Merlin assumed, was Tarkowski’s inner sanctum. “Good morning, gentlemen. You are the policemen?”
The two men nodded and introduced themselves.
“I’m afraid the Count hasn’t arrived yet. I don’t know what’s happened. He’s normally here by now.”
“We’ll just wait here, if you don’t mind, miss.” The secretary gave Bridges a twinkling smile. “Please, go ahead. It is nice to have some handsome, male company.” Bridges blushed as the two men sat down on a scuffed leather sofa by the window. They declined the offer of tea and the secretary went back to her work and began clattering away on the typewriter.
“Excuse me, Miss…”
“Wajda. Cristina Wajda, Chief Inspector.”
“I was just wondering. We are investigating the murder of a fellow countryman of yours.”
“Oh dear.”
“A Polish pilot called Kilinski. He met the Count at his home, we understand. It just occurred to me that he might have tried to see the Count here and that you might have met him?”
The secretary considered, her finger touching her pouting lips in a rather attractive pose, or so Merlin thought. She looked up and nodded. “I did meet him. He came when the Count was out once. You say he is dead, poor man. A skinny fellow, a strange face but in a funny way not bad-looking. Very intense eyes. I remember he had a girl with him.”
“A girl?”
“I couldn’t get rid of him. He said he was going to wait until the Count came and sat where you are sitting for twenty minutes or so. Then a girl – well, I say a girl, but I know her – she came and said she wasn’t going to wait for him any longer. He got in a bit of a temper, she stomped away down the corridor and he followed her. That’s the last I saw of him.”
“You say you know this girl?”
Cristina examined her varnished fingernails carefully for a moment then looked back at Merlin. “She’s a waitress at a Polish restaurant in Kensington.”
“You know her name?”
“Sophie Radzinski. She’s from Gdansk like me. Poor Sophie. I presume she was sweet on this flyer. Does she know he’s dead?”
“Probably not. I don’t know about you, Sergeant, but I’m getting a bit peckish. We might end up waiting for Tarkowski all day. I’m quite partial to Polish food these days. And you can wipe that knowing smirk off your face right now. Let’s go and get a spot of lunch at this place. Where exactly is it, Miss Wajda?”
* * *
A small terrier was greedily eating some pork scratchings the pub landlady had tipped into a bowl by the door as the two men made their entrance. A few workmen stood by the bar, but otherwise the place was empty.
“We shouldn’t really be doing this, should we, Mr Stewart?”
“A spot of spirits in the blood won’t go amiss, my friend.”
Jack Stewart had dragged Evans out of the AFS station for a quick drink in The Surprise. “Go on, get that down your neck.”
Evans had asked for a rum and black and continued to sip it carefully as Stewart knocked back his pint of beer and scotch chaser. Stewart had bought a plate of cheese and onion sandwiches as well and Evans, not having eaten anything since his unfortunate encounter in the park the day before, tucked in heartily.
“Let other poets raise a fracas
Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus,
An’ crabbit names an’ stories wrack us,
An’ grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.”
Evans smiled at Stewart in confusion.
“Burns on scotch, Mr Evan
s. A very fine poet and a very fine drink. As paintings are to you, so poetry, albeit in a more modest sense, is to me. My policeman friend Frank Merlin and I like to have a gentlemanly poetry competition over a drink from time to time. We aim to produce a poetry quotation the other can’t identify. I’m afraid to say that he wins more often than I do.”
“An admirable pastime, if I may say so.” Evans dithered over the last sandwich.
“Go on, man. Help yourself. This Blitz business makes a man hungry and thirsty. I think I’ll get another plate.”
“Fine, sir. When you get back, I just wanted to ask about something that’s worrying me.”
Stewart disappeared to the bar, returning with another round of drinks. “Sandwiches will be a couple of minutes. Fire away then. I hope you’re not going to quiz me about my knowledge of JMW Turner. I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to look at your book yet.”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just some valuation work I’ve been asked to do. There appears to be something fishy…”
Just then, an attractive young woman in a Wren’s uniform entered the pub with a couple of girlfriends in civvies. She immediately spotted Stewart, strode over and banged her handbag on the table. “There you are, Jackie boy, trying to avoid me, are you?” She stamped her feet rather theatrically, dislodging a few locks of frizzy blonde hair from beneath her hat.
Stewart sat back and grinned. “Hell, no, Brenda. Why would I want to avoid you? Don’t you know there’s a war on? I’ve been putting out fires all over London for days. Come and sit down here. Let me remove that pout from your pretty little face.” He pulled Brenda towards him and kissed her on the lips. She pushed him away, but with a broad grin. “Oh, you sweet-talker.”
“What’ll it be then, Bren? Gin and It? My friend Mr Evans and I can’t stay long, but we’ll have the one with you, as long as you behave.”
Evans stood up as the second round of sandwiches arrived. The landlord’s terrier sidled up to him, scratchings finished, assessing his potential as a source of food. “Let me, Mr Stewart. It’s my shout.” Thanks to Trubetskoi’s money, at least he could buy his round these days.
