by Jack Treby
I shrugged. ‘Can’t say I have.’
‘She was a French...well, a tart, for want of a better word.’ He gripped his hands together again. ‘A courtesan. Marguerite Alibert, to give her her real name. Absolutely dreadful woman. She made a fortune praying on the aristocracy during the war. A viper, she was, completely without scruples. The prince should never have got involved with a woman like that; but he only has himself to blame. He got his fingers burnt and since then we’ve been keeping tabs on all his amorous encounters. Most of them with married women.’
‘That’s hardly a surprise, though.’ I chuckled quietly. ‘The Prince of Wales associating with women of dubious character. It’s practically in the job description.’ I laughed again. ‘Old Bertie, the late king, had a string of mistresses. Nobody ever batted an eyelid.’ I could see why the American press might be interested, however. A scandal involving British royalty would shift an awful lot of newspapers. But it wouldn’t do the prince any harm in the long run. ‘If that’s all that’s in this file then publish and be damned, I say. It might make shocking reading for an elderly dowager or a maiden aunt but it’s hardly likely to bring down the Empire.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’ Finch shivered. ‘This Maggie Meller was hooked up with the prince at the tail end of the war. Then, shortly afterwards, she took up with another man, a young Egyptian millionaire named Ali Fahmy. She married him, in fact. And in 1923 she was brought to trial at the Old Bailey for his murder.’
I blinked. ‘Murder?’
‘Shot him from behind with a Browning .32 pistol. Appalling women, utterly callous, guilty as hell but certain that she would get away with it, because of her connections with the establishment.’
‘Actually, I think I remember that trial,’ I said. It had been quite a celebrated court case at the time.
‘Just imagine the situation. This dreadful woman had in her possession a set of letters, written to her by the prince during the war. Letters of a severely compromising nature. Prince Edward spent most of the Great War in Paris, debauching himself with prostitutes, I’m sorry to say, while our brave lads were dying on the front line. He wrote a whole raft of letters to this Maggie Meller, many of which contained sensitive military information that would have had a lesser man shot for treason. These letters could not be allowed to enter the public domain; but after murdering her husband, the frightful woman had no reason to hold them back.’
‘But she was acquitted, wasn’t she? Of murder?’ I remembered that much of the trial.
‘Oh, yes, she got away with it. That’s the crux of the matter. That’s why everything’s such an unmitigated disaster!’ Finch threw up his hands in despair. ‘The establishment intervened. The royal family cut a deal. They would make sure she was acquitted of the crime, if she promised to return the letters and not to mention her affair with the prince in open court. She agreed to keep quiet and walked from the courtroom a free woman.’
‘Lord.’ I sucked in a mouthful of air.
‘You see what this means?’ He shuddered. ‘This file proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that the royal family, in collusion with the British government, allowed a murderess to go free, to protect the reputation of the heir to the throne. The course of justice was deliberately perverted. If this gets out,’ Finch concluded, in a whisper, ‘the monarchy will be finished.’
There was a long pause. ‘Does Prince Edward know about the file?’ I asked, at length.
‘No!’ Finch was horrified at the very idea. ‘He couldn’t be allowed to know. The British government has no faith in him whatsoever. The man’s an idiot, an adolescent boy not fit to run a sweet shop. That’s not my opinion,’ he added, hastily. ‘That’s the opinion of the prime minister. And this file proves it in no uncertain terms. But, god help us, Edward is going to be king and we cannot allow any of this to get out. Especially not now, when the king’s health is in such a poor state.’
‘You mean, because Prince Edward might become king any day?’
‘Exactly, it’s a time bomb ticking away.’ Finch sat back on his stool. ‘That’s why we need to secure these negatives. We cannot allow them to enter the public domain. You understand now why London considered this so important?’
I nodded. Lazenby had been right. If this got out, there would be a constitutional crisis. It was difficult to see how the monarchy could survive. Prince Edward would be forced to flee the country, even before he had got home from Brazil. Just like King Alfonso in Spain. It did not bear thinking about.
‘We’ve narrowed the suspects down to four people,’ Finch told me, returning to practical matters. ‘Those who disembarked from the plane in Friedrichshafen. And all four of them are travelling with us on board the Richthofen.’
‘Four people?’ I didn’t understand. ‘But surely Gerhard Schulz had the file originally? And he handed it on to Walter Kendall.’
Finch looked blank. ‘Gerhard Schulz? What’s he got to do with it?’ The policeman regarded me with some surprise.
‘Well...he was a journalist, like Walter Kendall. And it was Kendall who was going to publish the story. And now they’re both dead. Er...you do know Mr Kendall died last night?’
Finch bit his lip. ‘Yes, the captain told me. The poor man. But that can't have anything to do with our file. How could it? Mr Kendall didn’t board the Richthofen until Seville.’
‘Yes, but he was going to buy the file from Gerhard Schulz, during the stopover in Spain. Kendall’s newspaper was going to publish it.’ That was what Charles Lazenby had told me.
Finch shook his head. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’
I stared at the fellow in confusion. ‘But Lazenby spent Sunday afternoon following him around Seville. He was convinced they were going to complete the deal in Spain. And I followed Gerhard Schulz all over town, on the understanding that he already had possession of the documents. And since Schulz ended the day with quite a bit of cash in his pocket we assumed he must have passed the file on, without us seeing him.’
‘Cash?’ Finch’s eyes widened. ‘Gerhard Schulz?’
‘Yes. Well at any rate, the concierge at his hotel said he paid for his room in American dollars. Not conclusive proof, I admit, now I come to think of it. But that’s what Charles Lazenby told me. And I assumed, from what you said, that your lady clerk must have given the file to the Austrian in the first place.’
The policeman shook his head. ‘But Schulz wasn’t on the plane from Croydon,’ he said, sounding even more confused than I was. ‘We saw his name on the passenger list for the Richthofen, of course, and as a journalist we assumed he might have an interest – particularly given his left wing sympathies. But he had nothing to do with the acquisition of the file. He couldn’t have. He’s never been anywhere near London.’ Finch frowned heavily. ‘But perhaps the SIS had information we didn’t. Your people never tell us anything. It’s absurd. We’re forced to work with both hands tied behind our backs.’ He had a point there, I had to concede. ‘But we contacted the SIS as soon as we knew a copy of the file had left the country. For all the good it might do. That was why Mr Lazenby was brought in. Four of the passengers on the Croydon flight had booked tickets on the Richthofen. We knew the Zeppelin was stopping over in Seville and we needed someone to keep tabs on the suspects away from the airship. I presume you were drafted in to help out with that. Lazenby must have got hold of a passenger list in Seville and realised Mr Kendall was a potential buyer. But the first I heard of the American was when I arrived in Seville.’ Finch took a gulp of air. The fellow had a tendency to gabble somewhat, I noticed. ‘But as to Gerhard Schulz, he was never really a suspect. And having met the chap, I would have ruled him out as a criminal in any case.’
‘Ruled him out? Why?’
‘Intuition, more than anything. Not that I have much of a flare for that kind of thing. I only wish I did. But I sat up playing cards with him on Saturday evening – getting to know everyone on the quiet – and he didn’t strike me as a man
on a mission. More a man in love, I should say, the poor deluded chap.’
‘Love?’
Finch nodded sadly. ‘Had a bit of a thing for Miss Hurst.’
‘Yes, I’d heard about that. But if you didn’t think he had the documents, what was the point of me following him around Seville on Sunday afternoon? Or Lazenby following Kendall?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Finch admitted. ‘We just needed a couple of extra boots on the ground. I couldn’t keep tabs on everyone away from the airship. Your job was to keep an eye on anyone who left the hotel. But as it turned out, the only people who went sight-seeing were Mr Kendall, Miss Tanner and Herr Schulz. We certainly weren’t expecting the documents to be passed on in Seville. The thief wouldn’t have had time to develop the negatives.’ That was a point. No potential buyer would pay out for photographs without having seen them first. ‘And as for you being put on board the Richthofen when we left Spain, that certainly wasn’t part of the plan. That was my job, not yours.’ There was no bitterness in his voice, just bewilderment. ‘It’s been one enormous cock up right from the word go.’
‘But why would Lazenby put me on board, if you were already here?’
‘Heaven knows. We were both in communication with London, but perhaps the wires got crossed somewhere. Typical Special Branch bungling.’
Or perhaps, I thought quietly, my own people wanted me to keep an eye on this dubious policeman. He seemed rather highly strung, for a man who was meant to be one of Scotland Yard’s finest. But if the SIS had any suspicion of him, why the devil hadn’t Lazenby told me about it?
‘And it wasn’t until this morning,’ Finch continued, ‘that I had final confirmation of your identity.’ He gestured to the telegram in his pocket.
I sat back on the bed. In the distance, there was another rumble of thunder. ‘But if Gerhard Schulz never had the file then who on Earth did? Who carried it over from London?’
Finch threw up his hands. ‘Well, that’s the question. I wish I knew! It must have been one of these four people coming out of Croydon. But I’m no closer to finding out now than I was when I arrived in Germany. It’s been an absolute nightmare from the word go.’
‘Can’t this clerk woman tell you who she passed the documents on to? She must have been questioned by now.’
Finch brought a hand up to his face. ‘She doesn’t know. She handed the films on to a baggage handler at the aerodrome. A Mick Durrant. Former Merchant Navy chap. She had some kind of romantic association with him, apparently. Lost her head, the foolish girl. The two of them were going to run away together once they collected their fee. Purely mercenary on their part. They must have photographed the file to order and passed the negatives on to a contact on that plane. Absolutely appalling behaviour. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to trace Mr Durrant.’
‘But this woman, she must have known she couldn’t get away with it. Photographing the file. Someone was bound to notice it had been tampered with.’
‘Eventually, yes. But she wouldn’t have expected it to happen so soon. The Prince of Wales has been in South America for the last few months. There wouldn’t have been any reason to access the file before his return. But the embassy in Rio has a secure line and our man there sent us an update before heading off home on the Arlanza.’ That was the ship that was now en route for Britain, with the prince on board. ‘The woman only had time to get out to Croydon and hand on the documents to her boyfriend before we picked her up. But she doesn’t know who he passed them on to. There’s an alert out for Durrant, but until we find him, we just have the passengers on the plane; the ones who flew out to Friedrichshafen from Croydon aerodrome.’ He leaned in closely. ‘There were eight people on board that flight. A wealthy family from Düsseldorf, two adults and two children, returning home from an Easter holiday. And four passengers heading for the Richthofen on Saturday evening.’
‘So who were they, if not Gerhard Schulz?’
‘Annabel Hurst, Josef Kaufmann, Adelina Koenig and Frederick Gray.’
I laughed. ‘Well, I think we can discount Miss Hurst. She’s nothing more than a mouse. And Adelina Koenig is as mad as a fruitcake.’ I considered for a moment. ‘Kaufmann seems a decent enough fellow, if a little maudlin. No, if those are the suspects, then my money is on Frederick Gray. He’s altogether too clever for a GPO man.’ Converting kilometres into miles without prompting, I ask you. ‘But I still don’t understand why it was I spent Sunday afternoon following Gerhard Schulz around Seville if you’d already ruled him out.’
‘Perhaps Charles Lazenby had information from his bosses that wasn’t available to us.’
That was always a possibility. Given the organisation’s propensity to leak information, the SIS was always loathe to pass anything on to Special Branch that it didn’t have to. ‘Or perhaps he thought the sale had already been made. Schulz bought the file from one of your four and was about to sell it on to Walter Kendall. But if that was the case, why would the original seller stay with the Zeppelin all the way to New York? It makes no sense at all.’
‘It doesn’t, does it?’ Finch agreed.
I grimaced as another peal of thunder rocked the ship. It seemed to be getting louder with every burst.
‘And the poor fellow committing suicide shortly after we left. It’s an unmitigated disaster. All we know for certain is that the negatives are somewhere on board this ship. I’ve searched Kaufmann’s cabin, and Frederick Gray’s, and haven’t found anything. I’m going to have to look at the women’s rooms at some point. I’m not looking forward to that. All those frilly clothes...’ He shuddered. ‘But it has to be done. The captain...’
Before he could finish the thought, there was a firm knock at the door. I hadn’t heard footsteps approaching the cabin, but then there was little chance of hearing much just at the moment. I did hear one sound, however: my valet’s voice. ‘Monsieur?’ he called and knocked again.
Finch shot me a perplexed look. I rose up unsteadily, making sure to keep my hands on the side of the bed at all times, lest another gust of wind should rock the boat and send me flying. Maurice was standing out in the port corridor as I pulled back the door, his battered face it’s usual pained self.
‘Morris?’ I said.
‘Will you come with me, Monsieur?’
‘How on earth did you know I was here?’
‘I heard you talking. Our cabin is on the opposite side.’ He gestured to the far wall. So much for the rain masking our conversation. But then Maurice had always had particularly good hearing.
‘You overheard us?’ the policeman gasped, his eyes widening in horror.
‘Only the voices, Monsieur.’
‘It’s all right,’ I reassured Finch. ‘Morris is with me. He’s been fully vetted.’
Finch was growing agitated once again. ‘Even so, everything we’ve discussed is absolutely confidential!’
‘Of course. He won’t breathe a word. What do you want, Morris? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of an important conversation?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. But there is something you need to see.’
I growled at him in irritation. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No, Monsieur.’
I sighed and glanced apologetically at Finch. For all his faults, Maurice would not interrupt me like this without good reason.
‘You go on,’ the policeman suggested, pressing his back against the wash basin. ‘We can talk more later, once we’re through the storm. Are there many people out and about?’ This question was aimed at my valet.
‘Most of them are in the starboard lounge, Monsieur, watching the storm.’
‘Well, that’s something, anyway.’ Finch waved a finger and drew me in close. ‘The captain’s asked me to take a look at Mr Kendall’s cabin.’ He produced a key from his breast pocket. ‘I can’t believe his death has anything to do with our business, but Captain Albrecht wants me to cast a professional eye over the scene, just to be on the safe side.’
‘
You really don’t think it’s connected?’ I said. ‘His death, I mean. The second journalist in two days?’
‘Heaven knows. But I don’t see how it can be. I’ll make a thorough check of the crime scene in any case. If it is a crime scene. Not that it will do much good. I don’t have any forensic equipment with me.’ No fingerprint powder. That was a relief. ‘Everything was done in such a rush. I didn’t even have time to pack a change of clothes. I had to buy a couple of clean shirts in Friedrichshafen.’
Maurice was looking impatient at the door.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ I said. ‘This had better be important, Morris.’
‘It is, Monsieur,’ the valet replied firmly, as I moved out into the corridor. ‘I would not have summoned you if it was not.’ We made our way towards the connecting corridor. ‘Monsieur Finch is a policeman?’ he asked.
‘Special Branch. It’s their file that’s gone missing, apparently. Or a copy of it.’ Even with Maurice, I couldn’t say anything more than that.
‘I see.’
We turned left and moved along the central passageway. Up ahead, the door to the lounge room was open and I could see several passengers standing at the far window, looking out at the storm. A flash of lightning electrified the saloon but it was some moments before the rumble of thunder caught up with the light show. I turned gratefully left towards my own cabin.
‘The steward informed me that you wished me to move rooms,’ Maurice said, as we arrived at the door.
I had forgotten about that. ‘Yes, I was asking about empty cabins. Needed an excuse and that was the first thing I could think of. You haven’t dragged me back here just to complain?’
‘No, Monsieur. I was with the steward when he opened up the room next door to us.’ The valet took a key and opened the far cabin. ‘He invited me to have a look, while he was checking that the linen was fresh.’ Maurice moved inside the new room.
