Merlin at War

by Mark Ellis

  “The military progress of our joint forces is one thing and no doubt my people will continue to keep me in the picture one way or other. The outcome of our activities is another matter. If our forces regain Syria and Lebanon from the French imposter government in Vichy, then these colonies of our French empire must revert to me.” He drummed his chest with both hands. “I, as the only legitimate French leader, shall take control of these colonies and I shall determine what is to be done with them. I, Charles de Gaulle, not you, Archibald Wavell, nor Mr Winston Spencer Churchill.” The Frenchman turned on his heels and strode out of the room.

  Wavell walked slowly over to his desk and picked up the telephone. “Lieutenant, please bring me a couple of aspirin and a large scotch.”

  * * *

  London

  “Dear old Simon, I remember that time we spent down in Greece and Albania in the 20s.” Sidney Fleming had gone misty-eyed as he swirled the Courvoisier cognac around in its balloon glass. “I can’t say much for the girls in Albania, but there were some very fine specimens in Athens. One night…”

  “Sidney, please! This is not appropriate.” Tomlinson nodded meaningfully at the third member of their lunch party.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, Philip. You don’t want to hear all that. Anyway, we had great fun down there.” Fleming paused to straighten his trademark spotted bow-tie. “Also made quite a bit of money in the end, although we had a few tricky moments. It was then that your father met Pulos. Unprepossessing individual I found him at the time but your father saw something in him and so it turned out.”

  “Turned out how?” Philip Arbuthnot asked as he sipped his glass of dessert wine. He had eaten shellfish and was feeling a little queasy. He hoped he hadn’t consumed a dodgy oyster. A friend of his had died from one not so long ago but surely Claridge’s oysters would be all right?

  “Well, he’s been an excellent representative for us in South America, hasn’t he? Kept everything ticking over marvellously.”

  “I understood from my father that Pulos was more than a representative. He said he’d given Pulos some equity.” Arbuthnot sipped some more wine. It seemed to be settling his stomach.

  Fleming relit the large cigar that had just fizzled out on him and took a puff. “Yes, he has a minority interest in Enterprisas Simal, as I do in the bank holding company. I won’t claim to know all the ins and outs of your father’s dealings with Pulos in South America but no doubt,” he looked across quizzically at Tomlinson, “everything will come out in the wash.” He waved his empty brandy glass at a waiter. “I do claim, however, to know pretty much all there is to know about your father’s British affairs and you’ll be glad to hear that, despite the war, the businesses are in fine fettle. The merchant bank, the commodity trading house, the investing arms – all are in excellent health.”

  “My father used to tell me that all those businesses required a very hands-on approach. Are you the hands-on person, Mr Fleming?”

  Fleming waited for the waiter to refill his brandy glass and depart. “I have been, Philip, but now I delegate. Delegation is the key, as I learned very well from your father. I have some very good men overseeing the businesses in the City. All have been with us for several years, all are diligent, trustworthy and well remunerated. I keep in close touch with them, of course, as did your father until last year.”

  Tomlinson nodded. “Your father, Philip, always expressed his regard for Sidney and the London management team in the highest terms.” An uncomfortable silence fell on the table, which the lawyer eventually broke, wringing his hands nervously. “I hope you don’t think it’s inappropriate, Philip, to interrupt these reminiscences of your father with a little business?”

  “Not at all. Thought that was what we were here for.”

  “We need to review the specific legalities relating to the consequences of Mr Arbuthnot’s death for his family and his ongoing business.”

  Fleming, who was by now a little drunk, punched Tomlinson’s shoulder impatiently. “For God’s, sake Reggie, can’t you speak English rather than that dreadful legalese? What you mean is that we need to discuss what is to happen to the business now that Simon’s gone. Let’s cut straight to the quick. He always told me that in the event of any accident befalling him, the reins would pass to me.”

  Arbuthnot went very pale and almost choked on his wine. “What do you mean?” He turned to the solicitor. “I am the heir, aren’t I, sir?”

  “You were always intended as such, Philip, but…” The solicitor, who in contrast to Fleming had been abstemious during the meal, began to regret that he didn’t have a drink to hand. “I am afraid that we might have a little problem.” He paused to smooth down the tablecloth in front of him. “We appear to be missing some information.”

  “What information?” Fleming enquired loudly.

  “Last autumn you may recall that I had a small operation and was out of the office for a few weeks.”

  “Hernia, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Sidney. Rather unpleasant. In any event, this absence coincided with the last few weeks Simon Arbuthnot spent in England before he was posted abroad.” Tomlinson looked across uncomfortably at his companions.

  “Yesterday, as soon as I got into the office, I asked my secretary to bring in Simon’s personal files. She could not find them in my filing cabinet, but she did find a note where they should have been, saying they had been temporarily removed to Mr Titmus’s office. Now you know that Mr Titmus only does a two-day week for us now and he wasn’t in yesterday.

  “In Mr Titmus’s absence, my secretary enquired of Miss Evans, who looks after Mr Titmus, about the files. She was told that Simon had turned up one day at the office unannounced. Having been informed at reception that I was away, he had asked to see another partner. Mr Titmus was in the office, so he saw him. Apparently your father asked for his personal files. My own secretary had taken a few days’ holiday herself when I was away but she had shared my safe combination with Miss Evans. Miss Evans opened the safe, found the files and took them to Mr Titmus.”

  “So, what the hell happened then?” Fleming had set down his brandy and his cigar and was beginning to feel his blood pressure rising.

  “I managed to get hold of Leslie Titmus yesterday afternoon after he got off the golf course. I naturally remonstrated with him for not telling me about this when I returned from my operation but, as is his way, he blithely rejected my complaints. His father founded the firm, Philip, as you know, and as the majority partner, Leslie, is not an easy person to call to account.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Reggie, get to the point before Philip and I die of suspense.”

  “The fact is that Simon asked Titmus to leave him alone with the probate section of his files, which was in its own separate box. He did as he was requested without asking why. He was always a little frightened of your father, Philip, as he was the firm’s most important client. When he returned half an hour later, he found your father had gone. The probate file was sitting on his desk. He opened it and found it empty, save for a letter which Arbuthnot had asked one of Titmus’s clerks to witness. He then gave it to his secretary and forgot all about it.”

  Philip Arbuthnot’s lips were parched. He licked them ineffectively. “What did the letter say?”

  “That Simon Arbuthnot thereby revoked all previous wills and codicils and would be preparing a new will that would be forwarded to me shortly.”

  “Needless to say…”

  “Yes, needless to say, Sidney, I have received no such copy.”

  Arbuthnot looked confused for a moment but then his eyes brightened. “Hang on. If he has revoked the will you drafted for him and nothing else turns up then he died intestate and everything naturally comes to me anyway, doesn’t it? So what’s the problem?”

  “If your father died intestate, you are of course correct, Philip. You are, so far as we are aware, Mr Arbuthnot’s only child and…”

  “What on earth do you mean ‘so far as we are aware?’�
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  “Forgive me, Philip. I am regrettably prone to overcautious lawyerly language. If you are, as we can reasonably assume, your father’s closest living descendant, you inherit as a matter of course in the absence of a will. However, we cannot pretend ignorance of what your father’s letter says. Somewhere there is, or may be, a new will that we should attempt to find, or which someone may shortly send to us. I would be very surprised if any new will differs in its main provisions from the one we drafted before.”

  “Which said what?”

  “I can’t reveal that, Sidney.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Well, it is clearly irrelevant now, anyway. Either we have a new will, or an intestacy, we shall have to see.” Tomlinson paused to clear his throat rather noisily, then resumed. “I am afraid that there is another problem. There were further items of importance contained in the probate box.”

  “What items?”

  “Very important documents relating to parts of your father’s business, Philip.” Tomlinson looked hard at Fleming. “They have gone missing too.”

  Fleming’s face was blank for a moment before a look of anxious comprehension spread over it. “My God, not…!” His hand came down heavily on the table, knocking his empty brandy glass to the floor. “Oh, Christ!”

  * * *

  It was agent Conor Devlin’s first day on the job. Devlin, or Harp, as the French wanted to call him, was in Carlton House Terrace, 60 yards or so along from the cul de sac of Carlton Gardens, where the Free French had their main headquarters. De Gaulle had ensured that his people were lodged in an attractive house in a beautiful London street. Unlike the other navvies, he’d worked with on building sites in his youth, Devlin had taken a keen interest in the end product of their backbreaking work and had spent many hours in public libraries reading about the great architects and their works. The supremely elegant Carlton House Terrace had been designed by the Regency genius John Nash and Devlin had thought on his arrival that if he had to hang around somewhere for several hours, there were worse places.

  He had been in position since trailing Lieutenant Beaulieu to work from his Soho digs that morning. Rougemont had asked Devlin to make Beaulieu his priority on this, the first day of surveillance, and had given him Beaulieu’s address and description. Details for Meyer and Dumont were to follow. So far there had been nothing for him to see. He checked his watch. It was nearly three o’clock and he was thirsty. A pint of Guinness would go down a treat but he was standing in one of the only parts of London lacking a pub within yards. The nearest place was at least 10 minutes’ walk away and that was too far to risk. He liked his drink but placed professionalism over personal needs.

  His caution was justified when, a minute later, Beaulieu walked out on to the pavement. He was accompanied by two other French officers, one tallish and walking with a cane, the second a swarthy, shorter fellow. The men set off immediately down the road towards the Duke of York Steps and Devlin followed at a discreet distance. A group of workmen and ARP wardens were sorting out a pile of sandbags at the bottom of the steps. The officers stepped around the obstruction, crossed the Mall and a few yards on turned into St James’s Park, where they headed towards the lake.

  The three officers finally came to a halt beyond the water and sat down on a bench overlooking a children’s playground. Devlin observed them for a while from a clump of plane trees on the other side of the lake. The Frenchmen lit cigarettes and chatted. After about 10 minutes, a man in a pinstriped suit appeared from somewhere, hailed the officers and joined them. Space was made for him on the bench. Devlin realised that if he was to hear anything of the men’s conversation, he’d have to get closer.

  One of Devlin’s useful attributes in performing covert work for Rougemont was that he spoke fluent French while looking nothing like a Frenchman. He was not a tall man but was broad-shouldered and solidly built. With a head of thick, reddish-brown hair and a lined and weatherbeaten face, Devlin had the rugged and battered look of the middleweight boxer he had once been. He was also a former labourer, artist’s model and driver.

  In Paris, where he had spent several years in the 1930s, he had graduated from sleeping on the streets to sharing the beds of numerous Frenchwomen, both young and mature, who had found him, to his surprise, strangely attractive. He had somehow ended up moving in interesting circles. He had sparred with boxing champion Marcel Cerdan, posed for wild Spanish painter Pablo Picasso and drunk wine with his fellow countrymen, Samuel Beckett and James Joyce. After his return to London in 1939, Devlin found a more mundane social circle, although he still occasionally encountered the odd bohemian, such as the verbose Welsh poet he drank with occasionally in Fitzrovia. This was probably a reflection of the dull way he now made his living. In partnership with an old friend, Devlin was running a small detective agency specialising in matrimonial affairs, which provided him with a modest but congenial living. Assignments like this from Rougemont were a welcome bonus.

  Seeking a better vantage point, Devlin edged carefully from one tree clump to another until he reached the playground. He sat down on a swing and opened the copy of The Times he had already read from cover to cover that day. A pretty woman pushing a pram entered and sat down on the other side of the playground. With the racket the ducks and geese were making, he was still too far away to hear what the Frenchmen were saying. Devlin moved closer by joining the lady on her bench. Here he found he could hear snatches of conversation. There was no way he could get any closer without attracting attention.

  The woman on the bench turned and gave him a nervous glance. Devlin smiled back in a way he hoped reassured her that he posed no kind of threat. His eyes then bored into the newspaper as he concentrated on the conversation behind him. He heard some discussion about the war in the Middle East. Someone, he presumed the visitor, occasionally spoke in English. He heard the words ‘Damascus’, ‘Beirut’, ‘de Gaulle’ and ‘Cairo’, before the conversation was temporarily halted by the noise of a low-flying RAF aircraft.

  The baby in the pram was woken by the plane and loudly made everyone aware of its existence. The aeroplane disappeared, the bawling stopped and Devlin could hear the officers’ voices again. He heard mention of ‘New York’, ‘Vichy’, ‘money’ and ‘stock exchange’ in quick succession. Then there was a conversational lull during which the woman with the pram chose to depart. When he had bade her good day and she had gone, the men were talking again but in lower tones and Devlin could make out less. Then the officers and their friend got to their feet and shook hands. The pinstriped man walked off towards Birdcage Walk, while the officers headed back in the direction of Carlton Gardens.

  Devlin, who had no idea whether the encounter he had witnessed had any bearing at all on Rougemont’s investigation, thought briefly of following the civilian but decided it was wiser to stick with Beaulieu and made his way back to Carlton House Terrace.

  * * *

  Commandant Angers was feeling very pleased with himself. Rougemont had gone to Aldershot on a military errand and Angers had lunched alone in the little local bistro. To his delight, the same young English beauty who had been at the restaurant the previous Friday was there again, this time accompanied by a girlfriend. Flirtatious words had been exchanged, a few glasses of wine shared, and telephone numbers exchanged. The girls were in showbusiness, appearing in the chorus of a popular revue on Leicester Square. He would call them tomorrow. If he could persuade him, he’d get Rougemont to make up a foursome later in the week. Angers’ colleague was too intellectual and reserved – a little sex would be good for him. The commandant, now back in his office, glass of port in hand, was just wondering how he was going to persuade Rougemont when the two detectives were ushered into his room.

  Angers rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet. “Bonjour, Messieurs. I’m afraid the colonel was called out urgently so you’ll have to make do with me. Please be seated.”

  Merlin could see straightaway that the man was the worse for drink.
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  “Glass of port, gentlemen?”

  Merlin pursed his lips. “A little early in the day for us, sir. Thank you.”

  “Of course, Chief Inspector, you are on duty. I should have realised. Well, to what do I owe this repeated pleasure? As the colonel told you yesterday, we know nothing of this ‘Mr White’ fellow you were enquiring about. Is there something new?”

  “There is. We have learned the man’s real identity.”

  “Goodness! That’s quick work, Chief Inspector. Who was he?”

  “A Mr Armand de Metz. According to our information, he was a well known surgeon in Paris before the war.”

  Merlin thought he caught a flicker of recognition on Angers’ face. “Ah, yes, I…”

  “You know the name, Commandant?”

  Jumbled fragments of thought passed through Angers’ slightly addled post-lunch brain. De Metz. Rougemont. The colonel. Carlton Gardens. He couldn’t remember what had been said. His mind was blank. In such circumstances, wasn’t denial always the best policy?

  “No. I mean, yes. No. Sorry, yes, I think I recognise the name.”

  “How?”

  The commandant hummed and hawed for a moment before recovering his confident air. “Why, in the context of his being a famous surgeon, of course.”

  “Did you… did you know the guy, sir?”

  “I did not, Mr Goldberg. The name, however, seems familiar. Perhaps my doctor in Paris mentioned him, or I read his name in the newspaper, perhaps in the medical section, perhaps in the social columns. I cannot remember.” Angers ran a hand through his fine mane of hair. “I am very sorry if an eminent French medical practitioner has suffered such an ignominious end but what can I say? There are many people dying sad deaths all over Europe, and doubtless there will be many more before this war is over.”