Merlin at War

by Mark Ellis

  “I should be getting her complete file from Belfast later today.”

  “Good. Sergeant, where are we on the various forensic matters?”

  “As reported yesterday, we found one shell casement in de Metz’s flat. The killer must have picked up the other two but missed this one, which had fallen behind the back of the bed. Unfortunately, they are having a reorganisation in the forensics lab and the shell has temporarily gone missing. They’re trying to find it.”

  “That’s damnably careless and inefficient of them.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve made my feelings known. They are confident it will turn up. As regards fingerprints, none were found other than those of de Metz.”

  “What about those tickets?”

  “The cinema ticket matches those issued at one of the local cinemas in Notting Hill. I asked the young bobby we saw, Constable Phillips, to investigate and he found an usher who recognised de Metz from the Constable’s description. He remembers him watching a cowboy film last Wednesday. He was alone.”

  “That doesn’t help us much. What about the railway ticket?”

  “I am working on it, sir. As you recall, the train destination began with BL. There are quite a few British railway stations beginning with BL, ranging from Blackpool to Bloxwich to Blaenau Ffestiniog.”

  “Excellent Welsh pronunciation, Sergeant.” Merlin had been on a case that had taken him to Blaenau Ffestiniog years before when he’d been a young sergeant. He had met a pretty local girl, who had given him a crash course in the Welsh language. For some reason he’d retained quite clearly all the things she’d taught him, not just those pertaining to her native tongue.

  “What about stations in and around London?”

  “Of course, I’m going to focus on those first. There’s Blackfriars and Blackheath. A little further away going north there’s Bloxwich, Blake Street and Bletchley. Then…”

  “All right, Sergeant. Well done. Keep up the good work. Right. Now, I’m off to see the AC. Wait here, please, Bernie, and as soon as I’m done we’ll head off to Carlton Gardens.”

  * * *

  Rougemont sat back in the warm Holborn sun and enjoyed watching the world go by as the shoe-shine boy went to work on his boots. Two attractive brunettes passed by, chattering cheerfully as they entered the Tube station. Had the commandant been there, no doubt he’d have been off swiftly in close pursuit.

  The captain closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was having his shoes cleaned at his favourite spot on the Champs Elysées. He wondered, as he frequently did, how everyone was bearing up under the German occupation. His sources told him that the German governor of Paris, Abetz, was trying to go easy on the population.

  Many Parisians would be taking it all in their stride, of course. Girls would be fluttering their eyelashes at the handsome German officers in their smart uniforms. Barmen and waiters would be relishing the generous tips of the newcomers. Many of the fancier shops would be profiting from the new kind of tourist trade. Life would be particularly good for those Frenchmen who shared a similar world view to that of the Nazis. For others, provided they kept their mouths shut, life would be all right. But then there were the Jews. Life would definitely not be all right for them.

  He opened his eyes to see another pair of pretty young girls entering the station. The commandant would certainly have enjoyed himself here today. The commandant. He sighed. Angers worried him. Rougemont had received a drunken telephone call from him last night. The policemen had been at Dorset Square, quizzing Angers about the French surgeon. The commandant had mentioned his jolly lunch so no doubt he was already tipsy when he’d seen them. He could be a bit of a liability, his boss.

  The shoe-shine boy, a scrawny little Cockney in his teens, set down his brushes and looked up at his client expectantly. Rougemont complimented the boy on his work, paid what was due plus a generous tip, and got to his feet. “À bientôt, mon ami.”

  He cut through the traffic on Kingsway and headed down a side street at the end of which lay his destination. It was after 10 o’clock and the morning rush in the grimy little café had passed. There were only three customers, one of whom was his man.

  Rougemont nodded a greeting to Devlin, who asked the waiter for another coffee. The Frenchman grimaced as he settled himself in his chair. “I would have preferred a cup of tea. The coffee in this country is not fit for pigswill.”

  Devlin laughed and drained his cup. “Well, I suppose this pigswill is good enough for an Irishman like me.”

  When the waiter returned with the coffee, Rougemont gave it a quick glance then pushed it to one side. He lit a cigarette and switched to French. “And so to business, Mr Harp. What have you to tell me? How did you get on with Beaulieu?”

  “A man of distinctive appearance, as you said. With all that red hair he could be an Irishman. Do you have photographs of the other two you promised me?”

  “I have them here in my pocket. But first tell me about Beaulieu.”

  “Early days yet. The young gentleman is a solitary beast. Works hard or, at least, he spent most of the day in the office. No evidence yet of his being a nightbird. Bedded down, on his own, before 10 o’clock after dining alone at a little place in Soho. His only break from routine was a walk with two other officers in St James’s Park, where they met up briefly with another young man. Not a military man. I didn’t catch any names, unfortunately.”

  “Descriptions?”

  Devlin lit himself a Gauloise.

  “Still smoking the French cigarettes, I see.”

  “Got hooked on them in Paris.”

  “Ah, yes. During your Bohemian period. Do you miss that life?”

  “I do but I don’t think I’d like to return to it under the current regime.”

  “No, indeed. You should write up your experiences, though.”

  “Someone’s already written it, or something close. Fellow called Orwell. Well, Blair – that’s his real name.”

  “I forget what an erudite man you are. So, the other two officers… Describe them and I’ll see if I can identify them.”

  “Same uniforms as Beaulieu as far as I could see. One of them was tall, six foot or thereabouts. They were all wearing their caps, their kepis or whatever you call them. Well, this one had dark hair underneath. Brown, I think. I couldn’t really make out his features but he had a cane.”

  “Interesting. One of your other targets, Dumont, occasionally uses a cane, I understand. And the other officer?”

  “He was shorter. Five foot nine or 10. Dark. Very slim. The hair under his cap was black. That’s really as much as I could see.”

  Rougemont took out the two photographs he had in his pocket. “This them?”

  “Could very well be.” Devlin gave both photographs a careful look. “I can’t say I’m 100 per cent sure but, yes, this could be a picture of the man with the cane and the other could be the shorter one.”

  “Dumont and Meyer. The other suspects. If it were them, I wasn’t aware the three officers under suspicion were all friends, but I’m not sure it means anything. Officers of the same rank working in the same office – would be surprising if they didn’t have some sort of relationship, wouldn’t it? What about the other chap? The civilian.”

  “Maybe five foot 11. Wearing a pinstriped suit. Solid looking. Fair hair, a middle parting. Balding slightly. Clean shaven. They were all clean shaven except Beaulieu. I may be wrong as I was at some distance but this man seemed a little nervous. He was looking about him quite frequently. The others seemed more at ease.”

  “English?”

  “He looked English. So far as I could tell they were speaking a mixture of English and French. I’m not sure if he spoke any of the French.”

  Rougemont blew a neat smoke ring into the air. “And what did you hear of their conversation?”

  “Thanks to the ducks, a low-flying plane and a bawling baby, not much.”

  “That’s a pity. You heard nothing at all?”

  “I heard
mention of various places in the Middle East – Damascus, Beirut, Cairo. I heard mention of New York, Vichy, de Gaulle and the stock exchange. And I also heard a few other odd words that probably aren’t relevant – mines, Ritz, poker, surgeon.”

  A flicker of surprise registered on the captain’s face. “Surgeon? Are you sure you heard that correctly?”

  Devlin nodded. “As you know, I speak pretty good French. Chirurgien’s the word, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Rougemont abruptly stubbed out his cigarette and gazed thoughtfully at his untouched cup of coffee. “Anything else?”

  “No. Their conversation lasted no more than a quarter of an hour or so. Afterwards the officers returned to Carlton Gardens and their friend disappeared up Birdcage Walk.”

  Rougemont turned his thoughtful gaze on Devlin. He reached again into his jacket. “For your trouble, Mr Harp. Your usual rate, as agreed. Thank you.”

  Devlin pocketed the envelope and the photographs. “Do you want me to keep on Beaulieu for the moment?”

  “I think it would be wise to spread yourself a little and keep an eye on all three.”

  “Obviously, if I’m trying to cover the three, things may fall through the gaps.”

  “I heard that Beaulieu has a day or two’s leave this week. Seeing some friend in Oxford.”

  “Legitimate?”

  “So I’m told. I have a contact in the university. His friend is a respected academic. My contact can let me know if he turns up there. If he does, you have more scope to observe the other two.”

  “Very well. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m not sure about anything. To be honest, I’m not really sure if Colonel Aubertin really wants a proper investigation. It is strange that he chose to give the job to the commandant, even though it has ultimately been devolved to me. Anyway, I’ve got you and I know you’ll do the best you can in imperfect circumstances.”

  Devlin eased himself out of his chair.

  “Friday, Mr Harp. Same time, same place. I’ll pay your next instalment then.”

  Devlin nodded, flicked Rougemont a casual salute and left. The captain stayed behind for a few minutes. He wondered about the three officers. If there were really something to Colonel Fillon’s suspicions, perhaps they were all involved together? Who was the other man they met?

  Then again, the snippets of conversation Devlin had caught did not seem particularly suspicious. The major French military activity at present was in the Middle East, while de Gaulle and Vichy were perennial subjects of gossip for the Free French officers. New York? He had learned that one of the officers, Meyer, had connections there. The stock exchange? Shares continued to be traded despite the war. No reason for soldiers not to take some interest in the markets. No, the only thing he’d heard that disturbed him was the reference to a surgeon. Surely that could only be de Metz? But no. He was sure Devlin must have misheard.

  * * *

  “Come in, Frank. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I was wondering how you and this Goldberg fellow were getting on.” The AC was enjoying his elevenses – a pot of tea and a plate of McVitie’s digestive biscuits. He had one of these staple British delicacies in his mouth and seemed oblivious to the spray of crumbs being ejected as he spoke. Merlin edged his chair back a few inches.

  “He’s a very pleasant chap, sir. A buen chico as my father would say.”

  The AC frowned. He didn’t care to be reminded of Merlin’s Hispanic origins. “Mmm. Good.” Gatehouse pushed the biscuit plate across his desk but Merlin shook his head. “Has he been of any use?”

  “I really can’t say that yet, sir, but I believe he will be. It takes time to settle into what, after all, is an alien world to him.”

  “Yes. Well… Never been to New York myself but no doubt it’s very different to London and the fellow looks like he can handle himself if you get into any sticky corners. Might be useful then?”

  “I’ve no doubt, sir.”

  “Very good.” The AC fiddled with the stud in his wing collar then. “What else do you have for me?”

  “In our inquiries into the murder of Mr de Metz, we have learned that the security services are aware of the gentleman and may have had some dealings with him.”

  “May have had some dealings? What does that mean?”

  “We don’t know yet. De Metz possessed a telephone number that Robinson was following up. It turned out to be an MI5 number. She received a call from an MI5 officer acknowledging this, but he wouldn’t give any more information. He said he’d talk to his colleagues and get back to her in due course if they felt there was anything they could tell us.”

  The AC paused as he attempted to dislodge a chunk of digestive from a gap in his teeth. Mission accomplished, he looked across thoughtfully at Merlin. “I thought this man was just a back-street abortionist. What the devil was he doing with MI5?”

  “That is the question. It’s possible it could put an entirely different complexion on the case. We need to hear back from MI5 as soon as possible. As you well know, we don’t have a very good track record with these people. I myself have one reliable contact there but I know he’d prefer me to go through the proper channels. I was wondering if you could put in a word to whoever oversees those channels to help expedite matters.”

  The AC turned towards the window, which, like that in Merlin’s office directly below, looked out on the London County Council building opposite and Westminster Bridge to the right. The gun emplacements on the top of the LCC building had been idle for more than three weeks now. “Strange, isn’t it, Frank? We’d all got so used to the bombing that it now seems unnatural not to have the planes coming in every night.”

  “It does, sir. My next-door neighbour says the Germans are just taking a break before launching an even greater barrage than the one on 10 May. Says he’s heard there’s some type of new bomb the Germans have developed that will knock us for six.”

  “Fiddle-faddle, Frank. I hope you told him to desist from such defeatist claptrap.”

  “I did, sir.”

  “The story in Whitehall is that the bombing has stopped because Hitler needs his planes elsewhere. Perhaps to push out eastwards.”

  “Against Russia, you mean?”

  “Hitler is mad enough to do anything.” The AC straightened up. “Anything! Now back to your Frenchman and MI5. I think we are entitled to take the view that we have greatly assisted MI5 by lending them Inspector Johnson for the Hess case.”

  “I thought the prime minister imposed Johnson on them?”

  “That may be one interpretation, but I would prefer to claim that we have deprived ourselves of one of our best men to help them out. As far as I’m concerned, a favour given deserves a favour in return. I’ll get on to the home secretary this morning.”

  The AC paused a moment. “No, what am I thinking? I won’t bother with the home secretary. He doesn’t have much clout. I’ll go directly to the new chap who’s taken over at MI5. Petrie. David Petrie is the man. Now, my brother George was telling me at the weekend that Petrie was a colleague of his in the Indian police before the war. They were good friends, he said. For once, my brother can be of use to me. I’m sure I’ll be able to get Petrie in line. Leave it with me, Frank. Of course, you’ll let me know if an officer from MI5 does follow through and contact you?”

  “Of course, sir.” Merlin got to his feet. “There’s one other thing. A friend of mine recently returned safely from Crete. He is the custodian of a letter from a fellow officer, who died in the retreat. Doesn’t quite know what to do with the letter and has asked my advice. I think I know what to tell him, but just wanted to run it by you.”

  “What’s the name of the dead officer?”

  “Simon Arbuthnot.”

  “Goodness, I know that name. Big chap in the City. Went shooting with him a couple of times just before the war. Sorry to hear he’s dead. What’s the problem with the letter?”

  “Let me explain.”

  * * *

  New York
/>
  Anton Meyer’s wife had gone to New Jersey to stay with her sister for a couple of days. For the first time in a while, his day hadn’t ended in an argument and he’d been able to enjoy a good night’s sleep. It was 10 in the morning and Meyer had already dealt efficiently with most of the files on his desk. He had taken a moment to congratulate himself on this when Maurice Kramer appeared at his door. “Daydreaming again, Meyer?” Kramer’s beady eyes glared meanly at him.

  “I just finished all of this, Mr Kramer.” He pointed to the pile of files in his out tray.

  “Big deal, Meyer.” Kramer disappeared behind the door and reappeared with a large cardboard box containing several more files. “Here’s more for you. Have fun. And oh…” He reached into his trouser pocket. “This just came for you. Whoever this fellow Rodriguez is, I’d be grateful if you’d tell him not to send you personal cables at the office. If Mr Liebman were to hear about it, he’d go nuts. You’re lucky he’s out on the golf course today.” Kramer slapped the telegram down on the desk and departed with a snort of disapproval.

  Meyer read: ‘PULOS LEFT FOR ENGLAND STOP SOURCE IN OFFICE SAYS SOME BIG PROBLEM STOP PROCEEDINGS ADJOURNED AGAIN STOP PLEASE SEND FUNDS AS PER LETTER STOP YOURS RODRIGUEZ’.

  Meyer looked out of the window and saw the pretty young girl opposite settling at her desk. This was a sight that normally raised his spirits but not today. Not only was the case in Argentina still stalled but he would have to fork out another 2,000 dollars. There were 15,000 dollars remaining of his 25,000-dollar lottery win. The 10,000 already spent on the litigation so far had advanced his case very little. Ruth and he could still do a lot with 15,000 but it stuck in his craw to think of Pulos and his partners getting away with everything.

  Meyer looked again at the cable. He had told Rodriguez before not to send communications to the firm – it just gave Kramer something else to hold over him. It must be something pretty serious, though, for Pulos to travel to England given the state Europe was in. He wasn’t sure how one went about getting from Buenos Aires to London these days.