Merlin at War

by Mark Ellis

  Robinson raised her hand. “I spoke to Mrs Lafontaine’s staff just to confirm what she had said. Everyone was there except the chauffeur. One of the maids made a point of telling me that Miss Healy made good use of her sister’s cars and the chauffeur.”

  “Better go back and speak to him, Constable.”

  “Sir.”

  “Go with her, Sergeant. Then both of you go on to the Ritz. See if anyone recognises Healy from that photograph her sister gave us.”

  “Very good, sir.” Bridges and Robinson disappeared.

  Merlin leaned back and swung his feet on to the desk. “We could really do with that briefing from MI5 now, Bernie. The AC is following up, but…”

  “I have to say that whoever killed de Metz did a pretty professional job.”

  “You mean professional as in an MI5- or MI6-style killing?”

  “The only professional murderers I’ve dealt with are the mob. I’ve seen plenty of their handiwork. I presume your spies are as proficient.”

  “Hmm. Now that’s an interesting subject. The mob. You can tell me more over a drink one night.”

  “Sure. And we can also talk about how gorgeous the constable is.”

  “Bernie, I’ve already warned you on that score.”

  “I said ‘talk’, Frank.” Goldberg laughed. “Just talk!”

  * * *

  Bridges drew up to the traffic lights on Buckingham Palace Road. They were minutes away from Mrs Lafontaine’s house. A lorry pulled up beside them and the man in the passenger seat shouted down at Robinson. “All right, darling? You look lovely in that uniform. Fancy meeting up later?”

  Robinson quickly rolled up the car window. As Bridges drove off, they could hear him shouting something about frigidity.

  “I suppose that happens quite a lot?”

  “Unfortunately it does, Sergeant. You get used to it.”

  “So my Iris used to say. Don’t think it’s happened to her for a while though. She’s carrying a few extra pounds after the baby.”

  “I’m sure she’s as attractive as ever, Sergeant. Men are bound to be more restrained towards women pushing prams.”

  “Of course.”

  “Surely you’re happy she can walk down the street unmolested?”

  “I am, but I’m not sure she is. When women have babies they worry about losing their looks. I think Iris wouldn’t mind an occasional wolf-whistle.”

  Robinson laughed. “I don’t mind if I never heard one again.” They passed Victoria Station then turned right into the warren of streets backing on to Eaton Square. “It’s that one, Sergeant.” Bridges pulled up outside 14 Belgrave Place and they got out. The butler answered the door.

  “Madam is out, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s all right, chum, we’re here to see her chauffeur. The constable here missed him yesterday. We’d like a quick word for the sake of completeness. Is he in?”

  “Wilson lives above the garage. This way.” Simms led Bridges and Robinson into a cobbled alleyway at the side of the house. The garage was at the far end and they could hear a loud banging from behind its closed green doors.

  “Sounds like he’s in. I’ll leave you to it, if I may.” Simms disappeared down the alley and Bridges waited for an interruption in the banging before knocking sharply on the small door that was cut into the larger garage doors.

  The man who opened the door was dirty-faced and wearing oil-splattered blue overalls. He was perspiring and several strands of light-brown hair hung down untidily in front of his eyes.

  “We’re from the police, sir.”

  Wilson took a step back. “Oh. Hello. I suppose I should have been expecting you after what I heard from the people in the house yesterday.” He extended a hand but then swiftly withdrew it. “Sorry. Just been under the Roller. Oily hands. Please come in.” There were two cars in the garage and room for one more.

  There was the Rolls-Royce on which Wilson was working and alongside it a foreign-looking, open-topped sports car. Wilson saw Bridges looking at the sports car with an appreciative eye. “Alfa Romeo. 1930 model, 12 cylinders. My late boss brought it with him from Paris before the war. There’s a Bugatti as well. It’s having a major refit at the moment. Taking forever as, of course, it’s well nigh impossible to get the parts.” Wilson indicated a small table behind the Rolls-Royce. “Hang on a sec and I’ll rustle up some seating.” He disappeared behind a partition and returned with three chairs. They sat down and Bridges made the introductions.

  Wilson wiped his face with a rag then combed his hair. “Sorry. Rude, I know, but I must look a bit of a mess.”

  Now that he’d cleaned up, Robinson could see that Wilson was a pleasant-looking young man. He resembled the film actor Leslie Howard, who had been so wonderful in Gone With the Wind, which she had seen with Cole the previous year. That evening wasn’t so long ago but strangely it now seemed like a lifetime. Much had happened since.

  “So how can I help you, officers? I hope I haven’t done anything wrong?”

  Bridges moved his chair a little closer to the table. “No, sir. We just need to have a word about Bridget Healy.”

  “Poor Bridget.”

  Wilson was well spoken. Unusually well spoken for a chauffeur, Robinson thought.

  “As you must know now, Miss Healy was found dead in a hotel a week ago after a botched abortion. We are investigating her death and accordingly trying to find out as much as we can about her, her friends and, of course, the father of her child.”

  “Have you identified him yet? The father, I mean.”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  Wilson looked away for a moment. “I liked Bridget. She was very intelligent and had a good sense of humour. Of course, if she got on to the subject of Irish nationalism and English oppression of the Irish she could bore the pants off you, but thankfully, more often than not, we talked about other things.”

  “You and she talked a lot?”

  “Yes, we did, Sergeant. She was a down-to-earth girl from the Irish sticks. She had no problem conversing with a lowly chauffeur.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying, Mr Wilson, you don’t sound like you come from a lowly background?”

  “I had a decent education, Constable, if that’s what you mean. Clifton College. My father had a good job and my parents tried to do the best for me. The thing is, I was always obsessed with cars. I raced them for a while. Then I overstretched myself financially, fell out with my parents, fell on hard times. I was desperate for a job. This one came up and I ate humble pie and took it. No regrets, either. I get to work on and drive these lovely vehicles and Mrs Lafontaine, as was her husband before, is a good boss.”

  “Would you describe yourself and Bridget as friends?”

  “In a way, I suppose. She didn’t really have any friends in London when she arrived. Her brother met up with her once or twice. A bit of a maniac from what she told me. She didn’t see much of her sister so she was a bit lonely. I used to take her on drives out of London. Madam told me to do whatever her sister asked, so I did.”

  “And did your relationship progress beyond friendship, Mr Wilson?”

  Wilson laughed. “You mean, was I the father of her child, Constable? No, I wasn’t. She was a pretty girl and I wouldn’t have minded taking things a little further but no. There wasn’t much of a chance as within a few weeks of her arrival she had a boyfriend. I don’t know who and I don’t know where they met but she let slip one day as we were returning from a sightseeing trip to Windsor that she was keen on someone.

  “I got the impression that whoever it was wasn’t short of a bob or two. I’m not particularly observant but even I couldn’t help noticing that she started wearing some fine jewellery. I didn’t think her sister was the kind to lend her jewellery to anyone and I didn’t think Bridget was the type to borrow or steal it. Ergo, as one of my old teachers used to say, a man must have given it to her.”

  “When exactly do you think this man appeared on the scene?”

/>   “As I said, Sergeant, within a month or so of her coming here. She arrived in early January. She must have met him in early February.”

  “And she left at the end of March?”

  “Yes. Told me she was moving on to bigger and better things.”

  “But she gave you no indication of where or with whom she was going?”

  “None, Sergeant.”

  “Did you see her again after the end of March?”

  Wilson nodded. “I bumped into her in the street. Near Piccadilly Circus. Some time in late April or maybe early May. She seemed a little preoccupied but otherwise fit and healthy. I couldn’t have told that she was pregnant, if she was by then. We had a quick little chat about nothing in particular and then went our separate ways.”

  “And you have absolutely no idea who the man might be?”

  “No.”

  “Nor of where she might have met him?”

  “No, Constable. She did boast a few times that she’d been to some nice places but the only one I remember her mentioning by name was the Ritz. She liked the Ritz.”

  “You never drove her on any of her evening assignations?”

  “No, Sergeant. I would have but she never asked. I presume she walked or took buses or taxis. It’s not really far from here to the West End.”

  The officers asked a few more questions about Bridget Healy’s friends, activities and demeanour in London, to which Wilson had no useful answers. Eventually, Bridges nodded to Robinson and they got to their feet. Bridges handed over a card. “Thank you, sir. Please let us know if you think of anything else that might be helpful.”

  “Will do, Sergeant.”

  * * *

  Edgar Powell’s head was pounding. After what had proved a very distressing meeting with his wife the night before, he had poured himself a whisky. Then another. And another. After an hour of moping and drinking in the flat, he had taken himself off to Soho. Walking up Brewer Street, he’d seen a seedy nightclub where he’d been taken by some fellow officers before they’d shipped out to Greece. He had gone in and allowed himself to be relieved of a large amount of money in return for a few bottles of dire champagne and some uninspiring female company. It had been past one when he had managed to rouse himself to escape the girls’ clutches and go home. The only good thing about the evening was that when he got to bed, he slept like a log.

  Powell crawled out of bed, removed the uniform in which he had slept and drew himself a bath. He had always derived great pleasure from luxuriating in a piping hot tub. He soaked for half an hour then picked up his watch and realised with a start that it would soon be midday. After a coffee and some of the stale biscuits, which appeared to be the only food present in the flat, he felt almost human.

  Returning to his bedroom, he noted with a grunt of satisfaction that Celia had had the decency not to remove the entire contents of his wardrobe. She had mentioned the previous night that her lover was of similar height and build to Powell and she hoped he didn’t mind but she’d ‘borrowed’ a few suits, trousers and other items for her new beau’s use. No doubt Powell would never see them again but he was pleased that his favourite old navy suit had not been ‘borrowed’. He realised it would need taking in, but, with a tight belt on the trousers, it would do for today.

  He found a clean white shirt and a favourite red tie. Dressed, Powell picked up his sweaty, crumpled uniform and stuffed it into a small canvas bag. Just before he went out, he made a telephone call.

  There was a dry cleaner’s shop nearby on Flood Street, where he dropped his laundry before heading off towards the King’s Road. Just before he got there, a taxi pulled up and he gave an address in the City. His telephone call had been to the office of Titmus, Travers and Tomlinson. Powell had told a secretary that he required an urgent meeting with the partner responsible for Simon Arbuthnot’s affairs. Informed that the partner in question was tied up all afternoon, he had said he was on his way, regardless. He knew the lawyer would make time for him when he learned what Powell possessed.

  * * *

  “Andreas, my dear fellow. How are you?”

  Andreas Koutrakos almost jumped out of his skin as he heard the familiar voice. He had just left the Ritz switchboard office and was on his way to lunch in the employees’ canteen. He had a dog-eared copy of Rousseau’s Confessions hanging out of his jacket pocket and was looking forward to half an hour’s company with his favourite philosopher.

  Pulos saw the book and grimaced. “Still reading that old claptrap, are you, Andreas? A lovely man, Rousseau. The great philanthropist who treated his women abominably and abandoned all his children.” Pulos put a hand on Koutrakos’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t place too much faith in that old charlatan’s philosophy, my friend. And how are your good friends, Marx and Engels, these days? Still keeping you happy?” Pulos didn’t wait for an answer to this question. “A word if I may, Andreas. I’d like you to come up to my room.”

  Koutrakos, a small, wiry man of middle years with neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow, shook his head. “Sorry, Alexander… I mean Mr Pulos. Operators are not allowed in hotel rooms.”

  Pulos smiled, revealing the creamy-white dentures installed by the best dentist in Buenos Aires 12 months earlier. “Nonsense, Andreas, if there is any difficulty I shall simply say I wished to say hello to an old friend and fellow countryman. For that is what we are, is it not, old friends and fellow countrymen?”

  Koutrakos sighed and shrugged in resignation. He turned and followed Pulos along the service corridor, out into the lobby and into the main hotel lift. Pulos had first met Koutrakos in the 20s when they were both young Athenians on the make in their own different ways. Pulos had been a small-scale wheeler dealer operating a variety of business scams, some legitimate, some not. Koutrakos had been a firebrand union leader in Piraeus, whom Pulos had met when he was trying to sell protection to shop owners in the port area. After various skirmishes the men had developed a grudging respect for each other.

  Later, when Pulos was moving up in the world with Arbuthnot, Koutrakos was getting into difficulties with the Venizelos government because of his strong Marxist beliefs and support of Communist Russia. It became clear that Koutrakos would have to quit the country and Pulos helped him to do so, using some of Arbuthnot’s contacts. A job at the Ritz was arranged and Koutrakos had been able to hold it down for over a decade now.

  Over the years Pulos had used Koutrakos for odd jobs on the side when he came to London. The initial warm feelings of gratitude Koutrakos had felt towards Pulos and Arbuthnot had disappeared over the years and been replaced by resentment. Promises to bring his family to London had been broken and his wife had found another man. His job at the Ritz was not particularly well paid and, even with the bonuses he got for Pulos’s odd jobs, Koutrakos had to live a frugal life.

  On Pulos’s last trip to London, Koutrakos had finally allowed his resentment to come to the surface. He had refused to do what he was asked. The jobs were relatively minor and less unsavoury than most – one to follow a man one night in the West End, another to pretend to be Pulos in a meeting for reasons that were never explained. In any event, he had refused and Marco had been let loose on him. Koutrakos’s face had not been harmed but his body had taken a pummelling and he had ached for days. He had also been reminded that a word in the right place about his Marxist proclivities might not be helpful to his continued residence in Britain. He might not agree with the political system there but now he didn’t want to live anywhere else.

  And so Koutrakos came to Pulos’s suite and sat under Marco’s menacing glare, grimly awaiting instructions on a task he knew he would have to carry out. He just hoped it wouldn’t involve violence, he was getting too old for that.

  “Give him a drink, Marco. I have a bottle of ouzo just for you, Andreas.”

  “I shouldn’t drink. I have to be on duty again shortly.”

  “One glass won’t do any harm. Go on, Marco, pour it. Yes, you add the w
ater just like that. That’s it. Take it, Andreas.” Pulos sent Marco off to his own room then poured and mixed his own ouzo.

  “Yamas, Andreas.” He clinked his glass against his old friend’s and they drank. Pulos switched from the English they had been using until now to their native tongue. “I must say, Andreas, your English has come on a treat. And your accent! My God, one might almost think you went to Oxford or Cambridge. No doubt this is why they have moved you on to the switchboard.”

  Koutrakos made no reply.

  “Come on, cheer up. You would think I was going to ask you to kill someone.” Koutrakos’s hand trembled and a little ouzo spilled on to the carpet. Pulos roared with laughter. “Is this really the brave man of the left I met all those years ago in Piraeus? Get a grip, man. I only have a very small request. There is no blood involved.”

  “What is it you want of me?”

  “It is a stroke of fortune that you now work on the switchboard. All I want is for you to listen in to someone’s telephone conversation.”

  “I’ll lose my job if anyone finds out.”

  “No-one will find out if you are careful and I tell you what. There’ll be some real money in it for you if you do the job well. What do you think?”

  Koutrakos looked down and finished his ouzo. Perhaps his taste buds had changed over the years but he hadn’t enjoyed it. His wife had always said it tasted like shoe polish and now he felt inclined to agree with her. “All right, Alexander, if you insist. Who am I to listen to?”

  * * *

  Felix Meyer sat back on the bench, eyes closed, and enjoyed the warm midday sun. The small public park in Finsbury Circus was full of office workers enjoying their lunchtime sandwiches. He watched as two pretty young women laid out a blanket on the grass opposite the bench where he sat. One of the women knelt down and Meyer saw that the seams of the nylon stockings she appeared to be wearing were, in reality, lines drawn on her bare legs. Nylons were in short supply and Meyer was smiling in appreciation of the girl’s ingenuity when Rupert Vorster sat down beside him.