by Mark Ellis
“Call me Celia, please. Frank was your first name, wasn’t it?”
“I think, in the circumstances, we’d better keep things formal, Mrs Powell.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. “As you wish. A safe? Yes, there is a safe. It’s quite well hidden. Edgar couldn’t see the point of putting it behind a picture like everyone else seems to do. Come with me.” She rose and led the way to the bedroom. Celia Powell pointed to an old oak chest by the window. The lid was open and the chest was empty. “We kept our linen in there.” The linen was now on the floor with the other bedroom debris. “Look under it.”
Merlin nodded to Bridges. The chest, even empty of its contents, was heavy and Bridges grunted as he shifted it. There was an old rug underneath, which Bridges removed to expose the bare floorboards. The policemen searched hard but couldn’t spot anything like an opening.
“Edgar was clever at this sort of thing. You have to stand on two separate boards at a distance from each other, to make the right one pop up.” She pointed out the boards and Bridges duly stood on them. A floorboard sprang up into the air. Merlin bent over to look into the hole that had now appeared. He could see a small, black, metallic door with a dial on the front.
“Clever.”
“Very clever, Sergeant. Seems untampered with. What exactly did your husband keep in there, Mrs Powell?”
“My jewels. A few personal mementoes of his and some personal documentation.”
Merlin went to sit on the bed and tried to think. Clearly the place had been turned over. Someone had been searching for something. Had they found it? If the something was in the safe, then apparently not. Had Powell been forcibly drowned by the person or persons searching?
“Seems like someone wanted something from your husband. Given the mess the place is in, they wanted it very much. If Eddie wouldn’t tell them where it was, it would be very surprising if they didn’t use violence to try and loosen his tongue. Violence like holding his head under water for long periods of time. That’s how it seems to me, Sergeant.”
“And they kept going until eventually they went too far. Seems a fair theory, sir.”
“Did your husband have any enemies, Mrs Powell?”
“Edgar? No, of course not.”
Merlin got up from the bed. “We’ll need to see what’s in the safe. If there is valuable jewellery in there….”
“There isn’t. I removed all of my jewellery the other day.”
“Ah. But still someone might have known about the jewellery. They wouldn’t necessarily know you took it out. Is it worth a lot?”
“There are some nice pieces. Edgar was generous with presents. They are worth several hundred pounds.”
“I presume you have the combination?”
“Of course. Here it is.” She produced a piece of paper from her handbag. “I should have it in my head but I have a terrible memory for figures.” As Merlin looked at the numbers there was a commotion at the door. The medics and the forensic team had arrived.
Merlin guided Celia out of the flat and into the lobby area by the front door. “Best if we let these chaps get on with their job, Mrs Powell. Are you all right to get home on your own? Is there anyone we can call or perhaps Mr Herbert could accompany you?”
Celia shook her head. She cast a quick glance back towards the flat and stifled another sob. “I would be grateful if you could hail me a taxi, Mr Herbert.” She looked strangely at Merlin and seemed as if she was about to say something before she turned abruptly on her heels and followed Herbert out on to Flood Street.
“We’d better get out of everyone’s way too, Sergeant. But before we go, let’s get that safe open. The combination is 673429. Ask one of the chaps to dust it for prints first.”
* * *
Fleming arrived just as Philip Arbuthnot, casually attired in cricket sweater and slacks, was finishing his breakfast. The young man ushered his guest into the drawing room, sat him down and poured him a cup of coffee. “Are you feeling all right, Mr Fleming?” There was a small red welt running across the left side of Fleming’s forehead, and he was looking very pale. On the few occasions he had met Fleming, Arbuthnot had been impressed by the man’s air of healthy vigour. This morning he looked neither healthy nor vigorous.
“I had a bit of a bug, Philip. I’m over it now but I suppose with that and all the worry about your father’s affairs, I’m looking a little drained.”
“Looks like you’ve taken a bit of a bash to the head.”
Fleming put his hand to his forehead. “Oh that. Yes, I managed to walk into one of my wardrobe doors, idiot that I am.” He paused to check the damage in a nearby mirror. “And so, dear boy, how are you bearing up?”
Arbuthnot joined Fleming on the settee. “Not so bad but I’m very worried, of course. I still can’t understand what the old man was playing at. Fiddling with his will, removing those important certificates from Tomlinson’s custody then disappearing into the army when there was no need for him to do so. If anyone in the family should be pulling on uniform, it’s me.”
Fleming sat up. “Goodness, Philip. I hope you haven’t been called up?”
“No. It’s only a matter of time, though, isn’t it?”
Fleming looked at the young man solemnly. “A little bit of advice, Philip. Don’t be in too much of a hurry to take the King’s shilling. You have important family responsibilities. If your papers do arrive, give them to me. I have a few strings I can pull.”
“I can’t do that. If, as Kitchener said last time round, my country needs me, then so be it.”
“Don’t be foolish, Philip. There are plenty of other mugs to do the dying.” His eyes brightened. “Come to think of it, how about a posting to Argentina? That will get you well away from the prospect of soldiering.”
“That assumes we’ll have an Argentinian business to be posted to. If someone else gets hold of the certificates…”
“Don’t say that, Philip. They’ll turn up somewhere in Simon’s effects, mark my words. I think…” The sound of raised voices in the street interrupted him. An unexploded bomb, which had been found in the ruins of a pub opposite, had been disarmed by the UXB people the day before and the site was now clear for demolition. The working party were congregating noisily outside.
Fleming moved closer to Arbuthnot. “Look, Philip. I’m very sorry to disturb you on a Saturday morning but there is something we need to discuss.”
“We certainly need to talk about the business. I really need to get up to speed on that.”
“All in good time, dear boy. All in good time. That’s not what I wanted to talk about this morning.”
“What, then?”
It was warm in the flat and Fleming had begun to perspire. He removed his jacket. “If you don’t mind, Philip, I think I must still be running a bit of a temperature. Now then. I wanted to see you because I think it’s very important that we try to get to the bottom of what your father was up to just before he went off to war.”
“I don’t think I can help you much with that. I’ve been through my father’s papers. Routine sort of stuff. No wills or certificates, as you know. Nothing of interest really.”
“Reggie mentioned that you found a list?”
“A list?”
“A list with numbers.”
“Oh, that. Now where did I put it? Oh, yes. It’s over there on the bureau.” He went to get it. “I also found this old photograph.” He handed both to Fleming and sat down again. “My first thought was that the numbers might be share certificate numbers but don’t they tend to run in sequence? My father gave me some shares in Anglo-Iranian Petroleum as a birthday present a few years ago. Not the most exciting present for a teenage boy but… anyway I got several certificates for the few thousand shares I received and I remember that they were all numbered in sequence.”
“No, they’re not share certificate numbers, Philip.”
“Do you know what they are then?”
Fleming continued to stud
y the list in silence.
“And PB? Is that a person, do you think? Or a place? Or initials signifying something boring like ‘personal bank’? I suppose they could be deposits at banks. And what about the photograph? I found it in his safe. Strange place for it, I thought.”
“I think I know what the numbers signify, Philip. And I have an idea who PB is. As to the photograph…” Fleming looked again at the beautiful young face and sighed. “The lady is someone your father and I knew a long time ago. A long, long time ago. The wife of a friend who fell on hard times. I think your father and she had a bit of a thing going for a while. Then something came between them. She is dead now.”
* * *
“I’m so sorry, Frank. That’s terrible.”
“It’s tragic, Bernie. To survive everything Eddie went through in Crete and then to get home and die such a squalid death.” Merlin shook his head. He was finding it difficult to take in.
“Seems the guy used up all his luck.”
Merlin looked away towards the window and the bright sky outside. “You know, Bernie, I saw scores of corpses in the trenches in the last war, some of whom were good mates, and plenty in this job. Then I’ve had family bereavements. My father and mother, of course, although there wasn’t much of my father left to see.”
Merlin saw Goldberg’s puzzled look. “Sorry, you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? My father had the distinction of being one of the few British casualties of Zeppelin bombing in the last war. He was blown to kingdom come so there were only bits and pieces to bury. Thankfully, my mother died painlessly in the comfort of her own bed. Then there was my wife…” Merlin shuddered. “However, this is the first time I’ve had to look at the murdered body of a man who was a good friend to me in normal civilian life.”
Goldberg perched himself on the edge of Merlin’s desk. “I’ve seen a couple. Of friends, I mean. Both fellow officers killed in the line of duty. Good men.”
Bridges came in with a tray of tea. He poured three mugs and the men sat quietly drinking for a while. Goldberg eventually broke the silence. “Do you think they managed to find what they were looking for, Sergeant?”
“Not likely, sir. Everything was topsy-turvy in the flat. Papers, books, ornaments all over the place. The chief inspector and I think the murderer overplayed his hand with poor Mr Powell and killed him by accident. A little too much pressure, a little too long under the water. He or they mucked up.”
“How do you think the murderer got in?”
“There’s a speaking tube at the front door that connects with the flats. Also a bell. Someone rings the bell and speaks in the tube. Whatever they said was enough for Powell to let them in. There was an empty box by the door. We think the murderer might have said he had a delivery and had the box with him for credibility’s sake. Powell let him in either on his word or on sight of the box through the door. Something like that. Or, of course, he just knew him.”
“And do you have any idea of what it was they were looking for?”
Merlin reached into his jacket. “Eddie had a safe that his murderers didn’t discover. We found this inside.” Merlin laid a bloodstained envelope down on the desk. The words on the front read: ‘Give to my s…’
* * *
Felix Meyer had dreamed of his parents again that night. He often did. He liked to dream about them. Thus they lived on.
Like many of his fellow French officers, he lived in Soho. His landlady, a Welsh widow called Mrs Evans, was a cheerful and straightforward woman. He had found it strange at first when she addressed him as ‘Mr Elephant’. However, all was explained after a few days, when a fellow resident explained that he was actually being addressed as ‘Mr Frog’ in Mrs Evans’ native language, llyffant being Welsh for ‘frog’. Meyer had decided not to take offence. He had been called many worse things in his life and Mrs Evans always seemed very friendly to him.
Mrs Evans was already up and about when Meyer had gone downstairs in the morning. He had declined the offer of breakfast, the landlady had wished Mr Elephant a good day and he’d headed off for Carlton Gardens.
As always, Meyer enjoyed the walk. It was a bright morning with a slight chill. He went down Shaftesbury Avenue into Piccadilly Circus. He looked up at the big advertising sign asserting that ‘GUINNESS IS GOOD FOR YOU’ and the hands on the large clock above showing it was coming up to seven. He had tasted Guinness, a heavy dark brew that was not to his taste, but not yet the hot Bovril drink that was advertised alongside.
There was little traffic. A milk cart rumbled past Swan & Edgar, its driver appearing half asleep. The famous Eros statue had been covered up to protect it from bomb damage. A couple of hungover servicemen sat on the steps beneath the boarding while two heavily made-up women stood a few yards off, trying to attract the men’s attention for their last work of a long night.
Meyer cut down Lower Regent Street, turned right at Pall Mall and then walked up to Carlton House Terrace. The night duty officer at the Free French HQ, a cheerful Provençal, was manning the lobby desk.
“Any news, Coriot?”
“Bonjour, Meyer. Yes, our people in Cairo wired that there has been an engagement in the Lebanon between the Australians and Vichy. Somewhere on the way to Beirut. No news on our boys.”
Meyer nodded and headed for his office. He had a report to write and paperwork to clear. He settled down and made good progress for a couple of hours but then found it increasingly hard to concentrate. A strong coffee induced little improvement. He couldn’t stop thinking about the man Pulos.
When he’d spoken to his brother the day before, Anton had discouraged him from attempting to meet Pulos; his brother had felt that such a meeting might somehow prove prejudicial to the lawsuit. However, Felix felt he could not ignore the man’s presence in London. The more he thought about it, the more he felt he should try and see him.
Meyer had his own opportunity now to confront a grotesque injustice. He realised that Simon Arbuthnot and the others had been living in London all along and could have been confronted at any time. Pulos, however, was the principal defendant to his brother’s action in Argentina. He was the man running the businesses. It felt different, somehow. Pulos’s arrival in London had galvanised Meyer and changed his perspective. He took a deep breath. He would go and see the man. Nothing might come of it but he had to try. Meyer looked at the clock. It was 10.30. He tidied up his papers, got up and made his way to the front door. He set off for the Ritz.
Behind Meyer, Devlin followed at his usual discreet distance.
* * *
“I’ve been asked to present myself at the US Embassy in an hour’s time, Frank.”
“That sounds a little formal. Everything all right?”
“As far as I’m aware. I just thought that now you are obviously very busy with this new Powell case, shall I give you my report on last night another time?”
The still unopened Arbuthnot letter was on the desk and Merlin’s hand was resting on it. He slid it back and forth a few times before answering. “Sorry. That had gone completely out of my head. Tell me now, Bernie, please. Edgar Powell’s death doesn’t diminish the importance of our investigation into Bridget Healy’s. What happened? The Sergeant and I saw you leave with those other two and then we saw you and one of the men go into that block of flats. We waited for a while then threw in the towel. Who were they?”
“The Free French guy is called Dumont, Georges Dumont. Got here at the end of last year via north Africa. Quite softly spoken but a man with strong views. He’s a great fan of de Gaulle. Not such a great fan of the British. Said some rather rude things about Churchill. Very scathing about the people in Vichy, too. Not completely dour though. Likes to tell jokes.
“The other fellow is called Rupert Vorster. A South African, not an Australian. A lawyer in the City. Also claims to be a whizz at investing. Gave me a few share tips and said I could subscribe to his informal investor service for a modest £1 a week.”
“And what di
d they have to say about the girl?”
“I told them I was a diplomat travelling back and forth to the States. Mentioned that on a recent trip I visited the Ritz and met a charming Irish girl called Bridget. I described her and asked if they knew her.”
“And?”
“They said they did know some Irish girls but she wasn’t one of them. Later in the evening, however, when more alcohol had been drunk, I’m sure I overheard one of them – Dumont, I think – let slip the name Bridget. I couldn’t hear the context but I definitely heard the name and one other word.”
“What word was that?”
“Pregnant.”
“Hmm.”
“I didn’t get much else out of them but I’d say we definitely need to follow up.”
“Of course. We’ll pull them in. However, given poor Eddie’s murder and our limited manpower, I don’t think we can take that on today. What about the place you went to after the bar?”
“Now that was very interesting, although I’m not sure it has anything to do with our case. Vorster made the running on that. Said there was somewhere exciting I had to go. I thought Dumont was up for it as well so but he ducked out at the last minute. There’s a swish penthouse on the top floor of the block where they run high-roller card games. And when I say high-rollers, I mean high-rollers. There was a lot of money floating around.
“I think Vorster is somehow connected to the operation. He seemed very pally with the main man, a smooth-looking fellow in a cravat. I got the impression Vorster was some sort of finder. You know, a guy who hangs around places like the Ritz looking for wealthy types who might fancy a round with Lady Luck.”
“You’re saying he picked you for a high-roller?”
“Funny as it seems, yes. People over here seem to think all Yanks are flush.”
Merlin couldn’t help smiling. “So how did you live up to your new status?”
“As a high-roller? I didn’t. I watched. Said I’d like to see how things ran, then maybe return another night when I had some cash on me. They offered me credit but I declined.”
