Merlin at War

by Mark Ellis

  Merlin was pensive. “Well, as you say, Bernie, very interesting but I think we’ve got enough on our plate at present without taking on illegal gambling dens. Not our patch either. It’s for vice, not us.”

  “Of course, Frank.”

  “You say there was one ‘main man’ as you put it?”

  “Yes, there were a few house operators around but it was clear who was in charge.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “I heard someone call him Mr Beecham.”

  “Means nothing to me. Well, you’d better get off to your meeting. Hope it goes well. We’ll go after Dumont and Vorster tomorrow or more likely Monday. Dumont will presumably be at Carlton Gardens or Dorset Square but where can we find Vorster?”

  Goldberg passed a business card to Merlin. It read: ‘Rupert Vorster. Titmus, Travers and Tomlinson. Solicitors’. Merlin frowned. “Titmus, Travers and Tomlinson – now, where have I heard that name before?”

  * * *

  Vichy

  Laval set down his coffee cup, smoothed his moustache and straightened his tie before picking up the receiver. “Otto, what a pleasure. How are you? To what do I owe this honour?”

  Abetz returned Laval’s pleasantries in his perfect French. Laval was always impressed by Abetz’s command of the French language. All the top Nazis he’d met in France were fluent but Abetz was the most impressive. His accent was also the best of any non-Frenchman he had ever met. He had to remind himself every so often that he was speaking to a German rather than one of his countrymen.

  “I’m glad to hear the sun is shining in Paris, Otto. Here also. This is the best time of the year in France. I have just been for a post-prandial walk in the Parc des Sources with my secretaries. Most enjoyable. You should visit us down here one day.”

  Abetz chuckled down the line. “One day, perhaps, though I doubt the marshal would be very happy to see me in his seat of power. And speaking of power, how are you getting on, my friend? Can I look forward to hearing of your reappointment to the Cabinet soon? You know we would much prefer to see you back in post. If you would like us to exert a little pressure…?”

  “No, no, Otto. As I have told you before, that would only play into the hands of my enemies, who already believe I am too close to you. Thank you, but please do nothing. I think the apples will fall my way in due course. Darlan does not have his heart in the job and the marshal…”

  “Is past it.”

  “Increasingly so, I’m afraid.”

  The line crackled. “This connection is secure, isn’t it, Pierre?”

  “Absolutely. I have it checked out every week.”

  “It might be better to do it every day. In any event, I look forward to your successful reinstatement in the near future. We would…”

  The strident opening chords of a French military march filled the room as the teatime concert began in the park. Laval laid down the receiver for a moment and went to close the window.

  “Sorry about that, Otto. The band is a little over-enthusiastic sometimes. Now, how can I help you?”

  “I am just calling to say thank you. Your man in London helped us to capture a British agent parachuted into France last week.”

  “Did he? That is excellent news.” Laval was aware of information passed from London about an agent named Webster but had heard nothing more.

  “I say British agent but the man was a Frenchman. His name was François Bouchard, from a family of Parisian wine merchants. Moved to England before the war.”

  Laval realised with a shock that he knew the man’s father and had bought many cases of wine from him.

  “Are you there, Pierre?”

  “Yes, Otto. I am here. What has happened to Monsieur Bouchard?”

  “He was interrogated and shot, of course. As were a good number of his Resistance accomplices – with more to come. I wanted to commend you and your men in Vichy and in England on this effort.”

  Laval nodded his head slowly. He was a pragmatist, committed to ensuring that French interests, compromised as they might be, were defended to the hilt. If that required, as he believed it did, a close Franco-German working partnership, then so be it. The opponents of Germany were the opponents of France in the current circumstances. If those opponents were French, their deaths must be in the best interests of Vichy. Nevertheless, events like this were hard to stomach. “I am most happy that our network has been of assistance to you, Otto. I only hope we can be of further help.”

  “Oh you can, Pierre. You can. Just let your fellow in London point us in the direction of more François Bouchards. Adieu, my friend and heil Hitler!”

  Laval picked up his cup and drank the rest of his now cold coffee. He winced. The drink, as did the conversation, left a sour taste in his mouth.

  * * *

  London

  Arbuthnot’s letter still lay unopened in front of him. Merlin allowed himself another Fisherman’s Friend before reaching down to the bottom drawer of the desk. He withdrew his father’s letter opener. It was a beautiful object and he paused to admire its striking colours and swirling curves. His father had claimed it was a true antique, a dagger made in Toledo some time in the 1500s. Merlin had doubted this and used to put it down as one of the tall stories his father was prone to telling. Now he wasn’t so sure. Whatever its origins, it was a good letter opener.

  “Shall we, Sergeant?”

  Bridges nodded and Merlin carefully slit the envelope open. Inside he found a sheet of cream letter paper embossed in red with Arbuthnot’s name and London address. Across the middle of the paper was written in ink a sequence of numbers and one letter: 239181749332382228492331313383X. Merlin read them out to Bridges.

  “Is that all of it, sir?”

  “Yes. Looks like some sort of code.”

  Bridges moved around to Merlin’s side of the desk. The two men stared hard at the characters in search of inspiration and might have carried on doing so for some time had they not been disturbed by Robinson’s arrival.

  Merlin looked up. “Constable.”

  “Sir. I was having lunch at my uncle’s house when I heard him talking to someone on the telephone about a murder.”

  “I guess that someone would have been me.”

  “He told me who the victim was. I’m terribly sorry, sir. I decided to come in as soon as I heard.”

  “That’s very good of you, Constable. However, I understood from the AC that you were taking your young man, the barrister, round for lunch. I don’t want your coming here to spoil…”

  “You needn’t worry about them, sir. He and my parents are all getting on famously. I would much rather be here trying to help.”

  “Very well, if you’re sure. Take a look at this. You’ve got a good brain. Bridges and I can’t make hide nor hair of it.”

  Robinson pondered the sequence for a while then eased herself back in her chair. “I think it’s much too long to be a safe combination, sir. If it is a code of some sort, I should mention that my brother is something of an expert in such things.”

  “Would that be the brother who helped us on the Kilinski case? The Spanish history don?”

  “No. This is my other brother, Robert. He was studying for a PhD in applied mathematics at Oxford when the war broke out. One of his areas of interest is the analysis of codes.”

  “Goodness, Constable. What a clever family you have. Is he in London?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the forces?”

  “No, he’s still in civvy street. He’s working for a government statistical department, or so he says.”

  Merlin raised an eyebrow. “In the secret… no, I’d better not ask. Well, Constable, if you could get him in here to help us, that would be much appreciated.”

  “I’ll ask him. By the way, sir, I never heard how your MI5 lunch went.”

  “Sorry, Constable. You weren’t here when I briefed the others. Let me tell you now. After that, if you’re sure the AC doesn’t want you back, I’d be grateful i
f you could help Bridges out with his door-to-doors of poor Eddie’s neighbours in Chelsea.”

  “Pleasure, sir.”

  * * *

  Devlin watched as Meyer hovered indecisively outside the main entrance to the Ritz hotel. Finally he went in and Devlin followed. Meyer went up to the front desk and Devlin heard him ask the clerk for a Mr Pulos.

  “I’m afraid we can’t give you the number, sir, but if you’d like to give me your name, I’ll call up and see if Mr Pulos will see you.”

  Meyer shook his head and backed away from the desk. He turned, walked through the lobby and found himself a seat at one of the tables where, later in the day, the famous Ritz afternoon tea would be served. Devlin watched Meyer order a coffee then did the same at a table a distance away. For the next half hour, Devlin watched as Meyer kept the passing hotel traffic under close observation.

  This was Devlin’s second visit to the Ritz in the space of 12 hours. He had been in the bar the night before observing Dumont and Vorster drink together. He had watched as the pair were joined by a dark-haired, foreign-looking fellow and he’d followed the three men later when they left and walked down Arlington Street before trailing Dumont home. Something about the apartment building he’d seen Vorster and the stranger enter had been niggling Devlin ever since. The Irishman was sure he’d heard someone tell him about something fishy going on in there. It would come to him eventually, Devlin thought, as he watched an increasingly impatient Meyer order a second cup of coffee.

  It was just after 11.30 when, finally, a uniformed bell boy appeared, holding a large card bearing the name Mr Alexander Pulos. Two men were talking quite heatedly together in a corner of the lobby not far from Meyer, and Devlin saw the shorter and older of the men break off the conversation and walk over to speak to the bell boy. A message was handed over and the bell boy disappeared. As the man Devlin now presumed to be Pulos rejoined his companion and headed for the door, Meyer put some money on the table and followed. Devlin did likewise.

  * * *

  Before the war, Bert Perkins had worked as a mechanic in the Clerkenwell garage where Simon Arbuthnot’s many cars had been serviced and maintained. Arbuthnot had enjoyed his cars. He had owned a string of Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, Hispano-Suizas and other high-performance vehicles. Perkins’ particular favourite was the blue SS100, a beautiful machine with the leaping Jaguar mascot on its stylish bonnet. Perkins had been the chief mechanic for all of the Arbuthnot cars and enjoyed a friendly relationship with their owner. When, despite the substantial revenue from Arbuthnot’s custom, the garage company had gone bust in 1938, Arbuthnot had helped Perkins out by getting him a job as a security-man-cum-night-watchman at Sackville Bank.

  Perkins, a spare, wiry little man, had received a good salary from the garage and, as a bachelor with no family, should have had enough savings at 60 to live comfortably in retirement. He had a serious gambling habit, however, and there were no savings. The Sackville job as a night watchman was for him a lifesaver and he was deeply grateful to Arbuthnot. The hours were anti-social but he had no social life to speak of. He worked four out of five nights during the week and a good part of the weekend. Arbuthnot often got him out to his country house to tinker with the cars he kept there. Some people found Arbuthnot cold and distant but not

  Perkins. Perhaps, Perkins thought, Arbuthnot’s warmth towards him reflected one gambler’s sympathy for another. Perkins had been one of the last to learn of his employer’s death. He hadn’t seen the notice posted on the employees’ noticeboard in the basement and his hours gave him little opportunity to chat to other bank workers. Perkins’ reading glasses were broken so he did not read the news in the paper either. It was only on the Thursday that he heard a couple of late-working secretaries gossiping about it as they loitered in the lobby before leaving the building.

  “Old Edie in accounts, who worked for him from quite early on, said he was a real good-looker when he started out.”

  “Well, he isn’t that bad-looking now.”

  “You mean ‘wasn’t’ that bad-looking, I think. Fact is, it was hard to tell if he still had his looks as he always looked so miserable when I saw him.”

  “Well, all I can say is rest in peace, Simon Arbuthnot – but let’s hope your son is just as successful and our jobs stay safe.”

  Perkins had been shocked and upset by the news and, later that night, had opened a half bottle of Bell’s whisky, which he kept in an old sock in his locker, and drank to his boss.

  Two days later, Perkins was at his post in the bank. He alternated Saturdays and Sundays with the other security man. This weekend he had Saturday. People seldom worked the weekend at the bank so he was surprised to see Sidney Fleming at the door just after noon. Perkins let him in and the chairman disappeared, preoccupied, into the lift. Moments later, the Argentinian gentleman, whom Perkins had seen occasionally at Simon Arbuthnot’s house, arrived with another man, followed by the portly fellow Perkins knew to be Arbuthnot’s solicitor. “Something is up,” Perkins muttered to himself. “Something is definitely up.”

  * * *

  Colonel Aubertin was also to be found at his place of work this Saturday lunchtime. A folder sat on the desk before him. It was headed ‘Top Secret’ in both English and French. Vane-Stewart had left it with him after their meeting on Friday. The folder was tied in red ribbon and Aubertin felt a little tremor of excitement in his fingers as he began to untie it. The knot was very tight and he had to pick at it for a while before it yielded. ‘Damn the English and their stupid red ribbons,’ he thought.

  Aubertin had passed a restless night worrying. He was concerned that Angers might not be up to the job assigned to him. It was proving to be a task requiring considerable finesse. He didn’t think the commandant had much finesse. Rougemont was intelligent and capable of managing delicate affairs but he was not biddable like Angers, who would do anything the colonel asked of him. Then there was this Devlin fellow. It had definitely been a mistake to involve him.

  He was worrying too about the general. Before de Gaulle’s departure for the Middle East, he had called in Aubertin and warned that he was not happy with several of the colonel’s subordinates at Dorset Square and told him he might have to arrange for their replacement. “A shake-up,” the general had said. A shake-up would be awkward from the colonel’s point of view.

  Then there was his wife to worry about. Was she well? Was she safe? He loved her dearly. This love, however, did not prevent him from enjoying the freedom of his London life to the full. Aubertin was a man in the prime of life and he knew his wife would understand his need for physical release – as she had in the past. He picked up his photograph of her and kissed it. Then he set to work and opened the folder. The first page was blank. The second was headed ‘Ops – June/July’ and there followed a list of dates. The heading on the third page was ‘21 June – Operation Purple’ and he read on with interest.

  * * *

  “I’d prefer it, Alexander, if you kept your trained gorilla outside.”

  Marco, the gorilla in question, glared at Sidney Fleming but obeyed the wave of Pulos’s hand and left Fleming’s office. As he did so, Tomlinson pulled Fleming to one side and whispered: “Powell didn’t turn up.”

  Fleming’s shoulders slumped. “Shit.”

  “I hope you two gentlemen aren’t keeping any important secrets from me. That wouldn’t be very friendly, would it?”

  Tomlinson shook his head. “Not at all, Alexander. I was just talking about a mutual friend.”

  The three men settled themselves around the elegant Chippendale table in front of Simon Arbuthnot’s old desk.

  Reggie Tomlinson raised a finger. “I would just like to say that I hope this meeting is not going to be too lengthy. My wife reminded me this morning that we have friends coming for bridge and dinner and she will be on the warpath if I’m not back home at a reasonable time. I have had to cancel one engagement already today. I would prefer not to have to cancel another.”

&
nbsp; Fleming reddened. “There are matters of the utmost importance to discuss, Reggie. Matters of greater import than a bloody game of bridge or golf. Life and death matters. Simon has left us in a bloody awful mess. No, I can’t guarantee you’ll get back at a reasonable time but let’s just see how we go.”

  Tomlinson gave a petulant shake of the head before subsiding back into his chair.

  Pulos poured himself a glass of water. “May I enquire as to what exactly you are referring when you use the words ‘bloody awful mess’. Do you mean the missing share certificates, the missing will, the question of succession management, the business of Sackville or what?”

  Fleming examined Pulos’s pale and weary face. He noticed a small scar on his chin that hadn’t been there the day before. “Get any sleep last night, Alexander?”

  “Unfortunately no. The time difference is not easy to overcome.”

  “You look a bit rough. Didn’t fall out with Marco, did you?”

  “If you’d made the journey I’ve just made, you’d look rough, Sidney. And while we’re on the subject, you don’t look so wonderful yourself.”

  “A touch of flu, as you know. Now I suggest we get on and you’ll understand what I mean by ‘bloody mess’.” Fleming opened a notepad on which he had scribbled some aides-memoires. “I do not have a pleasant tale to tell. Last week I heard some very disturbing news. When I came into the office after we had heard about Simon, George Brightwell asked to see me. He informed me that there was a problem relating to an account. More specifically, an account where we have client funds under management. For some time before he undertook his military adventure, Simon had taken a particular interest in this account. To put it more bluntly, he assumed personal management of the account and thereafter removed it from the oversight of Brightwell and his team.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “We shall get to that, Reggie. Now, not only did he keep this account’s activities secret but, when he went away, Simon specifically warned Brightwell to keep away from it. He left it in charge of one of his old hands, Paul Lawson, who provided the accounts department with no updates on the account other than to confirm all was as it was when last audited, so Brightwell accounted accordingly.”