by Mark Ellis
Merlin cut across to Birdcage Walk and passed the spot where Goldberg’s uncle had died. There had been some strange characters involved in that case. The face of one, Morris Owen, the grotesquely obese nightclub owner, came to him and Merlin shuddered at the memory.
When he got to the office, Merlin was surprised to find Bernie Goldberg lounging on his chair reading a copy of the New York Herald Tribune. Goldberg was embarrassed and jumped to his feet. “Apologies, Frank. I was just waiting here on the off-chance you might come in this morning. I guess I should have waited in the room along the corridor but I sat down here for a second, starting reading, then…”
“Don’t worry. I’m glad to see you. I was worrying you might have been shipped back to the States.” Merlin fell into his chair.
Goldberg tucked the newspaper away inside his jacket. “As it happens, Frank, I am being sent back. Not straightaway but at the end of the week.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that, Bernie. I was just getting used to you. Missing you back home, are they?”
“I doubt it but there is a new organised crime task force and my name has been suggested.”
“A promotion?”
“Theoretically, but more likely another way for the precinct bosses to keep me out of their hair. Obviously, I can’t say no.”
“No.” Merlin lifted his feet up on to the desk and loosened his collar. The room was hot and humid. “Do you think you could open that window, Bernie? It’s quite stiff. I tried yesterday but my shoulder was playing me up and I couldn’t…”
“Of course.” Goldberg went to the window and opened it wide. “You were shot, weren’t you? How’d that happen?”
“I was arresting a murderer around this time last year. Chap called Harrison. He’d murdered four prostitutes. Slit their throats. He shot me when he was trying to escape. The doctors said I was lucky as the bone was only slightly chipped but I still get twinges and haven’t got the full strength of my arm back yet.” He put a hand to the damaged area and rubbed it.
Goldberg nodded sympathetically. “What happened to this guy, Harrison?”
“He was hanged by our most famous executioner, Mr Pierrepoint. The dear old AC insisted on my being present ‘to represent the victims’, as he put it. Dreadful. I’m not going to do that again. Have you witnessed an execution?”
“One. At a placed called Sing Sing in New York State. A gangster I knew was electrocuted there. Before I saw it, I somehow had the idea that electrocution was a clean, modern and efficient method to use. Let me assure you it is not. It is barbaric.”
“Hmm. Best spare me the details. So when will you be leaving us?”
“Saturday or Sunday, depending which day is more convenient for the military.”
“We’d better get our skates on then, if we are to settle these cases before you go.”
* * *
After lunch, Pulos went for a stroll in Green Park with Marco trailing dutifully behind him. He was surprised to see that a considerable area of the park had been dug up and planted with vegetables. The sign next to it read: ‘Dig for Victory’. In other areas, there was evidence of military works, the purpose of which was unclear to Pulos. There were still, thankfully, plenty of places in which to sit and enjoy fine weather amidst the greenery.
Pulos eased himself on to an unoccupied bench in the shadow of an ash tree against which Marco leaned unhappily. Pulos could see that Marco was not himself. Perhaps he had been too harsh on him. Marco had proved himself an excellent fixer back in Argentina. Pulos couldn’t remember any failures. In London, he had given Marco one major task and he’d failed. This clearly sat heavily on him.
The Greek looked up at the clear blue sky and decided that the view he had formed after he had seen Fleming that morning was the correct one. It was time to go home. There was nothing more he could achieve here. He doubted whether the damned share certificates would ever turn up. If Pulos remained in England, he’d be under intense pressure to transfer money. It would be much easier to resist that pressure if he were back in Buenos Aires.
His trip to London had been very brief but he didn’t consider it a wasted journey. Pulos had been able to get the lie of the land in person and to appreciate better the positions of Fleming and the others. But he’d be much better off back in Buenos Aires. If the bearer certificates were not going to fall into his hands, he could at least be back in control of the underlying businesses. Argentina was a long way away, there was a war on in Europe and, as they had discussed the day before, possession was ten-tenths of the law.
It was clear that the situation at Sackville was fraught. The problems Simon Arbuthnot had bequeathed were going to be very difficult to cover up. If the City caught wind of the problems, the bank would be in deep trouble and if Fleming thought Pulos was going to provide a solution with Argentinian funds, he could go whistle. It was every man for himself now.
As for the Meyers, it had been a shock to encounter one in the flesh but Pulos remained confident he could fend them off. A little money here and a little money there. Simon had never been prepared to consider such an approach but it probably wouldn’t even take that much to buy off the Meyers.
Perhaps everything that had happened had been for the best. The best for Pulos, at least. The Greek would have liked to have known what Powell’s letter contained but there it was. He turned to Marco. “Come, we are going home. Let’s get back to the hotel and make the arrangements.”
* * *
Merlin arrived home just before seven in the evening. The flat was quiet. He had spent all day trying to make progress with Simon Arbuthnot’s code. He had attempted to reach Robinson to get her cryptologist brother’s telephone number but she had obviously gone out for the day.
Goldberg had managed to track down a US Embassy acquaintance, who was in the encryption section, and had hurried off to Grosvenor Square with a copy of the code. However, he had called four hours later to say his friend had got nowhere with it.
Merlin himself had spent several hours in the Scotland Yard reference library looking at books about the history and science of codes. By the end of the afternoon, his head was full of a multitude of alternative code systems – transposition and shift ciphers, monoalphabetic substitution, Vigenère, true codes and more. It was all very interesting and educational but of little practical use to a layman like him. He had made no progress at all on understanding the meaning of 2391817493323822284923 31313383X.
He opened the bedroom door. The curtains were drawn and it was dark. He whispered Sonia’s name.
A bedside lamp came on and Sonia’s head emerged from beneath the bedclothes.
“Oh, hello, darling. Sorry, did I wake you? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine. I got back here an hour ago and felt a little dizzy so I decided to have a lie down.”
Merlin sat on the bed and squeezed her hand. “Still feeling bad?”
Sonia sat up. “I’m not dizzy any more but my stomach is a little unsettled. Probably the spicy Polish stew my brother gave me for lunch. I’ll be all right soon. Just let me have another hour’s rest, then I’ll get up and make you some tea.”
“Don’t worry about tea. I’ll make myself a sandwich or something. Jan all right?” Sonia nodded then snuggled back down in the bed.
Sonia had left the radio on in the living room. Merlin turned the volume down and then twiddled with the dial. He found he was too late for the main evening news bulletin and wandered into the kitchen to make himself a jam sandwich and a cup of tea.
There was often a poetry programme on the Home Service at this time of night and Merlin returned to his chair in hope. To his disappointment, the announcer introduced the Sunday evening religious service. He switched off the radio, finished his sandwich and picked up a book from the table next to him. It was a collected volume of Kipling poems. Merlin and his friend Jack Stewart were great poetry enthusiasts. Their pub get-togethers always involved an exchange of their respective poetic repertoires. Mer
lin had felt deprived of this pleasure since Stewart’s departure to Manchester.
The book fell open at a dramatic seafaring poem. Merlin had been unaware of The Ballad of the Bolivar until he’d heard a rousing reading of it on the radio earlier that year. He read the closing lines quietly to himself.
Just a pack of rotten plates puttied up with tar
In we came, an’ time enough, cross Bilbao Bar.
Overloaded, undermanned, meant to founder, we
Euchred God Almighty’s storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea!
Seven men from all the world, back to town again,
Rollin’ down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:
Seven men from out of Hell. Ain’t the owners gay,
’Cause we took the ‘Bolivar’ safe across the Bay?
Merlin pictured the mountainous seas of the Bay of Biscay to the north of his father’s Galician homeland, and wondered again what on earth ‘euchred’ meant. He closed his eyes. It had been a long and mentally strenuous day and he couldn’t help drifting off.
He awoke with a start three-quarters of an hour later and automatically switched the radio on again. A story was being told and a beautiful female voice was telling it. Merlin recognised the narrator. It was the actress Wendy Hiller, whose performance in the film version of Pygmalion he had enjoyed so much before the war. It had been the last film he’d seen with his late wife. He dozed off again and inevitably dreamed of Alice. When he awoke, Sonia was standing over him.
“Come to bed, Frank. It’s late and you obviously need a good night’s sleep as much as I do.”
Merlin felt a twinge of guilt that he had been dreaming of Alice when he opened his eyes to Sonia. “Are you all right now, darling? You still look a little pale.”
“I’m fine now.”
“Come on then.” Grasping Sonia’s hand tightly, he led the way to their bedroom. He realised there was no need for guilt. Alice was dead. One lovely woman had left him and another had appeared in her place.
CHAPTER 12
Monday 16 June
London
“What news, Sergeant? Did you get him?” Merlin set aside the turgid Home Office policing report the AC had sent him.
“Disappointingly no, sir. I went directly from home to the solicitors’ office, only to be told that Vorster was away on business in Birmingham and wouldn’t be back at work until tomorrow.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“A partner. Mr Reginald Tomlinson.”
“Did you ask him about Powell?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He said Mr Powell had come to see him but wouldn’t say what they had discussed.”
“Client confidentiality?”
“His exact words. I then told him that he would not be meeting Mr Powell again. That Powell’s dead body had been discovered in his flat and there were suspicious circumstances. He was pretty shocked. And disappointed, I’d say. When he composed himself, he asked whether my desire to interview Mr Vorster was somehow connected with Powell’s death. I told him not.”
“Very well. It’s not the end of the world. We’ll get to Vorster tomorrow. Meanwhile Robinson is bringing her brother in this morning. After we’ve talked to him, let’s see if we can get hold of Dumont. Given his status as a Free French officer, I suppose it would be diplomatic to call him first and ask him nicely to come and see us.”
“Is Detective Goldberg coming in?”
“No. I saw him yesterday and asked him to keep away today in case Vorster and Dumont were here. I thought it might be wise to maintain his cover as regards those two. Just in case it might be of further use.”
There was a knock at the door and Robinson led in a smiling young man, whose face bore a close resemblance to his sister’s. He was Merlin’s height but extremely thin and the suit he was wearing looked at least two sizes too big. “My brother, Robert, sir.”
“Good of you to come and see us at such short notice, Mr Robinson.”
“Not at all, Chief Inspector. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I have heard so much about you from Claire.” His sister blushed.
Bridges rearranged the office chairs so everyone could sit around Merlin’s desk.
“Have you been offered refreshment?”
“Oh yes, don’t you worry. Already had a quick cuppa and a natter here with Claire. I have received all the mental stimulation that a strong mug of Liptons can provide. Claire has explained you have a little piece of code you’d like me to advise on. I’ve no doubt you’re a very busy man, Chief Inspector, so I’m ready when you are.”
“I understand you are something of an expert in this area.”
“Been keen on words, clues, codes and that sort of thing since I was a nipper. Modesty should forbid but I’m afraid I can boast that I completed my first Times crossword at the age of seven. It’s a knack, of course, and I seem to have it, though I know many who are better at it than me.”
“And code breaking is your job?”
Robert Robinson looked embarrassed. “Can’t comment on that, even to as eminent a police officer as yourself. I’m sure you understand.”
“Sorry, of course.” Merlin pushed the letter across the desk. “This is our little problem. If you can help, I’d be very grateful.”
Robinson moved his chair closer to the desk. “Let me just say at the outset that if there is any complexity at all, it is unlikely that I shall be able to decode it here and now. I may be able to recognise what type of code it is. After that – well, we shall just have to see.”
“Any help at all will be welcome. We have no idea what we are dealing with.”
“Perhaps before I study it, Chief Inspector, you could tell me about the originator of the code, assuming you know who that is, and the context of the investigation in which it features?”
Merlin quickly explained the story behind the letter. Robinson caught his breath as Merlin told of Powell’s drowning and of the police suspicion that the letter had been the motive for his murder.
“An important letter then.” Robinson reached inside his jacket. “Reading glasses. I hate to admit to needing them but…”
Merlin smiled sympathetically. “Not at all. I didn’t like admitting it either but I’ve got over it now.”
Robinson bent down and concentrated on the code sequence. The others remained silent as he did so. He continued his study for nearly a quarter of an hour. Eventually he looked up at Merlin, then closed his eyes and slowly recited the sequence from memory: “239181749332382228492331313383X.” He opened his eyes.
“Hmm. You say this code was put together by a gentleman whose life, before his brief stint as an army officer, was spent in big business. I doubt that as a newish army recruit he had any involvement in secret intelligence work. He was a line officer on the battlefront. I suppose he might have had some rudimentary knowledge of battlefront codes but…” Robert Robinson paused and looked up at the ceiling for a moment.
“What I mean, Mr Merlin, is that if Mr Arbuthnot were something of a cryptographer, he was more likely to be an amateur rather than a professional one. Perhaps, like me, he was a crossword enthusiast when young.”
“Does knowing that help us in any way?”
“It might. If Arbuthnot were an amateur, chances are that the premise of the code is relatively simple. I do not mean that the code will necessarily be simple to unlock, but that it may be based on one of the more traditional code foundations. If we know what, we are at least on our way.”
“Some grounds for optimism, then. Do you already have an idea of what type of code it might be?”
“There are a number of possibilities but it is too premature to discuss these. May I suggest we adjourn for now. I would like to go away and think hard. I have memorised the code so you may retain the letter. Fortunately, I am off duty until tomorrow afternoon and have plenty of time to give this my undivided attention.”
“May we know where you’ll be?”
“I
have a small flat in St John’s Wood. Claire has the details and I, of course, have hers. Come what may, I promise to get in touch at the end of the afternoon with a progress report.”
* * *
“Say that again, Reggie. I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Powell is dead, Sidney. ‘In suspicious circumstances,’ the policeman said. In other words, they think he was murdered. Sidney, are you there? I said Powell has been murdered. It must be something to do with that blasted letter.”
Fleming had dropped the cup of tea he had been drinking and a dark stain was spreading across the plush cream carpet of his suite’s drawing room. “I am here.” Fleming stroked his forehead. He felt a migraine coming on. “It doesn’t necessarily follow that he has been murdered. ‘Suspicious circumstances’ could easily encompass a nasty accident. Nor does it necessarily follow that if he were murdered, his death had anything to do with that letter. We know nothing about the man. He might have had many enemies. Perhaps he had a colourful love life? Who knows? Even if the death is connected to the letter, what difficulties does that cause us?”
Fleming heard a grunt of irritation from the lawyer. “Well, for a start it causes the difficulty that we are unlikely to see Simon’s letter and get any further in sorting out this appalling mess he’s left.”
“But, Reggie, if the police have the letter, it will most likely still come to you as his solicitor.”
“I don’t know that the police have the letter. The policeman said nothing about a letter. Perhaps the murderer has the damn thing? Even if the police do have it, that doesn’t mean I’m going to see it any time soon.”
Fleming took out a handkerchief and started dabbing at the stains the spilled tea had left on his trousers. “Have you told Pulos about this?”
