Merlin at War

by Mark Ellis

  “I rang you first but there was no answer. Then I tried Pulos and was told by the operator that he had checked out. I spoke to the front desk, who said that he and his man had booked an early morning taxi to Croydon Aerodrome. Looks like he’s done a bunk and is on his way back to Argentina.”

  Fleming felt his migraine intensifying. “The words ‘rat’ and ‘sinking ship’ are the ones that first come to mind, Reggie.” He gave up on the stain. “So what do you advise?”

  “I’m going to contact the officer in charge of the Powell investigation and see what I can find out.”

  “Be careful. It won’t just be a question of you finding out what he knows. He will want to know what you know.”

  “Of course, Sidney, but what have we to hide on that score? Mr Powell was about to pass on a presumably important letter from Simon to his solicitor. That’s all we know.”

  “Just be careful. I don’t want the bank getting embroiled in this. We have enough problems as it is.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Is that all, as if it isn’t enough?”

  “There is one other odd thing. The police came to my office to interview one of my juniors. The conversation they had with me about Powell was incidental to this.”

  “Why did they want to interview him?”

  “They wouldn’t say.”

  Despite the early hour, Fleming felt the sudden urge for a strong drink. He had had enough of Tomlinson and his depressing news for now.

  “It’s no doubt some minor matter that has nothing to do with me and the bank. Let me know what the police say about Powell, won’t you? Now, I have an appointment. Goodbye.” Fleming telephoned housekeeping and arranged for someone to come and clean his carpet and take his trousers to the laundry. Then he poured himself a large Balvenie.

  * * *

  Philip Arbuthnot was in his flat, busily replying to the numerous letters of sympathy he had received from his father’s friends and associates. He wasn’t going to the office any more. It had been agreed with Tomlinson that his days as an articled clerk were over. What point was there now in pursuing professional qualifications? His father had created a huge and successful business and Philip would shortly be taking control of it, he believed, once the tiresome legal problems had been sorted out. He had just sealed a letter to an MP, who had been a regular at his father’s shoots, when he heard someone at the door. Philip went to see who it was.

  Arbuthnot was confronted by two large and expressionless young men, both neatly dressed in matching chalk-striped suits, dark shirts and ties. Apart from the fact that one had a small moustache, the men looked like carbon copies of each other.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man with the moustache spoke. “Mr Arbuthnot?”

  “Yes. I wonder, did you fellows check in with the porter? He normally announces visitors for me on the blower.”

  A third man appeared from further along the corridor. He was a slim and elegant man of normal height. His crisply pressed lightgrey suit was accompanied by a sky-blue cravat and matching top-pocket handkerchief and cufflinks. A pair of black-and-grey spats completed the ensemble. He reminded Arbuthnot of an actor he’d seen at the theatre recently.

  The man was smiling. “Forgive us, Mr Arbuthnot. The porter was tied up somewhere so we just came on up. My name is Peregrine Beecham. I was a friend of your father’s. So very sorry to hear of his passing. Thought I’d pop around to give you my condolences in person. I’m off to a business meeting with these chaps in the City afterwards. Sorry to turn up in such a mob.” Beecham spoke with the accent of the English upper class, although to Arbuthnot’s ear there was something vaguely inauthentic about it.

  “Oh, I see. Well, that’s very thoughtful of you, Mr Beecham. Would you and your friends care to come in? A cup of tea perhaps?” Arbuthnot opened the door wide.

  “Well, that’s jolly decent of you. Not much of a tea-drinker myself nor these chaps, but a glass of water would be lovely. Thank you. The fellow on the left is Mr Carson, by the way, and the other with the moustache is Mr Miller.”

  “Pleased to meet you all.” He led the way through to his drawing room. Beecham accepted Arbuthnot’s invitation to sit but his two companions remained standing. The requested glasses of water were poured and distributed before Arbuthnot took his own seat. “Did you know my father in the City, Mr Beecham?”

  “No, not the City.”

  Arbuthnot examined Beecham properly for the first time. Although Beecham looked smart and expensively dressed, Arbuthnot thought he could discern rough edges in the man. There were two small scars on Beecham’s forehead above his right eye, and there was a suggestion of another just above the chin. Beecham’s hands were rough and gnarled and did not quite seem to fit their owner. “How did you know him, then?”

  “He used to spend a good deal of his leisure time with me.”

  “A hunting friend? No, can’t be that as I used to hunt with him a lot and I’m sure we’d have met. Shooting perhaps? I didn’t really do that. Or boats? Cars?”

  Beecham shook his head.

  “I see. Well, I give up. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

  Beecham drained his glass of water and continued to smile enigmatically without replying. Arbuthnot began to feel irritated. “Well, if you…”

  Beecham raised a hand. “Gambling, Mr Arbuthnot. Your father always enjoyed a good gamble, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Well, I didn’t really.”

  “Your father was an inveterate gambler. I understand he took many risks to get his business empire off the ground. A great success, his business empire. Worth a lot of money, I believe. Risk can be a bit of a drug, of course. Your father just loved risk. So despite his success, your father never could shake the gambling habit.”

  “And you gambled with him?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I maintain a discreet little operation that affords wealthy people like your father the opportunity to enjoy games of chance at very high stakes.”

  “Sorry if I’m being a little slow on the uptake. Do you mean you run some sort of gambling den?” As he asked this question, the initials in his father’s mysterious note came back to him. PB. Peregrine Beecham.

  The smile left Beecham’s face at last. “Not a description I really care for but you may call it a ‘gambling den’ if you wish.” Beecham spat out the unacceptable words with disgust and began to drum his fingers on the arms of his chair. Beecham’s companions took a step forward, their features still impassive. To his surprise, Arbuthnot felt a twinge of fear.

  “Yes, Mr Arbuthnot. Your father was a regular at our ‘gambling den’ over the past few years. Baccarat, vingt-et-un, poker and the rest. He loved them all. Sometimes he won. Sometimes he won big. Other times he lost. Other times he lost big. Unfortunately, latterly, before he disappeared off into the army, he mostly lost big.”

  The smile reappeared. “I understood your father to be an honourable man. For a long time, he met his losses as the house met his wins. He was a very wealthy man. We were not, I know, the only outlet for his habit, but I believe we were one of the more significant. It mattered not to me how your father met his liabilities as long as he met them.

  “However, I believe his gambling habit eventually strained even his huge resources. Perhaps he had to mortgage some of his extensive property portfolio? Perhaps he had to sell some? Your father managed money for other people. Perhaps…? One can speculate on how your father met his liabilities but meet them he did until at the last he found he could not or would not.”

  Arbuthnot suddenly realised his hands were clasped tightly together. So tightly that the blood flow had stopped and his fingers were numb. He unclasped and shook them to restore circulation. Beecham watched, still smiling, then resumed.

  “When your father signed up and disappeared into the army, he owed me a very substantial sum. Prior to his departure I had a number of meetin
gs with him. At our final meeting, your father was, I’m afraid to say, a little drunk. He said something about certain valuable share certificates he could use to realise or raise funds and settle our account. Soon after he shipped off to the army and I heard no more.

  “Your father was a very good customer. My best. He might have had temporary cash-flow problems but he still presided over a huge and thriving business, as far as I could see. I decided to be patient and await his return. I could have chosen to contact you earlier to apprise you of the situation but I held off. Simon would get back home and sort everything out amicably. That is what I told myself – foolishly as it turns out.”

  Beecham shook his head ruefully. “Because your father is not coming home and he is beyond settling his debt. And so I have come to you, Philip, his son and heir. Along with all the good things you will inherit, there may be the odd bad thing. This is one such and I look to you now for my money. I doubt you have yet the ready cash to pay but I can consider taking the share certificates he mentioned, once you have your hands on them. I have done some investigating. I believe I know what he was talking about. Bearer shares relating to your South American business. Inferior to cash, of course, but needs must.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about and, in any event, the South American businesses are owned by Sackville Bank, not by my father or the family.”

  Beecham’s smile disappeared again. “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  Beecham turned and nodded at his companions before getting to his feet. “A pleasure to meet you, young man. I am glad to have had a chance to educate you about your obligations to me.”

  “I have no obligations to you, Beecham.”

  “There you are wrong. I don’t care how you pay your father’s debt but pay you will – with cash, property, shares or whatever. Or you will regret it. I shall contact you shortly with details of the amounts owing. Now my friends and I shall bid you good day.” As he went out of the door Beecham turned his head again, briefly, to give Arbuthnot one last glimpse of that infuriating smile.

  * * *

  “Any luck, Constable?”

  Bridges and Robinson had interviewed as many of Powell’s neighbours as possible in the immediate aftermath of his murder on Saturday but had not gained any leads. Robinson had now just returned from Flood Street, where she had been trying to speak to any neighbours who had not been around at the weekend.

  They were standing in the corridor outside Merlin’s office. Bridges was carrying a pile of paperwork that his boss had finally got around to dealing with.

  “Yes, Sergeant. People were seen.”

  Bridges nodded and led the way to the junior officers’ cubby hole. He dumped Merlin’s files on to the table with a grunt of relief. “I’ve been trying to get him to sign off on these for ages.” He sat down. “All right. What have you got?”

  Robinson took out her notebook. “There is an elderly couple in the first-floor flat above Mr Powell’s. They went away early Saturday morning to stay the weekend with relatives in Kent. They arrived back this morning. They have a cocker spaniel called Lottie. She went missing on Friday evening. After a bit of a panic they found her in the garden of a house on Cheyne Walk where she’d got trapped.”

  “The gardens are behind the flats, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. It took Mr and Mrs Wilcox some time to find the dog. They wandered up and down Flood Street and the adjoining streets for a while.”

  “What sort of time was this?”

  “Mrs Wilcox – she did pretty much all the talking by the way – wasn’t completely sure but she thinks it was some time between eight-thirty and nine-thirty. They always walk the dog at around eight-thirty and that’s when they discovered she was missing. Mrs Wilcox says she saw a number of men in the vicinity of the flats and asked them all if they’d seen her dog.”

  Bridges finally gave way to temptation and took a ginger nut from the biscuit tin someone had left on the table. “How many men?”

  “Mrs Wilcox saw two men standing a few yards from each other at the corner of Flood Street and Royal Hospital Road opposite Rossetti Garden Mansions. She thought they might have been together although they weren’t talking to one another. A third man was standing in the yard behind the block where the rubbish bins are. And there was another man further up the street, standing outside the off-licence. None of them had seen her dog.”

  “Did they speak when she asked about the dog?”

  “No. They just shook their heads.”

  “How long were the various men around?”

  “She couldn’t say. She was in such a flap about the dog that she could think of little else. Then when they found the dog it took all their attention.”

  “Did the husband see the men, too?”

  “He saw the two men on the corner but not the other two. He went searching in the opposite direction to his wife. Up the Royal Hospital Road.”

  “You say this couple are elderly. Do they have all their marbles?”

  “I think so. Mrs Wilcox let drop she had been a school headmistress, only recently retired.”

  “Would she be able to recognise any of these men again?”

  “Three of the four men were well covered up, wearing hats, collars up and so on. Apart from being able to say that none of them was small, she thought it would be difficult to provide much of a description of three of them to a sketch artist. But she’d be happy to try. She did, however, have a good view of the man by the bins because his face was lit up by light from one of the flats when a curtain was opened. He wasn’t wearing a hat, apparently.”

  Robinson looked down to consult her notes again. “Oh yes. Mrs Wilcox also remembered that although the man by the off-licence didn’t speak to her when she asked about the dog, she did think she heard him swear to himself as she walked away. Swear to himself in Spanish. Anyway, she’s coming in to see the artist tomorrow morning.”

  “Let’s hope that gives us something. Well done, Constable.” Bridges got up and, with a supreme effort of will, resisted a second biscuit. “Let’s go and tell the chief inspector.”

  * * *

  Devlin was in position on Carlton House Terrace all morning. The previous night he had witnessed Beaulieu return to his digs, looking strained and perturbed. This had given Devlin pause for thought but, when he got up on Monday morning, he’d decided he had not changed his mind. He was going to keep to the plan he’d resolved on in the pub. Meyer was in the clear and, from now on, Devlin was going to concentrate on Beaulieu and Dumont. This was still contrary to his new orders but, bugger it, that’s what he was going to do and Dumont was to be the target for Monday.

  It was midday when Dumont first appeared at the door of Three Carlton Gardens. As he came out, his eyes were fixed on the pavement and Devlin could see the man was lost in thought. He confirmed this by almost walking into two pedestrians in quick succession. Devlin was not to know that Dumont was anxiously reflecting on the call he’d received earlier from Sergeant Bridges, asking him to present himself at Scotland Yard for questioning.

  Devlin followed Dumont on to Lower Regent Street. Halfway up the street, Dumont suddenly turned and scanned the crowds as if checking for anyone following. Devlin was safely concealed in the shadow of a shop awning. After a moment, Dumont resumed his walk then 20 yards from Piccadilly Circus, jumped into a taxi that raced off around the boarded-up Eros and into Shaftesbury Avenue.

  Devlin cursed. He quickly found his own taxi but thought he must have lost Dumont. He told his cabbie to drive up Shaftesbury Avenue and kept an eye open. He was not optimistic but his luck was in – something had caused the traffic to back up suddenly. Part of a building had collapsed into the road ahead, the driver thought. Devlin told the driver he was just getting out to look and ran 20 yards ahead. He’d noticed that the taxi Dumont picked up had a bad dent in the boot and he saw the taxi nine or 10 cars ahead of his own. He ran back, paid the driver, then got into another taxi he’d seen turni
ng into Shaftesbury Avenue only a couple of cars behind Dumont’s.

  The traffic sat stationary for 10 minutes before the rubble ahead was partially cleared and cars could move again. Now he was close enough to keep in touch. Dumont’s taxi turned up Charing Cross Road then went along Tottenham Court Road. Devlin’s taxi followed and turned right after Dumont on to Euston Road. Eventually, Dumont’s taxi pulled into Euston Station and Dumont got out. This time, Dumont gave only a cursory glance behind him. Devlin sensed he thought he was clear of any followers.

  The station concourse was very crowded and Devlin initially lost Dumont again but, after a quick moment of concern, he spotted the soldier entering the main station restaurant. He dashed over and found himself a table a good distance from the one Dumont had chosen but with a relatively clear view. The Frenchman ordered a whisky. After the drink arrived, he took what looked to Devlin like a folded newspaper from his jacket pocket and set it down on the table. Strangely he did not read it.

  After 10 minutes, another man in a light summer overcoat sat down opposite Dumont. The man had his back to Devlin so he couldn’t see his face. Another whisky was ordered and Devlin could see the men talking. Ten more minutes and the drinks were finished. Devlin saw Dumont push the newspaper across the table. Seconds later, the other man got up, put the paper inside his coat, nodded to Dumont and turned towards the restaurant exit. Devlin caught only a brief glimpse of the man’s face but it was enough for him to recognise who it was. His heart began to pound. Things were moving at last.

  * * *

  “Well done, Constable. Let me know where you get to with Mrs Wilcox. Now Mr Tomlinson, the Arbuthnot solicitor, is here and wants to see me. This might be interesting. Stay, both of you. We’ll see him together.”

  Moments later, Reginald Tomlinson was easing his substantial posterior into one of Merlin’s chairs. “Are you all right there, Mr Tomlinson? I can find a… a more comfortable chair if you like?”