by Mark Ellis
“They mix a good Martini here, Bernie.”
“I’d prefer a beer.”
“One of those foul, warm English beers?”
“Sure. I’ve developed a taste for them.”
“If you’re sure. Ham-and-cheese sandwich do you?”
Goldberg nodded and Murrow ordered. “At least in Claridge’s we know we’re getting real ham and cheese rather than some disgusting substitute. So tell me, how are you finding wartime London?” Murrow stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Goldberg had yet to see Murrow without a cigarette in hand.
“I’ve enjoyed my time very much. Got involved in some interesting police work and been well looked after by my friend at the Yard.”
“Ah yes, your friend at the Yard. What was his name again?”
“Frank Merlin.”
“Merlin, that’s it. Fine name. You know I’m always on the lookout for new angles in my broadcasts. After our conversation the other day, I was thinking that a London policeman would be a great subject. You know – life goes on, notwithstanding the war and the Blitz. Criminals still commit crimes, new wartime crimes emerge, the valiant policemen battle on, etcetera, etcetera. And this one has the name of a wizard. Great copy!”
The drinks arrived and the two men clinked glasses. “Merlin would certainly make a great story, Ed, but I doubt he’d welcome the publicity.”
“The modest type, eh? Still, perhaps you could effect an introduction.”
“I’ll try but he’s very busy at the moment. Three heavy cases on the go.”
Murrow drew on his cigarette. “When you can, Bernie. Perhaps in a week or two?”
“I’ve got to go back home at the end of the week but I’ll mention you to him before I go. I’ve got to return for a new assignment in New York.”
“That’s a pity. There ain’t that many companionable Yanks around for me to chew the fat with.”
“Anything happening today in the great outside world?”
Murrow expelled small jets of smoke through his nostrils. “Mr Churchill is going to make a broadcast to the States tonight. In response to his being granted an honorary degree by the University of Rochester. Apparently his mother was born in Rochester and his grandfather ran one of the local newspapers. I got hold of an advance copy of what he’s planning to say. Good stuff as always.”
Murrow produced a sheet of paper. “Here’s some – I won’t attempt the voice – ‘For more than a year, we British have stood alone, uplifted by your sympathy and respect and sustained by our own unconquerable willpower and by the increasing growth and hopes of your massive aid. In these British Islands that look so small upon the map we stand, the faithful guardians of the rights and dearest hopes of a dozen States and nations now gripped and tormented in a base and cruel servitude. Whatever happens we shall endure to the end’. Good stuff, huh?”
“It is. What chance of us Yanks getting more involved, do you think?”
“Involved in the war, do you mean? I am confident that Roosevelt will get us into the war somehow, despite the best efforts of the isolationists. When I think how much I admired Lindbergh for his flying feats in the 20s and for his courage when that poor child was kidnapped.” Murrow’s voice rose, attracting the attention of some of the other customers.
“The man’s a Jew hater, Bernie. Remember all that cozying up to Hitler before the war? In a few days, he’s making yet another big speech against intervention in Europe. This one’s in Los Angeles. The guy makes my blood boil. Him, Henry Ford and all those other damned America Firsters.”
“Roosevelt has their measure.”
“Yeah, he does. Here’s to the president!” He turned to toast the room then ordered another round of drinks. The sandwiches arrived and Murrow opened one to check the contents. “It’s OK, Bernie. The real thing. You’re OK with the ham?”
“My kosher father would have a fit if he knew, but I’ll eat anything.” He took a bite. “Any news about what’s happening in Syria? Merlin and I have had reason to be dealing with some Free French people in London.”
“Last I heard the Nazis were sending aircraft to help the defending forces. A few British destroyers got hit. It’s all a terrible mess, Bernie. France, I mean. Those guys in Vichy are a pretty dire bunch.”
“You said you found de Gaulle a little prickly when you interviewed him?”
“I did. He’s very hard work. However, although he’s not very popular with Churchill and his generals, I’ve got some time for the man. It takes some guts, in these dark days for France, to make oneself the rallying point for opposition to Vichy and the Nazi occupiers. He may be prickly and arrogant but those are the attributes he needs for the job. Things are not going to be easy for him but he’s a symbol of hope to his countrymen. Good luck to him is what I say.” He gulped some more Martini.
Their conversation turned to sports teams back in the States, the London theatre and, finally, the Royal Family. Murrow had met the King and Queen and was highly complimentary. He was clearly intent on several more drinks but, after an hour, Goldberg knew he had to call it a day. He got to his feet. “Great sandwiches, drinks and company, Ed. Sorry, but I’ll have to get back to Scotland Yard now. Please let me pay.”
“Don’t be silly, Detective. I have a huge expense account. I’m sorry you have to leave so soon. Perhaps we can do this one more time before you go back.” The two men shook hands and parted. As Goldberg went out of the bar, he could hear Murrow ordering his fifth Martini.
* * *
“The constable’s brother is on the line, sir.”
“Good, Sergeant. Put him through. Did the messenger pick up the photograph?”
“He did, sir. An hour ago at two.”
“Good.” Merlin settled himself at his desk. “Hello, Mr Robinson. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
“I just thought I’d let you know where I’ve got to with this code. I have made a little progress. After looking at the principal options, my best guess is that the message is formulated from a book cipher.”
“I remember that from the little research I managed to do. Can you remind me exactly how a book cipher works?”
“The person sending the message uses a specific book known to the recipient as the key for his code. In this instance we find the first three numbers are 2, 4 and 1. The second two numbers are 2 and 0. The commonest sort of book code would mean that these numbers are pointing the recipient to a page number and a line number. In this case, the options would be to go to page 2, line 4, or page 2, line 41, or page 24, line 1 and so on.”
“And what do the other numbers refer to?”
“Letters in the line or lines commencing with the line referenced. Quite simple if…”
“Simple if you know the book.”
“Well, yes. Please remind me. Do we know who was the intended recipient of the message?”
“Unfortunately it’s not clear. The main candidates are the sender’s solicitor, son or sister. The most recent thinking favoured the solicitor but he has just disclaimed knowledge of any use of codes by his client. He might have been lying, of course.”
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line before Robinson spoke again. “I suggest, Chief Inspector, that you speak to the sister and the son to see if one of them can remember if Simon Arbuthnot had a favourite book.”
* * *
Rupert Vorster was sitting in pensive mood on a bench overlooking the Great Pond in Kensington Gardens. He had a handful of gravel and was idly tossing the stones towards the water. It had been a bad day. It had begun with his waking to find he had a bad water leak in his bathroom. He couldn’t leave the place like that so he’d telephoned to cancel his meeting in Birmingham. This was not very popular with the client, who would no doubt complain to Tomlinson or his other superiors. He had had a hell of a time finding a plumber to come to Battersea. Plumbers were in great demand in Blitz-damaged London and it had been late afternoon when Vorster had finally got one to visit the flat.
He had rung Tomlinson’s secretary at five o’clock to explain what had happened and to say that he would get in early for the next few days to make up the lost time. Vorster’s day had then got even worse when the secretary told him the police had visited and wanted to speak to him. Heart in his throat, he’d slammed down the telephone and hurried out in search of fresh air and somewhere to think.
Vorster wasn’t really looking where he was throwing the stones and one accidentally hit a swan. The bird reared up menacingly, made a loud hissing noise and started moving in his direction. In the distance, 50 yards behind the swan, Vorster could see a park warden hurrying in his direction. He didn’t need any more trouble today. He dropped the stones and immediately bolted off towards Kensington Palace, running as fast as he could, and then on until he reached one of the gates on to Kensington High Street. He crossed the road then suddenly burst into a fit of nervous laughter.
After recovering his breath, the young man rallied. Vorster realised the visit to the pond had served its purpose. He had had time to think. He had pulled himself together. Optimism resurfaced. Making up the hours at the office was a trifling thing and, as to the police, so what if they wanted to talk to him? Let them ask their questions. He had not left any trace of his actions. He was sure he could handle some stupid English coppers. There was no reason to get into a panic.
Vorster walked off down Kensington High Street and went into a tea room opposite the Tube station, where he bought himself a bun and a cup of tea. He briefly considered whether he should have an early night for once but swiftly rejected the idea. Vorster would continue with his usual evening routine at the Ritz and then, hopefully with some new customers in tow, at Beecham’s. He had hoped to make headway into Beecham’s good books by giving him something he very much wanted. Things had not worked out. So be it. Perhaps he would get another chance. Perhaps when he got back to the office there might be further developments he could discover? Perhaps Philip would be back in the office with news?
Now feeling back on top of his game, Vorster stepped out on to the pavement. The sun was shining and Kensington High Street was full of pretty girls. He walked off with a cheerful smile on his face.
* * *
“Sorry, Frank. I got tied up at the Embassy doing paperwork then I had lunch with a compatriot. I was also worried whether it was safe to come in. You know, with Vorster and Dumont.”
“Perfectly safe, Bernie. We haven’t been able to get hold of either of them.” Merlin was at his desk staring yet again at Arbuthnot’s code. “On other fronts, Robinson found a witness who saw some men loitering around near Eddie Powell’s flat on Friday night. The witness is seeing the police artist tomorrow. Also, we have an idea of what sort of code Arbuthnot used in his message. We’ll need a chat with his family. And Arbuthnot’s solicitor was in here earlier as well.”
“What did he want?”
“The message, of course, but he did provide some interesting background information. Apparently, Simon Arbuthnot didn’t leave his affairs in very good order. He took away his will and a new one hasn’t been found. Also, although Tomlinson wasn’t really forthcoming about his business affairs, I sensed from his awkward and nervy manner that all may not have been well with the Arbuthnot empire.”
Goldberg wandered over to the open window. “Not much breeze today. It’s the first time since I’ve been here that the London summer weather feels like New York’s. Hot and humid.”
Bridges entered with a jug of water.
Goldberg laughed. “Perfect timing, Sergeant.” Bridges poured out three glasses. “So what happened with Vorster and Dumont?”
“Vorster is out of town, Detective, and Dumont didn’t respond to our polite request this morning and has not been at Carlton Gardens since lunchtime.”
“Bet you they’ll be in the Ritz tonight.”
Merlin leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at the American. “Would you be up for a repeat performance of Friday night? Assuming they are there. Your cover isn’t blown. Perhaps you’ll still find it possible to get more out of those two over a drink than we’ll be able to in a formal interview. What do you think, Sergeant?”
“Might be worth it. They are bound to be a little on edge now, knowing that we want to speak to them. Perhaps nerves combined with drink will loosen their tongues.”
“If we proceed, I think, to avoid unnecessary suspicion you ought to have some stake money on you. What do you think is a credible amount?”
“Some of those guys were playing for very high stakes. Some had cash, some obviously had credit. I suppose I’d look just about credible with £50. I’ve got some travellers cheques. Not sure how much, but I could…”
Merlin shook his head. “There’s no question of you using your own money, Bernie. I’ll speak to the AC. It’s a lot of money but I’m sure he’ll go along.” He rapped the desk with his knuckles. “All right, let’s do it. I suggest, Detective, that you go and have a nap as you’re likely to have another late night.” Merlin stood up. “You and I, Sergeant, are going to see Philip Arbuthnot. I have his address in Mayfair. We’ll give him the once-over and see what he knows of his father’s reading habits.”
* * *
New York
“I can’t hear what you are saying, Felix. The line is terrible. Please speak up.” Anton Meyer’s difficulty in hearing his brother on a poor transatlantic line was exacerbated by the noise of blaring car horns outside. He looked out of his apartment window and saw that a reversing truck was blocking the traffic on Broadway. He closed the window and tugged the telephone as far away as he could from the din. “Sorry, can you say that again?”
The line suddenly improved and Anton could hear his brother’s sigh of irritation at the other end. “I said I went to the bank and confronted them all. I went over the whole sorry story – how Arbuthnot volunteered to take the bearer certificates for father’s South American holding company into temporary safekeeping, when the Nazi authorities began to take an interest in the Meyer businesses; how, after father’s escape to France, he asked for the return of the certificates and Arbuthnot wouldn’t give them back; how Arbuthnot sent Pulos to Argentina with the bearer certificates to establish his ownership of our businesses there and how Pulos procured, with the help of a few bribes here and there, court approval of that ownership.”
“So you reminded them of everything?”
“Yes, everything. How our father became bitter and died in poverty in Paris. Mother too. I told them how Arbuthnot stole the Meyer South American empire from the man who was supposed to be his best friend. That the fancy bank they were running was inextricably linked to a major fraud and that Arbuthnot had as good as murdered our parents.”
“And what did they say?”
“Pulos smirked at me and said I was speaking rubbish. Said that Father had pledged the shares as security for loans Arbuthnot made to him…”
Anton waved his free hand in anger and sent a lamp flying.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Carry on.”
“Well, you know his line. Arbuthnot lent Father some money…”
“A few thousand dollars, nothing much.”
“Yes, well, money was lent, the shares were security, the money was never repaid, the shares were foreclosed on.”
“That’s a complete lie. The loan and the shares were never linked and, in any event, Arbuthnot waived settlement of the debt.”
“This is me, Anton. I know the story.”
“What did the others have to say?”
“The pompous lawyer rolled out some legalistic jargon. ‘The bank’s ownership rights must be recognised in priority, etcetera, etcetera.’”
“Fleming?”
“Kept a poker face. Said nothing.”
“Did you ask them where the certificates were?”
“They said they were in the bank’s safekeeping.”
Anton sat down wearily on one of the two threadbare sofas that furnished
his drab living room. “So you made our case and they did not respond?”
“Yes, Anton.”
“Well, I wasn’t so keen on your seeing them, Felix, but now you have I’m glad, even if it didn’t achieve much. Anything else?”
“Before I left I said that our case in Argentina would continue and that we would publicise the facts of the case in England. They didn’t like that, of course.”
“Can we publicise it? Do you know people in London who can help us do that?”
“Frankly, no, Anton. I don’t know any City people and I don’t know any journalists. Sackville is a respected City institution. I am a serving Free French officer but we are not much liked and have little influence. I was making an empty threat.”
“So I just carry on with the legal action in Argentina?”
“Perhaps there will be more new developments here now that Arbuthnot is dead. As you know, I was against your persisting with the case but now I’ve seen these people I think you should. I just hope your wife doesn’t leave you because of it.”
“Is there any prospect of getting any further with Arbuthnot’s family? There is a sister and a son.”
“Perhaps. Look, Anton, I have to get going. I am on duty now and there is a lot of work to get done. There is information from Syria that I need to assess.”
Anton looked at his watch. “I have to get going, too, or I’ll be in trouble.” He had used the lunch break to hurry home for his brother’s call. “Thank you, Felix. I am happy that you now approve of what I am doing. It is easier to bear the burden together.”
* * *
London
Philip Arbuthnot’s internal telephone line rang. He heard the porter tell him, in that deep bass voice that always reminded him of the American actor Paul Robeson: “A couple of policemen here to see you, sir.”
Arbuthnot looked over at his aunt, who was sitting by the window, engrossed in the Times crossword. “Better send them up, Morris.”
