by Mark Ellis
“I shouted, blew my whistle and ran into the alley. By the time I got to the bin, the third man was already in it, one leg hanging awkwardly over the side. The two others had scarpered. I blew my whistle again and gave chase but they were too far ahead. They were out of sight when I reached the end of the alley and I knew the victim was my priority.
“When I got back to him there was another man there. An off-duty fireman who’d heard my whistle. We got the man out of the bin as carefully as we could, flagged down a van in Holloway Road and got here as quickly as possible. Tom, the fireman, used his shirt to try and staunch the bleeding.”
The doctor, a plump Yorkshireman with a bushy grey beard, acknowledged the fireman waiting, shirtless, on a chair behind Constable Price.
“Well done both of you! By some miracle, the knife missed his vital organs. He took some powerful blows to the head as well, but his skull must be pretty solid as I can’t see a fracture. You two and the van driver deserve a medal, but there’s nowt more you can do here for now. Why don’t you go back to the police station, Constable, and see if you can find out who this fellow is?”
“Did you find anything on him that might be of help in identifying him?”
“His possessions are all in this little bag. Keys and a wallet containing some money and a note of a telephone number. Also a small bottle of hair tonic with the address of a hairdresser on Holloway Road.”
“Thank you.” Price read out the telephone number with a look of surprise. “WHI1212 – that’s Whitehall 1212.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Scotland Yard, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I wonder why?”
* * *
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. Thank you for bringing Mr Vorster to see us, Mr Tomlinson.”
Tomlinson glared. “Look here, Merlin. I’m trying to be helpful but it really takes the biscuit, keeping me here, twiddling my thumbs. I’m a busy man. You’ve kept me waiting for…”
“There was no need for you to wait, Mr Tomlinson. It is Mr Vorster we wish to see.”
“I waited because I wanted to know about your trip to Northamptonshire. I understand from Mrs Cavendish that there were developments.”
There was a sound of scraping chairs as Bridges settled Vorster at the table. “We did indeed make progress – and I would be happy to discuss our visit with you at some point – but we really can’t mix apples and pears. The purpose of this appointment is to interview Mr Vorster on a matter that has nothing to do with you, Mr Tomlinson, or your clients. Unless you are here with Mr Vorster as his legal representative, I must ask you to take your leave. You can wait if you wish or the duty officer can arrange another appointment for us.”
Tomlinson’s face flushed but he managed to suppress his anger. “As far as I’m aware there will be no need for Mr Vorster to have legal representation and, if there were, I doubt it would be appropriate for me to provide it.” He looked at his junior.
“Do you require representation?” Vorster shook his head. “No. Very well, I’ll do as you say and arrange another appointment at the desk. Good morning to you, Chief Inspector.” Tomlinson turned and reached for the doorknob but had to jump back as an out-of-breath Robinson suddenly burst through.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Hello. This is a pleasant surprise. We thought you were in Bristol.”
“I eventually managed to persuade my uncle – sorry, the assistant commissioner – that I would be of more use here. I got off his train at Swindon and caught the first service back. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something important but I really need a quick word, sir.”
Merlin turned to Tomlinson, who was following the exchange with interest. “You can go, sir.” The solicitor departed with a loud harrumph.
“We were just about to interview Mr Vorster, here. Can’t it wait until after that?” The fraught look on Robinson’s face suggested it couldn’t. “Very well. I won’t be long, gentlemen.” Merlin found an empty room next door. “All right, Constable. Fire away.”
Robinson handed Merlin Peter Wilson’s letter. Merlin read it carefully. “Hmm.” He paused to think. “We’ll discuss this all together when we’ve finished with Vorster. Important as it is, Constable, I still think it could have waited until after we’d finished the interview.”
“It’s not just the letter, sir. I needed to speak to you straightaway because I think I just saw him.”
“Saw who?”
“Wilson says the Frenchman he saw in Bridget Healy’s room at the hotel was a tall, dark man with a limp. I just saw a tall, dark, French officer with a slight limp leaving the Yard as I came in.”
Merlin suddenly realised what she was saying. “Dumont?”
“If that’s who it was.”
“Where is he now?”
“I ran after him but a taxi drove up and he managed to escape me.”
* * *
“We are investigating the death of a young lady in a botched illegal abortion. The lady was an Irish girl named Bridget Healy. I apologise for the subterfuge but Mr Goldberg here, whom you met the other night, is in fact an American detective seconded to the Yard. In his conversation with you, he asked you about an Irish girl you had been seen with – the girl in this photograph, Bridget Healy. You and your friend, Dumont, denied knowing her but the detective here heard one of you mention her name and the word ‘pregnant’. We have now spoken to Dumont. What do you have to say now?”
Vorster’s eyes flitted nervously back and forth between Merlin and Goldberg as he weighed his options. Eventually, he decided on one. He tapped the photograph. “Well, now you show me the photograph, yes, I recognise her. But I only knew this girl as a pretty face in a crowd, nothing more. The name Bridget Healy meant nothing to me.”
“And what about her being pregnant and having to have an abortion?”
“I know nothing about an abortion. I vaguely remember someone asking where the pretty Irish girl was one night, and someone else saying that we wouldn’t see her again for a while as she was ‘up the duff’. I believe those were the words used. I may have repeated that to someone.”
“Can you remember who it was you heard say that?”
“No, sorry. You know what the Ritz is like at night. Loud voices, buckets of drink.”
“You strike me as someone who can handle his drink, Mr Vorster.”
“Perhaps the night I met you, Mr Goldberg. Not every night, though.”
“It wasn’t your friend, Dumont, who made the comment?”
“I said I can’t remember, Mr Merlin.”
“Lieutenant Dumont has a limp, doesn’t he?”
“He does. I think he had a riding accident or something before the war. He disguises it quite well when he has his cane with him. You can’t tell then.”
“You and Dumont are good friends, aren’t you?”
“We are friends. I don’t know that we are necessarily good friends.”
“Do you have any professional relationship with him?”
“No. Unless you call providing him and his French friends with occasional share tips a professional relationship.”
“What about Peregrine Beecham?”
“What about him?”
“What is your relationship with him?”
Vorster’s cheeks reddened. “I don’t see what business that is of yours.”
“Don’t you? Beecham runs an illegal gambling den. You don’t think that’s police business.”
“I am not involved in his gambling business. I have played there on occasion, when funds have allowed.”
“Come now, Vorster. You loiter around the Ritz and find customers for Beecham, don’t you? That’s what you did with Detective Goldberg here, isn’t it? You look out for likely punters with a view to taking them round the corner to be fleeced by Peregrine Beecham.”
“Mr Beecham runs a straight operation, Chief Inspector. People win, people lose. Of course, the odds – as always – favour the house but your use of the word ‘flee
ce’ is, I think…”
They were interrupted. It was Sergeant Reeves again. “Sorry to disturb you again. I just received an urgent call for you from the station at Holloway. I’ve made a note of the message here, sir.” Reeves handed over the note. “They said it was very important so…”
Merlin read the note to himself: ‘Man attacked and nearly killed on Holloway Road. Identified as Conor Devlin. Man with that name rang for Merlin earlier, saying he had important security information and wanted to come and see Merlin. Man has just regained consciousness but in a bad way in Royal Free’.
Merlin thought for a moment then patted Goldberg on the shoulder. “Detective, something’s come up.” He handed over the note. “I’d like you to grab Robinson and go up to see this chap in Hampstead. Call me when you’ve spoken to him. Bridges and I will finish off with Mr Vorster here.”
Goldberg read the note, nodded and followed Sergeant Reeves out of the door. Merlin returned to Vorster. “We know that you run errands for Beecham. Why you need to do this when you work for a respected firm of London solicitors and are, as I understand, the son of a wealthy South African industrialist, I really don’t know.”
Merlin noticed Vorster flinch at the mention of his father. “Whatever the reason, I have to advise you that your choice of friends or associates is extremely unwise. You say you know nothing of Bridget Healy’s abortion. However, we have only just now received reliable information that your friend, Dumont, was present in the hotel room where the abortion was carried out. Do you really expect me to believe that you know nothing of it?”
A nerve in Vorster’s right cheek began to twitch. “Yes, I do. Dumont told me nothing about this. I know nothing about any abortion or…”
They were interrupted yet again. Two people were at the door. One a was a short man in his 60s. Despite the heat outside, he was wearing a woollen three-piece suit beneath a heavy blue overcoat. He removed his hat to reveal dyed black hair, combed to hang like a curtain from his dome-like cranium. Bright, intelligent eyes darted around beneath the jungles of his eyebrows. He had an imposing presence notwithstanding his diminutive stature.
His companion was a heavily built man, who looked like he might have a powerful pair of fists. An angry Reeves appeared behind them. “I’m very sorry, sir. These men were at the desk when I got back there, enquiring about Mr Vorster. I started to ask them who they were but this big brute knocked me out of the way and led the little chap down here. I’m going to get some other officers and put the two of them in custody for assault and whatever else I can think of. Blasted cheek. I’ve never…”
“That’s my son you have there,” the short man interrupted, his lower lip jutting out intimidatingly.
Merlin appraised the new visitors. He shook his head at Reeves. “That’s all right, Sergeant. No need to arrest anyone. The gentlemen can join us. Perhaps you could find a couple more chairs?”
Sergeant Reeves made his astonishment and dissatisfaction at Merlin’s response clear but did as he was told.
The old man appraised Merlin in turn. “I presume you are the man in charge. I am Pieter Vorster. Please explain what you are doing with my son.” He gave his son a cursory nod of acknowledgement.
“I am Detective Chief Inspector Merlin, sir. And this is Detective Sergeant Bridges.”
Pieter Vorster ignored the proffered handshakes and examined his son’s face. “The boy’s looking distinctly peaky. You appear to be giving him the third degree. What’s he done? Stolen the Crown Jewels?”
“Not quite.”
The newcomers took their seats. “This fellow is my associate, Van de Merwe. I’ve just completed a long and tiresome journey from South Africa. I’d be grateful if you could tell me what is going on.”
“We are asking your son some questions about the death of a woman with whom he was acquainted.”
“Very slightly acquainted, Father.”
“Shut up, Rupert. Anything else?”
“He has some friends in whom we have an interest – a Free French officer and a local gangster.”
Pieter Vorster looked at his son with disgust. “And has he been able to help you?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Do you have anything on my son? Is he under arrest?”
“No. We are just asking questions.”
“If you have nothing on him then is he at liberty to go?”
“We have more questions.”
“May I politely request that you save those for another time. I would like to talk to my son and assess whether he should see you again with legal representation.”
“You are within your rights, of course.” Merlin sighed and glanced at Bridges. “May I ask how long you’ll be staying in London?”
“I shall be putting up at The Dorchester for three or four weeks.”
“I would like an assurance that your son will remain within the jurisdiction. His departure for South Africa would be unhelpful.”
“Don’t worry, Merlin, he’ll be staying here. I can assure you I have no desire to turn my son into a fugitive.”
* * *
A brown package was waiting on Merlin’s desk with a covering note from Robinson: ‘Sketch of one of the men seen Friday night in Flood Street by Mrs Wilcox. No success with the others. Just arrived on my desk as received your instruction to go to Hampstead so passing unseen to you, sir.’
Merlin unsealed the envelope and looked at the pencil-and-charcoal drawing of a young man. He realised he’d left his glasses in the interview room and held the drawing closer. At first sight, the blurred image stirred nothing in him. Then, as it became clearer, something about the nose and mouth began to seem familiar.
The drawing itself gave no clue as to the subject’s hair colour but there was a line at the bottom that read: ‘Witness not sure about hair colour but best guess fair/sandy/blond’. The forehead was receding. The mouth was small. A not unattractive face but the artist had captured something mean in the man’s expression. Merlin held the sketch away and then brought it close again. All of a sudden he realised he knew the face. By God, he knew it!
“Sergeant, come here. Sergeant!”
* * *
Devlin was not a pretty sight. The heavy bandaging around the top of his head was speckled with blood and the face beneath was deathly pale. One eye was covered by the bandage. Doctor McGregor had given Goldberg and Robinson a full rundown of the injuries. They knew there was further heavy bandaging beneath the bedclothes. Devlin was upright in bed but appeared to be sleeping.
“Are you sure he’s all right to speak?”
“He’s dosed up with morphine, Constable, so he’ll be a little woozy, but his brain is all there. Obviously, take it easy with him. He is very keen to speak to you – he’s been going on about nothing else since he regained consciousness. Mr Devlin, Mr Devlin… the officers are here to speak to you.”
Devlin’s visible eye opened and his lips parted. He spoke in a croaking whisper. “Inspector… Inspector Merlin.” The doctor nodded to Goldberg, then slipped away.
“No, sir. I’m Detective Goldberg and this is Constable Robinson. Chief Inspector Merlin sent us along to speak to you.”
Devlin found his voice. “My head has been a little bashed about but…” a half-smile broke on his lips, “my hearing seems to have been affected. It’s really strange but you sound like a Yank.”
“That’s because I am one, Mr Devlin, but I work for Mr Merlin, as does the constable here.”
“Hello, Mr Devlin.”
“Ah, that’s a proper English voice, if I ever heard one.” His eye lingered on Robinson. “A Yank and a pretty English rose. An interesting pairing but if this fellow Merlin trusts you…” Devlin closed his eyes as a shudder of pain went through him. A long minute passed before his eyes opened again.
“Sorry about that. Doesn’t do your insides much good, poking a blade of good Sheffield steel around inside them. Better get on and tell you my story before I pop my clogs.” Devlin saw Gol
dberg’s look of incomprehension. “Die, that is, Detective.”
Devlin cleared his throat. “I’ll try to make this as concise as I can. I spent much of the 30s in Paris. I learned to speak French to a pretty good standard and I made a few French friends. When I returned to London, I inevitably found there were one or two people I knew in the Free French forces. I have had several different occupations but when I returned to London just before the war, I took up employment in what is politely called the security business – but I call it snooping. Mostly snooping on cheating spouses for divorce purposes. I discovered I had a knack for it.
“In due course, my skills came to the notice of my Free French contacts and I undertook a few snooping jobs for them. Following and observing suspect French exiles, that sort of thing.” Devlin paused and nodded at a jug of water on his bedside table. Robinson poured out a glass and trickled some between his parched lips. He cleared his throat again.
“In my most recent job for the French, a job on which I was engaged for the past week or so, I was to keep an eye on some of my friends’ fellow Free French officers. There was suspicion on high that someone was leaking information to Pétain’s crew in Vichy.
“I followed various of the officers. By the end of this week, there was one I had come to suspect. I aired my suspicions to my contacts but they weren’t interested. It became clear to me that the senior officers had already decided on the culprit without any clear evidence or, at least, any evidence they were prepared to share with me. They wanted my help now to fit up the fellow they had fixed on. I declined and withdrew from the operation. This was yesterday.
“I was worried about what would happen now and didn’t sleep well. This morning, I decided to give your boss a call. I had seen police officers visiting the Free French headquarters and heard his name mentioned. I knew some investigation was under way.” A globule of blood escaped from under the bandage and trickled slowly past Devlin’s mouth. Robinson reached out with her handkerchief to mop it away.
