by Mark Ellis
“Think there’s a security angle here?”
“The girl must have had access to some very interesting information. Information that people might pay a lot of money for, or information that people might be very unhappy to see revealed.”
The bear-like owner of the café moseyed up to the table. “I might have to charge you two gentlemen rent, the amount of time you’re spending in my place. You need anything else, no?”
Tony bent to mop the table, brushing remnants of the day’s food into Bridges’ lap.
“Hey!”
“Sorry, Mr Sam. I give you two teas on the house. Is alright?”
“Another time, thanks.”
Merlin started to make notes. “Johnny Morgan. He should be useful. Bit of a ladies’ man, I should think. He could help us as regards Joan Harris’ love life, as could her friend Kathleen Donovan. We’ll need to interview all Miss Harris’ colleagues in the typing pool and any other work friends we identify. Also the people she worked for.”
“All of them?”
“Let’s make it simpler for ourselves to begin with and just identify the ones who particularly requested her services. That Norton chap for a start. He seemed a little fishy to me. Get the other names from Miss Edgar.”
“Right, sir.”
“If you make a start with the interviews, I’d like to go and take a look at where Miss Harris lived and speak to her landlady. Did you get her name?”
“Mrs Bowen.” Bridges handed over a piece of paper on which he had written Joan’s address.
Merlin rose, picked up his hat and set it at a rakish angle.
“Off you go then. I’m going to pop back to the Yard first to check on a few other things. Then I’ll head to Hammersmith and after that join you at Princes Gate.”
“Chief Inspector?”
Merlin recognised the A.C.’s bark on the telephone.
“Yes, sir.”
“Could you come up to my office straight away?”
After a moment’s consideration, he supposed that he could.
He trudged up the stairs. At her station by the A.C.’s door, his ancient secretary raised her pencil-black eyebrows as she bashed away on her typewriter.
“You’re looking as beautiful as ever today, Miss S. The A.C. asked to see me.”
“Better not keep him waiting then.” Miss Stimpson’s beady eyes glinted. “He hasn’t had any lunch today and I suspect you’ll do nicely.”
Assistant Commissioner Gatehouse stood, arms behind his back, gazing out at the river. He was wearing his normal uniform of dark jacket, striped trousers, wing-collar and one of his abundant collection of sombre ties. Merlin was relieved to see that no unpleasant red blotches decorated the A.C.’s cheeks as they had on the occasion of their last interview. Initial signs indicated that he might be in a moderately good mood.
“I gather you’ve made some progress on the Barnes case.” Merlin wondered at the speed of the Yard grapevine.
“We’ve identified the girl. An employee of the American Ambassador.”
“Any suspects yet?”
Merlin thought of answering “Of course not, you idiot, we only identified the girl an hour or so ago,” but good sense prevailed. “No, sir. We are just about to undertake interviews of friends and staff.”
“Better go careful on the staff side, Chief Inspector. Don’t want to upset our American friends at this delicate period.”
“How do you mean? I’ve got to investigate the girl’s work and social relationships at the Embassy.”
The Assistant Commissioner stretched his arms before sitting in an uncomfortable-looking armchair by the window. He waved his hand at another chair which Merlin took. His eye was caught by a new photograph on the A.C.’s desk. A nice-looking girl with long blonde hair. “Of course you have, Frank. All I mean is go carefully. We don’t want any diplomatic incidents, so to speak.”
“That’s hardly likely. The Ambassador is currently back in the United States, and I don’t believe he is expected to return for some time. I am investigating an employee of pretty low standing in the Ambassador’s entourage, and I can’t really see any chance of a diplomatic incident. Of course, however unlikely it appears at the outset, there may be some security aspect in the case and I shall naturally be cautious in my approach to such areas.”
“That’s all I meant, Frank.” The A.C.’s mouth opened in an approximation of a smile, revealing a set of mottled brown teeth. “We have to remember that the attitude of the American government to Great Britain, and its potential to provide assistance to us in this damned war, is of crucial importance. However unlikely it may be, we don’t want the murder of an insignificant girl to queer the pitch in any way, do we?”
Merlin couldn’t help visibly bridling at this.
“Insignificant, sir? Are you saying you don’t want me to properly investigate the murders of ‘insignificant’ people while the war’s on?”
The A.C.’s cheeks flushed. “You know that’s not what I meant. Just go carefully, that’s all.”
Merlin counted silently to ten.
“Very well. If you don’t mind my asking, what is the current view in government circles of the American Ambassador?”
“Just what you’d expect. The honoured representative of our greatest ally. A man to be respected.”
“Really? Is that still appropriate when we know he’s been an arch-appeaser and tells all and sundry that Britain hasn’t got a hope in hell in this war?”
“I can’t really get into that, Chief Inspector. If you’re asking me what the government thinks of Mr Kennedy, may I remind you that Mr Neville Chamberlain is still the head of the government, and that Mr Chamberlain was the architect of what some people call the appeasement policy and what others call the pragmatic policy in dealings with Germany. This same Mr Chamberlain has been on pretty chummy terms with Mr Kennedy since his arrival in ’thirty-eight. Anyway, what the devil has this got to do with your case?”
“Probably nothing sir. I just wanted to know a little more about the lie of the land at the Embassy. Best to know the lie of the land, I think, when you’re trying to avoid diplomatic incidents.”
The A.C. produced another sickly smile and got to his feet. “Very well. Any word on how Johnson’s getting on, by the way? This chap who was run over was some sort of scientific adviser. The Ministry of Defence have been on, worrying about there being some sort of foul play.”
“I haven’t seen Johnson for a couple of days. When I get a chance I’ll try and get a full progress report. Now I have to get on with my investigation. Will that be all?”
The A.C. grunted. As Merlin passed Miss Stimpson he gave her what he intended to be an enigmatic smile.
Having heard that there was some traffic hold-up on the Cromwell Road, Merlin crossed to the south bank of the river. Traffic was sparse and he reached Hammersmith Bridge in less than half-an-hour. He stopped for a moment on the bridge and got out of the car. The river was still iced over in many parts. Some river traffic was edging its way with difficulty through the baby icebergs. A gaily-painted river barge glided down the centre of the river and he wondered whether the unidentified boatmen who had been on the river when Joan Harris’ body was found were at work today. He stared up at the gloomy overcast sky and the barrage balloons hovering above the bridge. The A.C.’s approach to the case worried him. What did it matter that Joan was ‘insignificant’? So the case might cause the A.C. political problems if it proved embarrassing in some way for the US embassy. So what? He didn’t give a damn for the defeatist Kennedy, or indeed for that stuffed-shirt Chamberlain, whom Hitler had comprehensively hoodwinked. Nothing should stand in the way of a murder investigation, however lowly the victim. No doubt Joan’s fate would seem unimportant in the greater scheme of things whenever the Luftwaffe got round to bombing London, but that was nothing to him. It was his job to seek out the truth behind her death, regardless.
He tossed a stone into the river and rubbed his hands. Come on,
he said to himself. Let’s get on with it.
Joan Harris’ lodgings were in a terraced house in a dingy road just off King Street. Merlin parked his car on the kerb and banged the knocker which, much smoothed from use, appeared to have originally taken the form of a cat’s head. Eventually the door slowly opened to the accompaniment of a ferocious bout of coughing.
The woman was large. She wore a shabby dress on which he could see several stains, some of which were yellow and seemed of recent origin. Her large breasts, seemingly unsupported in any way, sagged towards her knees. A frizzy grey down covered most of the lower half of her face, while her obviously dyed hair was tagged up in curlers. Piercing the beard on the lower half of her face was a red gash of a mouth, from which an almost spent cigarette sagged and which eventually exchanged coughs for words. “Cat got your tongue?” the apparition growled. “Come on, state your business, I haven’t got all day and I’m in the middle of my tea.”
“Detective Chief Inspector Merlin, madam. I’m here to investigate the death of your lodger, Joan Harris.”
“Oh, dead is she? When her brother and the copper came she was only missing. You found her quickly then. Will her brother be paying me the arrears of rent?” The landlady took one final puff of her cigarette, looking at it with more emotion than she apparently felt for Joan Harris, and threw the stub onto the pavement.
“I am sure something will be worked out Mrs – er – Bowen, isn’t it?”
“Yeh. So what now? I’d better get on and clear her stuff out.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t do that for the moment.”
“Why not? Got to get someone else into the room. Can’t hang around. Perhaps you think I’m made of money?” Mrs Bowen attempted to fold her arms under her imposing bosom but, failing in that endeavour, she raised her right arm and leant against the doorpost. Merlin stepped back as her breasts rose and swung in his direction.
“May I come in?”
Mrs Bowen’s expression softened slightly as she appraised her visitor. “Oh, alright then. I’m always a sucker for a handsome face. Suppose you want to poke around her room?”
“Thank you.”
Stepping into the hallway he had a view of the main living room to his left and was surprised to see a very tidy interior. Mrs Bowen appeared to compensate for her personal slovenliness with a keen attention to her housekeeping.
“Mind if I finish my egg and chips? You can have a cuppa if you want.” Mrs Bowen shuffled towards the kitchen at the end of the hall corridor.
“No thanks. Where is Miss Harris’ room?”
“It’s the door facing the stairs on the first floor. Don’t make a mess, please.”
The room was large, larger in fact than his own in Chelsea. He idly thought he could do with a bit of extra space. Then again, Hammersmith was a bit further out than he liked, he didn’t quite fancy the change in landladies, and he wasn’t so keen on a room recently inhabited by a dead girl.
A single bed lay against the wall to his right. On the far side of the bed, next to the room’s one window, stood a large wardrobe. On the near side, next to a washbasin, was a chest of drawers. The walls of the room were covered with a yellow lacquered wallpaper on which a small cast of Victorian figures posed in various hunting tableaux. Clashing somewhat with this decor, a faded pink armchair sat in front of the bed and to the side of an ornate Victorian fireplace.
He put on his gloves. A range of ladies toiletries covered the washbasin and two shelves above it. It seemed to him that there was quite an amount for a young girl of limited means. Alice had never been a great one for make-up, perfumes or nail varnish. A dab of lipstick and a splash of eau-de-cologne had been all she wanted. He carefully went through the clothing in the chest, trying not to feel like a pervert when he rummaged through the underwear. He found nothing of interest. Moving to the other side of the bed, he opened the wardrobe and found a colourful selection of dresses and skirts. His eye was caught in particular by a long silvery evening dress.
A wave of sorrow passed over him, superseded swiftly by a surge of anger. A young life full of possibilities snuffed out meaninglessly. He sat down and took out his notebook. “Clothing, etc. seems to me of high quality – too high quality for secretary up from country – ditto perfumes, etc.” He went over to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a black and white photograph of a working-class family. Merlin recognised Joan’s brother in the picture, which also featured a sour-faced woman, a similarly miserable man, three young children of indeterminate sex, and a pretty teenage girl. He picked up the photograph and scanned Joan’s blurred features. She had indeed been a looker. The eyes were large and doe-like. Her flowing fair hair fell prettily on her shoulders and her full lips were parted in a winsome smile. Despite being dressed as shabbily as the rest of her family, she seemed a cut above.
Merlin slipped the photograph into his inside pocket. Further along the mantelpiece were a group of china puppies and kittens, a small clock and a neat pile of books. At the top was an Everyman edition of Pride and Prejudice. Beneath was a battered copy of A Tale of Two Cities and beneath that a bright new edition of Huckleberry Finn.
He riffled through the pages of the Austen and then the Dickens. Nothing unusual revealed itself. Huckleberry Finn ’s glossy wrapper portrayed a very blue Mississippi on a sunny day, with a river steamer making its happy way between the river banks. When he opened this book he noticed a spidery inscription on the flyleaf.
“To J. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Good luck with everything. Your friend J.”
He looked at the back of the book to see if there were any other written inscriptions but found none. He flipped through the pages as before. A small object fell to the floor, and he knelt to pick it up.
It was a blue matchbox. On the cover was a silhouette in white of a curvy female figure holding out a cigarette in a cigarette holder and a name – ‘The Blue Angel’.
Merlin knew most of the nightclubs in London from the time, a couple of years before, when he’d had several major gangland cases. Investigating these had involved much trawling around clubland – smart dining clubs, cabarets, spielers, clip-joints, seedy drinking clubs and clubs which were brothels in all but name. Despite ‘The Blue Angel’ sounding familiar, he could not recall it.
When he went back down the stairs, Mrs Bowen was hovering in the hallway. She had taken her curlers out and appeared to have made some effort to improve her appearance, although the yellow stains remained. “Finished?”
“Yes, thanks. Could I have a few words with you about Miss Harris?”
“Alright, but I’m sure I’ve got little to tell you. Come in here.” Mrs Bowen opened the door of her living room. He followed her and sat down on a comfortable settee in the middle of the room.
The landlady relit the new cigarette dangling in her mouth and sat down opposite him.
“What sort of a girl was Joan?”
“I don’t really know. Kept herself to herself. She was polite – I’ll give her that.”
“Did she have any friends to visit?”
“One of her girlfriends from work came around a few times. Don’t know her name. Pretty thing with red hair.”
“Any men?”
“None. Rule of the house. No male callers. I won’t have any funny business.” Mrs Bowen primly pursed her lips.
So your other lodgers are female?”
“Yes they are. I’ve got two other lady lodgers.”
“Who are they?”
“Don’t think they’d welcome me talking about them. Very private people.”
“I would be grateful for their names.”
Mrs Bowen took a long draw on her cigarette. “Miss Simpson and Miss Foster. They’re friends. Old ladies. Been here about four months – since just after the war started.”
“Are they here now?”
“They went away. Visiting friends in the country. Wiltshire or Gloucestershire I think. Back today or tomorrow I believe.”
&n
bsp; “Could you let them know that I or one of my officers will need to speak to them when they return?” He wrote down the names in his notebook. “Did Miss Harris ever stay out at night?”
The landlady pursed her lips again. “I have rules in my own house, but I can’t have rules outside, can I? I lock and bolt the door at 10.30 at night. If any of my lodgers are later than that they have to make other arrangements.”
“Did she miss ‘lock-up’ many times?”
“Didn’t keep count. A few times certainly. She was away for a few weekends as well. Visiting her family, I think.”
“She had some nice clothes in her room.”
Mrs Bowen’s heavily lipsticked mouth opened into something between a leer and a smile. “Pretty stuff she had. Saw her in her shiny evening dress more than once.”
“Did you ever see anyone pick her up?”
“Told you, Inspector. No male callers.”
“I just wondered whether she ever had someone waiting outside. A car perhaps?”
“Not that I noticed. And I don’t make it my business to spy on my lodgers. Did see her get into a taxi once though. Thought that was a bit flash for a girl like her.” Mrs Bowen vigorously stubbed her cigarette out in a silver ashtray on the table in front of her. She leaned back in her chair and attempted unsuccessfully to cross her legs, displaying a considerable expanse of white flesh in the process. Merlin decided he’d got enough information for the moment.
“Time to get back to the Yard, I think. Thanks for your help.”
Mrs Bowen rose to her feet. She smiled and fluttered her eyelids. “Are you sure I can’t offer you something? Something a little stronger than tea. Sherry perhaps?”
Merlin smiled regretfully and hurried out into the street.
She sat hunched up over a corner table weeping. From the beginning of the war pubs had seemed to be standing room only every night but this evening was an exception. A couple of AFS officers propped up the bar. In the opposite corner of the lounge, three old ladies sat silently together, slowly sipping their port-and-lemons. A couple of tables away two well-dressed older men, breaking their journeys home from the office, exchanged quiet words under their bowler hats. Johnny Morgan returned with the drinks. “Come on, Kathleen. Get this down your neck. It’ll make you feel better.”
