Princes Gate

by Mark Ellis

  Merlin pulled the book out and opened it to a random page. An austere Victorian paterfamilias with his family stared back at him. “This is interesting stuff, Bernie.”

  Myerson dropped the corner of the box he had just lifted from the floor and hurried over. “Yes, well, Mr Merlin, I have learned a lot about photographs in my time, but I don’t think there’s anything of interest to you there.” Myerson took hold of the book and attempted to close it but Merlin kept his hand on the page. “Hold your horses. I just want to look at some of the photographs. A little beauty will hopefully remove from my mind the ugliness of your own collection.” He turned the page and found a sepia tinted landscape of hills and trees, in the middle of which sat a turreted house. “Scotland, Bernie, or perhaps Austria, your homeland.”

  “It’s Hungary, Mr Merlin, as you know. Now let me put the book back and you can get on with your business.” Myerson tugged again at the book, Merlin resisted and it fell to the floor. On impact something fell from its pages and fluttered under the table. Myerson bent down and put the book on the table. “Alright, alright. Look at the book if you want.”

  “Look’s like you’ve lost a page there, Bernie. Don’t you want to pick it up?”

  “Oh, it’s only a page marker. It ain’t important. Can I turn the light out now?” Myerson reached over to the light switch, turned if off and went up the stairs. Merlin bent down and felt around in the dark for the page marker. He found it but, as he straightened, banged his head on the bottom of the table. Rubbing the growing bump on his head with irritation, he made his way up the stairs. Back in the shop Bernie had got hold of another bottle of liquor, this time whisky, and was thirstily drinking.

  Merlin set the ‘page marker’ on the counter. It was another photograph. He picked it up, moved to the door and stepped outside into the light. After a while he came back into the shop. “Very interesting, Bernie. Unusual sort of stuff for you I’d have thought. Diversifying a little I suppose. A good thing to cater to a broad range of markets.”

  Myerson’s bloodshot eyes stared balefully back at Merlin. He said nothing.

  “Can I have a look, sir?”

  “I don’t know, Sergeant, I really do think you might be a bit too young for this one.”

  Bridges took the picture and inhaled sharply.

  “There must be a good story behind this picture, Bernie, and you’re going to tell the Sergeant and me all about it. Apart from the interest of the content alone, and the circumstance that it was this picture that you were clearly most anxious to hide from us, there’s the surprising fact that one of the characters featured might be known to the Sergeant and me. Now, put that bottle away, sit down here and tell us everything.”

  Herman Zarb was relaxing at his desk with a cup of tea when the call came through. His junior secretary spoke to him in the reverential tone she always adopted when she picked up a connection from the States. She still found it hard to comprehend the miracle of science which enabled the human voice to be transferred three thousand miles along a piece of wire at the bottom of the ocean. “It’s Mr Hull, sir, er, I mean Mr Secretary Hull.” She had been admonished by the senior secretary for omitting Mr Hull’s title last time he’d come on the line.

  “Put him through.”

  A distant female voice spoke. “He will be with you momentarily, Mr Zarb.” The phone made a variety of clicking and buzzing noises until Cordell Hull’s Tennessee drawl came through reasonably clearly. “How are you, Zarb?”

  “Well, sir. And you?”

  “Not so good, to tell the truth.”

  Zarb nervously stirred his drink. “Anything I can do?”

  “That’s why I am calling. The President and I have had several telephone conversations with the Ambassador in the last couple of days.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He is, of course, his usual bullish self about the British war effort.”

  “Er, yes, sir.”

  “I’m being ironic, Zarb. You know ‘irony’, that thing the British say is alien to the American mind. Well anyway, we listened to the usual amount of defeatist bilge that the Ambassador had to spout about Great Britain’s prospects and the apparent invincibility of the Nazi military. Very depressing it was too. I hope to God he’s not right.”

  “As you know, Mr Secretary, I have made every effort to encourage him in a more balanced view of Britain’s position.”

  “Yes, yes, Zarb. I know you have done your best but you have not been successful. Mr Kennedy’s views on the British war outlook are as unbalanced as ever. Of course, I understand from my friends on Wall Street that Mr Kennedy has sold short so many British and French stocks and bonds that it would be counter to his economic interest to moderate his views.”

  “I am aware of the Ambassador’s dealings, as are the British authorities, who take a rather dim view of his market activity while in his diplomatic post.”

  “Naturally, but I am afraid it is only the arrival of the Final Judgement which is going to stop Joe Kennedy from dealing. Being in charge of the Securities and Exchange Commission didn’t stop him, so I hardly think being Ambassador to Great Britain is likely to.”

  “Sir.”

  “Anyway, coming to the point of this call – Norton, Arthur Norton, what’s he up to at present?”

  “Operating in his usual maverick way. As you know, the Ambassador doesn’t like me to interfere with him, so I can’t give you a definitive report on his activities.”

  “I know that, but you must have some idea of what he’s been up to. Who he’s been seeing and so on.”

  Zarb leaned forward and pulled a piece of paper across his desk. “He does have a rather broad range of contacts in diplomatic circles. I haven’t got anything like a complete list but I have asked a few of my colleagues to keep an eye on him. Recently he seems to have developed a particular friendship with a fellow in the Foreign Office, an up-and-coming young diplomat close to Halifax, name of Freddie Douglas.”

  A loud crackle came over the line and the voice in Washington faded. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, sir.”

  Hull’s voice came back strongly. “I said, do you know who his contacts at the Italian Embassy are?”

  “No. Do you want me to find out?”

  “Please, Zarb. Apparently the Ambassador has received some communication which, according to him, is of the utmost importance to the future of Europe. He said he was going to fly up to Washington from Palm Beach to tell us about it. When I asked him the source of this communication, he mumbled something about the Italians. Couldn’t get any more out of him so he’s bearing down on the President and me tonight. I knew that you couldn’t have been in the loop on this as you would have been on to me straight away, would you not?”

  “Of course. I know nothing about any Italian communications.”

  “Quite. So it occurred to me that the likely conduit of such information to the Ambassador might be Arthur Norton.”

  Zarb’s cheek began to twitch, the only discernible sign of anger in a man who prided himself on his self-control. He spoke calmly into the black Bakelite telephone receiver. “Norton was in here the other day in something of a flap about not being able to get hold of the Ambassador. In the end I put him in touch with our cipher department and he sent some coded message over to the States. When I asked the cipher clerk who dealt with it to give me a decoded copy, he told me that he had been expressly forbidden to reveal the details to anyone by Norton. As the clerk was in a difficult position, I let it pass, on the basis that I would take it up in due course with Norton and the Ambassador himself.”

  Through the crackle and hissing again coming down the line, Zarb could just hear Secretary Hull sighing deeply. “This, Zarb, is the trouble you get when amateurs are given high-ranking diplomatic posts. Just because Joe Kennedy spent some of his ill-gotten bootlegging money backing the President years ago, we have an idiot like Arthur Norton running round London fancying himself as a latter-day Talleyrand.”

 
“Is there anything you want me to do?”

  “No, no. I’ll see if I can track down the encoded message Norton sent to the Ambassador but, in any event, I’ll know whatever it’s about in a few hours when Kennedy arrives here from his extended vacation – sorry, I mean his sick leave – in the sun. Anything else of note I should know before I ring off?”

  Zarb stroked his chin and looked at his reflection in the elegant eighteenth century mirror to the left of his desk. His cheek had stopped twitching. “Well, Mr Secretary, we’ve had a couple of local junior employees of the Embassy die. It’s been rather distressing and…”

  Hull cut in abruptly. “That’s very sad, Zarb, but these things happen. Now I think…”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Secretary, but these employees didn’t die of natural causes. They were violently murdered. I know it may be of no importance in the greater scheme of things, but I thought I’d mention it since my sources, such as Miss Edgar at the residence, inform me that the police are regarding Mr Norton with great suspicion.”

  There was silence at the end of the line. “Sir, are you still there?”

  “Yes, sorry. You shocked me. Does the Ambassador know anything of this?”

  “Yes, sir. He knows.”

  “Send me a note of the details. It’s strange that Norton has come under suspicion.”

  “Mr Norton is a rather louche character and has a very lively social life. I do not like the man but I find it hard to imagine that he’s involved in murder. He can be pompous and aggressive so my guess is that he probably just put the police officers’ noses out of joint. Generally speaking, I don’t think the police have made any real progress yet and, in these fraught times, one tends to wonder whether there is any greater meaning to the violent deaths even of a chauffeur and an office girl.”

  “Yes, indeed. Well, keep on eye on the investigation and on Norton. I’ll be in touch after we’ve heard what Mr Kennedy has to tell us.” The phone clicked and the line went dead.

  Zarb finished his tea, stood up and walked over to the window. While he had been talking, a thick mist had descended on Grosvenor Square. Disembodied heads bobbed along the pavement nearest the Embassy. He enjoyed watching this odd spectacle for a while before returning to his desk. Pulling a thick file towards him, he attempted to put the Ambassador, Arthur Norton and the dead employees out of his mind by reading the latest batch of intelligence reports from the Continent.

  One of the bobbing heads belonged to Kathleen Donovan, who was on an errand to bring some correspondence and files to Zarb’s office. As she emerged from the fog of Grosvenor Square into the brightly-lit hallway of the Embassy, Arthur Norton was coming out of the gentlemen’s toilets to the right of the reception area. He stood for a moment straightening his tie and doing up the buttons of his overcoat, then noticed her. Her back was to him as she walked towards the reception desk and he took the time to appreciate her glowing hair, her curves, her legs. He was a connoisseur of beauty and she figured high in the rankings, as had Joan. Poor Joan. He sighed. “Kathleen. How are you?”

  She started and dropped one of the letters she was carrying.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you. Let me get that.” He bent down to get the letter but she reached it first. She looked up to find Norton’s face inches from hers. He reeked of after-shave and she put her hand to her mouth. They rose slowly to their feet.

  “How do you do, Mr Norton. You’ll forgive me if I don’t stop to chat, won’t you, but I have some letters to deliver to Mr Zarb and Miss Edgar wants me back as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, dear girl, of course. Time and Miss Edgar wait for no man, or woman. Glad to see you’re back on the job. I understand you weren’t very well. And then there’s that sad business with your friends. Such a nice girl Joan and poor Johnny. Who could have wished either of them any harm? It’s so puzzling.”

  She bit her lip to forestall the tears she knew were close to the surface. “Yes, well. If you’ll please excuse me.” She turned and just managed to avoid Norton’s hand on her rear as she hurried to the stairs.

  Norton remained in the middle of the lobby enjoying the charming swing of her hips as she retreated. He smiled as he put on his gloves. He was in a good mood. He wasn’t even feeling miffed that his hand had missed its target. So Miss Kathleen Donovan, you think you’re so perfect. Too good for Arthur Norton, are you? Joan thought that too. We’ll see, won’t we? We’ll see.

  Back in his office, Merlin found out from Robinson that she’d identified the doctor who Joan Harris had visited. This Dr Jones, with a practice just off Brook Green, remembered the girl and, moreover, remembered her being accompanied by a man. A patient with an urgent condition had interrupted before the doctor could give her a description of the man, but in any event Robinson had arranged for a sketch artist to visit the surgery the following morning. From Cole he learned that the Land Registry showed ownership of the Kensington Mews residing with two companies whose background Cole would be investigating at Companies House the next day.

  Merlin was sitting back in his chair with a feeling that the fog was slowly beginning to lift just a little, when Inspector Johnson appeared at the door.

  “Sit down, Peter. Got anywhere with Fraser?”

  Johnson shook his head. “I went out to the country yesterday to see Lady Pelham. She was the hostess of the weekend party to which he was driving when he supposedly ran into the deer. She remembered him mentioning such an accident.”

  “That doesn’t prove much.”

  “No. Except that he’s been consistent with this story from day one.”

  “And forensics?”

  “No progress, sir. The only fresh information I’ve got is the names of the others at the party, who will no doubt confirm hearing Fraser’s story. I’m wondering whether it’s worthwhile speaking to them. I don’t really like giving up but the A.C. thinks I should pack it in. Says he’d like me, with your approval, to move over to either the dock case or to our IRA investigations.” Johnson’s shoulders slumped with resignation.

  “Anything more on the victim?”

  “Not really. The Ministry have clammed up completely.”

  “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Merlin gazed up at the ceiling.

  “Sir?”

  “Whether there’s something more to this. You know. Scientific boffin providing important advice to the MOD. Enemy activity perhaps?”

  “Of course I’ve considered that but I really think Fraser’s the man. Whether he had some sort of motive, rather than it being an accident – well there’s little point worrying about that when we can’t pin the physical facts on him.”

  “I don’t like throwing in the towel either. I suggest you give it another forty-eight hours, Peter. See what turns up. I don’t want to hamper your case but since your Mr Fraser is a friend of Norton’s and was seen with him and Miss Harris, I might want a routine chat with him myself. See if he’s got anything on Norton. Will that be alright?”

  Johnson nodded and headed for the door.

  “Hang on a minute, Peter. You might be interested in this.” Merlin walked over to the box of Myerson’s photos which Bridges and Cole had lugged up the stairs earlier and, after lifting the cover Bridges had taped onto it, removed a few photographs and passed them to his colleague.

  Johnson caught his breath. “Strong stuff. Where are they from?”

  “The work of someone called Bernie Myerson, a photographer who’s in cahoots with Morrie Owen, the uncle of one of our victims.”

  “Are these pictures connected with your murders?”

  “Perhaps. We’ll just have to sift through the box and see. But these girly pictures aren’t all. Take a look at this.”

  From his jacket pocket he produced another photograph of naked flesh.

  Johnson’s cheeks reddened slightly. “Anyone you know?”

  Merlin held the picture up close and inspected the two entangled bodies.

  “This chap here, wi
th his arm up, is someone called Freddie Douglas. He’s an official at the Foreign Office. A colleague of your Mr Fraser in fact. Quite high-ranking apparently. And this other one on his front, it’s not so clear but I think I have an idea.”

  Merlin found Jack Stewart settled in a warm and cosy cubbyhole of The Surprise, his head buried in a newspaper. It was getting late and Merlin was thirsty. He had spent the remainder of the afternoon carefully going through Myerson’s photographs. He had recognised none of the girls in the developed photographs and the negatives had been sent off to the police laboratories for processing. Johnson had given him Lady Pelham’s guest list and he hadn’t really been surprised to see the names of Norton and Douglas. However, the photograph of Douglas certainly opened a new range of possibilities.

  Stewart looked up as his friend squeezed onto the bench.

  “Francisco. Buenas noches. Let me get you a pint.”

  “No, I’ll do it. The usual?”

  Merlin returned from the bar with two pints of Courage.

  “Not so crowded tonight, is it?”

  “No, amigo. It’ll fill up before closing time though. People need beer to lubricate their dreams and drown their fears.”

  “Very poetic.”

  Stewart struck a recitative pose, his head angled back and glistening eyes fixed on some distant object above the bar.

  “‘Such hilarious visions clamber

  Through the chamber of my brain.

  Quaintest thoughts, queerest fancies

  Come to life and fade away.

  What care I how time advances?

  I am drinking ale today.’”

  Merlin smiled and nodded with approval before closing his eyes in concentration. A moment later he banged his hand on the table. “Edgar Allan Poe! Am I right?” Stewart clapped his hands slowly and grimaced before looking expectantly at his friend. Merlin swilled his beer around in his glass before copying his friend’s artistic pose.

  “‘Here, with my beer I sit,

  While golden moments flit.