Princes Gate

by Mark Ellis

  “Must be off.”

  The phone clicked. Norton sat down and looked at his blotched face in the hall mirror. In the silence he could hear his heart beating loudly.

  Merlin was pacing up and down the cobbled mews impatiently when they heard a clattering noise, then saw P.C. Cole appear around the corner. “What took you so long?”

  “Couldn’t find a car, sir, or a taxi. I had to come on my bike.” Cole dismounted hurriedly and slipped as his boots hit the cobbles.

  “Careful, careful. Here, put the bike up against the wall and give me the doorkeys.”

  Merlin opened the outer door to Morgan’s mews flat and led the way up the stairs and through the second door. They stood at the foot of the bed looking at a soothing picture of a yacht sailing into a sunlit bay.

  “The photographs of the girls, please, Sergeant.” Bridges set the pictures down on the bed and Merlin studied them intensely before clapping his hands. “Look, you can just see the edge of the frame of that picture in these photographs. Ah… and here’s what looks like the shadow of that chest of drawers on the wall. It’s a different bedcover and there’s nothing to really distinguish the bed but I’d put money on these photos having been taken here.”

  “It’s a match, sir.”

  “Let’s have a look at the Douglas picture. This is a little more close in so it’s harder but, ah, yes, do you see? Behind Morgan’s head. There are two small plugholes on the wall and if we… yes look, here they are.”

  Cole politely enquired as to the nature of the pictures.

  “Sorry, Constable. I forgot that you were out of the loop on these. I’ll let Bridges explain in a minute but, first, can you tell us whether you’ve got an answer on the ownership of this place?”

  “It’s quite a complicated situation, sir. Do you want all the detail?”

  Merlin sat down on the bed and took his hat off.

  “No. Just tell me the final name.”

  “I went through a long chain of companies and I finally arrived at a person, the name of that person being Mr Harold Parsons.”

  “That’s not who I was expecting. Did you find out who he is?”

  “When I got back to the Yard late yesterday – you were both out – someone from Vice dropped by and asked me to give you a file of Morrie Owen’s previous convictions. Said you’d asked for it a few days ago and sorry for the delay. I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I had a quick leaf through the file. First thing I noticed was a case made against Morrie Owen in 1933 for living off immoral earnings. He got off, by the way, and at the bottom of the page I noticed the very same name.”

  “The same name as who?”

  “Parsons, sir. Harold Parsons was Morrie Owen’s solicitor.”

  The wind was whistling hard against the windows when Merlin returned to his office. He found a note on his desk from Robinson saying that she had gone to get the forensic report on Myerson. There was nothing from Zarb as yet. He grabbed a pen and a piece of paper, paused for a moment’s thought, then started to write:

  “Owen, through his lawyer, owns Kensington Mews flat. In flat Myerson takes nude pictures of Harris and Donovan. Assume photo of Donovan taken on night I followed her and Morgan back. Myerson must have been person I saw going in.”

  He stopped writing and stared hard at his words. Then he got up, walked to his open office door and shouted. “Sergeant, bring me the photos.”

  When Bridges had laid the pictures on his desk, Merlin took a magnifying glass out of one of his filing cabinets and stood poring over the images of the girls and Douglas. Eventually he sat down with a satisfied look.

  “This is what I think happened, Sergeant, with the same method of operation for both girls. Morgan, a good-looking chap, attracts both girls – he takes them out, plies them with drink, gets them back to Owen’s flat and gets them to bed. In the photographs we have, the eyes of both girls are closed. Once he’s had his way, the girls, already very drunk, are knocked out by some sleeping draught, at which point our friend Bernie, waiting outside by prior arrangement, nips in and points his camera.”

  Bridges nodded his agreement, then held up his hand. “But why?”

  “That’s what we have to find out. Now with Douglas, I think things are clearer. Same method of operation but with a motive: Someone – Morrie Owen – knows Douglas’ tendencies. Johnny Morgan is a flexible sort of person. He’ll do anything if there’s money in it. Somehow or other he’s set up with Douglas. Pictures are taken in the flat of the two men, when Douglas has been knocked out with something as, again, his eyes are closed. The pictures are to be used to blackmail Douglas at the appropriate time.”

  “How does Kennedy fit into all this?”

  “I don’t know but I think we’d better pay Owen another visit.”

  The telephone rang as they stood up. “Thanks. We’ll see you later.” He listened and nodded.

  He replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “Robinson. The forensic people confirmed that Bernie died of alcoholic poisoning and that his hands has been tied shortly before his death. She’s picking up the artist’s sketch later.”

  After a wasted journey to Earl’s Court where they were told by Annie Owen that Morrie had gone early to work, Merlin was feeling distinctly edgy. He led the way down the stairs to the club, and at the bottom they heard voices which didn’t seem to be coming from behind the main entrance but from somewhere down the corridor. He saw a door at the end on the right and nodded to the others.

  Owen and Reardon were sitting on opposite sides of a desk covered in bank notes.

  “Robbed the Bank of England, Morrie?”

  “Very funny, copper. Just counting our legitimate takings. What do you want?”

  “I came to offer you my sympathy, Morrie. A close friend of yours has died. Bernie Myerson.”

  Morrie Owen, his hands reaching out protectively to the pile of cash in front of him, just about achieved a look of surprise. Reardon’s gaunt features remained impassive. “That’s sad. Painful death, was it?” Morrie pulled some of the cash towards him.

  “Someone poured a few too many bottles of booze down him. Not a very nice way to go.”

  “From what I understand of Bernie’s habits, it would probably have been his preference, eh, Jimmy?” Owen snorted.

  “Strange, isn’t it, how so soon after Bernie gave us a little information about you, he ended up dead?”

  “I’ve got nothing to do with it, copper.”

  “Really? I find that a little hard to believe.”

  “Got any evidence? You need evidence if you’re going to start making allegations.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find some.”

  Owen picked up a leather bag from behind his chair and started shovelling in the cash. “You’re full of shit, copper. Why don’t you just bugger off and leave me in peace?” Owen moved his chair back from the desk to relieve the pressure on his stomach.

  Merlin reached over the desk and poked his finger hard into Owen’s gut. “And another thing, Morrie. Know anything about drugs, do you? Perhaps that’s where this cash comes from? Are those the weekly takings from your cocaine run?”

  Owen glanced nervously at his inscrutable sidekick.

  “Name of Braithwaite mean anything to you? A chemist round the corner. Jimmy here knows him, don’t you? In and out of the place like a regular little hypochondriac. Another of my officers has gone to pinch the gentleman and his lady wife. Apparently he’s come into a lot of money over the past year and we think we know the source. Good supplier, is he?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Owen rubbed his stomach with a pained look.

  “That’s alright, because I haven’t cautioned you yet. We’ll have a longer chat when we get you back to the Yard. And I’ve got some other questions to ask about the little pad you own in Kensington. Sergeant, can you…” There was a sudden blur of motion on Merlin’s right as Reardon jumped to his feet and bolted for the door. His old legs had surpris
ingly carried him almost to the top of the stairs by the time Cole hauled him down.

  When Merlin and Bridges reached the street, with Owen puffing and wheezing between them, Reardon was spread-eagled face down on the pavement, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  “A nifty turn of speed there, Jimmy. If you were a bit darker I might have thought you were related to Jesse Owens. Well done, Constable. Let’s get them back to the Yard. We’ve got a lot to talk about, Morrie. And, we’ve got some more pictures to show you.”

  Arthur Norton was very angry and very drunk. His day had started badly with a rebuff from Nancy Swinton, with whom he had belatedly decided he might start to put his love-life on a more regular footing. She wasn’t his ideal but he felt he had to put the whores behind him, and there was no doubt she had a certain style. Infuriatingly, however, she had declined his luncheon invitation because, as she put it in her fancy English way, she had it on recent good authority that ‘not only was he an appeaser of the first rank but also a frequent habitué of the sleaziest of London nightclubs.’ Then, following his upsetting conversation with Zarb, he had tried to track down the Ambassador. It took him an hour to get a connection. Eventually he had reached Hyannis Port but had been told that they thought the Ambassador was in Washington. Then, after another delay, he had got through to the Ambassador’s New York office to be told that he had gone down to Florida overnight. Finally he got through to Palm Beach to be told that the Ambassador had just gone out on the golf course and had given instructions that he wanted no interruptions during his game. By this time it was past five and he had turned his attention to Jack Daniels.

  He was due at a reception in the Italian Embassy at six-thirty. Before Zarb’s call he had been dithering as to whether to send his regrets to the Embassy in light of Douglas’ morning message. In his fury with Zarb he had then forgotten all about the reception. Now slumped in his chair and, emptying another shot of bourbon into his glass, he remembered. He blundered into his bedroom, pulled a clean shirt out of his chest of drawers and took down his tails, which were hanging on the outside of his wardrobe. “Damn them all,” he muttered. He could do what the hell he liked and didn’t care what Douglas, Zarb or anyone told him. He would go to the reception tonight and later he’d have some fun. Maybe he’d pick up someone new – or perhaps he’d search out Edie’s friend. She was game! Tomorrow he’d speak to the Ambassador and sort out this stupid business about returning to the States. He didn’t want to go and he wasn’t going to, at least not until he thought the bombs were about to fall and that was probably a few months away yet, even if the British government was idiotic enough not to pursue the terms he knew were on offer from Berlin.

  He went into the bathroom and shaved. His hand was unsteady and he cut his chin. He swore loudly before mopping the blood away with his facecloth and applying a piece of cotton wool.

  He was going to be late. He went back into the bedroom and, as he was dressing, he glanced up at the box on top of the cupboard. After he’d pulled on his trousers, he reached up – he wanted to look at the latest addition again. He was seated on his bed examining it with immense pleasure when the doorbell sounded.

  They made sure that the Braithwaites had a good view of the handcuffed Owen and Reardon being bundled into the cells as they themselves were led into their interrogation room. Bridges left them on their own for an hour before starting and by then, as he anticipated, Mrs Braithwaite’s nerves had been strung so taut that it took little time for the full story of her husband’s sideline to come out. They made slower progress with the professionals. Confronted with the photographs of the two girls, Owen shrugged and said they were nothing to do with him. Confronted with the ownership details of the flat, he shrugged again and said that if a solicitor he used occasionally wanted to invest in property, what was it to him? When Merlin in due course told him that the Braithwaites had given sworn statements describing the drugs racket with Owen, he simply said he knew nothing about it and, furthermore, wasn’t going to discuss anything further without his lawyer being present. Reardon, meanwhile, looked uncomfortable but just shook his head and said he was saying nothing.

  When they had finished, Merlin suggested putting the two men in the same cell. “Perhaps being stuck with Morrie for a while will loosen Jimmy’s tongue.”

  Bridges led them into the holding cell opposite the interview room and within seconds Owen was whining and swearing at his cell mate.

  The wind had dropped finally but it had started to rain when they arrived outside Norton’s apartment block. They waved their cards at the porter, who smiled nervously back at them and gave them the flat number. In the lift, Bridges smiled at his boss. “Think we’ll get a warm welcome?” Merlin winked back.

  “What the hell do you want? I can’t see you now. I have an important engagement. I’ve got nothing to tell you anyway.”

  “Let us in please, Mr Norton. It is important that we see you.”

  “I don’t think the Foreign Office will be very happy with you when I tell them that you’ve been harassing me again.”

  “If you’re talking about Mr Douglas, sir, things have moved on a little. He’s got other things on his mind now.”

  “I’m a senior diplomat, you can’t speak to me if I don’t want you to.”

  “That’s bollocks now, isn’t it? We know that you are being sent home to America in disgrace. We need to talk before you go.”

  The door opened wide. Norton stared at them wildly. A drop of blood fell from his chin on to his white shirt.

  “Goddamit.” Norton picked with a fingernail at the mark on his shirt and succeeded in expanding the size of the smudge. “Look. I’m not going home. It’s all a misunderstanding, which the Ambassador will sort out shortly. That bastard Zarb is jealous of the relationship the Ambassador and I have. He’ll…”

  “We’re not here to listen to your petty grievances against Mr Zarb. May we come in?” “If you must.”

  He opened the door and they followed him into the drawing room. “Wait here a minute while I change my shirt.” He lurched unsteadily down the corridor.

  When he emerged he made directly for the drinks cabinet. “Like one, would you?”

  “What we would like is for you to sit down and answer our questions.”

  Norton poured himself a drink, then wandered unsteadily towards a chair by the window. “Eighteenth century.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Eighteenth century French chairs. Louis XV. The chairs you’re sitting in, got them for peanuts on my last trip to Paris before the war started. Very fine, aren’t they?”

  “So they are. Perhaps we can get down to business.”

  “Ah yes, business. And what is that?”

  “The murders of Joan Harris and Johnny Morgan.”

  “I’ve told you before that I hardly know these people and that I know nothing about their deaths.”

  “If you’ll just hold your horses, there are some specific things we are not clear about. Sergeant, please.” Bridges held out a photograph.

  “This is a picture of Joan Harris. Not very edifying, but there it is. Have you ever seen a photograph of her like this?” Norton glanced briefly at the photograph and snorted. Then he started to rise but Merlin reached across and kept him in his chair.

  “Answer the question.”

  “I want another drink.”

  “By the smell of you, I’d say you’d got the annual production of a medium-sized distillery inside you, so forget the drink. Does this photograph ring any bells?”

  “The bells it rings, Inspector, are to remind me that Miss Harris was a pretty girl and that it’s a pity that she’s dead.”

  “Do you recognise anything particular about the picture?”

  Norton’s lips spread in a leering smile. “Which parts in particular of Miss Harris would you like me to recognise?”

  Merlin just managed to avoid putting his fist into Norton’s smug face. “Look chum, I don’t like you very much and every sec
ond I spend in your company makes me like you less and less. Answer the question. Do you recognise the location where this picture was taken?”

  Norton shook his head.

  “Did you ever take Miss Harris out?”

  “Would a man in my position do such a thing?”

  “Why not? I understand there are others of exalted status in the Embassy who don’t mind putting it about a bit – how about the Ambassador’s sons, perhaps, or even the Ambassador himself?”

  Norton shrugged his shoulders and looked warily at the policemen.

  “We have reports that you were seen with Miss Harris in a nightclub.”

  “Not me.”

  “We understand you were responsible for recruiting Johnny Morgan for the Ambassador’s residence.”

  “I don’t know who told you that.”

  “Johnny Morgan was recommended to you for a chauffeur’s job by Morrie Owen, a nightclub owner – he owns a club called The Blue Angel, which you denied knowing and where you were seen by more than one witness with Joan – and you put in a word at the Embassy. We have the records. Please don’t waste our time by denying it.”

  Norton’s mouth turned down. His hand trembled as he stroked his empty glass.

  “The same Morrie Owen owns the flat where this photograph was taken. We’ve got Owen in a cell at the Yard, by the way. Helping us with enquiries he is, as they say. Not being very cooperative but he will be. Amongst other things, we found out about his drug business.”

  Norton swirled the glass around as if to dislodge any remaining dregs.

  “Be more surprising if someone like Fat Morrie wasn’t providing drugs, I suppose. In any event, the thing is, we have solid evidence about his racket. He’s going to realise shortly that he’s facing a long stretch on that alone and that none of his fancy friends are going to be able to save him.”

  “What’s your point, Merlin?”

  “My point is that I would expect to have all the details of Owen’s involvement with you and your diplomatic friends and Miss Harris sooner rather than later. You associated with Owen and with both murder victims. You have lied to us throughout about everything. You seemed to have something going with Johnny Morgan, which you have been unforthcoming about. As they say in your country, you are right in the frame. If I were you and I were innocent, I think I’d decide to tell the truth, however dirty that truth might be.”