by Mark Ellis
“That’s about it.”
“Miss Harris later attends a doctor for a pregnancy test which proves negative, in the company of a man. You are waiting on a sketch of this man. It may be the Ambassador’s son.”
“That’s right. I am awaiting confirmation as to his movements over the past two months. I’ll be seeing the sketch this morning.”
“In addition – thanks to Mr Reardon, is it?”
Merlin nodded.
“In addition, thanks to Mr Reardon’s turning King’s Evidence and your other enquiries, you have pieced together a picture of Mr Owen’s criminal activities which overlap to a certain extent with the sad tale of Miss Harris.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This puts Mr Owen at the centre of a range of illicit activities including drug-running, prostitution, loan-sharking and blackmail. In the course of these activities he employed Mr Bernie Myerson, the man who took Morgan’s lewd photographs, Owen taking a cut of Morgan’s earnings for so doing. Myerson, also with the assistance of Morgan, took the photographs of Mr Douglas engaged in sodomy for Owen’s blackmail purposes. Your discovery of Mr Myerson’s involvement prompted Mr Owen to arrange for him to be murdered by some of his underworld connections, and Mr Reardon will give evidence to this effect?”
“Yes, sir.”
The A.C. steepled his hands in front of his face.
“It’s all terribly seedy, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
“However, while you’ve got a large cast of villains, it seems you still don’t know who actually committed the murders.”
“I think we’re getting close.”
“Yes. Well, you’d better get on.”
Merlin smiled wearily.
“You haven’t notified Douglas’ superiors yet about the photographs, have you?”
“Not yet, no, sir.”
“Well, I suppose I’d better. Halifax isn’t going to be very happy.”
“I’d rather you wait a little. Until I’ve finished my enquiries.”
“If you prefer, but try and make it snappy.”
The wind had got up again and raindrops the size of marbles were battering the windowpanes in his office. On the other side of Merlin’s desk sat a cheerful Johnson, who had hurried into the office to convey the happy news that he had nailed Edward Fraser.
“The forensic people have matched a print from the victim’s briefcase. At the time of the accident they lifted a partial print from the case but said they wouldn’t be able to match it. But there’s a new chap in there. Brought some new methods over from the States where he’s been on secondment. He says he can make a match.”
“I hadn’t realised you’d got Fraser to provide fingerprints, Peter.”
Johnson, his arms waving around with unusual excitement, explained how he had become friendly with a Special Branch officer the previous year, on a case he had worked when a Scottish communist had taken a pot shot at the Dominion Secretary. “I got in touch with him and asked if he could pull Fraser’s security vetting file. He did, and on the file, of course, were Fraser’s fingerprints. That’s how we got the match.” Johnson stood up. “I’m off to see him now.”
“That’s good work. Once you’ve brought him in I wouldn’t mind a word to see what he’s got to say about Norton. If…”
The door banged open and Bridges walked in with the two constables.
“Robinson’s got the sketch, sir.”
Robinson passed the drawing across the desk to Merlin who stared hard at it before eventually grunting with disappointment. “No. It’s certainly not Kennedy. I can’t say who… something’s stirring at the back of my brain but I can’t pin it down. You’ve had a look, Sergeant?”
Bridges felt there was something familiar about the face but couldn’t say more than that. Cole also couldn’t help.
Merlin stood up with a sigh and walked to the window, leaving the sketch on the desk. “That’s a bit of a let-down then.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
Johnson, who had remained when the others entered, picked up the drawing, looked at it carefully then smiled. “The nose is a little wrong, and the hair isn’t quite right, but…”
“You know the man, Peter?”
“Best put your coat on, sir.”
It had snowed heavily overnight and was snowing still on the Wilhelmstrasse. As Giambelli emerged from the car, two men hurried out from behind a small truck to clear his pathway to the entrance of the building. He had not visited the German Foreign Office for a few years and on his last visit the sun had been shining on a sweltering July day. Today’s contrastingly bleak weather better matched his mood. He had been enjoying a champagne cocktail at Friday’s Italian Embassy reception when Rossetti had crept up to him in that irritatingly supercilious way that he had and pointed to the nearest exit. An urgent message from Rome had apparently just been decrypted. His ultimate superior, Count Ciano, had been asked by Berlin for a report on the progress of Giambelli’s initiative with the British and the Americans. Apparently they would prefer a report in person. Transport had been laid on and so now, after a boneshaking journey via Stockholm in a freezing old Italian cargo plane, Giambelli stood unhappily in the austere marbled lobby of the German Foreign Ministry. It was not only the disruption of his evening and the travails of the journey which lay behind his sombre mood – he had come all this way with little significant progress to report. But then, he mused as he rubbed his eyes, that wasn’t exactly his fault and was he not seeing an old drinking friend again? The Reichsminister had been Ambassador in London for a couple of years prior to the war. Giambelli’s mood lightened a little, and lightened further when, on entering the Reichsminister’s palatial office, he was met with a beaming smile and a glass of Sekt.
“Some champagne for you, my friend, to revive you after your, no doubt, tedious journey. It’s one of my own.” Ten years earlier, Joachim von Ribbentrop had been a champagne salesman. He had been a very good salesman and had married the daughter of his boss, the owner of the country’s largest producer of Sekt, the champagne of the Rhine. Shortly thereafter he had met his idol, Adolf Hitler, and had begun his dizzying rise to the highest echelons of the Nazi command.
Giambelli grasped the proffered glass and returned Ribbentrop’s smile, his face briefly registering surprise that his host was in uniform. “Ah, yes. The outfit. I’m sorry but Himmler has one of his patriotic teambuilding get-togethers this weekend – Wagner, Goethe and all that – and has asked me to attend and make a speech. I’m a member of the S.S. now, you know, Ricardo. What do you think? Quite smart is it not?”
“Very. It beats what Il Duce gets us to wear sometimes, I’ll say that.”
Ribbentrop slapped Giambelli on the back, then guided him to a sitting area to the right of a gigantic partners desk. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”
“Likewise, Joachim.”
They were speaking in English, their one common language.
“And how is London these days?”
“Surprisingly jolly. Much fun is still had despite the dark clouds hovering above.”
“Ah, yes. The English and their famous sangfroid. I had a bellyful of that when I was there.”
Ribbentrop shook his head, dislodging a thin lock from above his receding forehead. He smoothed his hair back then sneered. “We shall see how stiff their upper lips remain under the torrent of metal the Luftwaffe will soon be raining on them.” He threw the remains of his drink down his throat and poured out another glass for himself and his guest. His features resettled into their original cast of benign equanimity. “Forgive me, Ricardo. There I go again. The thought of the English often makes me lose my temper.”
He adjusted one of the medals on his jacket. “Now to business. Perhaps you are about to tell me that there will, after all, be no need for the Luftwaffe to cross the Channel and blitz the English. What news have you for me?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. We have had little communication and my sources tell me that our c
ontacts may be in some difficulty.”
“Difficulty. You mean they have been found out?”
“No. They have other problems.”
The Reichsminister twirled his glass in the air and sighed. “Was a message ever passed to the Americans?”
“I believe so, but the conduit we used has not reported back to us. I should note that our people in Washington have observed that Ambassador Kennedy has met with the President recently.”
“Ah!”
“Our people in Washington have also observed to me that Mr Kennedy is not currently in the best of favour at the White House.”
Ribbentrop crossed his legs, causing his leather boots to squeak and creak. “I know. I know. The Ambassador is a powerful, isolationist voice it is true, but I tried to tell the Fuhrer that Kennedy was not the best channel to use. However, he insisted – he was sure that his would be the most persuasive voice to use on Roosevelt.”
Giambelli sipped his champagne while declining a top-up.
“So we don’t have any response from your people? What are the ‘difficulties’ you mention?”
“We have been using senior people in Halifax’s office and a long-serving aide of Kennedy. I do not have the full picture but there seems to have been some unpleasant, unrelated events in which one or two of them may be implicated. The net result of this has been that my principal British contact has been avoiding me and my American contact’s only recent conversation with me was a drunken babble in which he cried off from an engagement last night and said he couldn’t talk to me anymore.”
“I see.”
“I am sorry, Joachim.”
Ribbentrop stood up and wandered over to his desk, where he toyed idly with a small sculpture of his own head. “No need to be, my friend. I was against this approach all along. As you know, for years the Fuhrer has harboured delusions about establishing a grand alliance with our Anglo-Saxon cousins. I laboured tirelessly on his behalf to promote this idea during my time in London and was rebuffed at every turn. When Chamberlain used Poland as the basis for a declaration of war, I told him the game was up, and I thought he was persuaded – but still, in some small corner of that great mind, he keeps a door open. Even if this particular approach were to fail, as seems likely, he will probably persist. He will persist that is, of course, until the die is cast – a moment not so very far away now.”
“Do you wish the Italian government to do anything further, if we hear no more from our contacts?”
“No. If the Fuhrer wants to try again, I shall use a different route to the American President. I also understand that there is a good prospect of Lord Halifax succeeding Chamberlain in the near future. A more sensitive approach to Roosevelt together with a new, more sensible Prime Minister, may yet pull the English out of the fire, though I doubt it. No Ricardo,” he put his arm around Giambelli’s shoulders, “all we require of Italy is that it finally gets off the fence and commits wholeheartedly to its destiny in full partnership with the Third Reich!”
Ribbentrop insisted on refilling his guest’s glass and they clinked glasses. “Prost, my friend. To the Fuhrer and his, and our, glorious futures.”
Edward Fraser was oblivious to the screech of brakes outside his apartment building. He turned to the final page of his book, read, then closed the book with a satisfied sigh. He set down Mr Pickwick, then toyed with the two other books which had been resting on his side-table. Nickleby or Dorrit – which shall it be? He plumped for Nickleby. He’d read it before of course, more than once, but he needed to continue with his comfort reading at this difficult time. He rose, tossed his chosen book into the open suitcase at his feet and stretched his arms. There was a knock at his door. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
Merlin followed Johnson and Bridges into the room as Fraser retreated hesitantly to an armchair by the window. Merlin saw that Fraser seemed dressed for travel and noticed the suitcase next to his chair. The decoration of the room followed the style of the building. Merlin liked art deco and he particularly liked the lamp on the desk in the corner. A languid young female draped in scanty robes holding a globe aloft.
“I suppose you’re still pestering me about that accident. As I’ve told you several times, I had nothing to do with it. My car hit a deer. That’s the truth. Anyway, couldn’t this wait till Monday. I’m just off to the country.”
Johnson glanced at Merlin, who was examining the lamp with interest. “It’s your show, Peter, but perhaps before you get to your business, I could ask Mr Fraser a couple of questions.”
“Of course.”
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Merlin. These other gentlemen are Detective Sergeant Bridges and Constable Cole. Inspector Johnson you already know.”
“A hell of a lot of policemen for a little case like this.”
“That’s as may be. As it happens, I want to ask you about something other than the case you’ve been discussing with the Inspector here.”
“Oh, Christ. What now?” He waved his arms in frustration and sat down.
“Do you, or rather did you, know a Miss Joan Harris?”
Fraser muttered something to himself and ran his right hand rapidly through his hair. “Yes, I knew Joan. Friend of a friend. Nice girl. Heard she died. A great pity.”
“Were you particularly friendly with her, sir?”
“I wouldn’t say particularly friendly. She was friendly with a chap called Arthur Norton. I saw her with him.”
“Never on your own, sir?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“You never accompanied her on a doctor’s visit, for example?” Merlin thought he detected a slight colouring of Fraser’s cheeks and a tremor in his hands.
“No.”
“That’s strange, sir, because we have an identification of you from a Dr Jones. He says he remembers you accompanying Miss Harris at his surgery on January 3rd.”
Fraser’s mouth moved but no words came out. Eventually he found his voice. “Sorry. I remember now. I went with her just the once. Norton had stopped seeing her. She was worried about something.”
“About being pregnant?”
“Well, yes. She was in a bit of a state and asked me to accompany her. As a gentleman I didn’t like to refuse.”
“So, this was just a gentlemanly favour, sir?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have a relationship with Miss Harris?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“You work with Mr Freddie Douglas, don’t you?”
“I do.”
Merlin thought for a moment and then nodded at Johnson.
“The Inspector has something to say to you. I’ll have some more questions to ask you later.”
Fraser gave a slight inclination of his head.
“Mr Fraser, we have found proof of your involvement in the hit and run case…”
“What proof?” Fraser’s eyes roamed around the room, avoiding eye contact with any of the policemen.
“We have fingerprint evidence which was found on the victim’s briefcase. Conclusive against your…”
Fraser jumped to his feet and pointed a finger angrily at Johnson. “But you haven’t got my fingerprints.”
“We have received copies from the Foreign Office.”
“That can’t be right. How could you…?” Fraser walked to the window and leant his head against the glass.
“Now, sir, I am going to place you under arrest and caution you that…”
Fraser turned and walked back towards them, running his hand again through his hair. “Alright. I understand. Anything I say may be taken down in evidence. Look. I’m dying for a pee, so do you mind if I…” He waved behind him.
“Alright, but hurry up.”
“As quick as I can, old boy.” He disappeared through the door behind him.
Merlin found a small sculpture of a naked lady to admire. “Lovely, isn’t it, Sergeant?”
“Not really my sort of thing, sir.”
; Merlin walked over to a bookshelf and inspected its contents while Bridges and Johnson stared out of the window at a party of children flying kites in Cadogan Gardens. A minute or so passed and Johnson turned and shouted out. “Come on, Mr Fraser. Time to go.”
There was no reply. Merlin put a first edition Conrad down. “El Diablo! Oldest trick in the game.” He ran into Fraser’s bedroom. Opposite the bed was a locked door and he made way for Cole to make a run at it. In the empty bathroom there was a horizontal window above the washbasin, just large enough for a man to squeeze through. The window was off its latch. Merlin climbed up and looked out. The weather had cleared for now and he could see a narrow ledge extended ten or so yards to the right of the window. He could see the top of a ladder attached to the ledge at the end. “What idiots we are. There’s a fire escape here. Come on, Constable. You’re the fit one. You go.”
Cole squeezed through the window and made for the ladder. “I can see him, sir. He’s getting close to the ground.”
“Off you go then. Be careful. It will be slippery. Sergeant, you follow Cole. Johnson and I’ll take the lift.”
“I’ll go down the ladder, sir. I think I’m a little nimbler than the Sergeant.”
“Alright, Peter.”
Bridges nodded his thanks as Johnson clambered out of the window.
They found the lift waiting for them. When they reached the street Johnson was almost at the bottom of the ladder. He turned and shouted. “Sloane Square!”
Merlin spotted Cole weaving his way through some pedestrians halfway down Sloane Avenue. “Start the car, Sergeant.” Johnson jumped in and the tyres screamed as Bridges floored the accelerator. A delivery van swerved on to the pavement by the Cadogan Hotel as the car cut across the road. In Sloane Square they saw Cole running across the road and into a large crowd milling outside the Peter Jones department store. “There he is.” Merlin followed Johnson’s finger and saw Fraser’s head bobbing up and down on the far side of the Square. “To the station, Sergeant. That’s where he’s heading.”
Bridges pulled up at the pavement outside the Tube and they all jumped out. Fraser reached the opposite kerb and looked across, meeting Merlin’s eyes. A large party of giggling uniformed girls suddenly emerged from the tube station and swarmed around the policemen. A penetrating female voice rang out.
