Murder at the Ritz

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘We have a dead man and no one knows who he is. No one’s reported him missing. He could well be an alien. By all accounts King Zog’s retinue are keen for the matter to be closed.’

  ‘So, you think we should call the case closed?’

  ‘No, no, just … put it to one side. Perhaps things will turn up.’

  Coburg was just about to leave the office and return to catch up with Lampson when Allison stopped him.

  ‘There’s, ah … one more thing, Chief Inspector,’ said the superintendent, and the hesitancy of his tone gave Coburg a warning that something unpleasant was about to follow.

  ‘Sir?’ he asked, doing his best to stop his apprehension from showing. What was it? Bad news, for sure. Had something happened to his brother, Charles, in the POW camp? Had he attempted to escape? It would be the sort of thing he’d try and get himself killed doing it.

  ‘Your Bentley,’ said Allison awkwardly.

  ‘Sir?’ queried Coburg again.

  ‘There have been questions,’ said Allison, unable to look Coburg in the eye. ‘In the House. Apparently there was an article about you in the Daily Worker. I don’t know if you saw it?’

  ‘No, sir. I rarely have time to read the papers and so far I haven’t included the Daily Worker.’

  ‘The article doesn’t name you, but it mentions a high-born aristocrat working as a chief inspector in the police force who’s allowed to drive his own luxury Bentley around while ordinary people are barred from running a private car.’

  ‘It was agreed my car would serve as a police vehicle, sir, thereby freeing up police cars for use.’

  ‘Yes, that was the agreement, but it seems the assistant commissioner was hauled before a committee of MPs and grilled about the matter as a result of one of them seeing the article.’

  ‘I understand, sir. The Bentley goes into a garage and stays under wraps.’ Then Coburg asked: ‘Out of curiosity, sir, do you happen to know which particular MP raised the issue with the AC?’

  ‘If you’re thinking that it was the result of the article in the Daily Worker, it must have been a Labour MP, then I can assure you that wasn’t the case.’ he hesitated, then said: ‘I believe it was the Right Honourable Wister Gormley.’

  Yes, thought Coburg. Gormley, who’d smashed his own cars up, the Rolls and the Bentley, both times while drunk, and who’d appealed to Coburg to take care of the charge of dangerous driving, saying, ‘After all, we were at school together.’ Coburg had refused, insisting the law applied to everyone. So this was Gormley’s revenge. Which was hardly a surprise. Wister Gormley had been a rat when they were at school, and he was still a rat.

  ‘Thank you, sir. You can tell the AC I’ll have the Bentley garaged and arrange for a car from the pool for myself and Sergeant Lampson.’

  Lampson’s reaction when he told him about the Bentley was exactly as Coburg had thought it would be: sour and bitter.

  ‘Things are in short supply, Ted,’ Coburg reminded him. ‘That’s why we’ve got rationing. And petrol for private cars was the first thing to go.’

  ‘Some people get away with it,’ he grumbled. ‘Look at those rich types motoring around in Daimlers and I don’t know what.’

  ‘Official business, I expect,’ sighed Coburg.

  ‘Official business, my arse!’ snorted Lampson. ‘Everyone’s got a ration book with a limit on how much they can buy. Half a pound of bacon a week, a pound of sugar, a shilling’s worth of meat, half a pound of butter, if you can afford it. Me and Terry use margarine instead. All right it don’t taste as good, they say it’s made from whale oil, and it’s true it’s got a bit of a fishy taste, but we can get twelve ounces for a coupon instead of only half a pound of butter.’ He snorted angrily. ‘But I bet you them MPs and lords and ladies don’t have the same restrictions!’ Then he looked at Coburg and added awkwardly: ‘Begging your pardon, guv, I didn’t mean you when I talked about lords and ladies.’

  ‘I am not a lord, Ted. My brother is a duke, but that’s because our father was, and I assure you I have a ration book the same as everyone else. And I stick to it.’

  ‘You may, but I bet not all the top nobs do. They keep their good cars.’

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ agreed Coburg, used to his sergeant venting his feelings about the unfairness of society. ‘But the bottom line is the Bentley goes in the garage. I’ll let you select the best car from the pool, otherwise we’ll be scrabbling for the leftovers every time we need a car and end up with the one with flat tyres and a dodgy gear box. I’ll sign the requisition. If you like, you can keep it at your place, if you don’t mind picking me up in the mornings.’

  Lampson shook his head. ‘Not a good idea, guv. Somers Town is all right for me, but I wouldn’t park a car there. Not overnight. Not even a police car.’

  ‘Yes, I take your point. All right. Sort one out and once it’s here we’ll do a two-car run and put the Bentley in dock. By the way, it looks as if the dead man at the Ritz is going to be put on the backburner. The super thinks the fact we don’t know who he is and royalty and the intelligence services might be involved could be a complication we don’t need. He also thinks there’s not a lot of chance of us solving the case.’

  ‘That’s not much of a vote of confidence,’ grunted Lampson.

  ‘No, but with a war on, I’m sure there’ll be plenty to keep us busy.’

  The phone rang, and Lampson picked it up. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Coburg’s office.’ A frown passed across his face, then he said: ‘Yes, sir. He’s here. One moment and I’ll put you on to him.’

  He put his hand over the receiver and whispered to Coburg: ‘It’s the secretary to King Zog. A Count Ahmed. He has a message from the King.’

  Coburg took the phone. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Coburg speaking.’

  ‘Chief Inspector, this is Count Idjbil Ahmed, private secretary to His Majesty, King Zog of Albania. We understand that you were at the Ritz today investigating the dead man found in one of the suites.’

  ‘Yes, Count Ahmed, that is correct,’ said Coburg, wondering where all this was leading.

  ‘His Royal Majesty, King Zog, would like to invite you to meet him to discuss the situation. Would one-thirty be convenient?’

  Coburg looked at the clock, which showed twelve-thirty.

  ‘One-thirty will be excellent,’ he said. ‘Tell His Majesty I look forward to meeting him.’

  He hung up the phone and grinned at Lampson.

  ‘I think we might be back on the case.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  King Zog sat in a high-backed armchair so ornately decorated that Coburg wondered if the Ritz had managed to find a replica of the Albanian throne for their royal guest. One of the King’s bodyguards stood just behind the gilded chair and slightly to one side, his grim face fixed on Coburg. Another bodyguard stood by the door to the suite, one hand poised over the inside of his bulky jacket, where Coburg assumed he kept a pistol.

  The King was tall and slim with a pencil-thin moustache, giving the impression of a matinee film idol, made more so by the elegant way he smoked his cigarette. He regarded Coburg guardedly, obviously curious about this detective chief inspector.

  ‘I am told that you are a member of the British royal family,’ said Zog.

  Coburg weighed up how to answer. The suggestion that he might be connected to the House of Windsor was obviously the reason the King had invited him, royal to royal. Even though Coburg had learnt from a discreet phone call that, for all the regal trappings, Zog was a self-proclaimed king, having declared himself the first monarch of Albania after the country’s independence from the Ottoman Empire. But being royal, and associating with other royals, was obviously of great importance to him. Aware of that, Coburg was sure that to contradict Zog could result in a curt dismissal, and Coburg was curious to find out more from the King that might lead to information about the dead man.

  ‘Distantly related,’ he said.

  ‘And yet you work as a policem
an.’

  ‘I’m the third son,’ explained Coburg. ‘My eldest brother, Magnus, inherited the family title and estates when our father died.’

  ‘You have the same name as the British royal family before they changed their name to Windsor during the last war. Saxe-Coburg.’

  ‘They were Saxe-Coburg-Gotha,’ said Coburg politely. ‘As I say, related, but at the same time, distant.’

  ‘You are a third son,’ mused Zog. ‘Your other brother?’

  ‘Charles. He was taken prisoner at Dunkirk and is currently in a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany.’

  ‘The war, it has made exiles of us all,’ said Zog. He looked directly at Coburg. ‘Have you ascertained any information about the dead man who was found in our rooms?’

  ‘Not yet, Your Majesty,’ said Coburg. ‘We are still investigating.’

  ‘I wish to know who he was, and why he was here,’ said Zog. ‘I have many enemies and need to discover if his presence indicates a plot against me here in England. Not so much for me, but I’m concerned for the safety of my family. My infant son, Leka. Queen Géraldine. My sisters, who are very dear to me.’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ said Coburg. ‘I wonder if you could tell me who occupies the suite where the dead man was found?’

  ‘Why?’ asked the King warily.

  ‘In order to get to the bottom of what happened,’ replied Coburg. ‘You ask me to find out who the dead man was. It would help me find the answer to that if I could discover why he was in that particular suite.’

  ‘My personal secretary, Count Ahmed.’

  ‘The person who telephoned to invite me here. Then at least we have been introduced. Could I talk to the Count?’

  ‘He is not here at the moment,’ said Zog. ‘He is … away. I will get him to telephone you when he returns.’

  Zog stood up. So, our audience is at an end, thought Coburg. He also rose to his feet.

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘I look forward to talking to Count Ahmed.’

  Ted Lampson sat at his desk in Coburg’s office and studied the notes he’d made about the case. Not that there was much to put down on paper. Dead man, unknown, throat cut. Possible motive: two million in gold bullion and foreign notes. It was a queer one and no mistake. Whatever had happened, none of the money or gold had been taken. At least, as far as they knew. Maybe that was what this King Zog wanted to talk to the guv’nor about. Maybe someone had nicked it, or part of it, but the King wanted that kept secret. Nothing was straightforward when royalty was involved, and Lampson had learnt that from earlier cases, when the guv’nor and he had investigated some goings on at Buckingham Palace. They’d asked for Coburg in particular, the same as they’d done at the Ritz. ‘It’s cos of his royal connections,’ one of his mates in the uniformed division had told him. ‘Saxe-Coburg. He’s one of their own.’

  But the guv’nor never came across as being different. There were no airs and graces about him. Yes, he talked posh, but then he came from a posh family and he’d been to a posh school. The poshest. But he didn’t lord it over people. He treated everyone the same. That was one of the reasons why Lampson liked working with him. He was straight as a die, honest and fair. You couldn’t ask more from a boss. Like this business of the car. Offering Lampson the chance to keep it at his place. He couldn’t think of another boss who’d do that. Not that Lampson would. As he’d said to Coburg, that’d be asking for trouble. Any car left on the street overnight in Somers Town, by morning the wheels would be gone and anything else that could be lifted. The only cars that were left untouched were those belonging to the local gangsters.

  Anyway, Lampson had selected a good one from the pool, and to make sure no one else took it, he’d written a note in large letters – Reserved for Chief Inspector Coburg – and left it on the windscreen. It wouldn’t be the same as the Bentley, but he felt sure the guv’nor would be fine with it.

  Lampson often dreaded the thought that one day Coburg might leave and he’d be assigned to one of the complete tossers in the building. The ones who acted as if they were special, even though they weren’t.

  If that happened, I’d leave, Lampson told himself determinedly. I’d rather go back to being on the beat in uniform.

  There was a knock at the door. At Lampson’s call of ‘Come in!’, Duncan Rudd entered bearing a large manila envelope.

  ‘The photos,’ he said. ‘I’ve just printed three for you at the moment. Paper’s in short supply. How many will you want?’

  ‘Three’ll do for now,’ said Lampson. ‘The guv’nor’s seeing the King at the moment. We’ll know if we need more when he gets back.’

  ‘The King?’ said Rudd, impressed. ‘Where? Buckingham Palace?’

  ‘Not our king,’ snorted Lampson. ‘The one at the Ritz where the dead body was found. King Zog.’

  ‘King Zog,’ said Rudd with a smile. ‘Sounds like someone from the comic books. Like Ming the Merciless in Flash Gordon.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Coburg had just left the lift and was heading across the reception area towards the swing doors of the Ritz entrance, when a woman’s voice called out brightly: ‘Edgar!’

  Coburg stopped and turned, smiling at the sound of a voice he recognised. A young woman in her late twenties, petite, blonde and very beautiful, was coming towards him. Rosa Weeks: jazz pianist and singer with a list of riotous anecdotes, all of which would hold an audience enthralled. And not just an audience, reflected Coburg, as she held her face up for a kiss.

  A full kiss or a peck on the cheek? wondered Coburg. It had been a long time since they’d last been together and he didn’t want her to think he was so arrogant to claim ownership of her. Rosa dealt with that by kissing him firmly on the lips, then leant back in his arms and smiled up at him.

  Coburg beamed happily. ‘Rosa! It must be …’

  ‘A long time.’ Rosa smiled. ‘You never called.’

  ‘I did, but the message I got was you were away on tour. Paris, Berlin, Amsterdam.’

  ‘Yes, although those hot spots have rather dried up for me lately. So, what are you doing here? A guest or the day job?’

  ‘Official. We’re looking into an incident.’

  ‘The dead guy in one of King Zog’s suites?’

  ‘You know about it?’

  ‘Baby, everybody knows about it.’

  ‘So, you’re staying here?’

  She shook her head. ‘Too rich for me. No, I’m doing a cabaret spot here in the Rivoli Bar.’

  ‘Which night?’

  ‘Every night for the next two weeks. Which is why I’m here, checking that no one’s run off with the piano.’

  Coburg chuckled. ‘Now that would be some heist to pull off.’

  ‘You’d be surprised some of the things that disappear. I hear that four guys turned up at the Detour Club in Wardour Street and said they’d been asked to take the piano away for restringing. And, believe it or not, they were allowed to carry it out of the place.’

  ‘Never to be seen again?’

  ‘You got it.’ Then her face clouded and, worried, she asked him in a lowered voice: ‘How long do you think we have before the Germans invade?’

  ‘Why would I know?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘Because you were a soldier. You know how things are.’

  ‘No one knows,’ said Coburg. ‘There are lots of rumours going around …’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ she said.

  ‘But at the moment the RAF are keeping the Luftwaffe at bay. And while that’s happening the Germans won’t invade.’

  ‘There’s talk the RAF won’t be able to hold them off for much longer. Every day I expect bombs to rain down on us. You can see their planes even from London.’

  ‘You can also see the RAF fighters dealing with them. And, by all accounts, it’s the airfields in Kent and Sussex that are their main targets, not London.’

  ‘So these air raid warnings that keep happening …’

  ‘So far, that
’s all they’ve been. Warnings. Granted, the docks in the East End have been hit, but not the actual city.’

  ‘So you think we’re safe.’

  ‘For the moment,’ said Coburg. ‘It certainly won’t stop me coming to see you tonight. What time do you go on?’

  ‘Half past eight. Gone are the days of the eleven o’clock show, everything’s strictly curfew.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Coburg.

  ‘And afterwards?’ she asked.

  Coburg smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she said with a grin. ‘Like I said, it’s been a long time.’

  She pulled his head down to hers, kissed him again, then gave him a wink, a chuckle and headed towards the stairs.

  Coburg could still feel himself smiling as he entered Scotland Yard and mounted the stairs to his office. Rosa Weeks! It had to be two years since he’d last seen her. And here she was, back in London. I am so glad the Ritz asked for me, he thought gratefully.

  Lampson was studying the three photographs of the dead man.

  ‘I see Duncan’s been,’ said Coburg.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lampson. ‘The question is: what do we do with ’em?’

  Coburg pointed at one of the images, a head and shoulders shot. ‘Get Duncan to run off some more copies of this and hawk it around, Ted. See if anyone recognises him.’

  ‘So we’re back on the case?’ asked Lampson.

  ‘We are. You could say it’s by royal command.’

  ‘King Zog?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Arrogant. Snobbish. He tries to cultivate the image of a film matinee idol.’

  ‘But he’s going to co-operate?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Coburg thoughtfully. ‘You’d think so, from what he said about needing to know who the dead man was. But, at the same time, I get the impression he doesn’t want us poking around too much. It’s my guess that if we started asking questions, we’d discover that, conveniently, very few of his entourage will be able to speak English, only Albanian.’