Princes Gate (12 page)

There was a knock at the door, followed by the diffident entrance of a little man in a chauffeur’s uniform. Merlin looked at his list. “Mr Priestley. Come on in.”

Johnny Morgan made his way carefully down the steep unlit stairs. Snow showers had turned to sleet in the Soho streets outside. At the bottom he looked to his right. There was a faint light at the end of the corridor and he made his way in that direction. Arriving at a door, slightly ajar, he pushed against it gently. A dull glow emanated from a single hanging bulb. He saw a desk around which were three unoccupied chairs. From the other side of the room he could hear rhythmic breathing. Slumped in an armchair was a very fat man whose huge bald head lolled forward on to a barrel chest. A few greasy strands of hair hung down to one side like ivy creepers.

Morgan nudged the man, who responded with a grunt.

“Come on, Uncle. Wake up. It’s early.”

From another corner of the room, Morgan heard a snort. A second dozing man materialised.

“Christ, come on, Uncle. Shake a leg.”

Eventually the large mound of flesh beneath his hands began to move of its own accord. “Wassat? Jimmy? Who’s there?”

The other figure rose from its chair, moved forward in the murk and swore as it stumbled on something.

“It’s me, Uncle. No need to panic. It’s me, Johnny”.

His uncle’s piggy eyes gradually obtained focus. “What the hell are you playing at?”

“Not playing at anything, Uncle. Just came to pay you a visit. Didn’t realise that seven o’clock was your bedtime.”

“You little bugger.” The voice retained elements of its Welsh origins but was predominantly cockney, reflecting the forty years or so of life that Maurice Owen, known to all as Morrie, had spent in the metropolis.

Morrie lifted a small object from his lap and threw it at the prostrate figure on the floor. “And you, Jimmy. You useless bugger. You’re meant to be on the lookout for me, aren’t you? Not bloody sleeping in a corner while I take my evening nap. Don’t know why I bother to employ you. Get up off your arse and make yourself useful for once. Turn on the corner lamp so I can see what I’m doing.”

Jimmy Reardon raised himself stiffly from the floor and moved back towards his own chair. The gloom lifted as he turned on the lamp, and the full squalor of Morrie Owen’s office was revealed.

“And you can give me back my account book, thank you.”

Reardon, a bent, haggard-looking man with greying hair, dark bags beneath his eyes and a large wart on his cheek, picked up a black book from the floor and passed it back to his boss.

“And now I’ll have a nice little chat with my idiot nephew here. Off you go.” Owen struggled to his feet and waddled over to the desk. It was strewn with papers and the remains of his fish and chips supper.

Turning to a dingy mirror behind the desk, Owen dabbed his fingers to his tongue and moistened his eyes. He lifted the cats-licks hanging down from his head and laid them carefully across the giant dome of his skull. He applied further moisture from his fingers on to the hairs in an effort to keep them firmly in place.

Satisfied at last with his efforts he turned round, pulled his dangling braces up and over his shoulders and lowered himself carefully into the chair behind his desk. “OK, Johnny. What do you want? I always take a little nap before the club opens, as you know. If I don’t have my nap I get quite tetchy, see. So tell me something to cheer me up and forget that you were the one that ruined my nap.”

Morgan pulled over a chair and faced the quivering jowls of his mother’s favourite brother. “Sorry, but I haven’t got anything particularly jolly to tell you. I just thought you might like to know a little about what’s been going on at the Ambassador’s place?”

Folds of flesh in Owen’s neck rippled as he reached to scratch his chin. “Can’t say that’s a very good reason to disturb my beauty sleep, Johnny boy. You got yourself into some trouble there or something? I wouldn’t like to hear that you’re in trouble after all the effort I put in to get you that job.”

“I’m not in trouble. It’s just that the police are taking an interest in the Ambassador’s staff and are poking around like. I thought I’d better let you know.”

“The police are poking around, are they? Why’s that then?”

Morgan sighed. “A girl who worked at the Embassy, Joan, was found dead. So they’re just sort of investigating about that.”

“Joan, eh? Dead is she? Nice looking girl. That’s sad but what’s it to us?”

“Nothing, Uncle. Just thought you’d like to know. Because Joan and I, you know…”

Beads of sweat running from the top of Owen’s head made their tortuous way down the valleys and crevices of his face.

Morgan shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Look, Johnny. I know you love the girls and I know they love you. You have a talent, a talent which, as you know, I am prepared to back.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“And you like them particularly sweet and innocent don’t you, just like many of our other friends and clients.” Owen stared into the distance for a moment then looked back gloomily at his nephew. “I don’t want any more detail. Just keep your head down and keep the police out of my affairs. You’re a bright enough boy to manage that, I think.”

“Just thought you’d like to know what was going on.”

“Indeed, Johnny. And I thank you. And all you need to tell the boys in blue is that you had nothing to do with the girl, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Uncle. But they’re going to be talking to others. And what about Norton? They’ll be talking to him.”

“Don’t you worry about Norton. He’s a diplomat. Doesn’t have to answer any questions if he don’t want to, does he? You just make sure nothing gets back to me, alright?” With surprising agility, Owen shot out an arm, grabbed his nephew’s lapels and pulled him close. “’Cos if it does,” he shouted “I shall be a very unhappy uncle, understand me?”

Arthur Norton was not feeling at his best. The interview with the two schmucks from Scotland Yard had unsettled his equilibrium. As he tetchily completed his toilette, his temper was further aggravated when he noticed a red spot next to his left nostril. He applied a fingernail to the offending item and removed the head. The eruption of pus splashed against the bathroom mirror. Grabbing a handkerchief from his dresser he removed the stain. What the hell was he doing having spots at the age of forty-six? The police had unsettled his physical equilibrium as well as his mental equilibrium. He must calm down and maintain a level head.

He was meeting Freddie Douglas at the Café Royal. Douglas had promised that he would be making an important introduction tonight.

In normal circumstances it would be a twenty minute walk for him to the Café Royal. In the blackout and with the pavements and roads iced over, it would be longer. He stood around for a few minutes hoping that a taxi might emerge from the darkness. Eventually he gave up waiting and headed off in the direction of Piccadilly. In Berkeley Square a voice from a doorway made him jump. “Fancy a bit of fun, dear?”

A woman emerged from the dark, a torch pointing up at her heavily made-up face. As street prostitutes go, Norton thought, she wasn’t so bad-looking. The lipstick and foundation plastered on to her face couldn’t conceal the fact that she was younger than most.

“No thanks, honey. Not tonight.”

“Where you from then? You a Yank dearie? I love Yanks. Come on. Don’t be a spoilsport. I’m very reasonable. Give me a couple of quid and I’ll make it worth your while.” The woman moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder. Her other hand brushed against the front of his trousers and remained there briefly before starting to move slowly up and down. Norton couldn’t help himself and stiffened. This girl was good at her job. His eyes closed.

“You alright, sir?”

Norton opened his eyes to see the outline of a helmet lit by the prostitute’s torch. The policeman had a torch of his own which he shone into their faces. The girl broke away. The men listened to the sound of her heels clattering on the icy pavement.

Running the light beam over him, the policemen took note of Norton’s expensive astrakhan coat. “You ought to be very careful out here in the blackout, sir. These conditions is paradise for the dregs of society. Some of these girls will pull a knife and rob you as quick as you can say ‘Jack Robinson’.”

“Thank you, Constable. She just came at me out of the dark and grabbed me. I’m so pleased you came along.”

“You be careful now. We don’t want to see any of our brethren from over the Pond murdered on the streets of London. Can I guide you anywhere?”

“I’m going to the Café Royal, constable. It’s not far now. I think I can find the way.”

“Alright, but you watch out, sir.”

Norton mentally thanked the constable for helping him to keep his evening on track. She was a sexy tart though. He would look out for her on another, more convenient night.

The Café Royal was throbbing with life. Norton ploughed his way, with some difficulty, through the crush. He caught sight of Douglas talking animatedly to two other men at the bar. Ducking his head down again he struggled towards them.

“It’s goddamed crowded tonight, Freddie.”

“Arthur. Glad you could make it.”

Douglas sported a bright red bow tie with his evening wear and was smoking a pungent black cigarette. “You know Vivian, don’t you?” Vivian Pemberton smiled a languid greeting.

“And of course my colleague, Edward Fraser.” A portly man with an unruly mop of curly brown hair and a small upturned nose reached over to shake Norton’s hand. “I think we need some more drink. Krug alright for you, Arthur?” Fraser waved at one of the barmen.

“Have you noticed that ladies seem to greatly outnumber gentlemen in this establishment?” Douglas wafted his cigarette at the melée.

“I’d say that’s a trend that is going to be further exaggerated if this silly war carries on.”

“Now, now, Vivian. I don’t think it’s wise to use words like ‘silly’ about the war in public, do you?”

Two bottles of champagne arrived in a large ice bucket.

“Cheers. Here’s to it.” Fraser raised his glass and the others followed suit.

“I think it is a silly war and the sooner Mr Chamberlain settles it peaceably the better.”

“I can see you’re in a combative mood tonight, Vivian. I think we’d better get a table.”

A waiter was called, a note was passed, and they were swiftly seated at a corner table as private as could be obtained. Two pretty young girls giggled and simpered at two much older men on the nearest table.

“Tell me, Freddie, we’ve known each other a while but the subject’s never come up, is there a Mrs Douglas somewhere?”

“Not yet, Arthur. I am spoken for though. Lovely girl. She’s in Shropshire at present. Probably going to stay there for the duration. Her father thinks London’s too dangerous. Still, leaves me some room for adventure.” Douglas smiled across at Pemberton who winked mischievously. “Before you arrived, Vivian was telling us about his new job at the Ministry of Information.”

“Oh, yes. You mentioned that the other night.”

Pemberton yawned. “It’s a bloody bore, Norton. Can’t really tell you much about it but I shall die of tedium if my current project doesn’t get completed soon. Every idea I have goes off for review by some committee of philistines who wouldn’t know art from a lump of coal. It’s very frustrating. All I can say is that if the military decision making of our war machine is subject to the same sort of bureaucratic delay and dithering as are my modest little propaganda film efforts, then I should be surprised if this fine establishment hasn’t been turned into a bierkeller by March.”

“Vivian, please.” Douglas glanced carefully around him. A white-haired gentleman on a nearby table gazed sternly at the group for a while before returning to his brown Windsor soup.

Douglas suggested ordering food and as the party muttered its approval of this idea, he put his hand on Fraser’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with you tonight, Edward? You’ve hardly said a word.”

“Oh, nothing, Freddie, nothing at all.”

“Well, buck up and get a bloody waiter over here will you? We’re all starving.”

Just as the main course was being delivered, the table was approached by a tall man with olive skin, dark eyes and a small goatee beard. Douglas rose in greeting.