Princes Gate (31 page)

Douglas sat back and smiled with satisfaction. He had cleared his in-tray with ruthless efficiency today in less than two hours. The final item had been a memo from Halifax, congratulating him on a paper he’d drafted for the Cabinet on the Italian political situation. He rose, tightened his braces and put on his jacket. Feeling in his inside pocket he found the letter received that morning from his mother, imploring him to make a final visit to his father in the country hospital where he was dying. He fished it out and with a sniff deposited it in the wastepaper basket. He’d done enough crawling to his father for one lifetime. The will had been sorted and the old boy was comatose. What was the point of a long and tedious journey just for appearance’s sake? As he returned to his desk, the door burst open.

Edward Fraser’s mop of unruly hair looked even more out of control than usual, while two livid gashes on his chin indicated a hurried encounter with a razor.

“God, you look a mess. Where the hell have you been?”

“Didn’t you get my message? Haven’t been feeling too well.”

Douglas finished tidying up his papers and placed them in a neat pile to the right of the lamp on his desk. “I got a message at the end of last week that you were sick. Not too sick, as I understand it, to miss a night on the town with our friend Norton on Friday night, but nevertheless, today is Wednesday. I’ve had to cover with several people who asked for you, ranging from Scotland Yard to Lord Halifax himself.”

Fraser sat down and lit himself a cigarette.

“Ah, yes. Scotland Yard. Sorry about that. I’ve dealt with it now. I saw the chap on Saturday. Some misunderstanding about an accident. You remember, don’t you, that weekend at the Pelhams, when I bashed into a deer? Through some mixup they thought my car might have been involved in a hit and run at around that time. Complete rubbish of course, as I’ve now made clear to the police. As to Norton, well that’s work, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily, but I’m glad that the police story is wrong. Anyway, I hope you’re ready to get back to work properly.”

“Yes, yes.” Fraser blew a smoke ring. “What did Halifax want?”

“Don’t worry. I dealt with it. He’s on his way back from the War Council in Paris today.”

“And how’s the Italian business coming along?”

“I saw Norton last night. He says he’s passed the message on but has had no reply. I’ve had Giambelli on my back for the past few days wanting to know what he can say to his people. It doesn’t help that Norton has been distracted by these goings-on at the Embassy.”

“What goings-on?”

“Hasn’t he told you? One of those Embassy girls that Norton used to have on his arm – Joan, you remember – was found dead in the river. Soon after that they found that good-looking chauffeur, Morrie Owen’s nephew, with his throat cut.”

“Good God!”

“Yes, the police seem to have taken a dislike to Norton, so I had to lean on them a bit. I want him to remain focused on our work.”

“Of course. Well I’d better go and check what’s on my desk.”

“By the way, Edward. I think it would be wise if you stayed away from Norton’s sleazier clubbing haunts for the while, don’t you? With these policemen sniffing around everywhere it might be… you get my drift?”

“I do.”

Bridges parked their car around the corner from Bernie Myerson’s alleyway. As he turned the engine off a lorry with a partly detached bumper clattered past them. Merlin didn’t appear to hear it. “Do you think I should tell the A.C. about the Ambassador’s involvement?”

“I doubt it’ll help our investigation much, sir.”

A strong wind was blowing in from the East and it had become very cold again. Merlin doodled with his finger on the passenger window, which had been steamed up by their breath. “It won’t help our investigation, but it might help to protect our rears.”

“You’ve never been much of a one for that, have you?”

Merlin drew a large J on the window. “No, but this is the first case I’ve had where someone as important as the Ambassador of the United States appears to have been mixed up in a murder. If the gentleman dining with Joan at Quaglino’s was not Arthur Norton, then with the necklace and Sonia’s identification of the accent, the odds on it being the Ambassador himself seem pretty strong. I hope to God there’s an innocent explanation but clearly, in normal circumstances, we should be questioning him about his involvement with Miss Harris.”

“It’s hard to believe that Mr Kennedy could have been involved with her death.”

Merlin wiped the window clear with the palm of his hand. A sheepishly attempted smile briefly reflected itself back to him before he turned to Bridges. “As I understand it, the Ambassador has been in the United States for several weeks and wasn’t here at the time of her murder, so he can’t be directly in the frame. However, there are plenty of questions to be asked if he was having some sort of relationship with her and using our other murder victim as a go-between. And he’s a very powerful man. He can arrange things.”

Bridges leaned forward to open his door.

“Did you check Brighton out yet?”

“I spoke to someone down there, sir. They were going to send an officer round but they haven’t called me back yet.”

A dog barked frantically in the distance. Merlin shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “Shall we go and renew our acquaintance with the charming Mr Myerson?”

“Alright, alright, what’s the racket for? Is Hitler driving up Oxford Street or something?” Bernie Myerson looked carefully out through the doorway.

“Here. I know you two, don’t I?”

“How are you, Bernie?”

Myerson groaned. “Rozzers. What the blinking hell do you want?”

Merlin edged his foot into the small gap Bernie had allowed when opening the door. “We’ve a few questions to ask you. Won’t take long.”

“Ain’t you got better things to do than to bother an old Jew like me? Don’t you know there’s a war on? Why don’t you go and find yourselves a few German spies and leave me alone?”

Merlin added the pressure of his hand to that of his foot on the door and, after a few more squeaks of complaint, Bernie fell back and the policemen pushed through into the shop.

In the dim light which filtered through the grimy window, Merlin could see that their host was still in his dressing gown and pyjamas, although it was now almost midday. The brown dressing gown was mottled with a variety of stains on whose origins he preferred not to speculate. “Like your evening attire, Bernie. Who’s your model, Noel Coward or Cole Porter?”

Myerson bared his decaying teeth at the policemen. “Merlin, ain’t it? The dago copper. And your sidekick, what’s his name, Vauxhall Bridge or something? Got a warrant have you? Barging into my property like this. Who do you think you are? You’re no better than Hitler’s Gestapo, you lot.”

“You better watch out, Bernie, or I might have to remember that you’re an enemy alien. Where is it you’re from? Austria, isn’t it? That’s part of Germany now, so I think you might pose a threat to the security of the realm. With your expert photographic skills, you’d be a prime candidate for processing secret documents and the like. I think I’d better get on to the Home Office straight away.”

Myerson stepped away and coughed violently. Dark flecks of spit now added themselves to the other stains on his dressing gown.

“You’d better sit down, Bernie. I wouldn’t care for you to die before we’ve questioned you.” Merlin pulled over a rickety wooden chair from a corner of the shop and pushed Myerson onto it. The chair creaked. Myerson extracted a filthy handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Bridges picked up a glass of what he took to be water from the counter and handed it to Myerson, who drank it down and passed the glass back. Bridges flinched as the gin fumes hit him.

“Hungary!”

“What’s that, Bernie?”

“Hungary is where I’m from, not Austria.”

“But when you came over here – correct me if I’m wrong – thirty years or so ago, wasn’t it all the same thing? The Austro-Hungarian Empire, God rest its soul.”

“Yes, but I’m from the Hungarian bit, not the Austrian bit.”

Merlin stroked his chin. “Sorry, but at times of national emergency, these fine details tend to get lost. To the people who decide these things, I’m afraid, it’s all the same. Austria, Hungary, Germany who cares, best to bang you up for the duration just to be on the safe side.”

Myerson stood up and Merlin pushed him back down. The chair groaned again. “But I’m not a bloody foreigner. I’ve been a British citizen since 1920!”

“I don’t think being a British citizen is going to save someone like Oswald Mosley from the lock-up, so if that’s the case, why should it save a shady old crook like you?”

Myerson sighed with resignation. “What is it you want to know?”

“Any other chairs in this hole, Bernie? There’s a lot of walking in this job and our feet tend to get a little sore.”

Myerson rose and reached behind the counter, producing two chairs as rickety as his own. The policemen seated themselves carefully and Merlin undid his coat buttons. “Still got that nice line in dirty pictures going?”

Wiping his nose with the sleeve of his dressing gown, Myerson leaned down to brush a fly from his slipper. “I still do a little artistic work, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Dirty pictures, Bernie. We almost nicked you for that, didn’t we? But we didn’t. Seeing as you were so helpful about the Sabinis and their gambling rackets.”

Myerson shifted edgily in his chair. “Dunno what you mean.”

“I remember you gave us some very handy information about all those goings on down at Brighton, didn’t you? Helped us to identify some of the culprits in the race-fixing.”

“Just gave you a bit of background colour, that’s all I did. Don’t know why you’re going on about it so.”

“Very well. Forget the subtlety. We just wanted to remind you that you’ve got some potential enemies out there who might be upset at some of the things the Sergeant and I could tell them about the past.”

Myerson got up again and shuffled over to the counter. He eyed his half-bottle of Gordon’s before picking up the packet of Senior Service cigarettes and Swan Vesta matches next to the bottle. He looked back morosely at the policemen and lit up. “Look, Merlin. I’ve got the message. You’re a wizard and you can do nasty things to me if I don’t answer your questions. Why dontch’a just get on with it and ask away.”

“Morrie Owen. Know him?”

Myerson sucked intently on his cigarette. “Yeh, I’ve heard of Morrie Owen. Runs a club or two in Soho and the West End.”

“Had any dealings with him?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Bad answer, Bernie.”

“Alright, copper, I might have helped him out a little in the past. You know, he needs girls for his clubs. He’s had a bunch of clubs over the years. Always looking for girls to work at them. When I was more active in the artistic side of my business, occasionally I’d have, er, models, who were looking to earn money and I’d refer them to Morrie.”

Bridges looked up from his notebook. “You mean you supplied prostitutes to Morrie Owen for his clip joints?”

Myerson narrowed his eyes. “I introduced girls to a potential employer, that’s what I did, sonny.”

“Is that all?”

“What?”

“Is that all you do for Owen? Find him girls?”

“I told you, Merlin. I did that in the past when I was still in the artistic business. I ain’t doing that no more.”

“What are your present dealings with Owen?”

“How do you mean?”

“Come on. We know you have something going with him.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“We know that Morrie’s sidekick Jimmy Reardon has been to see you. What did you give him?”

Myerson squirmed in his chair and spat violently on the floor. “Maybe Morrie has been returning a favour and sending girls to you as models. Perhaps you’ve revived your artistic endeavours. Is that what you’ve been up to and Jimmy’s been coming round to pick up the pictures?”

Myerson leaned from his chair to reach for the gin bottle on the counter. He took a long swig and wiped his mouth on his arm. “And what if I have? What’s it to you?”

“What it is to us, Bernie, is that there have been a couple of murders, one of Morrie’s nephew and one of a girl who we know visited Morrie’s club. We need to know what Owen is up to so we can see if he’s involved somehow. I’m not going to book you for producing pornography, provided you cooperate with us. But we need to know what you gave Reardon. If it’s irrelevant to what we’re investigating, we’ll move on to our next line of enquiry. Alright?”

“Well, what if I have been taking a few pictures for Morrie? Can’t see how that’s got anything to do with any murders or anything.”

“Let us be the judge of that. Got any examples of what you’ve been doing for him?”

“Obviously I ain’t got what I gave Jimmy the other night.”

“No negatives, Bernie? Come on.”

“I give him everything I had. Honest.”

“You won’t mind us having a look in your studio, if that’s what you call it, will you?”

Myerson hugged the gin bottle to him. “Dontch’a need a warrant for that sort of thing?”

Merlin shook his head at Bridges and laughed. “Do you really want to get up my nose by asking me to get a warrant?”