Princes Gate (35 page)

The chemist led the way behind the counter and through the door into a small living room. A tattered, green lamp cast a dull glow over a worn, brown three-piece suite. Bridges shivered as he sat down in an armchair facing a dying coal fire. Still shaking his head, the chemist sat down opposite him.

“Am I right in thinking that I am speaking to Mr Frederick Braithwaite?” Bridges had seen the name above the shop door.

“You are.”

“Had this shop for long, have you?”

Braithwaite picked nervously at his fingernails. “Since 1935.”

“Business good?”

“Not so bad.”

“I thought you said that things were difficult with the war and so on.”

Braithwaite flicked part of a nail into the fire. “Quite a few of my local customers skipped to the country when war was declared. Knocked business a bit but most of them seem to be coming back now seeing as how Hitler hasn’t done anything yet, and they’ve got fed up of life in the sticks.”

“So things are picking up?”

“A little – but look, I can’t think that the business prospects of a small chemist in Soho are of interest to you. Perhaps you can get to the point of whatever it is you’re here for.”

“Patience, Mr Braithwaite. I am interested because I was wondering whether poor trading conditions had tempted you to open up any new lines of business to supplement the income from your shop?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m a chemist, that’s what I do.”

“Do you know a Mr Jimmy Reardon?” Bridges thought he detected a nervous flicker of the eyes. “Reardon? I think he’s a customer. Yes, Mr Reardon. Works locally at one of the clubs.”

“And do you know his boss, Morrie Owen?”

“I know Mr Owen. Not a very well man, you know. Carrying all that weight, what do you expect?”

“May I ask you what products you have provided to Mr Reardon and Mr Owen?”

“I can’t tell you that. Professional etiquette you know. These are confidential matters.” Braithwaite rose and walked to the fireplace, where he picked up a poker and daintily riddled the fire.

“Come on. It’s not like you’re their doctor, is it?”

Having induced no discernible increase in heat, the chemist returned to his chair. “Very well – if you insist. Normal run of the mill, off-the-shelf stuff and occasional prescriptions – Mr Owen has an asthmatic condition, amongst other things.”

“Does Mr Owen pick up his prescriptions himself?”

“No. He always sends Reardon.”

“If Reardon always picks up, how have you met Owen?” A small carriage clock, which was the only adornment to the mantelpiece above the fire, pinged to indicate the half-hour. “On occasion, I’ve had to drop medicine off at his club round the corner.”

“So you’ve been to The Blue Angel?” Braithwaite nodded. “Have you ever supplied illicit drugs to Reardon or Owen?”

“What do you mean, illicit drugs?”

“You know. Cocaine, opium, that sort of thing.”

The chemist reddened. “Certainly not. How can you suggest such a thing. I never…” They heard a rattling noise.

“The front door. It might be an emergency. I’d better go and see who it is.” As Braithwaite got to his feet, a well-dressed and heavily made-up middle-aged woman came through the door. Pink lipstick delineated a small aperture of a mouth, which began to move rapidly. “What on earth is going on, Fred? Why is the shop closed at this time of the day? And who is this? Lucky I had my key on me or I might have been stuck outside in the cold forever while you gassed here to your mate. And why haven’t you kept the fire up? It’s like the Arctic in here. Come along. Get your friend out and open the shop up. You haven’t been having a little tipple in here, have you? You’ll be in trouble if you have, believe me.”

Mrs Braithwaite briefly paused for breath and examined Bridges more closely. “And who are you?”

“This is Sergeant Bridges, dear. He’s a police officer come to ask a few questions.”

Mrs Braithwaite’s hands went to her mouth and then fluttered theatrically in the air. “A police officer? My God! I told you not to…” She collapsed into a chair gasping for breath.

“Now, dear, the policeman will soon…”

Tears began to run down the thick powder on Mrs Braithwaite’s cheeks. Her breathing became more steady. She tried to say something but couldn’t get the words out.

“I’ll go and get you your pills, dear. Sergeant, my wife has a condition. She’ll be alright once she has her medication but I’ll have to tuck her up in bed. You’ve asked your questions and I’ve given my answers. Perhaps you could now leave us in peace.

“Alright, sir. But I’ll be back.”

Merlin pulled up at the restaurant and found Jack Stewart sheltering under an awning. It had started to bucket down again. “Nice weather for it, eh, Frank? Be careful you don’t ruin your nice new hat.”

“Nice weather for what? Answers let’s hope, amigo.”

“Just so. At any rate, contrary to my expectations, Ernesto was more than willing to be of assistance when I telephoned him but insisted on speaking to you in person.”

“Good.” A heavy gust of rain blew in their faces. Water trickled down Merlin’s neck. “Can we get inside? I don’t want to drown before I find out who your waiter saw.”

The men entered a brightly-lit lobby. Beyond glass doors they could see that the restaurant was filling up. “Look, Frank.” Stewart lowered his voice. “I think Ernesto is less reluctant than I expected to talk to you because he knows there’s a good chance that Mussolini will side with Hitler in the war. No doubt if that happens we’ll start interning Italian nationals. He’s been in England for over ten years, tells me he hates the fascists and wants to bank some credit for being helpful to the authorities.”

Merlin removed his hat and shook it. “I don’t care about his reasons as long as I leave here knowing who was dining out with Joan Harris that night.”

“Here he is.” A small, neat, smiling man in tails approached. He had a receding hairline from which a glossy layer of jet black hair proceeded to a point halfway down his neck. “Mr Stewart. And this must be your friend from Scotland Yard. Ernesto Santangeli, sir, at your service.”

“Pleased to meet you. I understand from Mr Stewart that you can help me with some enquiries I am making?”

“Yes, signor. Please come with me.” Ernesto spoke sharply in Italian to a passing waiter before leading the way to his office in a corridor off the lobby. “My apologies, gentlemen. It is a little cramped in here, but unfortunately this is the only quiet place where we can talk.”

The men seated themselves around a small desk. “Not a problem, sir. I’m sure you’re very busy so let’s get straight to the point. As Mr Stewart has no doubt told you, I am interested in knowing the identity of one of your customers. He was accompanying an unfortunate girl called Joan Harris who has since been murdered.”

The maitre d’ sighed sympathetically. “Mr Stewart has told me what you are seeking. Normally, of course, I treat matters like this with the discretion that my customers expect. We serve very many influential and wealthy people here, as I am sure you know. However, there can be no room for delicacy in such a tragic case. I have a great respect for the British police, Inspector, so very different from the police of my old homeland. I say ‘old’ homeland, because I am about to become a British citizen. My application should be approved any day now. I wish to be a good British citizen.”

“Please be assured that your good citizenship in assisting us will be noted down for future reference, sir.”

The Italian smiled unctuously. “You are very kind. Very well, I learned from Mr Stewart that the couple you are interested in dined here on the same night as Mr Stewart and one of his lady friends. So I check for Mr Stewart’s reservations, but not the recent ones, those before Christmas, is that right?”

Merlin nodded and leaned forward.

“I found that Mr Stewart dined here on Tuesday November 14
^th
. And I understand from Mr Stewart that you are looking for an American gentleman, someone from New England?”

“Yes.”

“Quaglino’s has many American customers, of course, but I did recognise the name of one of the regular customers who had a table for two on that same night. A customer who comes from Boston.”

“And the name?”

“The name, Inspector, is that of a very powerfully-connected man. I hope that there will be no repercussions for me and the restaurant if…”

“The name, sir, please.”

Ernesto’s nose twitched as he straightened his cuffs. “The customer was a Mr Joseph Kennedy.”
“I was right then. The American Ambassador.”

Ernesto shook his head.

“No, Inspector, not the American Ambassador. He has dined here many times, but no, not him. No, his son, Joseph Kennedy; his eldest son, he has the same name. A very attractive young man. It was he who dined here that night, I presume with this unfortunate Miss Harris of yours.”

A barrage balloon which had somehow come adrift from its moorings sailed away past his window towards the City. The rain had finally cleared over Scotland Yard to reveal a pale, watery sun sinking slowly behind the Houses of Parliament. Merlin heard the door open behind him.

“I finally got that call from Brighton, sir. Not much of a description but definitely a young man. Tall and handsome according to one of the maids, and an American accent according to the concierge.”

“Have we got a photograph of the younger Mr Kennedy yet?”

“Got one coming over from the Press Association any minute now.”

He sat down and finished his cold cup of tea. “And the negatives?”

“They’re being brought over from the lab by motorcycle tonight.”

“What’s the story on Braithwaite?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s trading drugs to Owen and Reardon, though he denies if of course. My interview was cut short but I spoke to a couple of his neighbours and apparently a year ago or so he was in dire financial straits. Tried to tap them for a loan, unsuccessfully, and then talked of selling up or going bankrupt. In the next few months his situation changed. His wife had some nice new outfits, he bought a car and so on. Claimed to the neighbours that he’d come into an inheritance but they didn’t buy it. They noticed Reardon, and various other unsavoury characters who’d not been around before, visiting the pharmacy.”

“So you think Owen bailed him out in return for a direct supply of products?”

“I do.”

“Well, we’ll have to see what we can make of that. We should pull the husband and wife in when we get a chance. Anything from the others yet?”

“Robinson had a problem. Dr Jones was away on a call when she went round with the sketch artist. She was going to try and see him this afternoon. There’s no sign of Cole. I presume he is still trawling through the files at Companies House.”

Merlin eased himself out of his chair, briefly returned Dr Gachet’s sullen stare, then glanced meaningfully up at the ceiling. Bridges caught his drift and reached to open the door.

“My God, Frank. The Ambassador’s son? You’re surely not suggesting…?”

The A.C. irritatedly set down the small can with which he was watering the three pots of cardinal red geraniums which his wife had insisted he transfer from the greenhouse at home in Richmond to his office earlier in the week ‘to make the place more welcoming for Claire.’ He hated geraniums.