Stalin's Gold (25 page)

“Well, at last we have found out about the Grand Duchy company. An unregistered foreign company, I suppose. Why on earth do you think de Souza was so cagey about the amulet, sir?”

“Greed, Sergeant. He had the amulet, unknown to us, when I told him Kilinski was dead. He probably thought he might be able to get away with pocketing it for himself. Then, when I pursued further, he got cold feet.” Merlin could feel the adrenalin beginning to flow as it always did when things began to move and come together in a case. Robinson returned, he tidied the papers on his desk and cleared his throat.

“I think we can summarise the facts regarding Kilinski as follows –

One – He was in possession of an ancient Aztec gold amulet and a gold ingot stamped with the arms or design of the Stanislawicki family of Poland.

Two – The gold bar is part of, yes, let’s give it the word, a treasure owned or controlled by Count Tarkowski, a member of the Stanislawicki family, some of which is deposited at the Polish Commonwealth Bank and some of which is apparently stashed in his house, having previously been kept in the now ruined offices of his Grand Duchy and Oriental Trading company.

Three – Kilinski, an apparently loyal and well-regarded RAF pilot, having made several visits to London to make enquiries, was provoked to desert the service, for desert he certainly did, in pursuit of a mission to track down the treasure or the owner or owners of that treasure, or someone connected with such owners.

Four – Tarkowski has been unforthcoming to us about his contact with Kilinski and appears to have something to hide.

Five – A wealthy Russian émigré called Voronov somehow features in the mix as Kilinski met up with him recently. The importance of this apparently heated meeting is not clear.

Six – Kilinski’s body was found not far from Tarkowski’s business premises. Whatever Kilinski was seeking may have led someone to murder him at some time in the early part of last week. Perhaps Kilinski wanted some or all of the treasure for himself. Perhaps he had information with which he hoped to blackmail the owner of the gold. Then again perhaps someone known to us or unknown had a grudge against him unrelated to the gold. Perhaps… well, there are several perhapses.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Seven, sir, that, as Robinson pointed out, Kilinski was staying somewhere other than on the streets and that he had a change of clothes.”

“Quite so, Sergeant. Kilinski was missing, pursuing his vendetta or whatever it was for a week or so. He either stayed at a hotel or rented room or with a friend. We should check that out. But the first task for us, as I originally calculated, is to have another word with the Count. He might be able to open everything up for us, if we can get him to talk.”

“What about Voronov, sir?”

“Have a word with Five, Sergeant.”

“Five, sir?”

“That’s MI5, Constable. They might have something on a rich Russian émigré like him.”

“Should I—?”

“If you can dig anything up on your own, Constable, go ahead. Sergeant, make the call to Five and then let’s track down Tarkowski.”

* * *

Voronov put down the telephone. Wertheim was proving to be a useful addition to his payroll. More useful anyway than that hot-headed young Pole. If the police were closing in on Tarkowski, he had better move quickly if he was going to get his hands on any of the gold. The Countess had told him that all of the gold was at the Commonwealth Bank. He had suspected this was a lie and now, thanks to Wertheim, he knew it. What a fool Tarkowski was to keep what could well be a large portion of it in his house. However solid the cellar or attic or wherever it was that he had stored it, it would not keep Voronov out. He would have to move quickly. Maksim would have to track down Trubetskoi. Perhaps his looting gang could be put to a new use. Tonight might be too soon to organise everything, but he could aim at tomorrow.

“Maksim, where the hell are you?”

* * *

Bridges pulled the car to a halt outside the Polish embassy in Portland Place. The policemen understood that Tarkowski normally worked out of the embassy building on Mondays. It was raining heavily and they hurried through the front door. They presented their credentials, a phone call was made and they were ushered by an elderly porter through the austere entrance hall, along a long corridor and into an office at the back of the building. Merlin caught a glimpse of the BBC head office out of one of the windows. A pretty, red-headed girl sat at a desk to the left of a large door beyond which, Merlin assumed, was Tarkowski’s inner sanctum. “Good morning, gentlemen. You are the policemen?”

The two men nodded and introduced themselves.

“I’m afraid the Count hasn’t arrived yet. I don’t know what’s happened. He’s normally here by now.”

“We’ll just wait here, if you don’t mind, miss.” The secretary gave Bridges a twinkling smile. “Please, go ahead. It is nice to have some handsome, male company.” Bridges blushed as the two men sat down on a scuffed leather sofa by the window. They declined the offer of tea and the secretary went back to her work and began clattering away on the typewriter.

“Excuse me, Miss…”

“Wajda. Cristina Wajda, Chief Inspector.”

“I was just wondering. We are investigating the murder of a fellow countryman of yours.”

“Oh dear.”

“A Polish pilot called Kilinski. He met the Count at his home, we understand. It just occurred to me that he might have tried to see the Count here and that you might have met him?”

The secretary considered, her finger touching her pouting lips in a rather attractive pose, or so Merlin thought. She looked up and nodded. “I did meet him. He came when the Count was out once. You say he is dead, poor man. A skinny fellow, a strange face but in a funny way not bad-looking. Very intense eyes. I remember he had a girl with him.”

“A girl?”

“I couldn’t get rid of him. He said he was going to wait until the Count came and sat where you are sitting for twenty minutes or so. Then a girl – well, I say a girl, but I know her – she came and said she wasn’t going to wait for him any longer. He got in a bit of a temper, she stomped away down the corridor and he followed her. That’s the last I saw of him.”

“You say you know this girl?”

Cristina examined her varnished fingernails carefully for a moment then looked back at Merlin. “She’s a waitress at a Polish restaurant in Kensington.”

“You know her name?”

“Sophie Radzinski. She’s from Gdansk like me. Poor Sophie. I presume she was sweet on this flyer. Does she know he’s dead?”

“Probably not. I don’t know about you, Sergeant, but I’m getting a bit peckish. We might end up waiting for Tarkowski all day. I’m quite partial to Polish food these days. And you can wipe that knowing smirk off your face right now. Let’s go and get a spot of lunch at this place. Where exactly is it, Miss Wajda?”

* * *

A small terrier was greedily eating some pork scratchings the pub landlady had tipped into a bowl by the door as the two men made their entrance. A few workmen stood by the bar, but otherwise the place was empty.

“We shouldn’t really be doing this, should we, Mr Stewart?”

“A spot of spirits in the blood won’t go amiss, my friend.”

Jack Stewart had dragged Evans out of the AFS station for a quick drink in The Surprise. “Go on, get that down your neck.”

Evans had asked for a rum and black and continued to sip it carefully as Stewart knocked back his pint of beer and scotch chaser. Stewart had bought a plate of cheese and onion sandwiches as well and Evans, not having eaten anything since his unfortunate encounter in the park the day before, tucked in heartily.

“Let other poets raise a fracas

Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus,

An’ crabbit names an’ stories wrack us,

An’ grate our lug:

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,

In glass or jug.”

Evans smiled at Stewart in confusion.

“Burns on scotch, Mr Evans. A very fine poet and a very fine drink. As paintings are to you, so poetry, albeit in a more modest sense, is to me. My policeman friend Frank Merlin and I like to have a gentlemanly poetry competition over a drink from time to time. We aim to produce a poetry quotation the other can’t identify. I’m afraid to say that he wins more often than I do.”

“An admirable pastime, if I may say so.” Evans dithered over the last sandwich.

“Go on, man. Help yourself. This Blitz business makes a man hungry and thirsty. I think I’ll get another plate.”

“Fine, sir. When you get back, I just wanted to ask about something that’s worrying me.”

Stewart disappeared to the bar, returning with another round of drinks. “Sandwiches will be a couple of minutes. Fire away then. I hope you’re not going to quiz me about my knowledge of JMW Turner. I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to look at your book yet.”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just some valuation work I’ve been asked to do. There appears to be something fishy…”

Just then, an attractive young woman in a Wren’s uniform entered the pub with a couple of girlfriends in civvies. She immediately spotted Stewart, strode over and banged her handbag on the table. “There you are, Jackie boy, trying to avoid me, are you?” She stamped her feet rather theatrically, dislodging a few locks of frizzy blonde hair from beneath her hat.

Stewart sat back and grinned. “Hell, no, Brenda. Why would I want to avoid you? Don’t you know there’s a war on? I’ve been putting out fires all over London for days. Come and sit down here. Let me remove that pout from your pretty little face.” He pulled Brenda towards him and kissed her on the lips. She pushed him away, but with a broad grin. “Oh, you sweet-talker.”

“What’ll it be then, Bren? Gin and It? My friend Mr Evans and I can’t stay long, but we’ll have the one with you, as long as you behave.”

Evans stood up as the second round of sandwiches arrived. The landlord’s terrier sidled up to him, scratchings finished, assessing his potential as a source of food. “Let me, Mr Stewart. It’s my shout.” Thanks to Trubetskoi’s money, at least he could buy his round these days.

Stewart reached over and pulled Evans back into his seat. “No, no. My girl, my shout. I’ll do it. But what was it you wanted to ask?”

“Oh, forget it. Another time perhaps. I think I’ll be getting back to the station. Wouldn’t want to be a gooseberry.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to be long myself. Just need to put the girl in a holding pattern.” Stewart chuckled and slapped Evans on the back.

“No, no, sir. I’ll get back to the station. See you there.” As he pushed through the door, he could hear the Wren giggling. “Come on, Jackie boy. Get on with it. A girl could die of thirst here.”

* * *

The Polka restaurant was in a side street close to South Kensington Tube. It was not a big place and the walls were covered with a collection of garish abstract paintings, which made the place seem even smaller than it was. As they waited for attention, Merlin counted eight tables of which all but one were occupied. A young man with oily hair burst out of what was obviously the kitchen door, shouting loudly at someone behind him. He strode towards the policemen and brusquely waved an arm in the direction of the one empty table. As they sat down, he slammed two menus and a bowl of bread in front of them, then disappeared back into the kitchen. Strong garlicky meat smells wafted through the air. The other customers all appeared to be paying rapt attention to their food and only one or two looked up to check out the new arrivals.

The kitchen door banged open again to reveal a short, thin, dark-haired girl, who brought the policemen two glasses of water and enquired in a strong Polish accent whether they would like anything else to drink.

“No, thank you, miss. Are you Sophie Radzinski?”

The waitress flushed and squeezed her hands together anxiously. “Yes, that is my name.”

“Do you mind if—?”

The oily-haired man appeared from nowhere and shouted something in Polish at the girl.

“I am sorry, sir. We are very busy. I do not have time to chat.”

Bridges stood up and tapped the young man’s shoulder and displayed his warrant card. “We need to ask a few questions of this young lady, sir.”

“But we are busy, as you see. Cannot this—?”

“Why don’t you do some serving yourself? We are going to ask Miss Radzinski here to sit down for a moment. Just hold your horses and we’ll be as quick as we can.”

The young man reddened and muttered something as he went back into the kitchen from where they heard the sound of clanging pots and pans.

“Thank you, Sergeant. Miss Radzinski, do you know a Polish pilot called Kilinski?”

A shadow passed over Sophie’s face. Her very bright, red lipstick contrasted strikingly with the paleness of her face. Despite the make-up, she looked little more than a girl. “Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it?”