Princes Gate (21 page)

A sea of hands rose above the terraces as the ball thudded into the back of the net. Jack Stewart calmly lit a John Player to replace the one he was grinding into the concrete beneath. The half-time whistle blew.

“Sure you don’t want a smoke?”

“You know I’m trying to cut down.”

Stewart slapped Merlin hard on the shoulder.

“Come on, Frank. What’s life without fags, beer and women? That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? You’re already doing without one of the three. If you give up another there’ll only be beer. I suppose there’s football as well, but this is the first game you’ve been to in ages, and I don’t think there’ll be much more football to watch until we’ve got hold of old Adolf and shoved his head up his backside.”

Merlin laughed. “That’ll be hard I think. He must have one of the tightest arses in Europe. You can see that by the way he minces around on the newsreels with that permanently constipated expression.” He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. The relative mildness of the morning seemed to have disappeared, or maybe it was just the wind rattling through the draughty nooks and crannies of Stamford Bridge that was making him shiver.

“Good goal that last one, Jack? Chelsea played much better in the last fifteen minutes of the half.”

Stewart stamped his feet on the ground and took a deep puff of his newly-lit cigarette. “I suppose they did a wee bit better. But they need to keep it up.”

The two men fell silent and enjoyed listening to the banter of the crowd. Merlin had sent Bridges off to Iris for the rest of the weekend, telling him he deserved the break. They had agreed to go around to the Ambassador’s residence first thing on Monday to tidy things up with Kathleen Donovan. Merlin felt he needed a little time to think. When he’d got back home after midday, he’d found a message. Chelsea were playing Fulham at home and Stewart would be in The Dog and Fox, round the corner from the Stamford Bridge ground, at half past one. He’d decided to forget work for a few hours. A break from the task in hand and a cleared mind usually made him think better. For the first half-hour of the game Merlin thought he’d regret his decision, as Fulham ran Chelsea ragged, but a late first-half goal offered the prospect of a good fight-back in the second half.

“I went to your nightclub, Jack. Quite a useful visit it was too.”

“Glad to be of assistance to the constabulary. Meet any nice girls there?”

“Yes. Well, I met one girl who was quite helpful.”

Stewart slipped down onto the lower step of the terrace, as a man behind him lost his balance under the weight of the child he was supporting on his shoulders.

“Sorry about that, mate. Come on, Bobby, give your old dad a bit of a rest. I’ll put you back up there when the second half starts. He’s getting a bit too big for me.”

“Don’t worry, pal.” Stewart climbed back to his position and blew on his hands. “That’s good if you found someone helpful.”

“Pretty little piece she was. Speaking of pieces, that’s what I’ve got to do. Piece a lot of loose ends together. The thing is – ” His voice was drowned as the crowd roared its welcome to the teams retaking the field. Chelsea kicked-off and immediately launched a move which resulted in a headed goal by their thickset, young centre-forward. Stewart jumped up and down and hugged his friend and the ebb and flow of an exciting game again pushed Joan and Johnny out of Merlin’s thoughts for a while.

In The Dog and Fox the game, which had finally ended in a 3-3 draw, had been fully dissected and a few pints had been sunk. The bar was heaving and they were crushed against a wall at the corner of the bar.

Stewart had ordered another round of drinks, which was taking a long time to arrive. “I’m seeing that Polish girl tonight. You know, Sonia.”

“She who works at The Blue Angel? Why are you doing that?”

“Oh, well. I bumped into her yesterday near the station. She’s a gorgeous looking girl, you know. We had a cup of tea and she was flashing a lovely smile at me. I thought I might give her the benefit of the doubt.”

Merlin ran a finger around the rim of his empty glass. “That’s very good of you, and what exactly does this ‘benefit of the doubt’ involve?”

“In some of these places, girls might just work for tips, you know. Not every girl in these places sleeps with their customers, do they?”

“I don’t know. You’re the man of the world, aren’t you? All I can say from my little experience of the club is that the girl who was entertaining me was all over me about going back to my place. Her supposed name wasn’t Sonia, mind you, nor was she Polish, so you might be right there, in giving her the benefit of the doubt, I mean.”

“Very droll. Anyway, I’m taking her out to dinner and I’ll ask her what the situation is.”

“And you’ll believe what she says?”

Stewart swirled the dregs of beer around in his glass. “I’ll see. I think I’m a good judge of women, don’t you?”

“I’ll reserve judgement on that. However, it does occur to me that I need some corroboration of what my girl said, so it would be useful if she could answer some questions for me. I’d like to show her my photo of Joan Harris. And one of my suspicious characters from the Embassy was at the club. She might know him and have some information on him.”

Stewart grimaced. “Come on, Frank. That’s not going to do me any good, is it? Taking the girl out with my friend the copper. ‘Yes dear, we’ll order shortly but first the policeman here would like to cross-examine you about your nightclub career.’ Why don’t you just go around to the club and pull some other girls?”

“I’m sure they’ll all have been warned by now to keep their traps shut. Perhaps, away from the club your friend might help. Look, don’t worry, I won’t ruin your night out. Do you know where she lives?”

“Yes, I’m picking her up there tonight.”

“Nothing to stop me visiting her on another occasion to ask some gentle questions, is there?”

“No, I suppose not, assuming I give you the address but… watch out!”

Merlin narrowly avoided a drunken supporter lurching towards him and spilling beer everywhere. He wiped his arm with a handkerchief.

“Thanks. Look I promise I won’t do anything over the weekend. Just let me have it and I’ll drop by some time next week. No need for her to know that you and I are in any way connected. I’ll just say we got a tip-off she worked at The Blue Angel.”

“Alright. I’ll probably be off her by next week anyway. It’s just off Baker Street. Got something to write with?”

The Count looked a little uncomfortable in his bright brown checked golfing attire, although his outfit was less jarring to the eye than the bright green plus-fours sported by Arthur Norton. Golf was little played in Italy but the Count had made a good fist of learning the basics since his arrival in England and had held his own with Norton who, although a regular player, was not much good. Norton’s hangover affected him on the front nine, where he had played poorly, but he had recovered enough on the back nine to beat the Count on the eighteenth.

The wood fire in the drawing room of Norton’s apartment crackled as he handed the Count a dry martini and poured out a dry sherry for Freddie Douglas. He poured a large slug of bourbon for himself out of an antique crystal decanter he had paid a fortune for a few days before at Mappin & Webb’s. “Your health, gentlemen.”

His guests raised their glasses as Douglas joined the Count on the couch by the fire. Norton sat in his window seat and stretched his legs.

“How was your game?”

The Count held his arms out towards the fire. “It was freezing, wasn’t it, Arthur? I thought my hands and feet would fall off through frostbite.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad. I actually thought it was a little milder than it has been.”

“For you, a sturdy New Englander, maybe it was a little milder, but I am from the Mediterranean. I can tell you, Freddie, it was freezing.”

Douglas smiled sympathetically. “May I ask who won?”

“Arthur just ‘pipped me at the post’, is that how you say it? He won at the last hole.”

Norton attempted a modest smile. “I’m sure the Count will beat me if we play in the summer.”

“We shall see. Now, gentlemen…” The Count withdrew an envelope from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table. “Shall we discuss our little bit of business?”

Jimmy Reardon shivered behind the wheel as his boss carefully levered himself out of the car. The light was rapidly fading. “You want a hand?”

“Of course I want a hand.”

He moved around from the driver’s seat to help Owen out.

“You’re sure no-one followed us?”

“Look, boss, there’s no traffic around today and I drove three times around Berkeley Square to make sure there ain’t no tail. If there is one they’re bloody invisible!”

“Alright, alright. Give me a pull, will you?”

Reardon’s ears swayed back and forth as he tugged hard to extract Owen’s rear-end from the car seat. Owen was wearing a navy overcoat whose buttons were straining at the leash. “What number does that Yankee bastard live in again?”

“Number 6, boss.”

“Well go on then, open the door.”

Reardon did as he was told. The two men stood in the lobby of a smart new residential block around the corner from the Dorchester Hotel. A young porter looked expectantly at them from behind a marble desk.

“Here to see Mr Norton, sonny. Important delivery for him. No need to call him.” Owen slipped half a crown across the desk. “He’ll enjoy the surprise.”

As they crossed the lobby, a bell rang and the lift door on their right slowly opened. Freddie Douglas and Count Giambelli were engrossed in conversation as they moved towards the main door and didn’t notice the other two men.

The sour expression which Owen habitually maintained in the presence of Reardon and his other employees was transformed into the warm and attentive one he presented to his customers. Reardon never ceased to be amazed at the rapidity and comprehensiveness of the change – Spencer Tracy in that Jekyll and Hyde film had nothing on Morrie Owen. “Hello Mr Douglas, sir. And how are you today?”

Douglas stared with surprise. “Ah, Owen. How are you? What are you…”

“Just here to see Mr Norton on a small matter of business, sir. And this would be the Italian gentleman who was in your party the other evening. Did you enjoy yourself, sir?”

Giambelli looked in confusion at Douglas.

“Mr Owen, Count, the proprietor of the nightclub we visited the other night.”

“Ah, si. Thank you. Very nice. Very nice.”

“Well, a pleasure to see you, Owen, but we must be off. Goodbye.” Glancing disdainfully at Reardon, Douglas led the Italian out through the door.

In the blink of an eye, Owen’s features metamorphosed. “Stuck-up sod. Well, we know all about Mr Douglas, don’t we, Jimmy?” Owen tapped his nose and leered as they stepped into the lift. With difficulty, Reardon reached round his boss and pressed the button for the second floor.

“Wait outside for me, Jimmy. If I call for you, come in. If I don’t and I’m not out in half-an-hour, come and get me.”

The two men squeezed out of the lift and Reardon sat in a chair placed in an alcove on the left. He took a ragged copy of Tit-Bits from his coat pocket and started to read. At Number 6 the door opened to reveal Arthur Norton, mouth open in surprise. “Hey. Owen. What the hell are you doing here?”