Princes Gate (26 page)

He banged on the small black door next to the window, shuffling his feet impatiently until he heard the sound of bolts being unfastened. A crack of light spilled out over the cobbled pavement.

“Whaddya want? Who is it?”

“It’s me – Jimmy. Morrie sent me round to pick up that stuff. Come on. I almost broke my neck to get here, so now I’m here, let me in.”

The door opened slowly and a head appeared. It was covered with a thick thatch of dark black hair parted down the middle. Two small, black eyes peered out over a bulbous, red nose and a chin thick with grey stubble. “Ah, it’s you. Sorry.” Bernie Myerson’s rasping voice still clearly revealed his Middle European origins but the half a lifetime spent in London had also made its mark.

He opened the door wide and beckoned Reardon in. “I was just having a late lunch. Want some?”

The shop was dark and poky. A bulb at the far end lit a shop counter on which sat a half-empty bottle of Bell’s Whisky, a glass and a plate of bread and cheese. On a wall was a poster advertising the virtues of a brand of paintbrushes against a backdrop of snow-topped mountains and woodland. Opposite were dusty shelves containing a variety of unmarked boxes.

Myerson led his guest to a tall stool at the counter. “Sorry to hear about Johnny. Such a nice young man. And talented too. Who could have done such a thing?” The two men shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders. “Do you want anything? Piece of cheese? Glass of whisky?” Myerson went behind the counter and poured himself a shot. “To Johnny. God rest him.” He raised the glass and downed it. “I’m sure I’ve got another glass somewhere.” He rummaged beneath him and produced another tumbler. “Eh, voilà. Fancy a bit of rat poison, my old friend, yes?”

A large measure was poured and as Reardon drank, he examined the cheese and noticed several green spots around the edges. “I’ll pass on the cheese. I had a pie at the club before I left.”

Myerson refilled his own glass and gulped it down again. Reardon glanced around at the empty shelves and shabby surroundings. “Business booming, I see.”

Myerson took a large bite out of the slab of cheese and chewed it noisily. “The shop? The shop don’t matter. You know that. I’ve got better ways of making money.”

“Have you got the latest stuff?”

Myerson nodded as he was overcome by a coughing fit which he brought under control with another shot.

“Shouldn’t you go a little easier on that stuff, Bernie?”

“It’s like medicine to me, Jimmy, the booze. Don’t do me any harm.”

“If you say so. Where is the stuff then?” Reardon set his empty glass down.

“I was up till late finishing it off. Only got to bed at three. Another nice piece of work if I say so myself. I’ve got it downstairs. Hang on a tick.” Myerson disappeared through a shabby brown curtain. Reardon heard his shoes clattering down the stairs and then heard him wheezing and coughing as he climbed back up. He re-emerged with a large brown envelope in his hand.

“Got the money?”

Reardon drew a bunch of shiny white fivers from his coat. Myerson’s eyes lit up as he reached out. “Uh, uh.” Reardon held the money above him.

“I’ll check first, thank you.”

“Be my guest.”

Reardon opened the envelope, pulled out the contents and, after a quick glance, put them back in. “Looks satisfactory.”

“Good. So give me my money.”

The notes were placed in Myerson’s clammy hand. “If I were you, Bernie, I wouldn’t splash it all out on the booze. You’re looking very pasty. All this time in the dark can’t be good for you. Take a trip into the country. Get a bit of fresh air.”

Myerson carefully counted the money. “It’s very good of you to worry about my health but you’re looking pretty pasty yourself. All that time in Morrie’s dingy club can’t be so good for you either. Perhaps we can make up a twosome. Have a weekend by the sea, somewhere. How about it? Brighton, Eastbourne, Margate?”

Reardon rose from his stool and smiled thinly. “Very funny. You take care of yourself. Morrie appreciates your talents, Bernie. I don’t think he’d care to have to find someone else because your liver exploded, that’s all.”

“I’ll do my best not to peg out. Wouldn’t want Fat Morrie to be put out in any way, would I?”

“I’ll probably be back for that other stuff tomorrow, alright?”

“It’ll be here, don’t worry.” A dog barked in the distance as Myerson showed his visitor out.

Merlin had been back in his office for an hour, mulling over the meeting with Douglas. He’d met quite a few toffee-nosed twerps in his time but he thought Douglas took the prize. The office, which was normally under-heated, seemed stuffy today for some reason and he was struggling to open one of the windows.

“Can I help you with that?”

Merlin gave one last heave to the window and it juddered open a few inches. “No thanks, Sergeant. Now off you go and get the box containing Joan Harris’ stuff from the basement.”

As the door closed, Merlin fell back wearily into his chair, swung his legs up onto the desk and threw a couple of Fishermen’s Friends between his lips. Whatever work had been going on at the top of County Hall had stopped. If new gun emplacements had been installed he couldn’t see them from his position. Perhaps the camouflaging techniques employed by Civil Defence were improving at last.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds before reaching for his notes of the previous day. He took up a pen and added Freddie Douglas to his list of names. It was obvious that Arthur Norton had used his influence to get Douglas to complain to the Assistant Commissioner. Although he was a strange kind of non-career diplomat, he was still a diplomat and would naturally know people like Douglas. The coincidences were, however, piling up – Norton knew the two victims, Norton was a regular customer at Morrie’s club, Norton knew Douglas who worked in the same office as Fraser who, while a suspect in a completely unrelated case, knew Norton and was a customer at Owen’s club. It was Owen’s club that Joan Harris had visited with Norton and it was for Morrie Owen that Morgan had worked before Owen got him the job with the Ambassador.

The conversation with Douglas replayed in his mind. He had been warned that ‘a little plod’ like him could have little understanding of ‘our national security’. He couldn’t see how upsetting an associate of the Ambassador was likely to have any negative impact on America’s possible entrance into the war. The Ambassador was doing everything he could to keep America out of the war anyway. Was there something else? Was there some other issue of national security involved which Douglas couldn’t spell out?

A disturbance in the corridor alerted him to the return of Bridges who entered, breathing heavily and perspiring, carrying a large cardboard box with the help of a young constable. The box landed heavily on the flooring in front of Merlin’s desk.

“Thanks, Tommy.” Bridges paused for breath. “You’ve been a great help.”

The young man smiled nervously at Merlin as he went out of the door.

“You need to take a bit more exercise, Sergeant.”

“Excuse me, sir. I am perfectly fit. We had to lug that box up five flights of stairs. I’d challenge anyone to do that without getting a bit puffed.”

“The constable seemed to manage it.”

“Tommy’s a cross-country runner. Bit of a champion in Surrey he is.”

“Is he now? Never mind. Let’s see what we’ve got. The scientists didn’t find much when they dusted for prints, as I recall?

“They did find a few partial prints, apart from Miss Harris’ own prints that is. There’s a list of what was found right here.”

“Partials won’t be much use to us unless we find a suspect.”

The Sergeant’s eyes skimmed down the forensic report. “Says here that they aren’t very clear and it will be difficult to prove a match.”

“We’ll just have to rely on old-fashioned detective work then. Let’s get everything out. Is this the only box?”

“I left the box with her clothing downstairs.”

“I see. We’ll have a look at that later, although I think the main point of interest there is that some of it was very smart – a friend must have bought her some expensive outfits or given her the money to get them.” Moments later, Merlin stood gazing sadly at the pile of objects set out on the floor, the pathetic remnants of a short life. There were the china cats and dogs which had been on her mantelpiece and the little clock which had been next to the modest book collection. Merlin reached over Joan’s collection of toiletries to pick up her edition of
Huckleberry Finn
.

“Here’s the inscription I mentioned to you.”

“Beg pardon, sir. This is a bit of a bugger.”

The Sergeant was struggling with the lock mechanism of a small black box which Merlin didn’t recall seeing before.

“It’s a book inscription to J, presumably Joan – it says ‘To J. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Good luck with everything. Your friend J’.”

Suddenly the black box snapped open and something shiny spilled out on to the carpet. Bridges picked it up and whistled as it caught the light – a delicate gold necklace on which hung a small pendant encasing a single pearl.

Merlin took it and held it up to the light. “I’m not an expert but I’d say this was a superior piece of workmanship. There’s some fine design work here around the edge of the pendant. These swirling floral designs are quite special, I think. Quite unusual. No name on the box, I suppose?”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t be impossible to track down where this came from, given its quality and singular nature.”

“No, sir.”

Merlin carefully placed the necklace back in its box and sifted through various other unilluminating objects before coming at last to a small package of papers, wrapped in green ribbon.

There were four letters, a couple of bills, a theatre ticket stub and an advertisement for a book sale cut out from a newspaper. The ticket stub was for the performance of a revue at the St James’ Theatre dated Friday November 19
^th
1939. “Jack Buchanan. One of your favourites, Sergeant.” Merlin turned to the advertisement. “‘A Hatchards sale. Classics at bargain prices’. Determined to improve herself, wasn’t she?”

One of the bills was from a Dr Jones. Dated January 3
^rd
1940, it referred to services rendered by way of consultation and tests and was for the sum of five shillings and six pence. There was a signature at the bottom confirming receipt. The other was from the Grand Hotel, Brighton. It covered the cost of a double room for the night of Saturday 18
^th
November 1939. The bill listed the room charge and various meals and drinks consumed. It was charged to a Mr and Mrs Brown. “Looks to me like she had a wonderful weekend. Theatre on Friday night followed by a champagne-filled weekend at Brighton’s best hotel. Knocked someone back thirty quid.”

“Wonder why she kept the bill?”

“A souvenir? The theatre ticket likewise?”

The first of the letters wasn’t dated but the envelope was postmarked December 4
^th
. The scrawl was not easily decipherable nor was the signature at the bottom. At first he thought that the signature was Joseph. On second thoughts, he thought it might be Janet. “What do you think?”

Bridges turned the letter sideways. “Looks more like Jumbo to me.”

“Thank you. Most helpful. I don’t think that the author of this scrawl was the author of the
Huckleberry Finn
inscription.” He made a second attempt at reading the letter. “I think it’s probably from a sister or brother – just a family letter updating Joan with developments in Gloucestershire.”

The next letter was Joan’s original letter of appointment from the Embassy. The terms and conditions warned that only the highest standards of behaviour would be acceptable in her employment. It was signed by Miss Edgar.

The third letter was in an unstamped plain envelope addressed simply to “Joan”. Inside was a short undated note on plain notepaper. Merlin read it out: “‘Will see you in Piccadilly (next to Eros) at 6pm. Looking forward to a wonderful time. J x’.”

There was no envelope for the final letter which was crumpled and torn. Most of the top half was missing. “I think the signature’s the same as on the doctor’s receipt, Sergeant. And what’s this – ‘nancy test – negative’?” Merlin held the letter up to the light. “Looks like the bill for five and six was for a pregnancy test from this Dr Jones – a test that proved negative.” He passed the letter to Bridges.

“Perhaps this was the letter Miss Foster saw her crying over?”

“You’d think a letter like this to an unmarried girl would be a source of relief rather than unhappiness.” Merlin closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “But what if… what if Miss Harris had set her heart on someone – ‘J’ perhaps – and hoped she was pregnant as one way to catch and secure him?”

Bridges shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe.”

Merlin rose slowly and stiffly to his feet. “We have to find out who ‘J’ is. I think this necklace might be our best bet. You’ll need to check out all the major jewellers. And we must get on and identify this Dr Jones. There’s no address on the invoice, which isn’t very helpful. And we need to check out the hotel in Brighton.” Merlin sucked in his breath, then exhaled slowly. “I wish to God we had some extra hands. We also need to get some background on Morrie Owen from Vice, assuming they’ve got any. We need to check out who owns the mews house where Johnny took Kathleen, and I’d like to put a tail on Owen and Norton. Then there’s all the other stuff I’m meant to be keeping an eye on.”