Authors: Mark Ellis
“I’m afraid it has.”
“He is dead, yes? Shot down by those Nazi killers?”
“Dead, yes, but not in the air.”
Sophie shook her head and looked off into the distance. Merlin expected tears and was conscious of how insensitively he had broached the news. “I am sorry if—”
The girl’s eyes bored into him. They had no tears. “Save your apologies, policeman. Death is death. I have lived with death for some time. Another death of someone I loved. There have been so many.”
“Had you known Mr Kilinski long?” Bridges grabbed a bread roll and nibbled at it awkwardly.
“A few months. He was a nice boy.”
“Did you see much of him in the last week or so?”
Sophie sighed and looked out of the restaurant window. A fire engine drove noisily past. “Yes, he stayed with me for a week or so. He had some clothes there from earlier in the summer. Said he had leave because of some injury. He seemed alright to me. If I asked what the injury was, he said it was a, how do you say, psychological injury and laughed.”
“Where do you live?” Merlin had copied Bridges and was picking at a roll.
“I have a small bedsit in Bermondsey. It is cramped but cosy.” Now, at last, a small tear appeared on the girl’s cheek. “How did he die?”
“I’m sorry, but he was murdered.”
With a sharp gulp of breath, Sophie closed her eyes. Then she slowly breathed out and looked at Merlin. “Glupi chlopak! That stupid boy. I told him to take care.”
“Do you know what he was up to, Miss Radzinski?”
The oily-haired maitre d’, or whatever he was, came up and glared at Merlin before delivering a dish to another table.
“I hope you are not going to lose me my job, Inspector?” Sophie brushed away a lock of hair.
“Don’t worry, we’ll have a word with your boss after.”
“Better make it a scary word. He’s a bastard. So, you want to know what I know about Simon?”
“You know his real name?”
“Yes, Simon Nozyk. He tells me after we know each other a little. Said he had to have another name for the air force. I didn’t understand really. Simon told me a story about his brother. I don’t know the whole story, but he had a clever brother. This brother fell in with some family of rich Poles for whom he did some kind of work. They didn’t pay him much, but he was a Jew who had been in jail, so he was glad to get something with which to support his young family. That’s what Simon said anyway. Simon was the younger brother and he appeared to have idol…” She struggled momentarily for the right English word “Idolised, yes, that is it – he idolised David. Then some time in 1938, I think it was, David didn’t come home from work. Simon and his family never saw him again. They reported him missing to the authorities, but received little attention. He was a poor Jew, after all.”
Merlin thought for a second of Sonia and her background. There was and had been anti-Semitism in England, but nothing like that in Poland and other Eastern European countries. “How can this have led to Simon’s mission here in London?”
“David had never told Simon the name of the people he was working for, but Simon thought he might have found the house where they lived, as he had played truant one day and followed him into town. It was a big house in the main square of the Old City in Warsaw. After David’s disappearance, he investigated some more and found out who the family were.”
“Did he tell you who the family were?”
“No.”
Merlin grabbed another bread roll. “Am I to think that Simon connected David’s disappearance to these employers in some way?”
“His mission was to find the connection. He had some clues. David had given him a small, locked, black box. He told Simon he was doing some dangerous work. In case anything happened to him, he wanted Simon to have the box. He gave him the key, knowing how honest Simon was and how much he loved him. After David’s disappearance, Simon, of course, opened the box. In it he found some gold pieces and a necklace of gold. Very beautiful. He showed me.”
“And he was trying to connect these gold items to whatever happened to David?”
“He needed to know what happened to his brother, of course. He had those few clues and he felt he could find the answer here in London.”
* * *
It was gone one by the time Count Tarkowski reached his office. “My meeting with Sikorski went on forever, Miss Wajda. Anything for me?”
“There were two policemen here to see you, sir, Chief Inspector Merlin and Sergeant Bridges.”
“I see.”
“They couldn’t wait any longer, sir, and went for some lunch. Didn’t say if they’d be back.”
“Anything else?”
Miss Wajda toyed with the idea of mentioning Kilinski and his girlfriend, but decided that it would be best to keep well out of all that business. The Count was a good boss, but who knew what he was really up to. “Mr de Souza from the bank tried to get hold of you.”
“Get him on the telephone, would you?”
“The last time he called he said he was going out and would be out for the rest of the day. Something about having a tooth out. To be honest, sir, he sounded as if he was already under the laughing gas.”
“How do you mean?”
“He sounded a little drunk.”
“That’s not like him.”
“Said he’d call back tomorrow morning.”
The Count went into his office, sat at his desk and thought. He wasn’t going to hang around for those policemen to return. Life seemed to be getting even more complicated. What should he do?
Pain shot up his spine as he stood up a little too abruptly. “I am going to get something to eat myself, Miss Wajda. I may or may not return today. Have you finished writing up that report I gave you, the one about the Gestapo’s latest activities in Warsaw?”
Miss Wajda’s face whitened. “I have just begun, sir. The material is, um…”
“Yes, I am sorry. It does not make very pleasant reading, does it? If you like, I can ask someone, perhaps Andrei upstairs, to do it?”
“No, no, sir. It is my job and I’ll get it done by tonight. Is it true though? What they are doing?”
Tarkowski nodded sadly. “And worse, my dear. Much worse.”
* * *
When they got back to the Yard, Merlin tried to get hold of Sir Bernard Spilsbury. He wanted to see whether the detailed autopsy report on Kilinski was ready yet. There was no reply on the numbers Merlin had. As he replaced the receiver, the A.C. came in. “I couldn’t help hearing the name Spilsbury as I stood at the door, Frank. Why are you trying to get him?”
“He did the post-mortem on our Polish flyer, sir. There’s no answer.”
“I doubt you’ll get one for a day or two. His son was killed in the bombing on Sunday night.”
“Very sorry to hear that, sir. The poor man. Only son?”
“Yes, talented medic apparently.” The A.C. turned away to look disapprovingly at one of the prints Merlin had hung, contrary to regulation, on his wall. “I think there may be a brother. Who is that ghastly chap up there?” This was not the first time the A.C. had asked this question.
“Dr Gachet, sir, by Van Gogh.”
“Fellow chopped his ear off, didn’t he? A madman. If you do have to break the rules by hanging pictures in this office, Frank, couldn’t you put up something British – a nice Gainsborough perhaps?”
“I’ll give it some thought, sir. Was there anything else? I’ve got rather a lot of—”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure you have.” The A.C. rose stiffly to his feet. “I saw a Polish acquaintance of mine at the restaurant the other night. Fellow called Tarkowski. Wondered whether he might be able to assist you with your dead flyer case.”
Merlin chuckled. “Oh yes, he can help us alright.”
The A.C. looked bemused. “Should I have a word with him then?”
“No, sir. You can leave that to me.”
* * *
A line of schoolboys in neat blue uniforms filed noisily beneath Voronov’s study window. He turned to his desk and picked up the telephone. “Have you spoken to them yet?”
“No. They are meant to ring me some time this afternoon.”
“Will they be on the job tonight?”
“That’s what they were planning, Kyril.”
“Hmm.” Voronov leaned back in his chair and looked out of the window again. “If they call, we might be able to cancel their job and organise something for tonight. If they don’t, we’ll have to do it tomorrow, but no later. Is there no way you can contact them yourself, Misha?”
“No. The arrangement is that they call me. They are reliable about it.”
A figure in a gabardine mac walked along the pavement opposite, not for the first time that day.
“Very well. Let me know when they do.” Voronov slammed the phone down and poured himself a brandy from the crystal decanter he had liberated from a bombed house around the corner. He had been followed or watched many times in his life and he had developed a fine intuition for the techniques employed. The moment he had seen the fellow down below, the hairs on his neck had tingled and he knew. The second sighting of the man only confirmed an already established fact. Who was it this time? He should have told Misha to keep an eye out. One of the advantages of his house was that it had a cellar door, which opened onto a small alleyway to the rear of the house, which in turn led on to a mews and then to Eaton Square. He would have Misha investigate whether that exit was known to whoever had decided to keep tabs on what Kyril Voronov was doing.
* * *
Their reflections smiled back at them from the long mirror behind the bar of the Ritz.
“You are looking very beautiful tonight.”
Sonia blushed and giggled. “Don’t be silly, Frank. I am just in my work clothes.”
“And very lovely work clothes they are.” Merlin raised his beer glass and clinked it against Sonia’s glass of champagne.
“I have never had champagne before, Frank. Are we celebrating something?”
“Being alive, my darling. Being alive.” Before leaving the Yard, Merlin had found out from Johnson that Stewart’s AFS team were covering Piccadilly that night and had arranged to meet him at the end of Savile Row at ten. Perhaps unwisely, he had wandered over to Swan and Edgar and found Sonia just as they were shutting up shop. The Ritz was only a short walk down Piccadilly and Sonia deserved a treat.
“The bubbles are going up my nose.” Sonia giggled again.
“Don’t worry, dear, you’ll get used to it. All women do.”
“Used to what, Frank?”
“Luxury. Champagne. Flowers. Breakfast in bed.”
“Now you are talking. I’ll have scrambled eggs on toast tomorrow morning, if you please.”
Merlin finished his beer and ordered a glass of champagne for himself. “Haven’t had one of these in a long time.”
They clinked glasses again. Silent for a moment, they observed the other customers of the Ritz bar. A group of naval officers in one corner seemed to be laughing non-stop. From the insignia he could see on their jackets, Merlin thought they might be submariners. He shuddered. That was one thing he wouldn’t be able to do – live in a metal tube at the bottom of the ocean for days at a time; bad enough in itself without the worry of being bombed or mined by the opposition. In another corner, two elderly ladies in fur stoles and an abundance of jewellery seemed to be enjoying the stiff Martinis on offer in the establishment.
“Did she like champagne, Frank?”
“Who?”
“Did Alice like champagne?”
Merlin had never really discussed his late wife with Sonia. He had never felt comfortable talking about Alice to anyone. Yet now, all of a sudden, he didn’t mind, not with Sonia, at any rate. “She did indeed. Pol Roger was her favourite. Someone told me that’s Mr Churchill’s favourite tipple too.”
“Was she from a, how do you say it, a good background?”
“Her parents were very comfortable. Lived, or rather, live, as her mother is still alive, in a big pile near Guildford. Her father was a very well-known lawyer. A judge, in fact. Yes, quite an eminent family.”
Sonia’s face clouded. “Not like me then. A poor Polish nobody.”
Merlin placed his hand on hers. “Don’t be silly. I don’t care about your background. I didn’t care about hers and neither did she. She was very down to earth. Had to be, didn’t she, to marry a lowly, clodhopping copper like myself?”
“What does clodhopping mean, Frank?”
“Hmm… never mind.”
Sonia laughed and kissed his cheek. In the distance they could hear the roar of engines. The siren had blown a while ago, but they had been determined not to let Hitler ruin their brief hour or so of pleasure.
“Another one for you, my darling Sonia? Before the place goes up in smoke?”
“Alright then, what is the phrase you use, Frank? If you twist my arm.”