Murder on Embassy Row (23 page)

He took deep breaths as he approached the wide boulevard of Park Lane. Across it was Hyde Park, gray and lifeless in the moist, cold mist of London in November.

He didn’t notice the shop until he was almost past it. It was on the second floor of a small, older building. A tiny sign—red lettering on a faded blue background,
said:
Little Soldier Shop: Military Miniatures: H. Worth—Prop
.

Morizio smiled. It was fitting that Paul Pringle’s daughter ended up with such a shop, if owning a shop was her ambition. Her father had been a history buff, particularly military history, and miniature figures held a special fascination for him. He’d talked to Morizio about the hours he spent creating authentic figures of soldiers of history and of the world, painstakingly painting and arranging them in appropriate groupings. He had thousands, he said, most of them in London. The back bar at Piccadilly held a dozen or so tiny military figures, gifts from Pringle to Johnny and the management. He also had what he termed, “as good a collection of books on military dress as anyone in the world.”

He’d given Morizio two hand-crafted miniatures of South Wales Borderers as a Christmas gift, as well as a book about that regiment. Pringle often asked Morizio, “How are they?” as though they were prize dogs, or fragile family mementos. “Tip-top,” Morizio always answered, “all spit and polish.” And they’d laugh.

What was particularly interesting to Morizio was Pringle’s focus on the Mexican-American War that spanned 1846 to 1848. He knew it in intimate detail, every battle, the underlying political forces that shaped it and, most of all, the military organization of the opposing armies, every battalion, regiment and rag-tag volunteer militia. The United States’ Third Regiment was his favorite: “The best disciplined regiment the U.S. had to throw against the Mexicans,” he said. From a uniform perspective, however, he preferred the Mexicans who, even though there was little money and few facilities to produce the uniforms, always added brilliant splashes of color. Mexico’s Fourth Light Infantry Regiment especially pleased him. It had been issued
uniforms that differed dramatically from other light regiments—dark blue coats with green collars, piping, and arabesques; crimson lapels, cuffs, and turnbacks with eagle decorations on the turnbacks; and medium blue trousers with crimson piping down the legs.

Pringle bragged that he had a complete collection of miniatures from the Fourth Regiment, two battalions of eight companies, grenadiers and fusiliers, drummers, buglers, and fifers, right down to surgeons and chaplains, every detail of their uniforms perfect, British Brown Bess muskets and Baker rifles, iron bayonets and sabres meticulously crafted and placed in the tiny soldiers’ hands.

Pringle had photographed most of his collection in color, and he’d showed Morizio the photographs of the Mexican and American armies. “Evidence of a misspent youth.” Morizio had said, “Why weren’t you out bashing grannies?” and Pringle had laughingly agreed. “One day,” he said, “when I retire from Her Majesty’s service, I’d like to open a shop back home and sell to collectors. They’re quite mad, you know, will pay shocking prices to round out their collections.”

Morizio remembered those words as he stared at the small sign, and was sad. Pringle’s dream had become a reality, but he wasn’t around to enjoy it. He opened the downstairs door and peered up the shabby staircase, drew a breath and went up.

The door leading to the shop itself had a window insert. Morizio looked inside and saw a young woman behind a counter. He knew it was Harriet, although the few years since he’d seen her had changed her. She looked a lot older than she was; a young-old matron with a round, sad, pale face and short mousey-brown hair. She wore a bulky brown turtleneck sweater and a
shapeless black wool skirt that was too long. He heard a child squeal, then the sound of running small feet.

He knocked. Harriet looked at the door. Her face was fearful, a bird frozen by the imminent attack of a cat. Morizio opened the door and a bell clanged. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and said, “Harriet?”

The sound of her name seemed to startle her. She started to say something, hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“Captain Morizio, your father’s friend.”

“Yes, hello.”

“Did your mother tell you I was coming?”

“Yes, she did. I was surprised.”

“That I was coming?”

“Yes. I don’t know why. Mother didn’t say.”

He approached the counter, looked around and said, “What a beautiful shop.”

“Thank you.”

There were miniature figures everywhere. Many were military miniatures, but there were an equal amount of period pieces, women in sweeping gowns, men in high hats in carriages behind the reins of handsome horses, children skating on mirror ponds, statesmen, beggars, rogues, and mythical heroes: a Tom Thumb world in a tiny London shop.

“Your father would have loved this,” Morizio said.

She didn’t answer. A small boy entered from a back room and eyed Morizio. “Hello,” Morizio said.

The boy stood silent and still. “Go on now,” Harriet said, “I’ve got business here.”

Morizio stepped closer to the boy, crouched down and smiled. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Sal.” He extended his hand.

The boy giggled and turned his head.

“Get away with you now,” Harriet said.

“Your son?” Morizio asked.

She glared at him. “You know it is.”

Morizio nodded, felt foolish at having asked the question. He stood and said, “He’s a handsome boy.”

“Thank you.” She made a menacing gesture at her son and he disappeared into the back room.

“Is your mother here?” Morizio asked.

“Not yet. Excuse me.” She followed the boy into the back and closed the door. Morizio walked about the shop. Many of the collections were beneath glass, and had labels identifying them. He looked up at squadrons of tiny aircraft suspended by white thread from the ceiling. “Incredible,” he told himself as he returned to the counter and listened for sounds from the back room. His eyes scanned the counter. There were dozens of catalogues piled on one end, two large general ledgers in green bindings, a sales receipt book, pens and pencils, and a few pieces of unopened mail. He picked up the envelopes and quickly perused them. The second one stopped him cold. It was addressed to Harriet Worth, and bore the return address of Melanie Callender. The front door opened and he dropped the envelopes to the counter, turned and faced Ethel Pringle.

“Hello, Ethel,” he said, smiling and taking a step to her. She looked good, a striking difference from her daughter. Her blonde hair was stylishly fashioned into youthful soft curls. Her makeup was heavy without being garish, and she wore a smart navy blue suit, a white blouse open enough to expose the beginning of her breasts, and expensive gold jewelry. He felt sorry for Harriet. Men would turn to look at the mother, not at the daughter.

“Good morning,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m late. It couldn’t be helped.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve been examining the shop. It’s marvelous. Paul would have…”

“Paul is dead, Captain. Where is Harriet?”

“In the back, with her son.”

“Bryan’s here?”

“Yeah, I met him. Handsome little kid.”

Ethel Pringle ignored his compliment, went to the counter, picked up the envelope from Melanie Callender, and put it in her purse. She stepped to the back door, opened it and said, “Come out, Harriet.”

“In a moment, Mother.”

There was a long period of silence between Ethel and Morizio. He was determined to play it right, to defer or attack depending upon what his instincts dictated. He was aware of the pressure of time and the ramifications of squandering it. He had them here together, Paul’s widow and daughter, probably the only chance he’d have. He needed answers.

“Harriet’s married?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Ethel frowned.

“I saw the name downstairs, H. Worth. I assumed she’d married someone named Worth.”

“She chose it for business purposes, and to keep people from prying into her life.” Her tone was carbon steel.

“I’m not here to pry, Ethel,” Morizio said gently. “I’m in trouble because of Paul’s murder and I need help.”

A trace of a smile crossed her lips. “Tit-for-tat,” she said.

Anger came and went. Morizio said, “I didn’t help you and Harriet because I wanted a favor later,” he said. “I don’t work that way. Paul was a friend.”

“And you helped disgrace a family.”

Morizio didn’t understand. He said, “I thought I did the right thing. Paul said Harriet was determined to have the child and he told me that you agreed.”

“Goddamn it!”

“Ethel, if Paul misrepresented things, I’m sorry, but…”

“It is none of your business,” she said.

“It was then.”

“But it is not now.”

A series of thoughts slipped in and out of Morizio’s mind. He was angry at being slapped in the face after having helped. He also wondered why Melanie Callender would be writing to Harriet Pringle, or Worth, whoever she was. To ask would admit to snooping. He decided to wrap that question into a package of other questions and started asking—“Did you know Paul was on the CIA payroll?”—“Did you ever meet his Arab friend, Sami Abdu?”—“What did you mean when you told me on the phone that he was involved in things he shouldn’t have been?”—“What caused him to be murdered, Ethel?”—“You and Harriet have been getting checks from Melanie Callender for a long time now. Why?”

He was shooting in the dark but felt it was worth it. If the envelope didn’t contain a check, she’d deny it which, by itself, could open a discussion of why Callender had been in touch with them. He waited for a reply. There wasn’t any, at least from Ethel. But Harriet, who’d appeared from the back room, asked, “How do you know that?”

“Be quiet,” her mother said.

“Why?” Morizio asked, ignoring Ethel and staring hard at her daughter. “I helped you once, remember, when you needed it. You were grateful then, or so your father told me. I need your help now, really need it. I have to find out who killed your father so that I can reclaim my own life. Please, tell me what I need to
know and I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear from me again.”

Now, he wished the mother weren’t there. He was confident he could break Harriet down, appeal to her sense of fair play, even threaten her if necessary and take advantage of youth’s natural inclination to fear the worst.

“You have no right,” Harriet said. “What you did for us was good, but it would have worked out even if you hadn’t. My father…”

“Harriet!”

“My father was in trouble. That’s why he died.”

Her mother took a threatening step toward her. The girl stiffened and stuck out her chin. “I don’t want him here, Mother, any more than you do. But he is. You told him he could come. This will never end unless he gets what he wants.”

Ethel leaned against the counter and glared at Morizio. “God, how I hate the policeman’s mentality,” she said.

As much as he disliked seeing either of them distraught over his presence and questions, Morizio was pleased with the way the conversation was going. If they believed that this ‘policeman’s mentality’ would result in not letting go, so much the better. “You’re right, Harriet,” he said, “I won’t let go of this until I get what I want. I’d like it to be pleasant and friendly, but that’s your choice. I have an appointment with Scotland Yard this afternoon, and they’ll turn on the screws if I tell them to. This is murder, Harriet, not a purse snatch.”

“Paul was a private man,” Ethel said. “He never discussed his business with us.”

“But this shop was paid for by money he made from
sources outside his embassy job, the Central Intelligence Agency, maybe drugs.”

“That’s not true,” Harriet said, her voice rising with indignation. “My father would never do anything like that.”

“I got the feeling from you, Ethel, that he was in pretty deep with something bad.” He emphasized the last word.

“He…” She turned her back to him and pressed her hands on the counter. “He was a good man, Captain, foolish but good. He provided for his family.

“I know that,” Morizio said, coming up behind her, “but he knew something that got him killed. What was it?”

Neither woman said anything.

“Did he know who killed Ambassador James?”

Ethel turned. “Of course not.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“He would have told.”

“You? You said he never discussed business with you.”

“Someone. He would have told someone.”

“Sami Abdu?” He remembered the envelope from Callender. “Melanie Callender? Were they close? Is she sending you money to keep you quiet?”

“She sends us money to compensate for my father’s death,” Harriet said.

“Why? Was she responsible?”

“We British are different than you are, Captain,” Ethel said. “We take care of our own.” She smiled. “Socialized medicine.”

Morizio shrugged and shook his head. “I could understand that if you were receiving a widow’s pension from the British government, but why Melanie Callender, a secretary?”

“Procedure, that’s all,” Ethel Pringle said.

“Strange one,” said Morizio.

“As you wish.”

He hadn’t realized until that moment that he disliked her, and if he weren’t after something he would have told her what was on his mind. He held it in check and said, “I don’t want to take any more of your time than necessary. Is there anything you can tell me that would shed light on Paul’s murder?”

Harriet looked to him as though she had something important to say. She turned to her mother, who ignored her and continued to stare at Morizio. “Harriet?” he asked. “Please. Don’t make me turn this into a messy official investigation.”

“Mummy, I think…”

“Do what you want. You’re a fool, always have been. God knows how much we’ve tried to shelter you from your own ignorance but you haven’t a twit of a brain to protect yourself.”

“Harriet,” Morizio said softly.

“Daddy came here the day he was leaving for America. He said that he was…” She started to cry.

“Oh, stop it,” her mother said, “and say what you will.”

Morizio wanted to slap her. He looked at Harriet, who’d mustered some control. “Daddy came here and told me that if anything ever happened to him the answers would be in a book.”