Stalin's Gold (10 page)

“No thanks, Miro. There’s no one else to play anyway.”

Kubicki sat down heavily on the rickety chair in Jan’s quarters. “Where’s Jerzy then?”

Jan had just finished cleaning his shoes and his hands were covered in flecks of black polish. He reached under his bed and found a handkerchief with which to clean himself. “Gone up to town, I think. Got special dispensation at short notice from Kellett.”

“Lucky we haven’t had any action today.”

Jan nodded, then shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what he had to do in town. He was a bit cagey about it. Rather like Ziggy was the night he disappeared.”

“Oh, well. A man of many secrets, eh? What about a game of bezique? That’s a two-handed card game.”

Jan sighed. “Don’t we need another pack for that?”

“Eh, voilà!” Kubicki provided a second pack from his trouser pocket. “Not as nice as my cousin’s pack, but it will do.”

* * *

The A.C. stood stiffly at his window, hands behind his back, looking down at the river. Merlin noticed a new photograph of the A.C.’s wife and sons on his desk. While Mrs Gatehouse’s charms were now fading, Merlin knew that she had been quite a looker in her day. Unfortunately, it seemed as if the boys were taking after their father.

“Operation Cromwell, Frank, that’s what they call it.”

“Sir?”

“On Saturday, Operation Cromwell was activated.”

Merlin rubbed his right thigh, where he had a large bruise from his fall of the night before. “And what is Operation Cromwell, sir?”

“I mentioned it in a memo I sent you the other day. You really must keep up with your paperwork, Frank. The launch of Operation Cromwell means that the government believes invasion is imminent or, to put it another way, the Eastern and Southern Commands have been put in a state of readiness for invasion.”

“Does that mean that German boats have been sighted crossing the Channel or that German paratroopers have been seen landing?”

Gatehouse turned from the window, his thin lips twitching in an approximation of a smile. “I believe that there was a bit of panic in the Home Guard as that was what they thought ‘Cromwell’ meant, but no. I think it’s just a reasonable precaution in light of what’s happening up above. The Chiefs of Staff have taken the view that all this heavy bombing of the city is a softening up procedure and a precursor to invasion.”

“Seems a reasonable assumption, I suppose. By the way, any idea why our guns have been so quiet? Everyone I hear keeps asking – where are the bloody guns? Those bombers just seem to keep on coming at will.”

The A.C. sat down, picked up a pencil and rolled it rather irritatingly back and forth along the top of his desk. “Well, I think, if the truth be told, the Luftwaffe caught the ack-ack people a little on the hop. I believe that over the past few weeks most of the guns have been deployed to where the attacks were initially taking place – to factories and airfields in the country. This has left London a little short.”

“I presume someone is hurrying to get them back?”

“I think General Pile is on the case. He’s in charge of the Anti-Aircraft Command.”

“And what about the air force? They’ve been brilliant of course, but in the last few days I heard several people moaning that they didn’t seem to be knocking so many of the bombers out of the sky.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I think the problem there is the visibility. The fighters aren’t so effective at night anyway, but with this incredible barrage of munitions…” The A.C. shook his head. “The towering columns of smoke and flame are making things very difficult for our pilots.”

“Everything alright with you at home, sir?”

“Yes, Frank. Our little square in Kensington has been spared so far. I tried to get Mrs Gatehouse to go to our cottage near Guildford, but no hope. Luckily, the boys are in their school in Northamptonshire, so they’re well out of it. And you?”

Merlin shrugged. “Yes, so far. Amazingly, nothing has come near my block. I just feel I should be doing something to help.”

“You are doing something vitally important, Frank. The fight against crime must go on. Speaking of which, what are your thoughts on the looting issue we discussed last week?”

“I’ve put Johnson on to it. He’s a good man. I think he has a meeting on Wednesday. I haven’t seen him yet today, so I hope he’s…” Merlin looked out of the window.

“Yes, yes, Frank. I’m sure he’s… alright. Well, I won’t detain you anymore.”

Merlin stood up and walked to the door. As he was halfway out of the office, he turned. “Got a disappearance to investigate. A Polish airman. He vanished into thin air. Thought I might look into it myself.”

The A.C. seemed to be finding the file he had just opened very interesting. He spoke without looking up. “Fine, Frank. Whatever you think. My God, I’ve just got the figures for reported looting incidents over the weekend. They are dramatically worse than I would have expected. Find Johnson as quickly as you can. I’d like to give him the benefit of my views before he starts his work. And Frank…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep a close eye on Johnson’s work yourself. I’m holding you responsible.”

Chapter 9

Tuesday, September 10

Tarkowski emerged from his taxi in one of the numerous ancient alleyways of the City of London. The Bank of England, still intact despite the best efforts of Goering’s bombers, was just a hundred yards away. No longer intact was the building covering one side of the lane. Tarkowski tried to remember the name of the building. He had been a frequent visitor to this little corner of the City since his arrival in London, but for the life of him he could not remember what it was called. Something “Equitable”, wasn’t it? “Yorkshire Equitable House” or “Lancashire Equitable House”. Something like that. Anyway, whatever it was called, it was now a smouldering hole in the ground. Rather amazingly, considering the narrowness of the lane and the proximity of the buildings, the property housing the bank which he was about to visit had as yet suffered no visible damage at the hands of the bombers, although it had suffered some at the hands of a graffiti artist who had daubed an unimaginative but to the point personal message in white paint to the Fuhrer – “Fuck off Adolf ”– on the wall to the right of the entrance.

Tarkowski grasped his old leather briefcase tightly to his chest as he nodded at the uniformed doorman and passed through the heavy oak doors into the building’s reception area. On the left was an ancient lift manned by an equally ancient lift operator. “Third floor, please.”

Tarkowski turned to his right out of the lift and strode purposefully down a dark corridor. At the end was a large, black door on which he knocked sharply. The small bronze nameplate to the right of the door proclaimed this to be the London office of the Polish Commonwealth Trading Bank.

A small, wizened man with a few tufts of grey hair sprouting out at random from an otherwise hairless head greeted the Count warmly. “Your Excellency, your Excellency, welcome again. How good of you to grace us with your honourable presence. May I take your hat?”

The man bounced with excitement as he took the honourable gentleman’s trilby and hung it on a stand in the corner. “Mr de Souza is expecting you. Yes, he’s expecting you. Indeed he is. May I show you through? Perhaps some tea? Yes. Yes. I shall bring it straightaway. Come, your Excellency, please.”

The little clerk knocked quickly at the door behind his desk and with a grand gesture bade the Count enter.

“Ah. Count Tarkowski. A pleasure to see you.” A rotund, heavy-featured, middle-aged man rose from behind a mahogany partners desk. He wore a tail coat, striped trousers and sported a cream silk cravat at his neck. A luxuriant pile of bouffant black hair crowned his large head. As he vigorously shook the Count’s hand, sprinkles of dandruff fell onto the shoulders of his coat. “Come, Count. Please. Take a seat.”

Mr Eugene de Souza indicated two plush leather sofas to the left of his desk. On the wall behind them was a large seventeenth-century map of the Great Polish Commonwealth. The print showed Poland at the peak of its territorial imperium, encompassing not only the ancient traditional Polish lands but also the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and much of the Ukraine. Tarkowski paused a moment to admire this brightly coloured reminder of Poland at its greatest, before taking his seat.

De Souza sat down opposite him. “And so, Count Tarkowski. May I ask to what I owe this pleasure? Is this a private visit or are you here in an official capacity?”

“A little of both, de Souza. On the personal side, you may have heard—”

The office door opened and the clerk Wertheim entered, pushing a small trolley. He glided up to them and set down a tray with two cups and saucers and a teapot on the low table that separated the Count and de Souza. “Will you be needing anything else, sirs?”

De Souza shook his head. “Can you go and drop that package at the Bank of England now Wertheim? It’s urgently required.” Wertheim nodded his assent and oozed out.

Tarkowski was amused, as usual, by Wertheim’s Dickensian manner and appearance. He would have commented on it to his companion were it not for de Souza’s equally Dickensian air.

“You were saying, Count.” De Souza leaned forward to pour the tea.

“I don’t know if you heard about the offices?”

De Souza looked back blankly.

“It only happened on Saturday. The offices took a direct hit on Saturday night or early Sunday morning, I’m not sure which. ”

“My commiserations. Were there any casualties?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

“And, er…” The banker lowered his voice. “Did the goods suffer any damage?”

“Most fortunately, I had just had most of them removed to my house. There may be one or two items lost and most of the records and papers, of course. Naturally, I got my people to make a thorough search of the ruins. I stopped off on my way today and they gave me the valuables that survived. I have them here.”

The Count paused and opened his briefcase. He withdrew a cloth bag and opened it to reveal a glint of gold. “Worryingly, my men encountered a little difficulty. They believe one or two of these may have been stolen from them.”

“Goodness me. And do you know who—”

“It was dark and my men did not get a clear look at him, but I have an idea. In any event I was just wondering if you would be so kind as to take these into your care for the time being.”

“Why, of course. I’ll escort you myself to the safety deposit room downstairs.” A brief smile of appreciation crossed the Count’s face. De Souza frowned. “Do you not think it would be wise to bring the rest of the consignment from your house? I should think our vaults are considerably more secure and bomb-proof.”

Tarkowski pondered for a moment. “I have been giving it some thought, de Souza. That may be the best option.”

The bank manager nodded. “May I ask, sir, whether you received the information I gave your wife on the telephone the other day?”

“The information regarding an inquisitive gentleman, you mean? Yes, thank you, de Souza. I did. It is good to know we have such a reliable friend in you.” The Count reached into his briefcase again and took out some papers. “Now perhaps we can move on to the official business.”

* * *

As Merlin got out of the car at the entrance to the Northolt aerodrome, an aircraft roared overhead. WPC Robinson spoke, but he couldn’t hear a word. He walked over to the guard box and showed his CID card to the young soldier manning the entrance. The soldier went back into the box and after a brief conversation on the phone, returned and opened the gates. “The Squadron Leader’s in that hut over there, sir, the third on the right.”

Merlin got back in beside Robinson and she drove the car into the base. “What did you say just then, Constable?”

“I was saying that that was a Wellington above us.”

“Well up on your aeroplanes, are you?”

“My brother has an obsessive interest in them. I suppose some of it might have rubbed off.”

Merlin pointed at the hut to which they had been directed. “Park it just over there.”

“Do you want me to come in, sir?”

“Of course, Constable. You are ‘in loco’ Bridges this morning, as he is otherwise engaged sorting something out for the A.C. I don’t intend you to be just a driver.”

As they got out of the car, a couple of young officers passed by. One wolf-whistled while the other made a great show of removing his hat and bowing. The wolf-whistler exclaimed, “My, oh my” in a Canadian accent, while the other muttered something in a language that Merlin knew to be Polish. Robinson blushed and kept her head down as she followed her boss through the door.

“Chief Inspector Merlin, I take it. Pleased to meet you.” Squadron Leader Kellett put down his pipe and rose in greeting. Standing next to his desk was Jan Sieczko, who nodded at Merlin and Robinson and extended a hand.

“Rather amazingly, Inspector, you find us twiddling our thumbs. No action yet today, so we are at your disposal, for the moment at least. Can I offer you anything?”

“No, thank you, sir. I am conscious that you may be called away at any minute so I think it’s best to get on with it.”

Kellett nodded and pointed to the canvas chairs in front of his desk.

“So, Squadron Leader, you have a missing Polish flyer. Jan here doesn’t believe that this chap Kilinski is the deserting kind and tells me that you agree that we should look into it.”

“Yes, that’s right. He’s a good pilot. A slightly difficult man, but then after all these fellows have been through,” he gestured towards Sieczko, “what’s a little awkwardness. Can’t say I’ve really spent much time with the chap, but I’d put money on his being a good fellow. I know he fought bravely over Poland and would be very surprised if he is a deserter.”

He looked down at a folder he had in front of him. “This is a copy of our file on him. There’s a picture here too.”

Kellett pushed the folder across the desk. Merlin picked up the photograph and found himself looking at Ziggy Kilinski. The face looked older than that of a twenty-year-old man. Dark, hollow eyes, slightly flared nostrils and a strangely twisted mouth on which the ghost of a smile played. A cowlick of black hair escaped from under the flying gear on his head.

“Strange-looking chap, isn’t he?” The telephone on Kellett’s desk suddenly rang loudly. “Yes. Yes. Very well. I’ll be right over.” He put the phone down. “I’m terribly sorry, but I have to go to a meeting with some other senior officers. It’s only just been called. Will it be alright if I leave you in Sieczko’s hands?”

“Yes, of course. I’d like to see Kilinski’s billet, if I may.”

Sieczko jumped to his feet. “Come. I’ll show you to Ziggy’s hut. It’s only a short walk.” Outside there was more activity than there had been when they’d arrived. A group of men in oily overalls were standing behind the hut being given some instructions by two officers speaking alternately in English and Polish. Another group, this one made up of pilots, was setting up deckchairs outside the next-door hut. Further away, a number of fighter aircraft, Hurricanes and Spitfires, were being refuelled.

“It’s just along here.” They arrived at a hut some two hundred yards from Kellett’s. Two pilots were playing cards on a small table outside the door. One of them looked up and exchanged a few words in Polish with Sieczko, after which he rose and introduced himself to Merlin. “Miro Kubicki, sir. At your command, Inspector.” He gave a small bow and shook hands. “And at yours, mademoiselle.” He reached for Robinson’s hand and kissed it.

The constable reddened. “Oh, pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

Kubicki pointed at his companion. “That ugly specimen over there with the beautiful black eye, which he won’t tell us how he got, is Jerzy Kowalski.”

Kowalski glared at Kubicki, then put out his cigarette, rose and bowed. “So you are here to help us find our comrade Kilinski?”

“Yes, Mr Kowalski, we were hoping to have a look inside if that’s alright with you.”

“Alright, sir? Why, of course it’s alright. Please. Make yourself at home. Come.” Kowalski opened the door, which bore a design that looked like some variation on the American flag with stars surrounding a red grid and what looked like a hat and two scythes. At the bottom were the figures 303.

“Our squadron insignia, sir, 303 squadron – the Kosciuszko squadron. Mr Kosciuszko was a Polish hero in the American War of Independence. One of the few occasions in history where you and we were on opposite sides, I believe. He was an engineer of brilliance who helped Mr Washington with his defences against the British. After that he was a hero at home fighting against the Russia of Catherine the Great. Unfortunately, despite his great efforts, he and we lost and Poland was wiped from the map by the Russians and, of course, the Prussians. That was over 140 years ago and here we are again. Except this time Mr Kosciuszko will be avenged and Poland will rise again, independent and free.”

“He’s a great one for history is our Jerzy.” Kubicki shook his head. “Come on. Let the poor people in. It’s Kilinski they’re concerned with not Kosciuszko.” Kubicki pushed through the door and beckoned Merlin down a narrow corridor. He turned into a room on the right. A double bunk bed took up most of the space in the room. An upturned wooden crate by the window served as a table. Some laundry hung from a rope hung across the room. “This is Kilinksi’s room. Up until three weeks ago he shared it with another man, Petr Marowitz. However, sadly, Marowitz died in a stupid accident. We hadn’t been allowed into battle at that point so poor old Marowitz didn’t last to see any real action. Anyway, Kilinski has had the luxury of having this place to himself for a while. I don’t know if Kellett’s got round to deciding who should have the spare bunk.”

“What was the accident?”

“Somehow Marowitz ended up walking into an active propeller. Took his head clean off.”

Robinson blanched.

“How unfortunate. May I, Mr Kowalski?” The pilot stepped aside to let Merlin go past him into the room. He saw something lodged under the lower of the bunk beds and bent down to find an old, blue trunk with a rusty padlock. There was no name or initial to indicate its owner. “Kilinski’s or Marowitz’s?”