Stalin's Gold (23 page)

“Did you hear about Inspector Johnson and Tommy Cole’s entertaining night?”

“No, what happened?”

Robinson smiled. “The AFS group they are attached to was at Buckingham Palace.”

“I heard it got bombed. Are they alright?”

“Very much so, sir – but they had an encounter with their majesties.”

“Their majesties, Robinson? You mean they met the King and Queen?”

“Apparently so, sir. They were—”

At this moment, Cole appeared at the door.

“So, here is the man himself! Am I to congratulate you on a knighthood, Cole?”

Cole reddened with embarrassment then haltingly told his story.

“Well, well, Cole. Perhaps I ought to join you on your next outing. Who knows who we’ll meet, though it will be hard to top that. Any other developments on the looting?”

“No, sir. We thought we might go out last night but couldn’t hook up with Mr Stewart.”

Merlin nodded and pulled his chair closer to his desk. “Alright, let’s get back to work. Sergeant, I’ve got two jobs for you. First, I’d like you to go and see that Polish wife of your friend and see if she can help us as regards Tarkowski. Then I want you to check out the restaurant in Trafalgar Square that Kilinski went to and see if they remember him. Robinson, you and I are going to see a bank manager. Cole, you’d better go and find Inspector Johnson and discover what’s on the menu for today. Tell him I may join you tonight if something’s organised.”

* * *

Bridges drove to Pimlico where his friend Raymond Hargreaves, a railway engineer, and his wife, Lenke, lived in a small cottage. Bridges had met Ray a couple of times at the football before the war. He was an old schoolfriend of PC Harry Jones, who’d caught a bullet in the face when interrupting a burglary in Jermyn Street the day before the Germans invaded Poland and whom both Bridges and Hargreaves mourned deeply. Lenke was a tall, dark-haired woman, who smiled welcomingly at him. She led the way into her cosy living room. “Raymond is out at work at the moment. Is there anything wrong? He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“No, no. Not at all.”

Bridges declined the customary offer of refreshment and followed Lenke into her brightly furnished sitting room. “It’s to do with your interpreting work, Mrs Hargreaves. We are seeking information on someone who works with the Polish government in exile.”

“Oh, yes. I do some work for them from time to time.”

“Have you ever come across a gentleman called Tarkowski, Count Tarkowski?”

“Indeed, I have. He is a very senior adviser to the government. I have done some translating work for him. A charming gentleman of the old school – why do you want to know about him?”

“Do you know anything about his history?”

Mrs Hargreaves leaned forward on her seat. “Do you think it’s alright for me to talk? They are all so secretive. I wouldn’t like to be breaking any confidentiality. I’d hate to lose my work there. The money comes in very handy for Ray and me.”

“I have no desire to compromise you. Just a bit of general background, Mrs Hargreaves. A Polish flyer has gone missing and the Count may have had some contact with him. It’s really routine. Can you tell me what the Count does?”

“Well, as I said, he’s an adviser of some sort. Doesn’t seem to have a formal title. Obviously he’s, how do you say, very well connected, being a Count and all. He seems to have some diplomatic responsibilities and some financial ones. I believe he has some responsibility for raising and managing funds for the Polish government.”

“Is he a wealthy man himself?”

“I suppose so, Sergeant. Who knows? Some people managed to get out of Poland with their money, others didn’t. I myself had no money to get out with.” A strained smile spread across her thin lips.

“Did you ever see any Polish air force personnel at the Count’s offices?”

“Sergeant, I am only a part-time worker. I do not sit in the offices taking note of the many people coming in and out.”

“No, indeed, Mrs Hargreaves. I was just wondering on the off chance.”

“I have seen people in uniforms, of course, and no doubt some of them were air force uniforms, but I paid no attention really.”

“I see. Generally, what is your impression of Count Tarkowski?”

“As I said, a well-mannered gentleman. It is clear that he has been through tough times, as we Poles all have, but a gentleman, certainly.”

“Was there any gossip in the office about the Count and his wife?”

“Gossip, Sergeant? I do not involve myself in gossip. Certainly, no.”

“Do you know anything about his family?”

“Only that he has a beautiful wife. Saw her in his office one day. She’s an aristocrat as well. Someone did tell me her family name. What was it now? I should remember as it’s quite a well-known family in Poland. Stan… Stanislawicki, that’s it. Stanislawicki.”

* * *

The little clerk could not hide his surprise as Merlin presented the warrant card to him. “Goodness, Chief Inspector Merlin. What can you possibly want with Mr de Souza? He is a very busy man, you know. Very busy. I shall be happy to make an appointment for you later in the week. Would Thursday be convenient for you?”

“With all due respect, Mr…”

“Wertheim, Chief Inspector, Augustus Wertheim at your service.”

“Well, with respect, Mr Wertheim, Thursday would not be convenient, no. Today and now, however, will suit and I would be grateful if you could inform Mr de Souza that we are here.”

Wertheim fiddled with his spectacles and scratched his nose. “Well, this is most irregular, most irregular.” He got up from his desk, turned and went through a door behind him. Moments later he reappeared and beckoned Merlin and Robinson through. The solid figure who stood to welcome them seemed to Merlin to be the epitome of an old-fashioned City banker, save for the slight air of foreign exoticism.

“Officers. Please, come, sit down, please. Wertheim, some tea if—”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr de Souza. Thank you.”

Wertheim disappeared back into his office and picked up the telephone on his desk.

* * *

The Odessa restaurant was not yet open for business when Bridges arrived and he had to bang several times on the door before he got any attention.

“We serve lunch from twelve noon, can’t you…?” Mikhail became silent as he regarded the burly form of Sam Bridges waving his warrant card in front of him.

“May I come in?”

Mikhail’s heart skipped a beat as he thought about the two illegal aliens currently peeling vegetables in the kitchen.

“We run a good restaurant here, sir. No problems. No hanky panky. No trouble with the police.”

“Alright, alright, keep your hair on Mr…?”

“Mikhail. Just call me Mikhail. I am head waiter.” Mikhail led Bridges through an ornate vestibule, decorated in deepest red, and into the main restaurant where he indicated a table and pulled out two chairs. Apron-clad waiters bustled around them, setting tables and frequently shouting at each other in a language Bridges took to be Russian.

“I am here to ask you about a customer. Do you recall a Mr Kilinski dining here ever? Mr or rather Pilot Officer Kilinski, he was a Polish RAF officer.”

“Was?”

“Unfortunately, he is now dead.”

Mikhail blanched. Against the pallor of the waiter’s skin, Bridges noticed that Mikhail’s eyes were a little bloodshot. “Dead. You mean from food poisoning?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I just want to know if you recall him dining here and, if so, who he dined with.”

“No, no. I don’t remember such a person. No.”

Bridges watched Mikhail’s eyes shifting back and forth to the kitchen. “You’re quite sure about that? You can say that without looking at your reservation book?”

“No Polish flyers in here. Never. I am sure.”

“You must get plenty of servicemen customers in here. Are you so familiar with all the uniforms that you can rule Mr Kilinski out?”

Mikhail’s eyes moved towards a location near the main door where Bridges assumed the reservation book was kept. “I have look if you want, but…”

“I tell you what, Mikhail, why don’t you bring it over here? We can then have a look at it together.”

Mikhail shrugged, got up and, barging his way past a couple of the waiters, retrieved the book. He smirked as Bridges opened the thick volume to find all the entries written in Cyrillic script.

“Ah.” Bridges thought for a moment before slapping the covers of the book back together. “Perhaps the best thing is for me to take this with me. The Yard is bound to have access to someone who can read it. And you can come with me to look at a photograph we have of Kilinski back at the Yard.”

Mikhail’s smile disappeared. “You cannot do this. We need book!”

Bridges set the book down on the table and sighed. “Look, Mikhail. Why don’t you just help me out here? You are clearly holding out on me. I can make life very difficult for you and the people who own this place. You are foreigners, Russians. We are at war. Your people are on the same side as our enemies. I could probably get you closed down in a moment. So why not make your life easier and assist us?”

“Not Russian. We are Georgians!”

“Excuse me, but isn’t Stalin a Georgian?”

Mikhail squirmed in his seat, ran a hand through his hair and decided to break the habit of a lifetime and tell the truth. “The book won’t help you, but I remember a Polish flyer coming just a week or two ago and I remember his name being mentioned by the person he met here. I have very good memory for names. For head waiter is very important to remember names. Good memory for names often means good tips.”

“That’s good, Mikhail. And who did he have lunch with?”

“Very dangerous man. If he finds out I tell you, he could do much damage. That’s why I no like to answer you.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t mention you, Mikhail.”

Mikhail looked towards the kitchen. His boss was away for the week. The decision was his to make. “A man called Voronov. Kyril Voronov.”

“And who is he?”

A bead of perspiration made its way down Mikhail’s forehead. “A rich Russian. Lives here in London. Kilinski had lunch with him and another man. They had quite a heated discussion, but then Voronov and his friend left in a hurry, leaving Kilinski to pay the bill. That’s one reason I remember it well, as Voronov is very free with his money. He usually pays for everything and leaves big tips. That time Kilinski got stuck with the bill and he could only just scrape the money together.”

“And when would this lunch have taken place?”

“Last week of August, I think. Voronov has us hold a permanent table here at lunchtime, so it won’t be in the book, but I’m sure it was last week August. A Wednesday or Thursday, perhaps. Voronov, yes, a dangerous man. You watch out!”

* * *

“So, Mr de Souza, the late Pilot Officer Kilinski arranged an appointment with you in order to set up an account at the bank?”

“Yes, Chief Inspector. He had heard that a large number of Polish people held accounts here and wished to avail himself of that service.”

“And when would that have been exactly?”

De Souza consulted the fat red diary on his desk. “That would have been the afternoon of Wednesday, August 28th.”

“Did he have much money to deposit?”

De Souza shook his head and a few flakes of dandruff fell onto his shoulder. “We didn’t really get that far.”

“Hmm.” Merlin glanced at Robinson. “Can you show Mr de Souza our little cutting, Constable?”

Robinson produced the photograph of the Aztec amulet and laid it on de Souza’s desk.

De Souza picked it up and studied it. “A beautiful piece.”

“Have you seen this amulet, sir?”

“No, why no. I haven’t seen this photograph. No.”

“Mr Kilinski didn’t show it to you?”

“No.”

“Do you know what it is?”

De Souza took a magnifying glass out of one of his desk drawers and looked again at the photograph. “It is clearly an item of value and antiquity. South American, perhaps?” Laying the glass down, he leaned his elbows on the desk, steepled his hands in front of him and smiled.

“On a more general note, sir, do you have any dealings with the Polish government in exile? Do they have an account here?”

“I am not really at liberty to discuss our account holders, Chief Inspector. Perhaps—”

“I am conducting a murder enquiry, sir. Mr Kilinski was the victim of a murder and I need to pursue every avenue. If you choose not to be forthcoming, I could return here later with a warrant to go over your books. If—”