Merlin at War Read online

  “Those Frenchmen languishing currently in Hitler’s camps would find it hard to agree with your analysis, I think.”

  “But you are gradually getting many of those Frenchmen home, François. That is part of the deal you have just struck, is it not?”

  “In return for, among other things, allowing Germany access to our military facilities in Tunisia, Syria, Lebanon and our possessions in west Africa. No doubt ‘access’ will prove a polite substitution for ‘control’.”

  Laval stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “And what is so bad about that in the overall scheme of things, if we can recover a much greater level of independence for Vichy France and further the cause of reunification with ‘the other’ France?”

  The admiral removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his brow. The May sun was now at its highest point in the heavens and was beating down from a now cloudless sky. “Perhaps you are right, Pierre, although I somehow doubt that Herr Hitler fails to realise the strength of his negotiating position and the weakness of ours. Dealing with your friend the German ambassador in Paris is one thing but… Of course, Herr Abetz was a fine host and I have to say I was impressed by the restraint with which, under his leadership, the German occupying forces go about their business in Paris.”

  The two men sat silently for a while, enjoying the warmth of the day, the mild relieving breeze and the mingled music of birdsong and trombone. For a moment, the heavy burdens on their shoulders lifted and a different France, the old France, took shape around them. Their brief reverie was interrupted by one of the admiral’s men, who ran over to deliver a note. Darlan read it and sighed. “The marshal wants to see me again at four. When do you think you will be regaining your place in the council, Pierre?”

  Laval smoothed some of the creases in his baggy pinstripe trousers and shrugged. “I serve at the marshal’s discretion. As you know, there are voices speaking against me. It is tiresome but I can handle it. Sooner rather than later is the answer to your question, I believe.”

  “The marshal still values your advice above all others.”

  “Indeed, François. But back to those agreements with Abetz, the Paris Protocols I understand we must now call them. What next?”

  Darlan slowly rose to his feet. “They must be ratified by Berlin and by us. Although I have negotiated the protocols myself, I am not completely happy with them. As for Berlin, who knows how long they will take?” The admiral looked up to the sky and sighed. “Such a beautiful day to be discussing these uncomfortable matters.”

  Laval stood. “Before we go back, François, have you been briefed recently on the activities of Monsieur de Gaulle and his so-called ‘Free French’ forces in London?”

  Darlan looked up, distracted for a moment by what appeared to be a fierce disagreement among the pigeons. He returned his eyes to Laval. “I see the same security reports as you, no doubt, Pierre.”

  “And what about the intelligence on the activities of the so-called Resistance here in Vichy and elsewhere in France?”

  “I believe I am up to speed. As yet these people appear to pose only a minor threat to us or the occupiers.”

  “So the cabinet report says but I have my own sources. I understand from them that the anti-government forces here are going to be receiving direct assistance from abroad.”

  “From abroad?”

  “From England. In fact, according to my sources, the English secret services have already sent agents over here.”

  “Two agents, perhaps three, I understood, Pierre. Is that anything to be particularly concerned about? Naturally, the British will deploy intelligence and counter-intelligence agents as the war proceeds. I would guess that the SS and other German agencies will be well on top of such problems.”

  Laval shrugged. “As you say, the Germans should be on top of this. Meanwhile, our own people will be vigilant and I am happy to know that we have our own viable sources here and abroad. Now, my friend, I believe we have time for a quick bite. If we return to my rooms at the hotel, I’m sure my people can rustle up a nice bit of beef and a fine burgundy to accompany it. Shall we?”

  The two men retraced their steps to the marshal’s seat of government at the Hotel Splendide, acknowledging the renewed greetings of the people again in dignified fashion.

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  Thursday 5 June 1941

  Cairo

  An inter-services game of cricket was in progress in the lush grounds behind him as Powell made his way through the grand portal of the Gezira Sporting Club. It was a hot and humid day and Powell was dripping with sweat. A fellow officer had given him a lift for part of the way but he had had to walk the last mile. Uniformed Egyptian attendants bowed and guided him through the lobby towards the bar, where he could see his host with a drink already in hand.

  “Edgar, there you are. How the hell are you? So glad to see you made it back safely.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, you can forget the ‘sir’ stuff in here. Relax. Can I get you one of these very refreshing gin slings? You probably haven’t had a decent drink inside you for a while. You look like you could do with a towel as well.”

  Powell opted for a whisky and soda. The drink and small towel were supplied swiftly and, after Powell had wiped his face, he clinked glasses with Major Rollo Watkinson, his second cousin.

  “Chin-chin, old chap.” The major was a stout man of medium height, whose red face was dominated by a large, pock-marked drinker’s nose. “So, Edgar, tell me all about it. How was Crete? Fearful, no doubt.”

  Powell related the tale of his company’s retreat to the east of Crete under relentless attack by German planes, and his final fraught journey to the evacuation point of Sphakia.

  “My God, you were lucky. The only survivor of your company. Christ! Well, the whole thing was a bloody disaster. As I understand it, everything began swimmingly. At the outset the Germans suffered very big casualties but, through some cock-up, we allowed them to overrun the airfield at Maleme. They used it to fly in reinforcements and everything went wrong from then on. Air superiority proved decisive. The CO in Crete – Freyberg – is a damned good soldier. I understand he wanted to spike all the airfields before battle commenced but was thwarted by some old farts in the Middle East Command. That might have made all the difference.”

  “Maybe, Rollo. It seemed from early on that there were German paratroopers and planes coming at us from all directions and we didn’t really have a hope in hell.”

  Watkinson finished his drink and ordered again for both of them. “Water under the bridge now. We’ll just have to regroup. Things were going a little better out here with Wingate taking the battle to the Italians in Abyssinia, but it looks like a different story again in Libya. That fellow Rommel is not going to be a walkover, I tell you.”

  The major’s rheumy eyes stared off grimly into the distance for a moment until the arrival of a fresh gin sling perked him up again. “And despite everything, you’re feeling good in yourself, Edgar? Apart from looking undernourished, sunburnt and a little thinner on top, you look much the same. Still got those odd different-coloured eyes and the old turned-up nose, eh?”

  Powell knew he looked a fright. He managed a little chuckle before sipping the whisky, which he guessed would go straight to his head.

  “Who was your company commander again? I didn’t quite catch the name?”

  “Captain Arbuthnot. Simon Arbuthnot.”

  The major’s eyebrows rose. “Arbuthnot, eh? I know the fellow – or knew him, that is. Came across him a few times when I enjoyed my brief career in the City. Haven’t seen him for years. Did very well for himself by all accounts. Became something of a tycoon.”

  “Really? You know I’m pretty ignorant about the City.” Powell reached out for a bowl of nuts that the barman had just set in front of them. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, I suppose, but I have to say I found him to be rather a cold fish. We had very little conversation. He
did say he had some land in the Midlands and interests in South America.”

  Watkinson gave his cousin a knowing look. “A very wealthy man. A lovely Georgian estate in Northamptonshire. A very substantial trading and industrial enterprise in Argentina, a finance house in the City and God knows what else. He married into the estate in Northampton. Bagged some young aristocrat filly, whose family goes back to the Domesday Book or thereabouts. Lady Caroline something. Pretty girl by all accounts.”

  Watkinson flicked a finger at the barman and raised two fingers to his lips. A large and ornate wooden box of cigarettes and cigars was produced. “Cheers, Faisal!” The major picked out a large cigar for himself while Powell took a cigarette. Watkinson trimmed his Corona and then, with a flourish, Faisal waved a flaming match in front of them and they lit up. The major took a long drag, blew a perfect circle of smoke in the air and continued. “Anyway, the poor girl died out of the blue within a year or two of the marriage. Some sort of fall, I believe – down the stairs or from a horse. She was the only child of the family and had inherited everything from her father when she was still a teenager. Anyway, Arbuthnot eventually got the lot.”

  “What was Arbuthnot’s background before he married this girl?”

  “Very ordinary. It’s coming back to me now. His father was the fifth son of a fifth son of a moderately good family. I think the father was a minor businessman.” The major screwed up his eyes in concentration. “Car dealer was it or machine engineer? Something like that. Anyway, Simon Arbuthnot started out as a junior stockbroker’s clerk in the City but had begun a little financial business of his own when he met the girl. It was just after the war, which he’d somehow managed to avoid. Asthma or something.” Watkinson put down his cigar and plunged his hand into the nut bowl. “Thank God they’ve got these back on the menu. For the past two weeks they only had olives. Can’t abide olives. Ghastly things.”

  “Children?”

  “One boy. Must be grown up now.”

  “What was Arbuthnot like when you knew him? As I said, I found him a bit cold. But I could see that he might be attractive to women.”

  “He was indeed a handsome fellow. Full of charm as well, if a bit fly. The wife was already dead when I first knew him. Put himself about quite a bit. A keen gambler. Not just on the tables. In business. With the opposite sex. There was a little mystery about how he did quite so well in business. Yes, he came into wealth through the wife but it was never really clear how he built up his South American business so quickly.”

  Powell started coughing. He had never been much of a smoker. His cousin passed him an ashtray and Powell stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Steady on, old boy. Are you all right? I should pour some more drink down your neck if I were you.”

  “I’m all right thanks, Rollo. Obviously I need a little practice in dealing again with the finer things of life.”

  The two men were distracted by a flurry of activity at the doorway, which marked the arrival of General Wavell and a party of officers. Wavell led his group towards the restaurant but paused when he saw Watkinson and Powell rising to salute him. “Who’s your friend, Major?”

  “Lieutenant Powell, sir. A cousin of mine. A few days off the boat from Crete. Got out by the skin of his teeth.”

  Wavell, a tall, well-built man with a small, bristly moustache and a head of silvery hair, smiled warmly at Powell and extended a hand. Powell grasped it and smiled back at the imposing officer, the commander-in-chief of the British army Middle East command – although, according to growing barrack-room gossip, not for much longer. “A dreadful business, Lieutenant Powell, dreadful. No doubt you lost many good comrades?”

  “I did, sir.”

  Wavell nodded gravely then patted Powell on the back. He glanced at the barman. “Give these two officers a round on me, please. Enjoy your recuperation, Lieutenant. I dare say you couldn’t have a better companion for recuperation than Watkinson here, eh Major?” Chuckling, he turned and headed off to the restaurant.

  The two men regained their seats. “Jolly decent of him to say hello. A fine fellow…” the major leaned closer to Powell “… if a little indecisive. Anyway, where were we?”

  “The Arbuthnot mystery.”

  “Oh, yes. So Arbuthnot got a bundle from his wife but mostly in the form of property. There was some cash, of course, but the gossip was that it could not account for the rapid accumulation made by Arbuthnot in other areas. Within only a few years of his wife’s death, he had the extremely valuable South American business and had set up a well financed bank.”

  “Did he sell any of the English properties to finance other investments?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Perhaps he borrowed against them?”

  “Perhaps, though people said he had no need to.”

  “Maybe he was just a lucky investor?”

  “Could be. Anyway, he can’t enjoy it any more can he, poor fellow? I wonder how he ended up in uniform? Chap was around the same age as me but I’m a career officer. Whatever induced a rich man like him to sign up?”

  “Patriotism?”

  “We must presume so, my dear Edgar. Ah, here we are. Thank you, Faisal.” The barman deposited Wavell’s round in front of them.

  “If I have anything more to drink without some food in my belly, Rollo, I shall be on the floor.”

  “Of course, dear boy. I should have realised. We’ll get the drinks sent through to the restaurant. And that’s enough of the Arbuthnots. Sorry for the chap but don’t think he should hog all of our conversation. Come along. They do a very fine steak here.”

  As Powell followed his cousin out of the bar, he remembered, with a twinge of concern, the bloodstained envelope lying in his new army kitbag at the camp. Given all he had just learned about Arbuthnot, he couldn’t help thinking it might contain something of great importance.

  * * *

  London

  “Look, Olivier. Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Commandant Auguste Angers stood tall in his stirrups as he pointed out the far distant dome of St Paul’s. The bronzed roof of the cathedral was glistening in the sun during a brief break in the clouds.

  The commandant and his colleague and deputy, Captain Olivier Rougemont, had enjoyed a morning’s exhilarating ride in Richmond Park. The commandant was riding his favourite grey, Chloe, and Rougemont was on his boss’s second string, a chestnut, Annette. Several sharp showers had failed to dampen their appreciation of the park and the great views of London laid out before them. The commandant, however, could not refrain from drawing an invidious comparison. “A wonderful ride, Olivier. I have to say, though, that this terrible English weather is getting on my nerves. Oh for a few hours on the Cap at this time of year, eh? Sunbathing by the sea, enjoying all the beautiful ladies, a glass of Dom Pérignon in one hand and a breast in the other.”

  “You forget, sir, that I have never been to the Cap d’Antibes nor, indeed, the South of France. I have been to Lyon but I don’t think that counts.”

  “Of course Lyon doesn’t count, Olivier. I forget sometimes that you are a Breton, imbued with all that strange Celtic puritanism and inhibition. Come, let’s go back. The colonel wants to see me about something. Any news from the general? How go things in Syria?”

  “I should have the latest report when we get back. It will be on your desk after the meeting.”

  Auguste Angers was a fine horseman. Unlike his deputy, he was riding bare-headed. The commandant was a strikingly attractive man of 35. He had lustrous, straw-coloured hair and despite the English climate, retained the residue of a Mediterranean suntan. Large, hazel eyes surmounted a narrow nose and a wide mouth, which always appeared to be on the brink of laughter. His deputy, by contrast, was short, dark and unprepossessing. An unsightly black mole sat on his left cheek and his features were too small for his large head. The hair currently constrained under his riding hat was wild, crinkly and difficult to groom. General de Gaulle was highly susceptible to Angers’ charm but R
ougemont irritated him, despite the fact that Rougemont was one of the brightest young officers attached to his army of the Free French.

  “Come, Olivier, I’ll race you. Loser picks up the tab at dinner tonight. Are you on? Good. Allons-y!” The rain began to fall again. They quickly reached a gallop and raced, shouting and laughing, all the way back to the stables.

  * * *

  “When on earth will summer arrive?” Detective Chief Inspector Frank Merlin wondered as he watched the steady patter of rain on the window. It had been a miserable May and the first few days of June had followed a similar pattern. He turned and looked back reluctantly into the room. Thinking about the weather was one way of shutting out of his mind the appalling bloody human mess sprawled out over the bed of this seedy hotel room in central London. The sight and smell was sickening – even to a hardened detective like him. Feeling the bile rising in his throat again, he hurried out into the dimly lit corridor. “Where are you, Sergeant? Is the doctor here yet?” Merlin went down the stairs at the end of the corridor to the hotel lobby, where he found Sergeant Bridges – a burly, ruddy-cheeked young man with an unruly mop of fair hair – interviewing the desk clerk.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Mm. How are you getting on with Mr er…”

  “Noakes, sir. Sylvester Noakes at your service, sir.”

  “Merlin. Detective Chief Inspector Merlin.”

  Sylvester Noakes was a small, balding man of indeterminate age. A few greasy strands of black hair strained to cover his large cranium. He wore a collarless white shirt, buttoned to the top, and a baggy green cardigan that had clearly seen better days.

  “And what has Mr Noakes been able to tell us, Sergeant?”

  “The gentleman has just been telling me…”

  “If I may be so bold, Sergeant, as to begin again for your superior…” Noakes had a strangely mangled accent. He sounded like a Cockney who’d had a few partially successful elocution lessons. “As I was just saying to the Sergeant, a nice young man if I may say so, Chief Inspector. As I was saying, I came on duty today at midday, taking over from Miss Evanston. She is one of the junior receptionists; I am the senior.” Noakes put his hand daintily to his mouth and coughed. “I asked if we had seen any business and she told me ‘not much’. Just one room had been taken in the morning hours. A couple, she said. A young lady and a man. They had taken Room 14 on the first floor.”