Ambassador?”
“Just what you’d expect. The honoured representative of our greatest ally. A man to be respected.”
“Really? Is that still appropriate when we know he’s been an arch-appeaser and tells all and sundry that Britain hasn’t got a hope in hell in this war?”
“I can’t really get into that, Chief Inspector. If you’re asking me what the government thinks of Mr Kennedy, may I remind you that Mr Neville Chamberlain is still the head of the government, and that Mr Chamberlain was the architect of what some people call the appeasement policy and what others call the pragmatic policy in dealings with Germany. This same Mr Chamberlain has been on pretty chummy terms with Mr Kennedy since his arrival in ’thirty-eight. Anyway, what the devil has this got to do with your case?”
“Probably nothing sir. I just wanted to know a little more about the lie of the land at the Embassy. Best to know the lie of the land, I think, when you’re trying to avoid diplomatic incidents.”
The A.C. produced another sickly smile and got to his feet. “Very well. Any word on how Johnson’s getting on, by the way? This chap who was run over was some sort of scientific adviser. The Ministry of Defence have been on, worrying about there being some sort of foul play.”
“I haven’t seen Johnson for a couple of days. When I get a chance I’ll try and get a full progress report. Now I have to get on with my investigation. Will that be all?”
The A.C. grunted. As Merlin passed Miss Stimpson he gave her what he intended to be an enigmatic smile.
Having heard that there was some traffic hold-up on the Cromwell Road, Merlin crossed to the south bank of the river. Traffic was sparse and he reached Hammersmith Bridge in less than half-an-hour. He stopped for a moment on the bridge and got out of the car. The river was still iced over in many parts. Some river traffic was edging its way with difficulty through the baby icebergs. A gaily-painted river barge glided down the centre of the river and he wondered whether the unidentified boatmen who had been on the river when Joan Harris’ body was found were at work today. He stared up at the gloomy overcast sky and the barrage balloons hovering above the bridge. The A.C.’s approach to the case worried him. What did it matter that Joan was ‘insignificant’? So the case might cause the A.C. political problems if it proved embarrassing in some way for the US embassy. So what? He didn’t give a damn for the defeatist Kennedy, or indeed for that stuffed-shirt Chamberlain, whom Hitler had comprehensively hoodwinked. Nothing should stand in the way of a murder investigation, however lowly the victim. No doubt Joan’s fate would seem unimportant in the greater scheme of things whenever the Luftwaffe got round to bombing London, but that was nothing to him. It was his job to seek out the truth behind her death, regardless.
He tossed a stone into the river and rubbed his hands. Come on, he said to himself. Let’s get on with it.
Joan Harris’ lodgings were in a terraced house in a dingy road just off King Street. Merlin parked his car on the kerb and banged the knocker which, much smoothed from use, appeared to have originally taken the form of a cat’s head. Eventually the door slowly opened to the accompaniment of a ferocious bout of coughing.
The woman was large. She wore a shabby dress on which he could see several stains, some of which were yellow and seemed of recent origin. Her large breasts, seemingly unsupported in any way, sagged towards her knees. A frizzy grey down covered most of the lower half of her face, while her obviously dyed hair was tagged up in curlers. Piercing the beard on the lower half of her face was a red gash of a mouth, from which an almost spent cigarette sagged and which eventually exchanged coughs for words. “Cat got your tongue?” the apparition growled. “Come on, state your business, I haven’t got all day and I’m in the middle
“Just what you’d expect. The honoured representative of our greatest ally. A man to be respected.”
“Really? Is that still appropriate when we know he’s been an arch-appeaser and tells all and sundry that Britain hasn’t got a hope in hell in this war?”
“I can’t really get into that, Chief Inspector. If you’re asking me what the government thinks of Mr Kennedy, may I remind you that Mr Neville Chamberlain is still the head of the government, and that Mr Chamberlain was the architect of what some people call the appeasement policy and what others call the pragmatic policy in dealings with Germany. This same Mr Chamberlain has been on pretty chummy terms with Mr Kennedy since his arrival in ’thirty-eight. Anyway, what the devil has this got to do with your case?”
“Probably nothing sir. I just wanted to know a little more about the lie of the land at the Embassy. Best to know the lie of the land, I think, when you’re trying to avoid diplomatic incidents.”
The A.C. produced another sickly smile and got to his feet. “Very well. Any word on how Johnson’s getting on, by the way? This chap who was run over was some sort of scientific adviser. The Ministry of Defence have been on, worrying about there being some sort of foul play.”
“I haven’t seen Johnson for a couple of days. When I get a chance I’ll try and get a full progress report. Now I have to get on with my investigation. Will that be all?”
The A.C. grunted. As Merlin passed Miss Stimpson he gave her what he intended to be an enigmatic smile.
Having heard that there was some traffic hold-up on the Cromwell Road, Merlin crossed to the south bank of the river. Traffic was sparse and he reached Hammersmith Bridge in less than half-an-hour. He stopped for a moment on the bridge and got out of the car. The river was still iced over in many parts. Some river traffic was edging its way with difficulty through the baby icebergs. A gaily-painted river barge glided down the centre of the river and he wondered whether the unidentified boatmen who had been on the river when Joan Harris’ body was found were at work today. He stared up at the gloomy overcast sky and the barrage balloons hovering above the bridge. The A.C.’s approach to the case worried him. What did it matter that Joan was ‘insignificant’? So the case might cause the A.C. political problems if it proved embarrassing in some way for the US embassy. So what? He didn’t give a damn for the defeatist Kennedy, or indeed for that stuffed-shirt Chamberlain, whom Hitler had comprehensively hoodwinked. Nothing should stand in the way of a murder investigation, however lowly the victim. No doubt Joan’s fate would seem unimportant in the greater scheme of things whenever the Luftwaffe got round to bombing London, but that was nothing to him. It was his job to seek out the truth behind her death, regardless.
He tossed a stone into the river and rubbed his hands. Come on, he said to himself. Let’s get on with it.
Joan Harris’ lodgings were in a terraced house in a dingy road just off King Street. Merlin parked his car on the kerb and banged the knocker which, much smoothed from use, appeared to have originally taken the form of a cat’s head. Eventually the door slowly opened to the accompaniment of a ferocious bout of coughing.
The woman was large. She wore a shabby dress on which he could see several stains, some of which were yellow and seemed of recent origin. Her large breasts, seemingly unsupported in any way, sagged towards her knees. A frizzy grey down covered most of the lower half of her face, while her obviously dyed hair was tagged up in curlers. Piercing the beard on the lower half of her face was a red gash of a mouth, from which an almost spent cigarette sagged and which eventually exchanged coughs for words. “Cat got your tongue?” the apparition growled. “Come on, state your business, I haven’t got all day and I’m in the middle
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