Merlin reached up behind the cuckoo clock where he always kept a medicinal bottle of Bells whisky. Bridges had brought a couple of glasses from the cubby-hole and Merlin poured out a healthy shot in each. Robinson insisted on sticking to her glass of water.
“Cheers.” The men clinked glasses.
“Well, it’s a relief to have got the Kilinski case tied up, sir.”
“So it is, Sam, assuming, that is, that we have got it tied up.” Merlin swirled the whisky around in his glass. “Because, I have to say, it all seems a little too neat for me. And there is that niggling little gap.”
“Sir?”
“Well, Constable, in her letter, the Countess presumes and indeed is convinced that Jerzy bumped Kilinski off, but she didn’t confirm this with him, did she? Do we share her view that Kowalski was up to poisoning a fellow officer?”
“He doesn’t appear to have been a very nice man. Look at the way he legged it from the Hampstead shoot-up.”
“No, Sergeant, perhaps not a nice man, but a killer?” Merlin finished his drink and shook his head. “Sorry, Sam, you know what I’m like. Never happy with loose ends. But the A.C. is, however, happy with the Countess’s presumption of Kowalski’s guilt and is delighted to have the case wrapped up, so I’d better stop griping and move on.”
He flipped open a folder Bridges had put on the desk and was giving it a cursory glance when the telephone rang. “Oh, yes. He wants to see me? Yes, I think I know who he is. Bring him on up.”
*
“And you are?”
“Ryabov. Maksim Ryabov.”
“And you were the late Mr Voronov’s servant at his Berkeley Square residence where my officers just detained you?”
“Da.”
“And would it have been you I saw, amongst others, firing a gun in Hampstead the other day?”
“Da.” Maksim was wearing a thick overcoat, which he had taken from Voronov’s wardrobe, but was nevertheless shivering.
“You understand that I shall have to arrest you for that?”
“Da. Da. Arrest me. Put me in prison. That is what I want. I want to be away from guns, bombs, loud voices, loud bangs. I need peace.”
“We can arrange that. The officer downstairs said you have something to tell me about your dead employer.”
Maksim looked around the room nervously. “May I sit down?”
Bridges stood up and offered his seat.
“Thank you, sir. Most kind. Kindness is not something I was accustomed to with Mr Voronov.” As he sat down, he looked across appreciatively at Constable Robinson’s legs. “You have such nice-looking lady policemen in this country. So unlike Russia.”
“I am sure the Constable appreciates the compliment, Mr Ryabov. Now, just a moment, there’s something we must do.” Merlin signalled to Bridges who cautioned Ryabov and warned him that anything he said might be used against him in court. “Do you understand? Yes? Then if you are happy, what have you to tell us?”
“You know about Mr Voronov and his desire for the gold in Count Tarkowski’s possession? Stalin’s gold as he called it.”
“We do.”
“And you know that there was a Polish pilot who got involved with him?”
“Ziggy Kilinski, yes.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
“We believe that it was one of his fellow pilots. Jerzy Kowalski.”
Maksim smiled to himself. He had stopped shivering now. “It came to Kyril Ivanovitch’s attention that Kilinski was paying close attention to the activities of Count Tarkowski. He arranged to meet him. Voronov pumped him for information but Kilinski would not tell everything. Voronov was very angry with him. They met again and Kilinski was more helpful. They shared some more of the things they knew, but Voronov still felt that Kilinski was holding things back about the gold. He decided Kilinski was an irritant who might get in his way. Kyril Ivanovitch did not care for irritants.”