“Well, I don’t think the committee is really going to achieve anything. You and I know it’s not an effective vehicle. However, if you and I and our people pool our resources to some extent then we can find a way to target those professional looters and bring them to justice.”
Steele smiled. “I like your thinking, laddie. You and I’ll make up our own little sub-committee of action. I’ll get my boys to keep their ears to the ground, yours will do likewise, and we’ll work out a plan.” A couple of officers passing by on their way into the Yard raised their eyebrows as Steele’s voice increased in volume. “Then we’ll get these bastards! I’ll be in touch shortly, Peter. You can count on it.” Steele strode off down the Embankment at double-pace, turning briefly to wave.
*
Back at the Yard, Bridges had some unpleasant news. “Inspector Goodman died in the raid last night.”
“Dios mio! And his family?”
“The whole lot of them. Wife and three children and grandma. A direct hit on his house in Hackney. Not surprisingly, his department is in turmoil. Jimmy Edgar, his number two, also happens to be in hospital with appendicitis, which doesn’t help.”
“Dear God. Poor man, poor man.” Merlin shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment.
“What do you want me to do with the gold, sir?”
“It’s not just the gold. Look at this, Sergeant. I was going to refer this to Goodman as well.” Constable Robinson, who was sitting opposite Merlin, passed an envelope across the desk to Bridges.
Bridges opened it and removed the cutting. “Some sort of lady’s necklace?”
“Perhaps, Sergeant. Found in Ziggy Kilinski’s trunk.”
Robinson cleared her throat quietly. “May I say something, sir?”
“Fire away, Constable.”
“My brother Edward is an expert on South America. He used to teach Spanish history at Cambridge before the war. Perhaps I could show him the picture?”
“Where is he?”
“He scraped home from Dunkirk and is now based at Chelsea barracks.”
“Alright, Constable, why not? Get round there now and see if he can help.”
“What about the gold bar, sir?”
“There must be a specialist in this sort of thing in London. Have another word with someone in poor Goodman’s department. At least one of the juniors there should be able to tell you where to look. Otherwise just trawl through the phone book for bullion or coin specialists.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And there’s another lead, Sergeant. Chap called Tarkowski. Let me explain.”
*
Bridges had rung the London number on the business card Merlin had found in Northolt, which proved to be that of the Polish government in exile. Count Tarkowski, who, according to his loyal secretary, was a very highly regarded senior adviser to that government, was not planning to be in the office that day. His secretary was unaware of his exact plans, but agreed to try and contact him at home to arrange an appointment. She was successful and so Merlin and his sergeant drew up outside Tarkowski’s large, vine-covered property a half a mile or so off the Finchley Road at eleven o’clock precisely.
Minutes later they sat together on a leather sofa in a warm, sunlit study before their well-groomed host who was perched on a high-seated chair behind a large partners desk.
“My back, gentlemen. I am a martyr to my back. This is the only type of chair on which I can do my work. I was in the cavalry in the first war and had a number of unfortunate falls. Hence this, er…”
“Sorry to hear that, sir. Now, as we said on the phone, we wondered whether you could tell us anything about this compatriot of yours, a pilot in the Kosciuszko Squadron?”
“Ah, the Kosciuszko! You do not know what a pride wells in the heart of any Polish patriot when he hears that name. Perhaps you do not know the history of this—”