Murder at the Ritz Page 10

  The general manager turned gratefully to Coburg and took his hand in both of his.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Coburg,’ he said, and bowed before he released Coburg’s hand and then stood waiting ready to be of service.

  ‘What was all that?’ asked the bewildered superintendent. ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘The short version, sir, is I assured him he could have his kitchen back within an hour if he left us to do our work. So, with respect, sir, I suggest we crack on. If you could show me the body, and where he was found, and also’ – and here Coburg turned his attention to the general manager – ‘if you could get hold of the person who found him so I could talk to him?’

  ‘It will be done.’ The man bowed again, and hurried off.

  ‘This place is a madhouse,’ muttered Allison unhappily, leading the way to a partly opened door where a police constable stood guard. The superintendent pulled the door open wider, and Coburg saw that it was a large cupboard, or rather a storeroom lined with shelves on which were a variety of pots, with frying pans of different sizes hanging from hooks. A large, grey-haired man was kneeling beside the doubled-up body of a man wearing kitchen whites. As the man looked up, Coburg’s heart sank. Dr Alexander Stewart.

  ‘So, you’re here at last!’ rasped Stewart. ‘You took your time coming.’

  Coburg was tempted to point out that he’d been out doing police work, but he decided he wasn’t going to start defending himself against the bullying doctor.

  ‘What have we got?’ he asked blandly.

  Stewart rose to his feet and glared at Coburg. ‘Eyesight failing you now, is it, Inspector?’ he barked sarcastically. He gestured at the body, which looked as if it had been folded in half. ‘We have the dead body of a man which has been stuffed behind some free-standing shelves so tightly that rigor has turned him into a human accordion.’

  ‘Cause of death?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘At first sight, a knife in the back,’ said Stewart. ‘A long-bladed one because it’s gone straight into the heart.’ He pointed in the direction of the kitchen. ‘I’m guessing you’ll find no end of knives that fit that description out there. But then, I’m not a detective inspector.’

  ‘Chief inspector,’ Coburg corrected him with a weak smile.

  Stewart scowled. ‘As if my job isn’t difficult enough, I’m having to do it in some kind of cupboard, with the door almost shut, because of the racket that’s going on out there. Call this a grand hotel? You don’t get this sort of behaviour in the quality hotels in Edinburgh. People there know how to behave.’

  ‘Time of death?’ asked Coburg.

  Stewart scowled. ‘The early hours of this morning. Some time between three o’clock and five.’

  Coburg looked at him in surprise, then looked at his watch. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not in the habit of making mistakes,’ retorted Stewart indignantly.

  ‘But that’d make it about fourteen hours ago. How can a dead body remain undiscovered in a busy hotel kitchen for fourteen hours?’

  ‘If you’d listened to what I said, Chief Inspector,’ snapped Stewart, ‘you’d have heard me say that the man was stuffed so tightly behind shelves that the cadaver had become seriously contorted. It appears to me that the shelves were pulled forward from the cavity wall where they stood, the dead man was pushed in while his body was still flexible, and the shelves were then pushed back in place and the pots and pans piled on top, thus hiding and securing the body in situ. But then, I’m merely a medical person, not a detective from the higher echelons of Scotland Yard.’

  The short man stepped into the telephone booth, dialled a number, then inserted coins.

  ‘Yes?’ said the voice that answered.

  ‘She doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause, then the voice said: ‘Very well. You know what to do with her.’

  Rosa stood in the telephone box, finger poised over button A, which she pressed when the switchboard operator at Scotland Yard answered, the coins tumbling down as the connection was made.

  ‘Hello. Can I speak to Detective Inspector Coburg, please?’

  ‘Who’s calling for him?’

  ‘My name is Rosa Weeks. He does know me. It’s very urgent.’

  ‘Would you hold on, please, and I’ll try and connect you.’

  Rosa listened impatiently to a series of clicks, before the operator’s voice was heard again.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam. DCI Coburg is out at the moment, and so is his sergeant.’

  ‘Could I leave a message? Could you ask him to make contact with Rosa Weeks? If I’m not at home I’ll be at the Ritz Hotel.’

  Coburg and Lampson had been given the use of one of the cloakrooms to carry out their questioning of the kitchen staff. They began with the man who’d discovered the dead body.

  ‘I went to get some saucepans, and as I lifted them off the shelf I saw what looked like a jacket sleeve behind it, hanging down,’ he said. ‘I reached in and took hold of it, but I realised there was something in the sleeve. So, I took some things off some of the other shelves to see what was there, and then I saw Alex’s face.’ He shuddered. ‘It was horrible.’

  ‘You screamed,’ said Coburg.

  ‘I did,’ the man said. ‘Erik and Leno heard and came to see what was wrong. Leno went to get the chef, while me and Erik took everything off the shelves and pulled them out.’

  ‘And you weren’t aware he was there before that?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  The story was the same from everyone else they spoke to. But then, this was the day shift, most of them clocking in at half past nine that morning.

  They made their way to the general manager’s office. ‘No one saw anything,’ Coburg told him. ‘We need to talk to the night shift, the ones who were here between three and five this morning. When will they be in?’

  ‘Half past nine tonight,’ said the man.

  ‘I’ll come in then and talk to them,’ said Coburg. ‘In the meantime, we’d like to look at what you have on the dead man. His address. Wage records. Everything. We’ve been told he was Swiss, is that right?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s what his passport says.’

  ‘Did you see his passport?’

  Again, the man nodded.

  ‘Did he have family?’

  ‘Not in this country,’ he replied.

  ‘Where? Switzerland?’

  ‘If he had, he never talked about them.’

  Coburg and Lampson waited while the general manager went through his records and gave them the details they needed. They also took the contents of the dead man’s trouser pockets, and the pockets in his outdoor jacket which was still hanging in the staff cloakroom.

  ‘His address is in Holborn,’ said Coburg, jangling two keys on a key ring. ‘So that’s our first port of call.’

  The house where Ollen had lived was a tall, thin terraced house of four floors. It was sub-divided into bedsits, with a toilet and bathroom on every other landing. Ollen had a room on the second floor, and the first thing that struck the two policemen was how neat and tidy everything was. So often their experience in houses like this was of disorder, mess, unwashed plates and cups left on tables, clothes strewn on the floor and the furniture.

  ‘Very neat,’ commented Coburg.

  ‘Swiss,’ said Lampson. ‘They’ve got a reputation for being tidy.’

  The two men began to search through the cupboards and drawers, and in the bedside cabinet Coburg found the man’s passport. He studied it for a while, then held it against the window, examining the pages with sunlight through them. He passed it to Lampson.

  ‘I’m suspecting he wasn’t really Swiss,’ Coburg said.

  Lampson also examined it.

  ‘It ain’t bad,’ he said. ‘But I think you’re right.’

  Coburg took it back from the sergeant and put it into an evidence bag. ‘We’ll ge
t confirmation one way or another from the Swiss Embassy,’ he said.

  Lampson opened a drawer in the chest of drawers and took out some papers. ‘This might be what some people call a clue,’ he said with a grin.

  Coburg joined him. There were leaflets in an unfamiliar script.

  ‘Looks like Russian,’ said Lampson.

  ‘You understand Russian?’ asked Coburg, impressed.

  ‘Not a word,’ said Lampson. ‘But when I was growing up, one of my neighbours was from Russia. An old bloke. He had papers that looked a bit like this.’ He looked at the papers again and frowned. ‘But not the same. Similar, but different.’

  ‘Could be Serbian?’ wondered Coburg.

  Lampson shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know, guv. What’s Serbian look like?’

  ‘A bit like Russian, but not quite.’

  Lampson lifted an envelope from the drawer, opened it and took out a letter.

  ‘Hello, we may have something to help us,’ he said. He offered the letter to Coburg, who took it and read it.

  ‘From a woman called Anna who writes in English.’

  ‘And very affectionate,’ pointed out Lampson. ‘And with her address at the top. Which is lucky. She might be able to throw some light on who he really was and why he’d upset someone enough to stab him and stuff him behind those shelves.’

  ‘Very likely,’ said Coburg. ‘So, I suggest you go and have a word with her, while I take these other papers to someone I know who might be able to put us right on the language.’ He held out the car keys. ‘You can take the car.’

  Lampson smiled happily. ‘You sure, guv?’

  ‘I am. You might have to do some searching. Me, I’m just going to the British Museum, a short stroll away.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Rosa paced agitatedly around the kitchen, her eyes on the clock. Where was Edgar?

  Donna appeared, her coat on.

  ‘I’ve got to go to the shops,’ she said. ‘Have you got any news about Julie?’

  Rosa shook her head. ‘Twice I’ve left messages at Scotland Yard for Edgar. Each time they tell me he’s out. At least I’ve left a message that if he calls and I’m not here, he’ll find me at the Ritz.’ Again, she looked at the clock. ‘In fact, I’d better get going.’

  ‘How’s it going there?’

  ‘So far so good. They seem to like me.’

  ‘How could they not,’ said Donna. She sighed. ‘I wish I could play the piano and sing like you.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’ asked Rosa.

  ‘Lack of talent!’ replied Donna with a rueful laugh.

  ‘Trust me, it doesn’t stop some people,’ said Rosa with a sigh.

  Coburg knocked on the door marked ‘Dr Greville Benton’, one of many in the maze of corridors behind the scenes at the British Museum.

  ‘Come!’ called a voice.

  Coburg opened it and walked in to find Benton stamping his foot into a metal waste bin from which smoke and flames were coming.

  ‘My God!’ said Coburg in alarm, and he rushed forward.

  ‘No need for panic,’ said Benton amiably. He withdrew his foot, lifted a soda siphon from his desk and directed a jet of water into the bin.

  ‘There!’ he said, satisfied, putting the siphon back on his desk. ‘Emergency over!’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Coburg, aghast.

  ‘A minor accident,’ said Benton. ‘I emptied my pipe into the bin, thinking it was out, and lo and behold there was a spark left, which, when combined with paper …’

  ‘It’s lucky no one raised the fire alarm,’ said Coburg. ‘I picked up the smell of smoke from outside and wondered where it was coming from.’

  ‘Yes, well, they would have checked with me first before calling the fire brigade, I’m sure,’ said Benton.

  ‘You mean it’s happened before?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ Benton admitted ruefully. He was a tall man, much rounded, in his early sixties with a shock of grey hair sticking out in all directions, and his jacket covered in ash. Benton was an old friend of the Coburg family and had been a tutor to both of Coburg’s elder brothers to cram them through their university entrance exams. ‘What can I do for you, young Edgar? Is this a social call, or police business? I’m assuming social because it’s after business hours.’

  ‘It’s always a social call, Greville, but, alas, it’s also to do with police business, and I know you rarely go home until long after the musuem’s closed. Luckily, the security guard let me in when I showed him my Scotland Yard card.’ He produced one of the leaflets they’d found in Alex Ollen’s room and passed it to Benton. ‘I’m hoping you can help us identify the language. We were thinking it might be Russian, or maybe Serbian,’ he suggested.

  ‘Very good,’ said Benton admiringly.

  ‘You mean we’re right?’

  ‘Close,’ said Benton. ‘It’s Macedonian.’

  Coburg smiled. ‘Now that is good news.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Benton.

  ‘Because a case we’re working on has an Albanian connection. And that country borders Macedonia.’

  ‘Are you talking about the dead body at the Ritz?’ asked Benton.

  ‘You heard about that?’

  ‘There was a small item in The Telegraph. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have bothered, but it mentioned King Zog, and eastern Europe is one of my areas of study.’

  ‘Well, there’s been another murder there. A kitchen hand, stabbed to death. We found this in his lodgings. He claimed to be Swiss, but there’s some doubt about that. If he’s Macedonian then it might tie in with the dead man in the Albanian king’s suite, with those two nations sharing a border. The more we can find out about the situation with Albania and Macedonia, the better.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to find plenty from your official channels,’ said Benton. ‘Special Branch, the Intelligence services, the Home Office.’

  ‘They’re politicians,’ said Coburg. ‘They’ll only tell us what they think we ought to know.’

  ‘How much do you know about the situation in the Balkans?’ asked Benton.

  ‘That it’s messy, and it’s been a mess since the fall of the Ottoman Empire. Lots of strife between the different nations.’

  ‘That about sums it up,’ agreed Benton. ‘The First World War broke out because of that strife. I think it was hoped that when Yugoslavia was formed after the end of that war, bringing all these different nations into one, so to speak, that the tensions in the Balkans would ease. However, the opposite was the case, with all these different nations demanding autonomy.’ For the past few years the trouble has mainly between the nationalists and the communists in each separate region, although sometimes their aims coincide. For example, in 1934 the Communist International issued a proclamation calling for the recognition of Macedonia as a separate nation with its own separate language.’ He pointed at the leaflet that Coburg had given him. ‘This is an example of that.’

  ‘So, it’s a leaflet issued by the communists?’

  ‘Possibly, but the fact there’s no hammer and sickle insignia anywhere suggests it’s a splinter organisation.’

  ‘But it’s political?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘So, was the killing political?’

  ‘It’s possible, but who knows? People kill one another for all sorts of reasons. For all we know, he might have upset one of his fellow workers in the kitchen. Hotel kitchens can be very volatile places. Some of these chefs are complete madmen.’

  Anna wasn’t in at the address when Lampson called, but he did find out her surname: Gershon. ‘I guess she’s at work,’ he was told by one of the other tenants of the lodging house. ‘She’s a waitress at the Elephant Room, it’s a cafe in Piccadilly Circus.’ He looked at his watch. ‘They’re usually open in the early evening, so she should still be there.’

  But, when Lampson went to the Elephant Room, there was no sign of her.

  ‘She’s gone to stay with her family somewhere in th
e Midlands,’ the owner told Lampson. ‘Apparently they were worried about her being in London. You know, because of the bombing.’

  ‘Did she say when she’d be back?’

  The owner shook his head. ‘But I told her I’d take her on again when she returned. She’s good at her job. Honest. And the customers like her.’

  Lampson wrote down his and Coburg’s names plus the number of their extension at Scotland Yard on a piece of paper and handed it to the man.

  ‘If she comes back, can you ask her to phone this number? And tell her it’s urgent.’

  The man looked at the piece of paper. ‘Scotland Yard?’ he said. ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Lampson. ‘But we’re hoping she’ll be able to provide us with information.’

  Lampson was the first back at the office at Scotland Yard, where he found a handwritten note on his desk. Urgent. For DCI Coburg. A Miss Rosa Weeks asks him to contact her urgently. If she’s not at her home she’ll be at the Ritz.

  ‘The woman he had lunch with,’ muttered Lampson. ‘Wonder what the emergency is?’

  The phone rang and he picked it up. ‘DCI Coburg’s office. Sergeant Lampson speaking.’

  ‘Ted, it’s Barry Moss,’ said the sergeant from Waterloo police station. ‘Is your guv’nor there?’

  ‘Sorry, Barry. He was going to the British Museum and he’s not back yet. Anything I can do?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve just had a body pulled out of the Thames, and I think it might be connected to this case you’re working on. The Ritz business. Any chance of you coming along to take a look at it? It’s been taken to the mortuary at Charing Cross Hospital.’

  ‘No problem, I’ll be along,’ said Lampson. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  He hung up the phone just as the door opened and Coburg walked in.