SS-GB

‘Is that all?’

Harry knew that his partner would ask for the identity card and he passed it across unrequested. Harry said, ‘Travelling light, this one.’

‘Or his pockets were rifled,’ said the doctor, not moving from his position on the sofa.

Harry met Douglas’s eyes and there was a trace of a smile. ‘Or his pockets were rifled,’ said Douglas to Harry.

‘That’s right,’ said Harry.

Douglas opened the identity card. It was written there that the holder was a thirty-two-year-old accountant with an address in Kingston, Surrey. ‘Kingston,’ said Douglas.

‘Yes,’ said Harry. They both knew that, ever since the Kingston Records Office had been destroyed in the fighting, this was a favourite address for forgers of identity documents. Douglas put the card in his pocket, and repeated his question. ‘What sort of game are you playing, doctor?’ He looked at the doctor and waited for an answer. ‘Why are you trying to mislead me about the time of death?’

‘Well it was silly of me. But if people are coming and going after midnight the neighbours are supposed to report them to the Feldgendarmerie.’

‘And how do you know that they didn’t report it?’

The doctor raised his hands and smiled. ‘I just guessed,’ he said.

‘You guessed.’ Douglas nodded. ‘Is that because all your neighbours ignore the curfew?’ said Douglas. ‘What other regulations do they regularly flout?’

‘Jesus!’ said the doctor. ‘You people are worse than the bloody Germans. I’d rather talk to the Gestapo than talk to bastards like you – at least they won’t twist everything I say.’

‘It’s not in my power to deny you a chance to talk to the Gestapo,’ said Douglas, ‘but just to satisfy my own vulgar curiosity, doctor, is your opinion about benign interrogation techniques practised by that department based upon first-hand experience or hearsay?’

‘All right, all right,’ said the doctor. ‘Let’s say three A.M.’

‘That’s much better,’ said Douglas. ‘Now you examine the body properly so that I don’t have to wait here for the pathologist before getting started and I’ll forget all about that other nonsense…but leave anything out, doc, and I’ll run you along to Scotland Yard and put you through the mangle. Right?’

‘All right,’ said the doctor.

‘There’s a lady downstairs,’ said the uniformed police Sergeant. ‘She’s come to collect something from the antique shop. I’ve told the Constable to ask her to wait for you.’

‘Good man,’ said Douglas. He left the doctor looking at the body while Harry Woods was going through the drawers of the escritoire.

The antique shop was one of the hundreds that had sprung up since the bombing and the flight of refugees from Kent and Surrey during the weeks of bitter fighting there. With the German Mark pegged artificially high, the German occupiers were sending antiques home by the train-load. The dealers were doing well out of it, but one didn’t need lessons in economics to see the way that wealth was draining out of the country.

There were some fine pieces of furniture in the shop. Douglas wondered how many had been lawfully purchased and how many looted from empty homes. Obviously the owner of the antique shop stored his antiques by putting them in the tiny apartments upstairs, and justified high rents by having them there.

The visitor was sitting on an elegant Windsor chair. She was very beautiful: large forehead, high cheekbones and a wide face with a perfect mouth that smiled easily. She was tall, with long legs and slim arms.

‘Now maybe someone will give me a straight answer.’ She had a soft American voice, and she reached into a large leather handbag and found a US passport, which she brandished at him.

Douglas nodded. For a moment he was spellbound. She was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen. ‘What can I do for you, Madam?’

‘Miss,’ she said. ‘In my country a lady doesn’t like being mistaken for a Madam.’ She seemed amused at his discomfiture. She smiled in that relaxed way that marks the very rich and the very beautiful.

‘What can I do for you, Miss?’

She was dressed in a tailored two-piece of pink wool. Its severe and practical cut made it unmistakably American. It would have been striking anywhere, but in this war-begrimed city, among so many dressed in ill-fitting uniforms or clothes adapted from uniforms, it singled her out as a prosperous visitor. Over her shoulder she carried a new Rolleiflex camera. The Germans sold them tax-free to servicemen and to anyone who paid in US dollars.

‘My name is Barbara Barga. I write a column that is syndicated into forty-two US newspapers and magazines. The press attaché of the German Embassy in Washington offered me a ticket on the Lufthansa inaugural New York to London flight last month. I said yes, and here I am.’

‘Welcome to London,’ said Douglas dryly. It was shrewd of her to mention the inaugural flight on the Focke-Wulf airliner. Göring and Goebbels were both on that flight; it was one of the most publicized events of the year. A journalist would have to be very important indeed to have got a seat.

‘Now tell me what’s going on here?’ she said with a smile. Douglas Archer had not met many Americans, and he’d certainly never met one to compare with this girl. When she smiled, her face wrinkled in a way that Douglas found very beguiling. In spite of himself, he smiled back. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said. ‘I get on well with cops, but I didn’t expect to find so many of them here in Peter’s shop today.’

‘Peter?’

‘Peter Thomas,’ she said. ‘Come on now, mister detective, it says Peter Thomas on the door – Peter Thomas – Antiques – right?’

‘You know Mr Thomas?’ said Douglas.

‘Is he in trouble?’

‘This will go faster if you just answer my questions, Miss.’

She smiled. ‘Who said I wanted to go faster…OK. I know him –’

‘Could you give me a brief description?’

‘Thirty-eight, maybe younger, pale, thin on top, big build, six feet tall, small Ronald Colman moustache, deep voice, good suits.’

Douglas nodded. It was enough to identify the dead man. ‘Could you tell me your relationship with Mr Thomas?’

‘Just business – now what about letting me in on who you are, buddy?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Douglas. He felt he was handling this rather badly. The girl smiled at his discomfort. ‘I’m the Detective Superintendent in charge of the investigation. Mr Thomas was found here this morning: dead.’

‘Not suicide? Peter wasn’t the type.’

‘He was shot.’

‘Foul play,’ said the girl. ‘Isn’t that what you British call it?’

‘What was your business with him?’

‘He was helping me with a piece I’m writing about Americans who stayed here right through the fighting. I met him when I came in to ask the price of some furniture. He knew everybody – including a lot of London-based foreigners.’

‘Really.’

‘Peter was a clever man. He’d root out anything anybody wanted, as long as there was a margin in it for him.’ She looked at the collection of silver and ivory objects on a shelf above the cash register. ‘I called this morning to collect some film. I ran out of it yesterday, and Peter said he’d be able to get me a roll. It might have been in his pocket.’

‘There was no film found on the body.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll get some somewhere.’

She was standing near him now and he smelled her perfume. He fantasized about embracing her and – as if guessing this – she looked at him and smiled. ‘Where can I reach you, Miss Barga?’