Princes Gate by Mark Ellis

fashionable clubs and nightclubs in town, would he not?”
    Norton’s features relaxed a little. “I am sure I know most of the best places.”
    “Do you know a club called ‘The Blue Angel’ by any chance?”
    Norton studied the ceiling. “The Blue Angel – sounds familiar. It’s a film, isn’t it, with Marlene Dietrich? A sleazy nightclub in Berlin I think. I can’t say I know of one in London. Sorry I can’t help you there.”
    “That’s alright. I’ll find it one way or another. I am something of an expert on sleazy clubs – sleazy people as well for that matter.”
    Norton sneered before making his departure. They listened to his steps clattering down the corridor.
    “Quite a charmer.”
    “Indeed, Sergeant. ‘Culo pomposo’, as my father would have said.”
    Bridges returned a bemused look.
    “Pompous arse, Sam.”
    “I think I might have ruder words, sir. Think he’s got anything to do with this?”
    “Probably not, although it’s tempting to think the worst of a man like that.”
    Merlin sucked on a lozenge and breathed eucalyptus fumes on his colleague as he smoothed out the list of the day’s interviewees that had been left for him on the desk.
    “You were going to tell me about Kathleen Donovan, sir.”
    “So I was.” Merlin related as succinctly as he could the story of his adventures of the previous night.
    “If my stomach wasn’t already turning of its own accord, it would be now. Poor girl. Do you think it bears on the case?”
    “Perhaps. Morgan likes girls. They like him. Joan Harris was pretty.”
    “He says Joan was never a girlfriend. Says he hardly knew her.”
    “We’ll just have to find out if he’s telling the truth.”
    There was a knock at the door, followed by the diffident entrance of a little man in a chauffeur’s uniform. Merlin looked at his list. “Mr Priestley. Come on in.”

    Johnny Morgan made his way carefully down the steep unlit stairs. Snow showers had turned to sleet in the Soho streets outside. At the bottom he looked to his right. There was a faint light at the end of the corridor and he made his way in that direction. Arriving at a door, slightly ajar, he pushed against it gently. A dull glow emanated from a single hanging bulb. He saw a desk around which were three unoccupied chairs. From the other side of the room he could hear rhythmic breathing. Slumped in an armchair was a very fat man whose huge bald head lolled forward on to a barrel chest. A few greasy strands of hair hung down to one side like ivy creepers.
    Morgan nudged the man, who responded with a grunt.
    “Come on, Uncle. Wake up. It’s early.”
    From another corner of the room, Morgan heard a snort. A second dozing man materialised.
    “Christ, come on, Uncle. Shake a leg.”
    Eventually the large mound of flesh beneath his hands began to move of its own accord. “Wassat? Jimmy? Who’s there?”
    The other figure rose from its chair, moved forward in the murk and swore as it stumbled on something.
    “It’s me, Uncle. No need to panic. It’s me, Johnny”.
    His uncle’s piggy eyes gradually obtained focus. “What the hell are you playing at?”
    “Not playing at anything, Uncle. Just came to pay you a visit. Didn’t realise that seven o’clock was your bedtime.”
    “You little bugger.” The voice retained elements of its Welsh origins but was predominantly cockney, reflecting the forty years or so of life that Maurice Owen, known to all as Morrie, had spent in the metropolis.
    Morrie lifted a small object from his lap and threw it at the prostrate figure on the floor. “And you, Jimmy. You useless bugger. You’re meant to be on the lookout for me, aren’t you? Not bloody sleeping in a corner while I take my evening nap. Don’t know why I bother to employ you. Get up off your arse and make yourself useful for once. Turn on the corner lamp so I can see what I’m doing.”
    Jimmy Reardon raised himself stiffly from the floor and moved back towards his own chair. The