Princes Gate by Mark Ellis Page A

gloom lifted as he turned on the lamp, and the full squalor of Morrie Owen’s office was revealed.
    “And you can give me back my account book, thank you.”
    Reardon, a bent, haggard-looking man with greying hair, dark bags beneath his eyes and a large wart on his cheek, picked up a black book from the floor and passed it back to his boss.
    “And now I’ll have a nice little chat with my idiot nephew here. Off you go.” Owen struggled to his feet and waddled over to the desk. It was strewn with papers and the remains of his fish and chips supper.
    Turning to a dingy mirror behind the desk, Owen dabbed his fingers to his tongue and moistened his eyes. He lifted the cats-licks hanging down from his head and laid them carefully across the giant dome of his skull. He applied further moisture from his fingers on to the hairs in an effort to keep them firmly in place.
    Satisfied at last with his efforts he turned round, pulled his dangling braces up and over his shoulders and lowered himself carefully into the chair behind his desk. “OK, Johnny. What do you want? I always take a little nap before the club opens, as you know. If I don’t have my nap I get quite tetchy, see. So tell me something to cheer me up and forget that you were the one that ruined my nap.”
    Morgan pulled over a chair and faced the quivering jowls of his mother’s favourite brother. “Sorry, but I haven’t got anything particularly jolly to tell you. I just thought you might like to know a little about what’s been going on at the Ambassador’s place?”
    Folds of flesh in Owen’s neck rippled as he reached to scratch his chin. “Can’t say that’s a very good reason to disturb my beauty sleep, Johnny boy. You got yourself into some trouble there or something? I wouldn’t like to hear that you’re in trouble after all the effort I put in to get you that job.”
    “I’m not in trouble. It’s just that the police are taking an interest in the Ambassador’s staff and are poking around like. I thought I’d better let you know.”
    “The police are poking around, are they? Why’s that then?”
    Morgan sighed. “A girl who worked at the Embassy, Joan, was found dead. So they’re just sort of investigating about that.”
    “Joan, eh? Dead is she? Nice looking girl. That’s sad but what’s it to us?”
    “Nothing, Uncle. Just thought you’d like to know. Because Joan and I, you know…”
    Beads of sweat running from the top of Owen’s head made their tortuous way down the valleys and crevices of his face.
    Morgan shifted uneasily in his chair.
    “Look, Johnny. I know you love the girls and I know they love you. You have a talent, a talent which, as you know, I am prepared to back.”
    “Yes, Uncle.”
    “And you like them particularly sweet and innocent don’t you, just like many of our other friends and clients.” Owen stared into the distance for a moment then looked back gloomily at his nephew. “I don’t want any more detail. Just keep your head down and keep the police out of my affairs. You’re a bright enough boy to manage that, I think.”
    “Just thought you’d like to know what was going on.”
    “Indeed, Johnny. And I thank you. And all you need to tell the boys in blue is that you had nothing to do with the girl, isn’t that right?”
    “Yes, Uncle. But they’re going to be talking to others. And what about Norton? They’ll be talking to him.”
    “Don’t you worry about Norton. He’s a diplomat. Doesn’t have to answer any questions if he don’t want to, does he? You just make sure nothing gets back to me, alright?” With surprising agility, Owen shot out an arm, grabbed his nephew’s lapels and pulled him close. “’Cos if it does,” he shouted “I shall be a very unhappy uncle, understand me?”

    Arthur Norton was not feeling at his best. The interview with the two schmucks from Scotland Yard had unsettled his equilibrium. As he tetchily completed his toilette, his temper was further