Murder on Embassy Row Read online

  “Why didn’t you contact the police? He was a fugitive.”

  “Because I felt it was not in my best interest.”

  Once again, Lake was taken aback by Lindstrom’s candor. There was never a moment of doubt of what answers to give, never a hitch in her voice, nothing to indicate calculation. She was “a piece of work,” as Morizio would say.

  “You’re sure Hafez is dead?” Lake asked.

  “I read the same newspapers as anyone else, Miss Lake. I hope you’re not offended but I really must go now. I have someone else to see.”

  “Offended? Hardly. I barged in here, asked you personal questions, received honest answers, and had tea to boot. Thank you very much.”

  “I enjoyed meeting you. Please give my best to Erl and Mark, and Berge, if you ever see him again.”

  Lake stood. She asked, “Do you think it’s true about Berge?”

  “Probably. People like him become rich but remain greedy. I’m sorry that it happened. He was a friend and a very good customer.” She walked Lake to the door. “Any last minute questions?”

  “Just one. Mark Rosner seemed to indicate that the smuggled caviar was… well, not unfamiliar to you.”

  Lindstrom smiled. “Whatever I sell can be openly and proudly displayed. The smuggled variety of caviar tends to have a distinct fishy odor, no matter how fresh it is. Thank you for stopping by.”

  22

  Approximately an hour after Lake left Inga Lindstrom’s office, Sal Morizio parked a rented Austin in front of Melanie Callender’s house in Blackheath, a suburb southeast of London. It hadn’t been an easy trip. Driving on the “wrong” side of the road for the first time had left him shaken, especially at the numerous “roundabouts” he encountered.

  The street contained neat, narrow rowhouses. He thought of the opening segment of “All in the Family.” It could have been Queens, New York, except for the orange tile roofs.

  A little dog behind the Callender’s chain-link fence barked at him as he approached the gate. “Just a little dog,” he thought. “Little dogs bite the most,” he reminded himself. He tentatively wiggled his fingers at the animal. It continued to bark, but at least it wasn’t growling. He flipped up the latch, talked baby talk to the dog, and stepped into the yard. The dog wagged its tail and sat up. “Yeah, nice doggie,” Morizio said as he climbed six brick steps to the front door. He rang the bell and heard it sound inside. A squat, ruddy-cheeked man wearing an old gray cardigan sweater over another sweater and baggy pants opened the inside door.

  “Mr. Callender?” Morizio shouted through the glass storm door.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. He had trouble with the lock on the outer door. “Good morning,” he said once he’d opened it.

  “Good morning,” Morizio said. “Mr. Callender?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m Salvatore Morizio. I called a few days ago for your daughter, Melanie.”

  “Right you are. I remember. She’s home now. Been on quite a holiday, she has, but these young people do better than Mum and me ever did. Been everywhere.”

  “Yeah, they do get around, don’t they?”

  “That they do. Come in, come in. A Yank, are you? Nothing but good feelings about Yanks in this house. Come on, don’t be shy. This missus has the teapot goin’, like she always has, plenty for the whole bloody neighborhood. Makes the best tea in England, she does. Better than all those fancy places where they charge a bloody fortune. In, come in, don’t mind him.” He pointed to the dog. “Name’s Blitz, harmless little devil but he thinks he’s a German Shepherd. That’s why the name.”

  Morizio was ushered into a narrow, dark hallway. Ahead was a kitchen where a stout woman worked at a double sink. “Ada, we’ve got a visitor,” Mr. Callender said cheerfully. “That nice young Yank who called for Melanie a few days back.”

  Ada Callender stopped what she was doing, wiped her hands on her apron, and approached Morizio. “Hello,” she said, a sudden wide smile splitting her round, red face like someone had taken a knife to a watermelon. “I’m a mess, I know,” she said. “Wasn’t expecting a visitor.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry just to stop by like this but…”

  “You’ll make him a cup of your best tea,” Mr. Callender said. He vigorously shook Morizio’s hand. “Name’s Basil Callender, Mr. Morizio. What did you say your first name was?”

  “Sal. Is your daughter home?”

  “Yes, she is. Sound asleep. She got in late last night. These young people, they do things we never did.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s for sure.”

  Basil Callender and Morizio sat in a cozy living room heated by a coal stove, although Morizio noticed central heating vents. Family photographs stood on a mock fireplace mantel, layers of rugs, knitted caftans piled on a red tweed couch, dark wood tables topped with glass and a manikin in one corner on which an RAF uniform was fitted, leather helmet, goggles, and all. Morizio asked about it.

  “My uniform,” Basil Callender said. “Didn’t get much time in because I took some Kraut lead early in the going, but I did my best.”

  Ada Callender brought their tea. “I heard her stir,” she said. “She’ll be up and around soon. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  “Don’t disturb her,” Morizio said.

  “Time a body was up and around anyway,” Mrs. Callender said.

  The next twenty minutes passed slowly. Not that Basil Callender didn’t do his best to make it interesting. He showed Morizio his scrapbook from World War II, photographs of his buddies, his aircraft, and of him in the hospital. There were family pictures, too, many taken when Melanie was a child. Morizio feigned interest but his mind wasn’t on it. Mrs. Callender returned, and said, “She’ll be with us shortly. Excuse me, I’ve got to get back to my kitchen.”

  Mr. Callender kept talking as he produced more scrapbooks, recounting flying exploits and boasting about his family. Melanie, he told Morizio, was quite the celebrity, winging off to America and then becoming personal secretary to the British ambassador. They’d been proud enough when she’d passed her exams for the civil service and was immediately assigned to the diplomatic service, but working directly for a major ambassador abroad was a crowning moment. “He chose her personally,” Melanie’s father said. “Yes, indeed, Mr. James personally pointed to our little girl and said, ‘I want you.’”

  “It must have been quite a shock when he died,” Morizio said.

  “Oh, yes, a sad day for the Crown and for us. Murder! Dreadful thing. Of course, we don’t discuss it. Melanie’s not supposed to talk about it and she doesn’t. She has obligations, she does, and she takes them seriously. She does her job and keeps her mouth shut, God bless her.”

  They were halfway through the fourth scrapbook when Morizio heard footsteps. He looked toward the hall and saw Melanie standing in the doorway. She was wearing a pink and blue plaid button-down shirt beneath a gray jumper. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a loose bun and tied with a pink ribbon. Morizio’s initial reaction was to her beauty. Maybe handsome was a better word. Tall and strong and healthy. It had occurred to him while waiting that he’d never told her father or mother why he wanted to see her, and they’d never asked. Would she recognize his name from his having been in charge of diplomatic security for Washington, D.C.? Had Lake mentioned him when she visited her?

  He got up and said, “Hello, Miss Callender, I’m Sal Morizio.”

  “Hello,” she said. “My mother said you were here. Is there something you want?”

  “I’d called when you were away on vacation… holiday, I guess you call it… and left a number. When you didn’t call I thought I’d find the house and drop in. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Callender looked at her father. “Yes,” she said, “Daddy gave me your message. I didn’t know who you were. I don’t call back people who don’t specify why they’re calling.”

  Morizio glanced at Basil Callender, who was overtly uncomfortable with his daughter’s lack of courtesy
. He cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Morizio’s from the States. I told him Yanks are always welcome in this house.”

  Melanie smiled and nodded that she understood, said to Morizio, “That’s right, we have a fondness for Americans. Now, please tell me why you’ve visited us. It was nice of you but…”

  “We have a mutual friend, Constance Lake. She spoke with you just before you left Washington.”

  Melanie was silent while she shuffled her thoughts. She pressed her lips together and said, “Oh, yes, Miss Lake. What a lovely person. She told me you might visit when you were in London. How is she?”

  “Fine. She’s in Copenhagen.”

  “A wonderful city.”

  There was a long, pointed silence. Morizio had the feeling that Melanie didn’t want to discuss anything in front of her father, and was trying to figure out how to gracefully get rid of him. She was bailed out by her mother, who called from the kitchen, “Basil, could you come here for a minute?”

  The moment he was gone, Callender stepped close to Morizio and said, “How dare you barge into this home? I told Miss Lake that I did not want my parents bothered about what happened in Washington. I resent this deeply.”

  Morizio didn’t flinch from the anger that her brilliant green eyes exuded. He looked into them and said quietly, but firmly, “And my life is on the line because of what happened to the ambassador and Paul Pringle. I deeply resent that. Paul Pringle was a friend. I just left his widow and daughter and they raised a hell of a lot of questions, most of them involving one Melanie Callender.” He decided to invoke Scotland Yard as he’d done with Ethel Pringle. “I’m working through colleagues at the Yard, Miss Callender, and I’m not leaving London until I get to ask my questions, and until everyone comes up with the right answers.”

  Basil Callender poked his head around the corner. “More tea?” he asked.

  Morizio kept looking at Melanie as he said, “I’d love some.”

  “It won’t be a moment.”

  “We’ll go somewhere else,” Melanie said. “I don’t want to talk in the house.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  She went to the kitchen, returned a few minutes later saying, “I told him I’d promised our friend, Miss Lake, to show you the Blackheath Coin Shop. Since you have such limited time, we’d better do it now.”

  He got the message and said to Basil Callender, “I’m a coin collector, Mr. Callender. I understand the Blackheath is one of the best shops in London.”

  “It is, it is,” he said. “I’ve got some beauties from the war. Only take a jiffy.”

  “Why don’t you get them spread out, Daddy, and we’ll look when we come back. Mr. Morizio only has a few hours.”

  “Good idea. You’ll stay for lunch? The missus usually comes up with a good hot lunch.”

  Morizio looked at Melanie but said to her father, “We’ll see, Mr. Callender, how things go.” Melanie got the point, judging from the angry flash in her eyes.

  They took Morizio’s rented car. Melanie drove. She slammed it into low gear and peeled away from the curb, taking the closest corner as though she were on a racetrack. It was especially frightening for Morizio because, as far as he was concerned, they were on the wrong side of the road. They sped along Lee Road, then veered left onto Duke Humphrey Road which led into a large park. It split just after crossing Charlton Way, and Callender stayed left, on Blackheath Avenue. A reservoir slipped by quickly as she roared toward a large building, passing a sign that read: Flamsteed Ho Museum. Callender went around the back of the building and parked beneath a tall, bare tree. She turned off the ignition and faced him. “Now,” she said, “ask your bloody questions, then leave me alone.”

  “Sure you don’t want to do this over a beer?”

  “Not on your nelly!”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means get on with it. A beer. What nerve.”

  “Okay, no beers. Just fast questions. Why are you sending checks to Ethel Pringle?”

  She smiled. “I’m not.”

  “Like hell you’re not. Oh, we’re going to play games. All right, checks to Harriet Pringle, or Harriet Worth.”

  Callender looked straight ahead and sighed. Morizio could feel the tension in her body. Her right foot tapped on the accelerator and she tightened and loosened her grip on the steering wheel. She didn’t look at him as she said, “It should be fairly obvious to you.”

  “Explain.”

  “The child. I know who you are, for God’s sake. Paul told me about how you helped when that pathetic girl got herself preggers.”

  “Preggers?”

  “Pregnant. With child. You arranged for her to have it in that home.”

  “That’s right. So why the act back at your house?”

  “Because I keep business out of that house, and I intend to continue doing it. The check is for the support of Bryan Worth. It will continue until he reaches the age of eighteen.”

  “Why are you paying?”

  “I don’t pay, I administer. I administer many things because I am a good administrator.”

  “Who do you administer for? Who’s Bryan Worth’s father?”

  She said nothing.

  “I think I know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I think your boss, Ambassador Geoffrey James, got Harriet Worth pregnant. It keeps coming back to that.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Convince me.”

  “I don’t have to do that.”

  “Maybe you do, Miss Callender. I don’t think you understand what’s going on here. Everything was nice and neat. Your boss is murdered inside the embassy, which makes it Great Britain’s business. It probably could have stayed that way except somebody got careless and leaked out the fact that it wasn’t a heart attack. That meant showtime.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Time to shuck and jive. Fake cooperation with the police, a half-hearted autopsy, pressure from some big people in both governments to seal it up and forget about it. But that’s hard to pull off, Miss Callender, damned hard. Along comes Paul Pringle who knows too much. He ends up dead. That’s where I come in. I try to do my job and all of a sudden I’m in deep, and so’s Connie Lake. Don’t you see? This whole mess isn’t as nice and neat as you’d like it to be. Sorry, but that’s reality. And I promise you one thing, Miss Callender. I’ll take you down with me if I have to. I’ll put out the word that Melanie Callender has a big mouth, spilled everything to me. I know a lot, and nobody could argue if I pointed to you as the source.”

  “You’re vile, as bad as any of them.”

  “I started off good. Yeah, now I’m vile. You know what Al Capone said?”

  “Who?”

  “Al Capone, a famous Chicago gangster. He said, ‘Kindness and a gun gets you further than kindness alone.’ I don’t like guns but I’m against a wall. There’s a lot of guns pointing at me and Connie and I’m ready to fire back. I don’t give a damn who I hit, including a nice, bright, dutiful daughter named Melanie Callender.”

  She abruptly turned away.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She resisted at first, then slowly turned to face him. Her eyes were moist and he was tempted to put his arms around her. He didn’t want to hurt her, disrupt her life, but that’s exactly what had happened to him and to Lake. They came first. He decided to soften up. “Look, Miss Callender, I really am a nice guy, and so’s Connie Lake. We may get married once this mess is over, but if I don’t get to the bottom of it we don’t have much of a future. I know you haven’t done anything wrong, that you’re probably just one of many loyal and hard-working people who’ve gotten sucked into this for one reason or another. It doesn’t matter to me whether James fathered Harriet Pringle’s child unless it bears on getting to the truth about two murders. I need to know some things, and there aren’t many people who might have the answers. Please, I’m not out to hurt anyone, especially you. I just want to keep us from being hurt for the rest of
our lives.”

  He looked into her eyes for a sign that he was getting through. She slowly closed them, shutting him out of her thoughts. There was a barely discernible tremble in her lower lip and she swallowed hard. When she opened her eyes they were calmer. She said, “I’m afraid. I shouldn’t be talking to you, to anyone about what happened.”

  “Yeah, I understand. I’m afraid, too, but sometimes the things that scare us go away when we stand up to them. Just answer some simple questions and I’ll get lost. But understand one thing, Miss Callender. I’m not leaving until I have my answers. I’ll stay here for the next ten years, I swear. My career is at stake, too.”

  “Nigel Barnsworth is Bryan’s father.”

  “The assistant ambassador?”

  “Head of chancery,” she corrected.

  “Whatever,” he said, drawing a breath and leaning back against the seat. “Okay,” he said, “tell me this. Did it have any bearing on either the murder of Ambassador James or Paul Pringle?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t see how. I was simply told to manage certain bank accounts and to disperse funds from them. One was a monthly check to Harriet Worth.”

  “You did that from the embassy in Washington?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you still do it here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What bank?”

  “A small bank here in London. We worked through Barclay’s in the States.”

  “Did the ambassador have something to do with this London bank?”

  “He was on its board.”

  “Did he know about Barnsworth and Harriet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he approved the process.”

  “Process?”

  “The situation you just described.”

  “Evidently.”

  Morizio chewed his cheek. He was hungry, and his stomach growled. “You said you managed certain bank accounts. More than one. What were the others?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have responsibilities. Do you have responsibilities? Do you have things you mustn’t divulge to outsiders?”

  “Of course, but things happen to change the rules. Murder’s one of them.”