One Shoe Gumshoe

So he was welcomed with open arms to join Bomber Command for basic training and was such a good flier that he had no trouble converting to the larger Wellington bombers that his squadron was flying. In six months he had flown almost 80 missions and earned his first promotion from Pilot Officer to Flying Officer.

However, in the last months of 1939 and early 1940, during the period we were now calling the "Phony War", the bombers were flying into Germany and only dropping propaganda leaflets not bombs onto civilian targets. Although there was a lot of anti-aircraft flak coming up from some of these German cities, mostly they acted as though they were still at peace, especially after the fall of France in 1940, with no blackouts in place like we have had over here in London since the day war was declared, as well as all our other main cities and ports.

Also, incidents with enemy fighters had been a rare occurrence, as Germany seemed reluctant to escalate the war footing with Britain at that early stage in the war, so long as we were only dropping propaganda leaflets on their civilian populations.

Gold was a good officer and a lucky pilot, who had hand-picked an effective crew from those men available. After four or five months of dropping leaflets, he had become bored with the unexciting but exhausting routine and the lack of action, so he had applied for a transfer to fighter duty, hoping for a spell in Hurricanes or Spitfires.

However, soon after he applied for transfer, the war footing with Germany changed and the Blitz started in earnest, so the bombers began to retaliate by bombing targets in Germany and his application to transfer was put on hold. Of course, the German defences kicked into action and losses of bomber aircraft had mounted alarmingly, so much so that Britain were fast running out of both trained pilots and serviceable airplanes.

Gold may well have been a lucky flier, but just as his crew neared the time when they were due for a fortnight's well-earned leave, their luck ran out and they were hit by flak that killed two crewmen on board and wounded his co-pilot and another crew member. His plane was severely crippled and he limped back to the English coast over East Anglia before he decided he had to ditch in the Fens, as the damaged undercarriage refused to lower.

Then, by luck, they spotted another airfield. The fit crewmen landed safely by parachute, while he had circled the airfield for half an hour until he had exhausted the rest of the fuel before he landed heavily on the grass runway and saved the lives of his co-pilot and one of the severely wounded crew who had been unable to use the parachutes.

He was mentioned in dispatches, swiftly promoted to Flight Lieutenant and given immediate leave to recuperate from his ordeal.

While on leave he had been approached by the Special Intelligence Branch, Bob Cummings had managed to get someone from the military to admit off the record. Because of his action in saving most of his crew, as well as his celebrity status within the military, he had become noticed by the "Brass Hats" in the War Office.

For one thing Gold was a multi-linguist. One grandmother was a German speaker and he spent much of his youth with her as his family initially built up their business in London before moving to New York; so he apparently spoke German as if he was a Bavarian native.

Gold's maternal grandmother, who he also spent much of his youth with, was Italian and he had easily picked up that lingo as a second language too. He had been with the Intelligence Branch since late September 1940, for about three months before his disappearance four weeks ago. It appeared that the apparent transfer from Bomber to Fighter Command had been maintained as a ruse to cover his redeployment as an intelligence officer, probably because his public profile was so high.

I asked Bob if he had gone through the long list of unidentified men who were victims of the overnight raids. He admitted that they had started on them two days ago, had found nothing so far, but were still working through that list.

Bradford Gold's wife showed up at New Scotland Yard about three days after she had arrived in England.

Her husband's father, Alfred Gold, head of the Gold moving pictures studio in Hollywood, had received a telegram from the War Office, informing them that his son was missing, suspected of being absent without leave.

The Army were hoping that he had had enough and gone home to the States, but were informed by Alfred Gold that he hadn't returned, nor had the pilot communicated by air mail letter with his family for several weeks.

It was three weeks before her father-in-law got around to telling Miss la Mare that her husband was missing somewhere in London. She was furious with her father-in-law and the staff at the studio, and she immediately chartered a flying boat flight to England, via Newfoundland and Ireland.

Of course, Military Intelligence had kept Gold's disappearance very close to their chest, so New Scotland Yard didn't know anything about the case when she arrived and made initial contact with the police. Even after a couple of days of investigating they still had nothing to go on. So, when she made enquiries about getting a 'Private Dick' involved, Bob Cummings had quietly put her onto me. That was all Bob could tell me last night, before I had to dash off to my next job. Besides, I had run out of coppers to keep feeding the coin slot in the telephone box.

I climbed those 39 steps of the narrow staircase to my office slowly, my foot aching, so I gripped the rail tightly as I pulled myself up. It had been a long, frustrating and exhausting night, before we gave up on the client ever turning up in her Bentley, we never got any pictures and we gave up shortly after the Colonel and waitress waved each other fond farewell, while all around us the Luftwaffe were turning London into Hades. I only found out while dozing in the crowded Underground station the rumour that Lady Bletchley-Havering was blown to bits along with her lovely motor car.

When I opened my office door, the young American woman, who I had spoken to on the telephone the previous night, stood in front of the fireplace, the glowing embers from the evening before probably refuelled from the coal scuttle and agitated back into life again by Bert some ten minutes before me. He would do that for her, of course, but never for me. In the ten minutes I was delayed, the fresh coals were well alight and giving off a fair amount of light and heat.

She had her back to me, looking out of the office window, which was cross-crossed with white tape, as was every other window in London during the Blitz. She was tall and slim, maybe 5 foot 8 or 9 inches tall, slimmer than average but clearly very feminine in her curves. She was wearing a pale lilac jacket that hugged her curves, and matching skirt down to mid-calf, with a split part way up the back, to facilitate ease of walking. She wore sheer silk stockings with a thin black seam up the back of her legs, accentuating the eye-pleasing shape of her ankles and calves. Her matching lilac-coloured shoes had sensibly broad two-inch heels for walking and standing comfort. Folded over the chair in front of my desk was a long mink fur coat and a lilac pillbox hat, with a long peacock feather perched jauntily from a circular band of silk.

The standard issue gas mask, no doubt issued to her when she entered the country, that we were all legally obliged to have with us at all times, rested on the chair by her coat.

I cleared my throat to inform her of my arrival. She turned. I had never before seen such a vision of beauty before, even though her look, starting from her frown downwards, through her steely eyes and pursed lips, was obviously one of utter and contemptible displeasure with me, her servant.

Her auburn hair, with its highlights of gold and amber, was thick and hung in gorgeous waves upon her shoulders, the height of fashion for the hair of wealthy and sophisticated ladies in the late 1930s and early 1940s. She had a long, pale face, straight nose, with high cheek bones, and thin but well-defined eyebrows. I assumed she wore a little rouge on her cheeks, although the heat from the fireplace and the state of her temper might have been a more likely source of her rosy colouring in those areas. Her lips were a bright and glossy ruby red.

"Yah're late!" she snapped, revealing a set of evenly-spaced bright white teeth, in stark contrast to her glossy wine-red lips, "it is almost a quarter after seven."

Clearly, no-one was ever less than absolutely punctual in Miss la Mare's world.

"I am sorry, Miss la Mare," I said apologetically, adding by way of explanation, "my walk here from the nearest air raid shelter was blocked by a couple of bombed out buildings which were scattered across the road, necessitating the taking of several detours and one dead end, blocked by a fallen building and an unexploded bomb cordoned off by the ARWs. The snow covering and below freezing temperatures made the journey more hazardous and debilitating that I had been expecting. Would you care to take a seat?"

"I would prefer to stand by the fire, if yah don't mind, Mr Onslow. California was a lot warmer and the atmosphere much drier than over here this last few days."

"Of course," I agreed, although my knowledge of the Californian climate was one of hearsay only.

I sat down behind my desk and pulled out a foolscap pad from a drawer, picked up a desk pen, one of several plain nibbed pens on my desk, and dipped it into a bottle of Stephen's blue-black permanent ink, before scraping the nib of surplus ink on the lip of the bottle. "Now, what exactly can you tell me about your missing husband, Bradford Gold, such as his habits, his preferences?"

"Well," she hesitated, returning her gaze out of the window as she thought, "Bradford Gold was his stage name, of course, although he long ago adopted it as his only legal name. He was born Bernard Goldberg, in a place here in London called Popular, I think."

I smiled at her pronunciation of "Bernaaard", which made the London "Bernad" version sound plain and uninspiring by comparison.

"Poplar," I suggested for her husband's birthplace.

"Is that in east London?"

"Yes, not far from here, south east, just to the north of the Isle of Dogs."

I don't think that had made its geographic position any clearer to her, so she dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand.

"Brad likes to eat in restaurants, rather than at home, French and Italian cuisine being his favourite foods. His parents still maintain their home in California with a permanent kitchen staff, but Brad and I have no children and decided not to put up with servants around us, only to have a daily cleaner come in to do the necessary whenever we were both at home. Plus Brad always enjoys being out in lively company, and hates eating at home alone."

"Would that be male or female company?" I asked, looking for her reaction.

Her head snapped back from the window to stare at me. I noticed that her hand had involuntarily headed towards her mouth, but she contained herself and slowly lowered the hand again.

"By preference," I added by way of explanation of my question, "Does he prefer to enjoy the camaraderie of his male friends and colleagues, or would he prefer mixed company, or even mostly female company?"

"He is quite gregarious," she said evenly, looking down, examining her long red-painted fingernails on the partly raised hand. "Brad loves any kind of company, men or women, friends or strangers, especially when he is actually the centre of attention. He is athletic, was quite the team sportsman at school and college, particularly excelling in boxing, swimming, lawn tennis and golf. He is an accomplished horseman, using a western saddle of course, and does virtually all his own stunts in the movies."

"So, madam, are you currently estranged or legally separated from your husband?"

Her head snapped up again and she stared at me with her face pale, her eyes narrowed.

"Why ever would yah think that, Mr Onslow?"

Her voice was actually quieter than I expected in response to my pointed question.

"Well, you haven't seen each other for at least sixteen months, I understand; you are both in the acting profession when one or other of you is often away separately from each other and your home; plus your husband appears to have listed his father as his next of kin instead of his wife. So, are you estranged, Miss la Mare?"

I could see her mind ponder the thought although she had nothing to say at the moment, so I added by way of further explanation:

"The War Office contacted your father-in-law about Mr Gold being missing, I understand. They did not, as far as I and the people I spoke to at New Scotland Yard know, try to contact his wife directly, as one would ordinarily expect, Miss la Mare."

"Ah, that was possibly because I was on location shootin' a movie for just over four weeks until last week. They may have been unsuccessful in contacting me or, because my mail is often dealt with by a secretary at the Studio, she may have passed such an important message to my father-in-law first."

"So are you saying that you and your husband have a strong marriage? You were not concerned about his, shall we say, 'straying' while over here alone for so long?"

"Mr Onslow, are yah married at all?" she asked, her ice blue eyes bored into mine, this time she was putting me on the defensive.

"No, Miss la Mare, I am not married."

"Have yah evah been married?" she demanded, pressing on with her counter interrogation.

"No, I have not, ma'am."

"How old are yah Mr Onslow, may I ask, fifty, fifty-five?"

"Forty two, and before you ask, I do not even have a girlfriend, either now or in the recent past."

"Oh, sorry. So, are you temporarily in that state or is it that you've never entertained the thought of having a wife or girlfriend?"

"Well, yes I did, more than entertain the thought, once upon a time. Girls enjoy dancing and once upon a time I enjoyed dancing too, so I think I did entertain a girlfriend and with her the thought of marriage, only the one girl mind. I even thought at the time that ... but...."

"But she married someone else?"

"Yes, she did. We were childhood sweethearts, but ... she married my best friend. He had been best friend to both of us."

"Why was that?" she asked, her head slightly to one side, a faint smile painted by those ruby lips, "I may have demonstrated that I am hopeless at guessing men's ages, but you are a tall man with well-balanced features that carries himself with strength and confidence. Most women of mah acquaintance would call you ... handsome."

"We were very young when we were engaged but there was no time for us once the Great War was declared to get married before I was away to serve my country. I don't know why, but I tell everyone that I was called up as a reservist for the last war as soon as war was declared, but in fact a group of us who were only in the local Militia joined up even though we were not quite old enough to enlist. We all laughed at the prospects of the adventure of that war and we all thought it would all be over in a matter of months and we would be home again. None of us wanted to be left out of the ... fun, I suppose we thought it was. Two years away at war and I was wounded. I did not come back ... whole ... certainly not as whole as my fiancée hoped, or as she fully expected me to return."

"Ah, I noticed the limp as you crossed the room."

"Yes, I lost a foot in Flanders."

"Ah," she hesitated, glancing at where I had tossed my hat, at the pair of spare walking sticks hanging on the hat stand that she must have observed earlier, "hence the reason for your late arrival. You said you had to pick your way around the rubble. Mmm, I see now that you have come without a stick, and, belatedly, I understand now the significance of the spare canes in your hat-stand and the Yard's epithet for yah of 'One Shoe'?"

She was no empty-headed actress, but an intelligent, observant young woman.

"Yes, well, people can be cruel in what they say —"

"I'm sorry, I really hadn't realised. A Private Eye in the States is often referred to as a 'gumshoe' and I assumed yah were a wanna-be cop, not quite a full detective in their eyes and thus worthy of their respect. It was thoughtless of me."

"That is quite all right, I have long been aware of my supposed secret nickname at the Yard. I was based there for just over twenty-one years and couldn't help accidentally overhearing my nickname at one time or another. I am light on my feet and can move around quite silently when I have to, especially if the ground is firm and even, it is an advantage when eavesdropping is required."

"And yah were working last night on a case?"

I nodded.

"And how did that work out?"

"Not well. The husband was guilty as well but my client, I late found out, was a victim of last night's raid. I expect to read all about it in the later editions of the newspaper."

"Does this mean yahr'd be free to work on my case, If I wanted yah to?"

"Indeed, my undivided time would be yours."

She nodded. "I asked about marriage because last night you said you mainly worked at night. Like my profession, acting, our jobs take its toll upon a marriage or relationship. We're often working far from home on location, which can be for long periods of time. And we can be directed to pretend in front of the camera to be romantic with another man, continually pressed to take the illusion up a notch, or as far as the censors will allow. And male actors also pretend for the illusion of the audience to be in love with their leading ladies. As you can imagine, it is difficult in such close proximity scenes to disguise the natural attraction between people who are regarded by their fans as beautiful and desirable."

"I can imagine the difficulties." I remembered all too painfully clearly the frustration of courting between two people who desired each other but were constrained by proprietary pressures of family and, in my case, the double betrayal by my lover with my best friend.

"Absolutely. The pressure can be impossibly hard on an uncertain marriage, or on weak or selfish people. A strong marriage must have confidence in the trust that we place on both sides of the partnership. My husband and I are completely faithful to the loves of our lives, Mr Onslow, of that I am certain. I am confident in making that assertion, and the strength of our marriage has become a legend in our industry. I have never heard any rumours of his involvement with any other woman in the twelve years that we have been together and he would certainly have no reason to have any worries about fidelity on my part. Plus I have a lot of close friends in the Studio and in the show business at large, where infidelity is treated as a subject of much comment and speculation rather than ignored or overlooked. I am sure that if Brad was bein' over-friendly, shall we say, with another actress, I would have heard about it through the grapevine."

"But would you have the same sort of contacts in the Armed Services who would care about your feelings over here in England? In other words, if your husband did become attracted to an unknown British waitress, a barmaid or another officer's wife even, how would you get to know that at home in the States?"

"You are right, Mr Onslow, I do not have those same contacts over here but I would still know in my heart, as I believe I would sense it nonetheless. And I know that Brad would care enough for my feelin's to confess to any relationship rather than hide it, or have me find out about it from another source, perhaps someone that would not be kind enough to break it to me privately or gently. I know that whatever Brad did, he'd be brutally honest with me, even if it brought our marriage, somethin' which we both treasure, to an end."