One Shoe Gumshoe

"My apologies, Miss la Mare, I have no wish to upset you, but questions need to be asked and answered. If your husband had become disillusioned with the war, and I am sure the pressures on a bomber pilot flying deep into enemy territory without the benefit of fighter escort must be enormous, would he, perhaps, have attempted the journey back home to America?"

"I don't reckon so, Mr Onslow. Brad is no quitter, his strength of character is truly amazing. Obviously I don't know his mental state at the time of his disappearance, under the continual stress of mortal danger, as you say, but...." she briefly hesitated as if wrestling with her thoughts. "Brad is not only my husband, Mr Onslow, but he's also been my best friend for many years. We constantly write to each other, weekly if not more often, although because of the war and the U-boats, his letters can take some time to reach me, often arrivin' in bunches together, which was why I was unconcerned with the lateness of his recent letters while I was isolated on location in the desert for my latest movie."

She took a deep breath and relaxed.

"In his long letters to me, he is always positive about his contribution to the British war effort and, I'm sure, he plays down his personal risks. He has expressed boredom with the waitin' and the routine, but he has himself compared it in terms that I can clearly understand, like life on set, where there are long prep times learnin' lines or stuck in make-up or wardrobe, or even waitin' for the sun to come out or the rain to stop between scenes. There are all manner of things which hold us in check in the job we do, yet still be ready to perform instantly when the moment comes, moments that cannot be wased as so many are dependent on our performance. He is never maudlin' about what he feels he has to do for his old country in any of his letters."

"When did you last hear from him, Miss la Mare?"

"My assistant had the latest letters collected for me from the Studio office. They are usually forwarded onto me immediately they arrive from England, but when I was sure that I was returnin' home from the film location in a few days, I had especially asked for the most recently received letters to be held at the Studio, less we pass each other by in transit. In fact my personal assistant collected three letters for me, the latest dated four weeks ago, just before his disappearance, which was noted by him not returning to duty after a weekend pass."

"Do you have the letters with you here in London?"

"Of course, I have left the very latest letter on top, but all the letters I have received since this damned war started are on yahr desk, stacked in latest at the top to oldest at the bottom. They are personal and precious to me, Mr Onslow, and I would beg yah take good care of them, nor to share the contents with anyone, but yah may be able to see within them a pattern of behaviour that might not be so obvious to one so close to him."

She waved a hand, palm up, towards the far end of the desk, where my usually empty "in tray" lived. There was a large and fat Manila envelope sitting in the old wire and wood tray that had come with the office. I never use the tray myself, but the empty file in the bottom of it hides an unsightly row of cigarette burns which indicated my predecessor in this office was a left-handed and rather forgetful chain-smoker. I never smoked, as we had a history of lung disease in the family and my parents never encouraged the habit.

"Thank you, Miss la Mare, I will read them later today. Does your husband drink?"

"No, Mr Onslow, at least not habitually. Neither of us drink very much, but glasses of wine and bubbly are continually being offered to us at public or private parties or receptions where we are promoting our movies and we do need to be alert to the risk of not being seen in anything other than a bright and positive light. We have developed a strategy of sipping once, mostly just by dipping our lips into the glass, and then putting the glass down nearby where we can access it if need be. If we are noticed empty handed and offered another drink by our over-attentive hosts, we would indicate that we already have a glass and pick it up, otherwise say we have put it down somewhere and will find it again when thirsty."

"Do you have any photographs of your husband?"

"None about my person I'm afraid. The studio's agents have an office here in London, they are very efficient and will be able to supply some. I will ring them later from my hotel and have them run over a few copies for ya this afternoon."

"Thank you for arranging the photographs," I smiled, "I, er, spoke to my old colleagues at the Yard last night after our conversation on the telephone. I hope to arrange to see your husband's old Commanding Officer in Bomber Command tomorrow morning and any of his old crew."

"Ah yeah," she turned to face me fully, "the cops at New Scotland Yard told me that ya was probably my only hope of finding my husband. They said that if anyone could sniff him out, yah'd be the one to do it. Do ya think yahr are the man who could find him for me?"

"I hope so, Miss la Mare," I squared my shoulders, "I was a policeman for over twenty-one years and I used to be a detective inspector based at New Scotland Yard for most of that time. If your husband is still here to be found, then I'll find him for you."

"Now, about your fee?"

"I think it will probably take me a week or more, Miss la Mare, but I will do my best and keep the cost down."

She nodded slowly, as if she was making up her mind.

"So, yah are not just a wanna-be cop playing detective, then, huh?"

"No, Ma'am, all totalled, I've been crime detecting for almost 25 years."

She stepped towards the chair, where she had left her coat, picked up a clutch handbag, that was dangling off the back of the chair, and opened it.

"One of my friends needed a Private Eye once," she said slowly, "her husband was acting less than innocently when he went out to places of entertainment without her, so she had him followed by a professional." She pulled from her purse a roll of fivers. "I believe he charged her five dollars a day plus expenses. She told me that that private detective was worth every penny it took to find out she was being played for a fool."

She counted out a pile of ten crisp, white, five pound notes, fifty pounds in all, a small fortune, well for me it was a fortune.

"So," she continued, "that should see you through ten days or so. I have to return to Hollywood in two weeks when principle shootin' starts for my next movie. I would like to find my husband before I go, and take him home with me if I am allowed to."

"Actually, Miss la Mare," I said, "a US dollar is worth four to one of our pounds, so just four of those notes would more adequately cover wages and expenses for the next two weeks, I generally work Saturdays, too."

She hesitated momentarily, before picking up six of the notes and moving back to the warmth of the fireplace, stuffing the notes carelessly back into her small handbag.

"I would appreciate daily calls regarding your progress, Mr Onslow. I have written my hotel telephone number on the top of the envelope on yahr desk. Ask for room number 601 or for Mrs Mary Jones."

"Ah, is Mrs Mary Jones your personal assistant?"

"No, I came to London alone, and I did not want my fans or the press to know I was here in London. Sometimes, public fame makes it difficult to deal with private business."

"I understand, madam, you can rely on my discretion."

She nodded and stepped up to the desk, holding out her hand to me. I stood and shook it gently. A small tear suddenly appeared in the corner of an eye, which she swiftly swept away with the knuckle of her index finger.

"Find him for me, Mr Onslow ... please, please find my husband."

She gathered her coat and hat in her arms, spun on her heel and walked out through the office door.

CHAPTER TWO

Cold trail

I HAD a one to one conversation with Bob Cummings at a café near New Scotland Yard later that morning. He had already told me on the telephone when I arranged the meeting that the police had no time to investigate fully and he confirmed that Military Intelligence were now not even prepared to admit they were pursuing him as a deserter.

As far as the Yard knew, Gold was now a Special Branch agent because almost immediately Cummings' team began to make enquiries, he was dragged out of his office and questioned about Gold by those higher up in the Metropolitan Police chain of command. Meanwhile, the Military Intelligence actually denied he was one of theirs, while all the RAF were saying was that he was no longer one of their serving officers and had transferred to the Special Intelligence Service.

"This stinks to high heaven, Bob. Miss la Mare had her office send me some photos this morning, which arrived by cab about ten o'clock. They included several press cuttings from papers and magazines where the RAF were all over him as a hero from the day he signed until the day he saved most of his crew when he crash landed his bomber. Then suddenly, nothing."

"Look, Mr Onslow," Bob said, he never called me by my Christian name, "Gold's a bloomin' volunteer, an American citizen. That's a neutral country, for Chrissakes, even if they is helpin' us with war loans and utility ships in exchange for land leases for expanding their military options around the world. Whatever Gold says, he ain't really one of us even if he really was born in the East End as he boasts. An' if he's gone AWOL, then it seems like no bugger's int'rested in trackin' 'im down. They pumped 'im up so high when he joined up, that now he's gone an' done a disappearing act, they just want him to go quiet like, without fuss, without damaging the morale of those what's left behind still fighting the war. So, officially, he never was and until some crime is reported to us, then Gold definitely ain't currently a police matter."

He handed me some notes that he had made for me from the official files.

So, from a call box, at the nearest railway station, I briefly spoke on the telephone to the Air Officer Commanding of the bomber station where Gold had served for the longest period. It was clear from the conversation that what "missing" meant to the AOC was that Gold must've been shot down while serving with the fighter squadron that he believed he had been transferred to. He was initially cagey about why I was making enquiries, but I pitched him the rather lame line that the police investigation I was helping them with dated from before he went missing, and indicated that Gold had information that would help with our enquiries. I got him to believe that the police were following a lead and had brought me, a former Yard detective inspector, out of retirement to help find out what made Gold click.

I gave the AOC Bob's number at the Yard as a reference, but I doubted he would bother to follow it up. Since the start of the war, all sorts of retired people were being brought back out of obscurity, many of them pleased to be considered worthy to help share the burden of the war effort.

Bob gave me the last known address of Gold's digs that he had stayed in for the last month before he disappeared, so I followed it up that afternoon. I wasted a trip, involving a train and two bus changes each way, visiting the place deep in the East End. After two weeks with Gold missing, his shifty landlady admitted that she had assumed the man who had first turned up on her doorstep as a handsome RAF pilot, and then disappeared, "without a bye or leave, mind", had either been shot down or posted away somewhere. This left her keeping his room empty ready for his return, without leaving her anything to cover future rent and the arrears for the last week he was seen. She told me she was forced to sell all his effects, not that there was much more than a couple of changes of clothes, "to settle the rent wot he owed us". All she had left over was his rather worn, patched and mended RAF Flight Lieutenant uniform, which she couldn't easily find a buyer for.

The only other fact that she could tell me was that after that first day in the digs, he wore civilian suits when he went to work, although his hours were quite irregular, returning late or staying away for several nights at a time. This boarding house only provided breakfast and evening meals for a few regular guests, not for him, so she didn't even have his ration book. Gold's hours were too irregular for set meal times in the lodgings so he had elected to eat out. That was why she left it until she hadn't seen him for a week before checking with her daughter when the last time his bed had to be made up. I couldn't speak to the daughter, only a slip of a girl aged 13, because she was still in school. I left the landlady my calling card, in case the daughter had any new information to offer me.

It was quite late before I headed back towards my lodgings in Mile End, only a short walk from my offices. It was too late to attend my telephone "office" too. I did manage to pop into the public library, though, just before they closed for the evening at seven.

I asked the Librarian, a single young woman in her early twenties, if she knew anything about a film actress called Marcia la Mare.

The Librarian had her fair hair tied into a bun, pulled so tight that the skin on her face was squeezed of blood flow and looked like glazed porcelain. I had seen her a number of times but had never spoken to her in conversation, other than the usual polite monosyllabic exchanges when handing books over for stamping or returning. The library was empty this close to closing time and she looked bored, her blank listless look emphasising the plainness of her features.

"Oh yes, sir," she replied brightly, her features appeared much more animated at the mention of Marcia la Mare. She removed her reading glasses and suddenly, in her excitement and enlivened countenance, she looked quite pretty. "She's one of my favourites. Wait on sir, I believe she was on the cover of 'Picturegoer Weekly' about four or five months ago, I'll see if I can find it."

She went into a back room and emerged less than a couple of minutes later with a magazine. And there on the front page was a glamorous posed shot of my latest client. The Librarian flicked over a few pages and found a double page spread article, plus a further page and two out of three columns on a further spread, dedicated to Miss la Mare. It was approaching seven o'clock by then, near to the Library's closing time, so I really didn't have time to read it.

"May I take this magazine away with me, Miss?" I asked.

"Normally, sir," she lowered her voice even more than her usual whisper, even though the library was virtually deserted, "these weekly magazines are withdrawn to the store cupboard after a week and we then have them bound up in six-month volumes for reference, for people like yourself, who need to refer to old news. Normally, we do not let them out of the Library and risk the set being incomplete, but I know that you are a regular, I see you in here virtually every day. So, as long as you promise to return it within two weeks...."

I nodded.

She smiled, now looking quite attractive, continuing, "Do you have a library card with you, sir?"

I had several with me, so I handed over one and she scribbled with a pencil on a strip of paper, tucked it into my folded card and filed it in the tray behind the date a fortnight hence. She stamped the date on another slip of paper with her machine and tucked it into the magazine before handing it over. I thanked her and walked out.

I knew I was going to be home too late for Mrs McPherson's tea, which she held rigidly at six-forty-five in the evening, so I popped into a café for a cup of tea and, once there, convinced myself that some buttered toast covered with grilled sardines would adequately fill my supper requirements. The magazine article passed the time while I waited for my meal and made interesting reading.

Since the start of the last war, I had never watched films at picture houses, like I regularly used to as a child. Now the flickering lights disturb me, always taking my mind back to the time I was wounded and stuck in no-man's land with bullet wounds in both legs and the continual silent flashes of the guns.

My hearing had gone when a shell had landed close by, the blast and shrapnel ripping through my comrades and knocking me off my feet. I had one broken leg and a badly damaged foot in the other leg, along with other less troublesome wounds.

Furthermore, I was stuck at the bottom of an older, partially-flooded, shell hole and soon exhausted myself utterly while fruitless trying to climb out, the collapsing mud under my hands only serving to widen the hole I was stuck in. I was losing a lot of blood, so I tied a tourniquet around my lower leg before fainting away on and off throughout my remaining time in that hellish shell hole.

I was there all day and half the night before stretcher bearers reached me and carted me off to the medics. The doctor at the Field Hospital was unable to save my right foot, so he cut it off just above the ankle.

Sometimes, even nowadays in the dark at night, I close my eyes and am tormented again by those terrible silent flashes.

The article about Miss la Mare was written with very little depth and appeared to have been exclusively gleaned from heavily-biased press releases from her film studio. At least I was able to find out that she was aged 29 and had been married to Bradford Gold for ten years, after a two-year long engagement, although no children were mentioned. A list of her films and their dates of release showed a steady schedule of three or four a year throughout her marriage, so it was extremely unlikely that she had taken any time off for having children.

There was quite a bit of oblique reference in the article about Gold, as it appeared he was by far the bigger star, and much was made of his military career, joining the defence of the country of his birth in the first few weeks of the war and flying many missions over occupied Europe into the heart of Germany. No mention of his moving to a fighter squadron or joining Special Branch, of course.

They appear to have been happily married, with Miss la Mare only having an equal number of supporting and leading parts in a dozen films before her engagement, then she made steady progress and moved up to the top of the cast lists with a few years, no doubt aided by the studio that signed her being owned by Gold's family. Both appear to have happily negotiated the awkward transition between silent movies and talkies, the author said. They were a wealthy couple, with homes in California and New York, plus a ranch in the north of one of the farming Mid-West states near to the Canadian border, close to where Miss la Mare's family had moved to in the early Thirties from Eastern Texas and probably still lived close by the couple's ranch.

Miss la Mare played the romantic lead in most of her more recent films, a mix of mainly popular contemporary comedies and more meaty dramas, while Gold was the outstanding male star of the age as far as action adventure pictures were concerned.

The two photographs of Bradford Gold in the article showed him as a cowboy in one and stripped to the waist as an exotic Arabian pirate in another. The married couple had even appeared in a number of films together, including her first major film, which was released as a runaway success a month or so before they announced their engagement to the entertainment world.

Leaving the café, I decided to ring Miss la Mare at her West End hotel and get her up to date with what little I had discoverd so far and inform her that I was going to visit the East Anglian aerodrome, where Gold had been based, in the morning.