by Peter Corris
'Freddie Mills?' Finch guffawed. 'Fainting Freddie? How many rounds did you last against Maxim? One, was it, or two?'
'Shut your stupid face!'
Hard to say who threw the first punch. Finch's wide, roundhouse swing missed and landed on a man standing close to Mills. Mills's straight right caught Peter on the chin and he sagged for a second, but alcohol had dulled all pain and he shoved the person he'd been thrown against away and swung again, hitting a woman. The man he'd hit, meantime, aimed a blow at me. I ducked and the guy behind me took the punch on the nose. Blood flowed. Then everyone was pushing and shoving and punching. Women screamed and glass broke. The band blasted a roar of sound but even that was drowned out by the shrieking and up-turning of chairs and the shouted curses and yelps of pain.
I'm an old hand at staying out of trouble in this sort of situation. I dropped to my hands and knees and began to crawl towards the door. Adopting this technique, and with a little luck, you can escape with a few bruises on your back and bum. Not so this time. I hadn't gone far before I was hauled to my feet by the biggest, blackest man I'd ever seen. He had a huge fistful of the back of my shirt and tuxedo jacket and he lifted me clear of the floor.
'Thought I heard you say somethin' about the Congo, man,' he shouted.
'A joke,' I bleated.
He smiled, showing gold-filled teeth but no humour. 'I figure to smash your white face in.'
Just then a tiny woman in a gold lamé dress rammed her hand into the black giant's crotch and took a grip of his privates. His eyes rolled back in either agony or ecstasy and he dropped me like a sack of coal. I scuttled away and found Finch, on all fours under a table, dabbing with a handkerchief at a young woman's swollen eye.
'I hit her,' he said. 'My god, I hit her. I've never hit a woman before.'
She looked ready to let him hit her again with whatever he could lay his hand on. Finch had that sort of effect on women. 'It was an accident,' she said. 'I quite understand. It's all right, really it is.'
Pretty soon, I judged, they'd be doing it, down there in the spilled drinks and cigarette butts. I moved past them but Peter hauled me back. 'Have to get her out of here,' he whispered. 'Have to sweeten her up. Can't afford to have any charges laid. Got my career to think of.'
He pushed her towards me and I had the choice of falling backwards and getting trampled or pulling her up and using her as a battering ram through the crowd. I chose the latter and, strangely, the bodies parted in front of us. It was then I realised that her dress had torn in the front, that my rough grab at her had pulled her brassiere down, and that it was her young, pointy tits I was thrusting at the mob. I was holding her just below them and she was shouting. No wonder everyone got out of the way. We were almost to the door when a man stepped in front of me.
'Charlie!' the distressed damsel yelled, 'Charlie, he attacked me!'
People were pouring past, bullocking their way up the stairs to the street, and the band was playing at full bore, as if the fighting had turned up the volume knob. I tried to shake free of the woman but she was clinging to my arm and still shouting to this Charlie character that I'd attacked her. That's when I made my big mistake. I broke her grip and aimed a punch at Charlie's nose. He blocked it, stepped aside and hit me in the belly. I bent double and when I looked up he was holding his warrant card close to my face.
'Chief Inspector Charles Partridge,' he shouted. 'You're under arrest for indecent assault.'
A senior Scotland Yard detective is about the last person you'd expect to meet in a place like the Double Ace, unless he's working on the quiet in some way, in which event you wouldn't expect him to start arresting people. But Partridge was one of your rare, but not unknown, playboy policemen—all Eton and Oxford and headed for the top. That night he'd simply been out for a good time with his girlfriend, and I gave him a chance to top the night off by showing her what sort of clout he really had.
Within seconds of Partridge's announcement the street seemed to be filled with uniformed cops and cars with wailing sirens. I was bundled into the back of a police van along with several other victims, all black, and we were off to the Charing Cross lock-up. I've been in police vans before and usually experienced some kind of camaraderie. Not this time. My three companions exchanged looks and nods and one produced a knife and held it to my throat while the others took my wallet and what little cash I had in my pockets. The one with the knife was an expert; if I'd spoken a word the movement would have drawn blood.
When they were satisfied they had everything worth taking, including my lighter, cigarettes, wristwatch and cufflinks, the switchblade was withdrawn.
'The mouth shut, man. Understand?'
I nodded as the van screeched to a stop. The door opened and a policeman tapped the nearest occupant on the knee with his truncheon.
'Out! Lively, now.'
I stumbled as I stepped out of the van and I fancy one of the negroes gave me a nudge. Anyway, I lost balance and fell forward, thumping my head on the pavement. I felt a boot touch my ribs, not hard, almost delicately, but so well-placed that it hurt.
'Get up, you. What're you doing down there?'
I scrambled up, very dazed, and shuffled forward along with the men who'd robbed me and threatened my life. I had a frightened impulse to laugh and must have done so because I felt a truncheon rap me painfully on the elbow. 'Nothing for you to laugh at here, sunshine. Nothing at all.'
We were shoved into the gloomy, damp-smelling booking section of the lock-up. The blacks gave their names and addresses and were marched off down a corridor. I stood with my back against a wall while three policemen conferred about what should be done with me. Eventually they agreed that I should be put in a holding cell until Partridge turned up with the details of the charge.
'Could be quite a while,' one of them sniggered. 'He probably has to tuck that bit of fluff up cosy first.'
'Lucky blighter. Right, you. Name?'
I opened my mouth but I couldn't find the right words. I gulped and swallowed and tried again. But I said nothing. I couldn't remember my own name or anything that had happened to me before my head had hit the bricks outside the nick. I blinked and shook my head, sending waves of pain surging through my skull. I sagged against the wall. 'I . . . I don't know.'
The sergeant closed the book he'd been about to make an entry in and sighed. 'That's your game, is it? Righto. Constable Lewis, pop him in a box.'
'I demand to see my solicitor.'
'How can a man who doesn't know his own bleeding name know who his bleeding solicitor is?'
My mind was totally fogged. 'I . . . yes, that's right. But I must have . . .' I slapped my pockets, feeling for my wallet, but discovered I was carrying no personal possessions.
The sergeant nodded to Constable Lewis, who grabbed my arm. 'You're not bad at it,' he said, 'I'll give you that. But from what I've seen it gets boring. And we're used to being bored. So we generally do better at the waiting game than geezers who pretend to have lost their memories.'
'Just a minute,' I pleaded. 'I'm not pretending. I fell over out there and hit my head . . .'
The sergeant grinned. 'Old one. Seen it a hundred and two times.'
'Please. Give me a minute. I'm sure it'll come back to me. It has to!'
'Hang on, Lewis. Give the gentleman a sec. Yes? We're waiting.'
My head was throbbing. I couldn't think. All I could do was listen to the drumbeat inside my cranium. 'No. Nothing.'
'Very good. First class. One of the best I've seen. Tell you what, I'll try you with a clue. Sure you're not an actor, squire?'
'I don't know.'
'Take him away, Lewis.'
I don't know how many gaols I've been in all over the world. Far too many. It's not a profitable way to spend your time unless you can write your memoirs or come up with a philosophy of life that will ensure you never get put inside again. These courses of action weren't possible for me then, even if I'd been disposed to try them, because instead of a
memory I had a collection of fleeting and meaningless images and ideas that all seemed to contradict each other. I sat in the cell—the usual boring little box with a bench, a high ceiling and a slot in the door—and tried to remember. Trying to remember particular names, dates, tunes and so on is a thing we all do, some better than others. But trying to remember everything is quite different. When you think about it, it's quite impossible. I had no guidelines, nothing to hang on to. I looked myself over—six foot one, thirteen stone or so, some grey hair, obviously no spring chicken. I was wearing a dinner suit, somewhat dishevelled, silk socks, dress shoes. It looked as if I might have a bit of money somewhere, but I had not one penny in my pockets.
My head hurt. I knew why, but the only names I knew were Lewis and Charlie. Eventually I gave it up, took off my tie and jacket and stretched out on the skinny mattress on the hard bench. There was no pillow, an old trick to increase the level of discomfort, and I automatically bundled my jacket up and tucked it under my head. As soon as I'd done this I realised that I must have been in this situation before. Not a consoling thought. Still, I was tired and I had various aches and pains; I also had a fair bit of alcohol in my system, not that I was aware of this or could remember the pleasure of drinking it. I thought about chucking a shoe up to break the light globe, which must also have been something I'd done before, but I was asleep before I could do it.
Chief Inspector Partridge lost interest in prosecuting me, probably not wanting to draw attention to his own nocturnal activities. He came in to see me, wrinkling his aristocratic nose at the smell from my toilet bowl. I didn't have the faintest idea of who he was or what he was talking about, but he gave me a stern warning about keeping my hands off young women. I'd have liked to put my hands around his throat, but I had just enough sense to stare at him and keep quiet.
'Been like that since he came in, sir,' the sergeant, whose name I had learned was Barrett, said.
'Foxing.' Partridge extended his silver cigarette case to me. 'Smoke, do you?'
I shook my head. 'I don't know.'
Partridge smiled. 'He's good. Very good. Well, I'll leave it to you to arrange, sergeant.'
He snapped the cigarette case shut. Barrett looked as if he'd gladly have put Partridge's head in the stinking toilet, but he forced a subordinate's smile. 'Very good, sir.'
They got sick of me in the lock-up after Partridge cooled off and I suspect they only kept me around because they were worried I might turn out to be someone important who might make trouble for them because they'd treated me roughly. They gave me shaving tackle and the use of their bathroom, and I wore a police shirt for a day while mine was washed and ironed. I gathered that they'd made inquiries about me at the Double Ace and Freddie Mills had told them I had an American passport. 'Mr Brown' he'd called me, and that was no help to anyone. On the fourth morning I woke up and a name was in my head. I hammered on the door and the slot opened. Barrett looked at me through the grill.
'Well, well, it's the mystery man, making a nuisance of himself. What is it, squire?'
'Peter Finch,' I said. 'My name is Peter Finch.'
3
One thing led to another. Barrett got in touch with Finch, who took his time showing up at the nick. By the time he did, most of my memory—including the recollection of several incidents I'd rather have stayed forgotten—had come back. Despite the bad bits, it was a great relief to have the old backlog in place. There's something very frightening about it being a blank all the way back beyond the last time you had a piss. I remembered the blacks who'd robbed me, but they'd long since gone off to Brixton or the Scrubs and there was no redress to be had. I was let out of the cell and sat down to drink tea with Barrett (I hadn't yet remembered that I loathed the stuff), who concentrated on trying to talk me out of making a claim for unlawful detention.
'A lot of unnecessary bother, Mr Browning,' he said. 'And it wouldn't do you no good. There's not a mark on you, and Constables Lewis and Carney and my good self don't recall you falling down.'
'You don't recall the baton or the boot either, I suppose?'
'I don't know what you're talking about, sir. Best to forget about it really, now that our kind treatment has restored you to full health.'
'Jesus!'
'What's going on?' Finch appeared at the door, smartly suited. He sauntered in and stuck out his hand. 'Dick, old chap. Got down here as quick as I could.'
He sounded much more English than Australian and smelled only faintly of whisky. 'I've been here since the night we were in the bloody Double Ace,' I said. 'You might have made an inquiry.'
Finch's cigarette case came out and seemed almost to flick a Players into Barrett's eager fingers. He lit them both up with a gold lighter. I was still unsure whether I wanted to smoke or not. 'My dear chap,' Finch murmured, 'I inquired positively everywhere. There was no sign of you. I recalled you saying you were working on that bit of navy nonsense, so I checked with Rank. They'd heard nothing.'
Barrett flushed and he stubbed out the cigarette. 'I was in the navy. Would you mind explaining that remark, Mr Finch.'
'No offence, sergeant. I was in the Australian army myself and so was Mr Browning here. I was talking about a film being made. Mr Browning's an actor, you see.'
Barrett beamed. 'I suggested as much to him. Didn't I, Mr Browning? I thought you had a bit of the look of Sir Laurence Oliver himself.'
Finch glowered. 'Hasn't anyone in this country ever heard of any other bloody actor?'
I was puzzled by Finch's attitude but had no doubts about what Barrett was up to. I decided to turn the screw a bit. 'Have you got a solicitor on tap, Peter? I'm thinking of bringing an action for unlawful detention.'
Finch checked his watch and I saw the time. It was four in the afternoon and the pubs would be opening. 'Well, I suppose . . .'
Barrett coughed. 'Come on, Mr Browning. We're all old soldiers here. Surely . . .'
I was sick of Barrett's face and the sight and smell of his domain. Peter had his cigarette case out again and I took one, remembering suddenly that tobacco was my favourite vegetable. I recalled that I often fancied an afternoon drink as well. 'I'll let it drop,' I said. I gestured for Finch to light my cigarette. He did it, probably equally theatrically. 'I think you might owe me one, sergeant, as we say in Hollywood.'
'One what?'
'A favour.'
'Yes, sir,' Barrett said.
'I don't get it,' I said to Finch as we strolled towards St James where Peter said he had parked his car near one of his favourite pubs. He'd become quite the Londoner, Peter. 'I thought you and Larry Olivier were like that?'
Finch grunted and I gathered I wasn't going to learn any more on that subject. I asked him what the people at the Rank organisation had said, not that I was in much doubt.
Finch flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter and swerved to avoid a pram being pushed by an energetic young nanny. Being Peter, he gave the nanny a quick once-over before favouring her with a smile and a touch of the trilby. 'Job's gone I'm afraid. They waited as long as they could but finally had to put to sea without you. Bad luck, old son.'
I didn't blame them. Time and the movies wait for no man, except perhaps a leading man. As it turned out, The Cruel Sea wasn't such a hot movie and losing the job wasn't such a disaster as missing out on a part in Gone With the Wind. That was all Errol bloody Flynn's fault, of course.5 God knows how far my career might have progressed if I'd been in that movie. As things stood, though, I had more than a few problems. I was in Britain with no passport, no money and no job. I'd recalled that my belongings were at the Regent Hotel, but they'd probably been impounded by now. I'd only booked in for a few days but I now had no way of paying the bill. I cast a sidelong glance at Finch, who was looking extremely prosperous. He caught the look and gave me one of his winning grins.
'Don't worry, Dick. I'm very grateful for what you did and for keeping quiet for so long. The riot at the club made the papers, but it's old news now and no one cares. I
'll see you right, especially since it's partly my fault that you lost your job.'
Now all I had been going to do was try to tap him for a few quid, and if I hadn't lost my memory I'd have named him as a possible source of bail as quick as a whore can strip. But if he was in such a giving mood I saw no reason to object. I squared my jaw and marched briskly along with him. 'We colonials have to stick together, eh, Peter?'
He laughed. 'Even if I've become as British as Bulldog Drummond6 and you sound pretty much like Gary Cooper with a touch of Errol Flynn.'
The light-hearted, approving mention of that name made me grit my teeth and determine to get from Finch everything I could. 'Look, I'm high and dry. I haven't even got the price of a drink.'
'I'll take care of that,' Finch said, and I saw that we were approaching the Guardsman's Gate, a pub frequented by actors and writers and other people who didn't have to work in the daytime. I had an Irishman's thirst after four dry days, but, while a skinful of booze would ease my pain, it wasn't going to solve my problems. I gripped Finch's shoulder as he was about to push open the door to the saloon bar.
'Peter,' I said, 'they were going to charge me with indecent assault of that girl you hit. Her boyfriend was a bloody copper.'
'Don't worry, Dick. Don't worry. I said I'd take care of you and I will. I'll square your bill at the . . . where is it again?'
'The Regent.'
'The Regent. That won't hurt too much. How does a spell in the country, a little London nightlife and a job on my next picture sound to you?'
Finch went past me and I followed him into the pub, thinking hard. His next picture? As far as I knew, the only thing he'd done in films recently was The Wooden Horse, where he'd played an RAAF officer in a role not so much bigger than my own. Still, he'd done plays in the West End, was close to Olivier and, as I knew to my cost, Hollywood had always panted after even semi-Englishmen—think of Howard and Harvey.7 I was prepared to believe that Peter might be able to do me some good above and beyond a double scotch, although just then that was a pretty powerful inducement.