by Colin Murray
‘Well,’ she said, ‘he is chic, for an Englishman. And handsome.’ Then she shook her head. ‘But he is young and too much the bohemian.’ She made it sound as if both were crimes against good taste. ‘And, above all, dear Antoine, he isn’t you. I prefer to come with you.’
‘OK,’ I said, reverting to English, ‘you’d both better come.’
Jerry managed to drag his gaze away from the window. ‘Can I finish my beer first this time?’ he said truculently.
‘Of course,’ I said, the excellent glass of wine in my hand making me magnanimous.
It was ten o’clock when we found the Imperial Club. It was above a bakery, and the open side door led to a shabby set of stairs lit by a forty-watt bulb that dangled from a wire protruding from a ragged hole in the ceiling. Ghislaine wrinkled her nose and strode towards the staircase, throwing eerie shadows on the walls.
The broad-shouldered woman perched on a stool by the entrance to the club was as formidable as any French concierge. She was dressed in the sort of frilly cream frock that Italian Renaissance artists thought angels manifested themselves in but, in the yellowish light, she bore more of a resemblance to a pale, stone gargoyle thrusting powerfully out from the roof of a cathedral.
‘You’re not members,’ she said suspiciously. Her voice was deep, and she had a strong middle-European accent. Thick make-up couldn’t disguise the square jaw and broken nose, but it did highlight the malicious little eyes that stared brightly out, like currents in an uncooked spotted dick.
‘No,’ I said, ‘but I thought we could get some kind of temporary membership . . .’
‘Ten bob each,’ she said.
I looked at her with raised eyebrows.
‘We don’t have temporary memberships,’ she said. ‘This is good for a year.’
I nodded reluctantly and pulled out my wallet, which seemed to be much lighter than it had been when I’d left home, and took out two one-pound notes.
She reached behind her and took an old Oxo tin off a shelf. She carefully counted out four half-crowns, which she pressed into my hand. She took a fountain pen and three small, thick cards from a pocket in the dress and, with great concentration, wrote a number and a date on each and handed them to us.
‘Show the barman and tell her Connie said it was all right.’
She smiled at Jerry as he passed her. ‘She’s pretty,’ she said, arching her plucked and painted eyebrows. She blew him a kiss.
It was as well that the light wasn’t good. Jerry was definitely blushing. I decided not to let him in on my suspicions about Connie.
THREE
The club was divided into two large rooms. The first had a small bar along one wall. As I entered, I could see, through open double doors to my left, that the other had a billiard table taking up most of the available space.
Light seemed to be on ration. In the billiard room, it was pooled over the table; in the main room, there were five little lamps with fringed shades glowing quietly among the deep shadows. In contrast, the bar blazed like a beacon.
There were only about a dozen people in, which probably explained why Connie had been so happy to accommodate us. They were mostly men, although there were a couple of women. It was difficult to make much out in the gloom, but the members of the Imperial Club seemed to range from the rough-looking to the louche.
It was just a cheap drinking joint, with a few sturdy tables and chairs scattered about, but someone had taken some trouble with the décor. The golden oak of the bar glowed in the light of a couple of Tiffany lamps, and the walls were covered with dozens of framed pencil sketches. Almost all of them were portraits: several were recognizably Connie, staring out maliciously, Gorgon-like.
There was no disguising, even from a relative innocent like Jerry, that the barman was not as other men. He glided sensuously from one end of the bar to the other as we approached, his right hand poised artfully above his hip. But he didn’t overdo it.
‘You’re new,’ he said with obvious relish in a fruity Home Counties accent. He was older than I’d thought. And plumper than he probably liked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Connie said to tell you that she said it was all right.’
‘Of course you’re all right, dear,’ he said. ‘If you weren’t, she wouldn’t have let you in. Welcome to Roger’s little home from home. What’s it to be?’
‘Do you have any wine?’ I said.
He looked up to the heavens – well, towards the nicotine-stained ceiling – and tutted a ‘what have we got here?’ tut.
‘I’ve port – tawny – and some sherry. Cream. Otherwise it’s all beer and spirits.’
‘A beer and two cognacs,’ I said, looking at Jerry and Ghislaine, who nodded their agreement.
‘Light ale or brown?’ he said.
‘Light,’ said Jerry.
‘Right you are,’ he said and spun elegantly around, on the balls of his feet, like a ballroom dancer.
Within seconds, our drinks were on the bar.
The barman raised a glass of his own. ‘To the end of an era,’ he said. ‘We won’t see his like again.’
Jerry nodded gloomily and lifted his own glass. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said. ‘To the most innovative talent of recent years.’
The barman looked puzzled. ‘He was what we needed at the time, but I don’t know about innovative . . .’
‘Of course he was innovative,’ Jerry said fiercely. ‘You only have to listen to “Ornithology” to appreciate that his approach to melody, rhythm and harmony changed the way jazz is played.’
‘I didn’t know Mr Churchill found time to play jazz,’ the barman said blankly.
‘What’s Mr Churchill got to do with it?’ Jerry said.
‘He resigned today,’ the barman said.
‘Oh,’ Jerry said and walked off to the other side of the room. Ghislaine followed.
‘What’s he going on about?’ the barman said.
‘He’s still upset about the death of Charlie Parker,’ I said, adding, ‘the jazz musician,’ when I registered that the name meant nothing. ‘There are only so many world events a man can grieve over at the same time.’
‘It takes all sorts,’ he said sniffily.
‘So, Churchill resigned today, did he? I missed that,’ I said.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it was only a matter of time after his illness.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Some bloke who comes in says that it was a serious stroke. So he couldn’t carry on.’
‘I suppose not,’ I said and paused. We both stared over each other’s shoulder for a moment, reflecting on mortality and, in my case, on the grim early days of the war. Then, since we’d struck up a relationship, I thought I might as well go ahead and ask: ‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘Aren’t we all, dear?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I was just wondering if you’ve seen this chap. I was told he came in here sometimes.’
I handed him the photograph. He gave it a quick glance. Then he moved away to serve a lean, good-looking man with fair hair who had materialized at the bar while we’d been talking. The man rested his cigarette in the ashtray on the bar and asked Roger for a whisky. His dark suit fitted perfectly, and his crisp blue shirt and carefully knotted red and blue striped tie gave the impression of effortless, but expensive, elegance. I thought I might have seen him before, but I couldn’t be sure. When he saw me looking at him, his eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened and his good looks took on a mean and vicious cast.
‘You’re staring at me,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I just thought I recognized you.’
‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know nobodies.’
‘That’s enough of that, Mr Cavendish,’ Roger said. ‘I don’t want to have to fetch Connie again.’
Cavendish threw some coins on the counter, splashed some soda in his whisky, picked up his cigarette and slid away to the other end of the bar.
Roger rolled his eyes at me and picked up the
photograph. ‘That’s that film star, isn’t it? Beverley something. I saw her in The Shadow of the Sword a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that is her. But I’m interested in the boy she’s with.’
‘That’s Jon,’ he said. ‘He started coming in a couple of weeks ago. Was as regular as my morning bowel movement for a week or so. In at half past ten every night. But I haven’t seen him for, ooh, nearly a week now. Still, they’re like that, the young ones. Flighty. They just don’t understand that they’re much better off with Auntie Roger.’
‘You don’t know where I might find him, I suppose,’ I said.
‘I’ll ask around if you like. See if anyone knows anything.’
‘Thanks,’ I said and gave him one of the smart business cards that Les had insisted he have printed up for me. ‘I can be reached on that number. During office hours.’ It was the phone in Jerry’s shop.
He looked at the card. ‘So, Mr Tony Gérard, what’s a Producer’s Assistant when it’s at home then, eh?’
‘A boring title for a boring job,’ I said.
He put the card by the till. ‘So, any chance of you getting me into films? I’ve always fancied myself flitting across the old silver screen.’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t have anything to with casting, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘But I would be very grateful if you let me know if the boy in the picture turns up.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘What’s that naughty Jon been up to? And what’s he doing hobnobbing it with famous film stars?’
‘He hasn’t done anything, as far as I know. It’s a personal matter.’
‘Oh,’ he said, giving me a long, appraising look. ‘In that case, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for the evening rush.’ He went into a small storage area behind the bar and started hauling crates of beer around one handed. He was remarkably strong.
Jerry and Ghislaine had found a table as far away from the bar as possible.
‘Are we staying here long?’ Jerry said nervously.
Ghislaine smiled. ‘Jerry is a little worried,’ she said, ‘about the big woman on the door.’
‘It’s OK, Jerry,’ I said. ‘Ghislaine will protect you.’
‘Seriously,’ he said, ‘can we just drink up and go?’
‘Give it half an hour,’ I said.
He slumped down in his chair.
I watched the good-looking but short-tempered Cavendish settle at a table on the far side of the room, careful not to let him catch me looking.
Poor Jerry was very uncomfortable. Cavendish apart, I was at ease, but then I’d been in clubs like this and I knew that the last thing anyone wanted was trouble. Some of the clientele had reputations to protect, and the others – even the rougher ones – would prefer not to arouse the interest of the police. An appearance in Bow Street on the charges they would face could have consequences.
Anyway, it was by no means the queerest bar I’d ever been in. Charlie and I had once had to chaperone one of Les’s visiting American stars – actually, he was a washed-up character actor trying to exhume his long-dead career by appearing in British B movies – as he rampaged around London. He was a nice enough guy, full of funny stories, but, after his first few shots of whisky and his first sniffs of cocaine, he went wild. Our job was to make sure that he didn’t appear in any of the papers and to have him in the make-up girl’s chair by six every morning. It hadn’t been easy, and we were both in need of a good night’s sleep after ten days, but we had been successful. Reporters finally tracked him down about nine months later when he was working for another studio. Les chortled maliciously. Charlie and I didn’t. We’d grown fond of the old reprobate, as Charlie put it, ‘his tendencies notwithstanding’. I’d discovered a reservoir of sympathy and tolerance that I hadn’t suspected I had.
As people, men and women, started to trickle in, some with little dribbles of paint on their shoes and turn-ups, the women wearing brightly coloured scarves, ostentatious jewellery and flamboyant cotton skirts, I decided that this was more of an artists’ club than a pick-up joint for men of a certain persuasion. That would explain the sketches.
The half an hour I’d allowed us was nearly up when an intense young man in a brown corduroy jacket and grey flannels approached us.
‘Roger said that you’re looking for Jon,’ he said nervously.
I leaned forward. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Can you help?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But I know where he’s been staying for the past fortnight. But he hasn’t been there for nearly a week. I was hoping to find him in here tonight.’ He looked around wanly and then shrugged. ‘He said he’d be back by now.’
I pulled out one of my posh business cards again and then spoiled the effect by rummaging around for something to write with and only coming up with a stub of pencil. ‘Here,’ I said, handing them to him. ‘Write the address down on the back of this.’
He printed it out very carefully in tiny capital letters, meticulously formed.
‘Thanks,’ I said as he handed it to me. Of course it was south of the river. Kennington Park. I handed him another card. ‘That’s me,’ I said, ‘and that’s a phone number where I can be contacted. Now, what’s your name and how do you know Jon?’
‘Richard Ellis,’ he said.
‘Pleased to meet you, Richard. Like it says on the card, I’m Tony Gérard. This is Jerry, and this is Ghislaine. Sit down and tell me about you and Jon.’
‘First of all,’ he said, ‘will you tell me why you want to find him?’
‘His sister asked me to look out for him.’
‘His sister?’ he said, sitting down. ‘I didn’t know he had a sister.’
‘Well, he has,’ I said. ‘How well do you know him?’
‘We’re at Cambridge together,’ he said. ‘We met when we first arrived.’
I was suddenly aware of another man looking at us from the bar, although looking doesn’t do justice to the intensity with which he studied us. The skin on his face had the polished quality of scar tissue and, although it was difficult to tell in that light, he didn’t appear to have any eyebrows or eyelashes and he hadn’t removed his old battered brown trilby. I had him down as a burn victim, an airman perhaps, one of McIndoe’s Army, a fully paid up member of the Guinea Pig Club.
His interest in us was so unnerving that I didn’t pay much attention to Richard Ellis’s account of his relationship with Jonathan Harrison, which seemed to involve a lot of punting and quantities of champagne. I did notice that he didn’t refer much to lectures. I wondered if the university authorities had decided that, since such things played merry hell with a gentleman’s social life, they would no longer offer them. Eventually, I interrupted the litany of pubs, clubs, parties, balls and dinners.
‘Don’t turn around,’ I said to him quietly, ‘but there’s a man at the bar showing a lot of interest in us. I wondered if you know who he is.’
Needless to say, he, Jerry and Ghislaine all shifted their positions for a better view of the bar. The man immediately started like a nervous horse and bolted towards the door.
Richard turned back to me. ‘Caramba! That was Jameson,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know what he’d be doing here.’
‘Jameson?’ I said, thinking, Caramba.
‘One of the dons at college. David Jameson. He’s the Augustan man.’
I looked at him blankly.
‘An expert on the Augustan poets.’
I tried to look less blank.
‘Pope, Addison, Steele,’ he said. ‘Swift.’
I nodded sagely. I’d heard of Swift. And the pope, of course.
‘Something of a war hero, Jameson. Shot down over Kent in the Battle of Britain.’ He paused. ‘Not that he talks about it.’
No, I thought, being engulfed in flame, watching your fingers char, feeling and smelling your face as it burns, inhaling nothing but scorching heat, wondering how long the agony will last, is probably not something you talk a
bout much.
‘And that was him, was it?’ I said.
‘Difficult to say,’ he said.
Yes, I thought, a man with no eyebrows or eyelashes and a reconstructed face must be difficult to recognize.
‘Does he teach Jon?’ I said.
‘He’s his tutor,’ he said casually, as if that answered everything.
I assumed that meant they had a lot to do with each other.
Richard Ellis drank his beer, and I got him another when I bought a round. I took the opportunity to consolidate my relationship with Roger by buying him a drink too.
Richard talked a lot. He was happy to. But it was all to little purpose. Or, at least, he couldn’t tell me anything that I wanted to know. He didn’t know why Jonathan Harrison had wanted to come to London before the end of term. He didn’t even seem to know why he’d agreed to accompany him. It was all just a bit of a lark. He was one of those young men with a glib tongue and an empty head. He’d probably become a Tory MP after working in the City.
Ghislaine could barely conceal her boredom, smoking Gauloises constantly and yawning not too discreetly. Jerry, on the other hand, was as nervous as a Leyton Orient supporter with the team winning 1–0 and five minutes to the final whistle. Admittedly, it was no more frequently than every three seconds, but he kept casting anxious looks at the door. I was as bored with Richard Ellis as Ghislaine. But then I had more cause. I understood every word he said. I decided to put us all out of our collective misery and announced that it was time for us to leave.
I thanked Richard for Jon’s address and for sparing the time to fill me in, finished my drink and stood up. Jerry and Ghislaine moved with more alacrity and were at the door before I stood up.
Roger, ever the avuncular, efficient barman, came over to clear the table. ‘You off, then?’ he said, but didn’t wait for a reply before continuing in a whisper, as he clinked glasses together, ‘Two blokes were watching your table, dear. One was of a military bearing. Suit, fawn mack, smart brown titfer. Big, sensible shoes.’ He pursed his lips. ‘If you get my drift.’