Flora nodded, and tried very hard to think. “Well, I remember that he didn’t want anything to eat. I offered him, ma’am, but he said he didn’t want to be longer than necessary. I said, ‘Are you sure I can’t get you nothing’ and he said… uh… he said… oh, blimey, what did he say? … Oh, yes. He said he’d buy a pork pie on the way to the pictures.”
“Pictures? Where? Which film was he going to see?”
“Where, I don’t know, ma’am. But I remember it was something with Norma Shearer.”
Martha sprang up and went off to find the newspaper. She brought it back in, sat down next to Flora and turned to the cinema listings. “There’s an old Norma Shearer picture at the Plaza Piccadilly. The Barretts of Wimpole Street. Was that it, Flora?”
Flora sniffed, and thought.
Martha tried to conceal her impatience. “Flora?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I can’t say he told me what picture it was.”
“All right,” Martha said. “Let me think. Now, would he go to the West End to watch a film? He might, if he wanted to treat himself. It is Sunday, after all. Now, oh… where does he live? Flora, did he tell you where he lives?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Hmm. We met him yesterday at the football game. That was Chelsea, and we asked whether he’d like us to give him a lift home. It was the least we could do. And he said, no, he’ll walk. So, he must live in or close to Chelsea.”
She scrutinised the newspaper again. “Hammersmith. They’re showing a Norma Shearer film there. At the Gaumont. A Free Soul.”
“That’s it,” Flora said, jumping up suddenly. “I remember.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. He kept tapping his feet, like he was impatient or something. And he asked me a few times when you was expected back and I said I dunno and he said he didn’t want to miss the film and I asked what film and he said A Free Soul with Norma Shearer.”
“Brilliant,” Martha said, leaning over and kissing Flora on the forehead.
Chapter Fifteen
Max was sitting in front of the inspector’s desk again, while Inspector Longford, like an avuncular university don, sat back in his seat and, with an apparent airy disregard for precision, prepared to consider everything Max said.
Sergeant Pierce was at his desk taking notes. Again.
“Major Frederick Rice,” Longford said, “is missing.”
He waited for Max to say something. He waited a long time.
Max didn’t dare utter a word, a sound. Anything, he thought, would give him away. All he could do was stay calm, keep quiet and wait for Martha or Mr Bacon to come and rescue him.
Then he heard a voice and looked up and saw Longford regarding him strangely.
“I’m going now to show you some photographs, sir,” Longford was saying. “This is the man who was killed on Friday. The one we think you met. We have men now seeking out any witnesses from that night. The reason we’re doing this is that we now think the man we have in the mortuary is not called Crawford. We believe that was a pseudonym. Do you recognise him?”
Then Max was looking at a peculiar face – the flat, dry-eyed, pale mask of someone he’d once known as his friend. “I’d like to speak to my solicitor, please.”
Longford and Pierce exchanged glances. And Max knew he could be in very real trouble.
“Very well,” Longford said, retrieving the photographs. “Meanwhile, perhaps you’d help us with some further aspects of our investigation.”
It wasn’t a question, more a challenge.
Max said nothing.
He reached into his jacket for a cigarette. At the same time, Longford took a pipe from the rack at one side of his desktop. He scraped the bowl with a small penknife then tapped the charred remains into the ashtray. He began slowly to fill the pipe with fresh tobacco.
Max lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew smoke out.
It was a cold day now, with a bank of blue-grey clouds obscuring the sun, and a biting northerly wind bringing iciness that seeped into the office through the glass of the window and the cracks in the frame. He could feel the coldness about him, in the tiled floor, in the wooden chair. And yet he was sweating.
When Longford had lit his pipe to his satisfaction, he leaned back in his seat. “I was able to see your service records, sir. Cambrai, Arras, others.”
“Passchendaele,” Max said, annoyed that Longford was consigning that hideous carnage to ‘others’.
“Yes. Terrible battle, that.”
Pierce said something then, his voice floating slowly over to Max, soft and low, so that it seemed, for a moment, more like an echo. “‘I died in hell’,” Pierce’s voice said. “‘They called it Passchendaele.’”
Max didn’t say anything, didn’t trust his nerve to hold. Longford and Pierce were silent, waiting. Finally, Longford leaned forward and said, casually, “And of course, you won the Military Cross.”
“Brave,” Pierce said.
“Do you know what happened to him after the army?” Inspector Longford said, leaning back again, sucking on his pipe. “Major Rice, I mean.”
That sudden twist in topic startled Max, as, of course, it was supposed to. “No. Why would I? Last time I saw him was in ’18.”
Longford looked at Max curiously, and Max glanced over to the other desk and noted that the sergeant too was looking at him.
“Did you know that Mr Rice had been abroad, sir?”
“Again, why would I? Like I told you, I hadn’t seen him since 1918. He was injured, shot in the leg, I think.”
“I thought you didn’t know him that well, sir,” Longford said casually, as if he were pointing out that Max had misspelled a word.
“Well, I didn’t, but, you know…”
“Not really. I was in the Met during the war. I never served. And Sergeant Pierce here was too young. He was born in 1910.”
“Just a babe,” Pierce said sadly, apparently lamenting the fact that they wouldn’t let him serve at the age of eight.
“Well, you hear things in the trenches,” Max said, thinking that Pierce was doing well for someone so young. “You know, news.”
Even to Max, that sounded weak. “Still,” he said, “I might’ve been wrong. There were lots of bullets flying around. Lots of injuries. Perhaps it was another officer I was thinking of.”
Longford smiled. “Perhaps. Were there any other officers in your regiment who were shot in the leg in 1918?”
“Look, I don’t understand this. Why are you questioning me?”
“Because he’s missing. I thought I’d explained that. And because I don’t like coincidences, and you’re drowning in them, sir.”
The inspector smiled again, which made Max’s insides crawl. He suddenly wanted fresh air.
“But you were right, sir. He had a wound. Rice. We’ve obtained a full description from the missing person report. Rice’s wife reported him missing on Saturday morning. Hadn’t seen him since Wednesday afternoon, apparently. She gave our colleagues in Lincoln a detailed description of Major Rice. He had an old scar, consistent with a bullet wound, in his leg. Just as you said.”
Chapter Sixteen
Harold Bacon was in love with Norma Shearer, and had been for a number of years. It wasn’t that she was beautiful, which she undoubtedly was, and it wasn’t that she was intelligent and sophisticated. No, it was more than those things. And yet, if you asked Mr Bacon to explain what it was that made Norma Shearer the perfect woman, he wouldn’t have been able to answer you. In a way, the reason was precisely that he couldn’t answer the question; she seemed to Mr Bacon to be ethereal, above the ordinary, untouched by a world of crime and politics and armies marching here and there. Yes, Norma Shearer was above the world that Harold Bacon knew.
In fact, now that he came to think about it, Martha Dalton was a lot like
Norma Shearer. She looked similar, tall and slim and elegant, with that dark and lustrous and short – but not too short – curly hair, and with those large eyes and serene mouth. Yes, she was similar in looks, and, he had to admit, in sophistication and intelligence too, although he was sure that Norma Shearer wouldn’t keep getting his name wrong. But, yes, Mrs Dalton had something about her that affected men, even men like Mr Bacon, who rarely felt anything for women, Norma Shearer excepted, of course.
Sometimes, in moments of reverie, Harold Bacon would imagine going to the wedding of George Mills and Norma Shearer. He would sit at the front, or perhaps he would be the best man, and after George Mills had kissed the bride, he’d give Mr Bacon a slap on the shoulder, and Norma Shearer would give him a peck on the cheek. That would be about perfect.
Why it was that Mr Bacon never featured as the protagonist in these daydreams is uncertain. He never imagined himself as a centre-forward for Chelsea, and never envisioned a life of bliss with Norma Shearer. Perhaps the idea that she would be called Mrs Norma Bacon was too much like dull reality. Perhaps he simply never thought of himself in terms of greatness and stardom. He was not, in truth, an ambitious man, or given to improbable abstract wanderings.
Never mind. He enjoyed the fantasy, and was perfectly happy just to sit in the audience and gaze at the silver and grey image of Norma Shearer.
He’d made his way to the Gaumont in Hammersmith this Sunday afternoon because they were showing one of Norma Shearer’s old films, A Free Soul, which Mr Bacon had missed upon initial release as a result of a large man standing on his foot at Stamford Bridge and breaking three of his toes.
Being hungry, and having missed his lunch, on account of the Daltons – again, Mr Bacon had bought himself a pork pie and a bag of pork scratchings. Gazing at these items, though, brought an odd nagging fear, which he couldn’t identify.
The feature hadn’t started, and Mr Bacon was settling himself into his seat, knowing that the film contained some pretty warm scenes, which he’d read about in Film Weekly. So, preparing for the first of these moments, and nibbling at his pork pie, Harold Bacon should have felt contentment and some anticipation of joy. Instead, he felt ill at ease. Something was wrong, and he thought hard about what it might be.
It had something to do with Norma Shearer. What could it be? And then, as he was trying to visualise Norma Shearer, images conflated and he realised what was wrong. He was beginning to think of Mrs Dalton in Norma Shearer’s place.
Oh, that was terrible. Mrs Dalton was the daughter of one of the firm’s best clients. Further, she was married. And now Mr Bacon’s fantasies were starting to incorporate her. That wasn’t right. It made him feel, well, guilty. No, that wasn’t right at all.
He opened the bag of pork scratchings and started to feed them into his mouth, the salty-crunchy-fatty taste filling his senses. Norma Shearer, he thought. Not Mrs Dalton. Norma Dalton. NO! Norma Shearer.
Then the credits appeared, and he saw Norma Shearer’s name in a large flourishing typeface, and Mr Bacon started to relax, knowing that he’d soon forget that Mrs Dalton ever existed. He put his hat on the folded coat, which rested across his lap, and he prepared to take a bite of his pork pie.
Then, just as Lionel Barrymore was about to hand some skimpy clothes to Norma Shearer, whose form was silhouetted on the bathroom wall, everything stopped and Mr Bacon suddenly found himself in bright light. He looked around at the other people in the cinema, all of whom were equally perplexed. Then, when he saw an usher move to the front of the theatre with a speaking trumpet, Mr Bacon’s heart sank.
“This is an urgent announcement for a Mr Ham. Is there a Mr Harold Ham in the audience?”
*
When Mr Bacon walked into the lobby, he saw Martha Dalton and stopped short. Partly, of course, he was annoyed. Partly, he was expected to be civil to his boss’s friend’s daughter. Beyond these, though, he became uncomfortably aware that he was now, ever so slightly, in love with her. And, what was worse, he was confused about which part of these contradictions was dominant, and which should be dominant.
He felt himself blush, felt his heart flutter. He cleared his throat, and moved forward.
“Mr Pork,” Martha said.
“Mrs Shearer,” Mr Bacon said.
Martha raised an eyebrow. “Are you all right? What’s that in your hand?”
“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” Mr Pork said, becoming unsure now who he was and what he was doing. He felt suddenly very hot. “And this is a bacon pie.”
“Well, you can eat it on the way.”
“Please, Mrs Dalton. This is my only free weekend this month.”
For the first time, Martha became aware of what a burden she must’ve been to Mr Pie. She said, “Oh, my! I… uh…”
And then, because she remembered how Max had behaved when he’d tried to tell her of his past, Martha did something that took both her and Mr Bacon by surprise. She started to cry. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but, you see, my husband is in terrible trouble. Max is… Oh, Mr Bacon.”
It had been rare in Mr Bacon’s life that he’d been faced with a crying woman. He felt absurdly stupid and crass, unsure how to proceed. Should he comfort her? He wanted to, greatly, but how did one do that, especially with a half-eaten pork pie in one’s hand? He attempted to pat her on the head, as he’d seen people do sometimes, mostly with pet dogs and such. “I’m sure it isn’t all that serious,” he said softly, slapping her forehead. “I’m sure we’ll be able to get him out first thing tomorrow.”
“I’m not worried about him being in jail overnight. I’m worried that he’ll confess to something.”
Ah, so that was it. Mr Bacon was on firmer ground here. He pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. “I see. Well, the police don’t use those kinds of tactics much any more,” he said. “I assure you, Norma. And if they do, they don’t use them on people such as your husband.”
“You don’t understand,” Martha said desperately. “I’m not afraid they’ll force a confession. I’m afraid he’ll confess freely. I’m afraid he’s guilty of something.”
Chapter Seventeen
Longford opened the drawer of his desk and removed some newspaper cuttings. He made a show of perusing them at length.
Max heard Sergeant Pierce sniff and then sigh deeply, probably just to remind Max that he was there, watching, waiting to record everything.
Max shifted in his seat. His back was starting to ache, and he wanted to stand up and stretch his legs. He could’ve done, he supposed, but the way this was going, any movement would have seemed to Longford a signal of deceit or evasion or something. Probably, if Max had stood, Longford would have taken it as a subconscious desire to escape, which it most likely would’ve been.
Longford lowered the newspaper clippings, placing them on the desktop. He lit a fresh pipe and said, “I’ve been reading some of your work, sir. Very good. Very, uh, philosophical, some of it. Above our heads, eh, Sergeant?”
“Way above,” Pierce said. “I’m just a simple copper, sir.”
Max didn’t know if Pierce was talking to him or the inspector, and he decided he didn’t care anyway.
“I was especially drawn to a phrase you used in the piece you wrote in ’34 about the American gangsters. I quote: ‘I kill, therefore I am.’ Can you tell me what that means, sir?”
Max again had the feeling he was being manoeuvred, ever so carefully, into a trap. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, into a cell. But there was no way out of it. If he failed to answer Longford’s question, it would indicate some kind of guilt, wouldn’t it? Alone, out of context, the line was damning: I kill, therefore I am.
“You have to exist, don’t you, before you can destroy? I merely postulated that an act of destruction is, in and of itself, an act of affirmation,” he said.
Max waited for a response but, getting none, contin
ued, “What I mean is, whereas people like Dillinger and Van Meter were professional criminals, for whom killing was an occasional necessity, there were others like Nelson, and Barrow and Parker, for whom the act of killing became a means of escape and empowerment. They were weak and unintelligent and disenfranchised people, poor people who learned that they could become like gods with a sub-machine gun or a pistol.”
“Very clever, sir,” Max heard Pierce say flatly. “I’m just a simple copper, so I don’t understand all this pychological whatnot.”
“What my colleague means,” Longford said, “is that it’s an interesting view, of killing, I mean.”
“Is it?” Max said.
“If I understand correctly, sir, you’re saying that it’s a way for the lower classes, the working classes, shall we say, to find a place in society otherwise denied them. Is that it, sir?”
Max sighed. They were playing games with him. But what could he do? “More or less,” he said.
Longford nodded. “Perhaps you’d tell us a little about your own background, sir.”
Max didn’t speak. How could he? What could he say that wouldn’t add to their belief of his guilt?
“Are you all right, sir?” Pierce said. “Would you like some water?”
Max smiled at this. He was beginning to understand how they worked, these detectives, always seeking to unsettle him, to hint, through the use of vagaries and loaded comments, mocking and sarcastic asides, and then the abrupt switch.
There was a knock at the door and Longford made a small movement of his head to Pierce, who stood and left the room. When he came back, he whispered something to Longford. Then returned to his desk.
Max wondered what new information they thought they’d uncovered. It seemed, at times, as though they knew everything about Max. But they couldn’t, could they? And then Longford spoke again, and Max knew that they did know. Longford said, “We spoke to a man called General Sir Clifford Monroe, formerly Lieutenant-Colonel Monroe of your regiment. Do you know that name, sir?”
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