Jailbird Detective

by Helen Jacey

  I picked up the suitcase and hatbox, rather disappointed. It felt like a false start and I was too exhausted to shop around. A money-guzzling hotel it would have to be.

  It was a pity. The joint was cool, literally, with the purr of air conditioning units. The lobby was buzzy and cheerful. Pale yellow walls, luscious palms in large Egyptian pots surrounding a busy tobacconist stand, and a lounge area where elegant girls chatted.

  I felt eyes on me. A maid was busy polishing a large brass lamp at the end of the large desk, a distinctly unimpressed look on her face as she glanced at me. She had velvet brown skin and her brow furrowed a little as she attacked the brass.

  ‘Here to make it in the movies?’

  I turned. Mrs. Loeb glassy bug eyes were now giving me the onceover, taking in my fashionable and stylish suit.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The movies? Seeking fame?’ She barked as if I was deaf.

  I knew a trick question when I heard one. ‘Not at all. I’m a personal secretary.’

  ‘Where you hail from?’

  ‘New York, originally. I’ve been living in London for ten years.’ That would explain any remnants of the accent.

  Mrs. Loeb glanced my ringless hand. ‘Good. So you ain’t married?’

  ‘Widow.’

  She had the last word. ‘So long as you’re no divorcee. They’re trouble, too.’

  The maid smirked at her boss’ rudeness to me as if it was a familiar comedy routine, and I was the latest sucker.

  Mrs. Loeb tapped her long nails on the glass counter. ‘My friend runs a boarding house in The Palms. Jasmine Street. Lower rent than here, ain’t so fancy, but respectable and clean. She don’t take actresses, or models, or dancing girls. More trouble than they’re worth. Want me to call Pearl or not?’

  Maybe a suspected spy, probation bunker, and wanted murderess would make the grade.

  I nodded. ‘Sure.’

  I noted the name. Pearl. If a plush hotel got too expensive, a boarding house run by Pearl in Jasmine Street would stretch out the money before I had to find some means of income.

  ‘Take a seat.’ Mrs. Loeb nodded at a seating area in the lobby, lifting the heavy receiver.

  I headed for a couple empty armchairs near the front doors. More young women breezed in. They were stylishly dressed, red lipstick and shoulder pads and laughing at a private joke. They shot me a quick glance. Curious. Not unfriendly. One of them caught my eye and nodded.

  They took me for one of their kind.

  I gave a slight nod back.

  Mrs. Loeb called out to me across the lobby. ‘Hey, lady from London, what’s your name?’

  ‘Constance Sharpe, Mrs.’

  ‘Oh, my God! Are you British?’ A sweet, girlish voice squealed, from the direction of the palms.

  A chubby bundle of pink and white gingham appeared behind me. She had a pleasant face with freckles that no powder would ever conceal. Her hair was an unnatural strawberry blonde, on the garish side, with dried ends. She was carrying a large sketch pad, but she didn’t strike me as the artistic type, more like a dumpy girl from the typing pool. The kind who would settle down with an insurance salesman, raising a brood of kids and baking apple pies.

  ‘No. My husband was English. The accent rubbed off.’ In no mood for chatting, I looked away. She didn’t take the hint, parking herself opposite me. She crossed her plump legs, getting comfy. ‘I love England. I mean, I’ve never been there, but I am sure I was meant to live there. Now the war’s over, I’m saving up to go. Shakespeare’s my hero.’

  Who cares?

  ‘I’m June Conway. How do you do?’ She leant across the brass coffee table dividing us and extended a hand. Her grip was steely and warm at the same time.

  ‘Connie Sharpe.’

  ‘Connie and Conway! We were meant to meet! You’re staying here? You’ll love it!’

  ‘Full up. I’m being fixed up someplace else.’

  I nodded my head towards Mrs. Loeb who was obviously catching up on gossip.

  June Conway frowned.

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  She marched over to the desk, butting in. I could hear her interrupting the call. ‘Connie Sharpe can room with me until Stella leaves on Saturday. Then she can take her room.’

  What! I hadn’t seen that coming. Threedays with this cutie-pie would drive me insane. I stood up.

  ‘Hey, no, it’s quite all right.’

  Ignoring June Conway, Mrs. Loeb held the telephone and called over to me. ‘Got a single. Shared bathroom. Or are you happy to double up with June here?’

  ‘I’ll take the single.’

  Conway’s face crumpled. ‘It’s no trouble. Please!’

  I wanted to swat her away like a mosquito. I headed over to the front desk, but she intercepted me, hands on considerable hips. ‘Los Angeles is a very big city and I can show you around. It’ll be fun!’

  ‘You’re sweet. But I like my own company.’

  ‘It’s only for three days.’

  I hesitated. I was tired. I liked the scene here. Just how annoying could she be?

  June leant in conspiratorially. ‘ “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”Shakespeare said that in The Tempest. He could be talking about L.A.’

  I held back a snigger but I was impressed. Maybe this June Conway could be useful. I was starting again. I’d fled the law and got away with it. I could be anyone I damn well wanted. Being Connie Sharpe was my route back to the sunny dreams of my childhood. My start-over point. I could start straight and stay straight here. June, the sweet chump, was offering something for nothing. Maybe I could even be gracious about it.

  Connie Sharpe would be, wouldn’t she?

  I put down my case. ‘Sure. Why not?’

  14

  We’d seen the highlights of Hollywood from the Yellow Car and were now sitting in a French-style cafe, with cakes and pies heaped up with cream in the window. I would have preferred a drink but June didn’t indulge in anything and had never even smoked. She only had a baby deer ashtray in her room for guests. ‘You don’t know who this is?’ She’d squealed, when I said, ‘Pass the ashtray with the baby deer.’

  My ‘bereavement’ – fighter pilot hubby Leonard being shot down over France – had also served as the reason why I hadn’t seen any movies in the last few years. June had been mortified and made it her mission to put this right, planning a daily schedule of the best of the latest pictures.

  Over milkshakes, June told me her lifelong dream was to be a costume designer to the stars – ideally Rita Hayworth, of course – but disillusionment was clearly setting in after two years of being stuck on the bottom rung as junior wardrobe assistant at some studio. She spent her days just darning holes, measuring the armies of extras, replacing buttons, bent over for hours at the sewing machine.

  June slurped through her straw, complaining. ‘Estelle brought a new assistant in last week, and she’s giving her better jobs already. Like assisting the designer for Ann Drake’s new picture. I’ve been here a year and I’m still fitting pirates’ pantaloons.’

  ‘Some people would pay good money to do that.’

  June didn’t get it, now wiping up the last crumbs of her lemon meringue pie with her finger. ‘She hates me. Why? I’ve never been late, sick, anything.’

  ‘We’ve ascertained she’s a first-rate bitch,’ I offered, unhelpfully.

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t complain. I’m lucky, really.’

  ‘Offer your services to a theatre group or an independent producer. Say they don’t have to pay you, just supply the fabric, whatever. Then at least you could put ‘costume designer’ on your resume. After a while, maybe you could jump ship to another studio. Get in somewhere else at a higher level.’

  She looked at me like I’d suggested she kidnap a baby. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that. False claims.’

  ‘Where’s the lie? You would have designed, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m just an assistant.’

&nbs
p; ‘Sweetie, if you wait for the outside world to give you permission to breathe, I can personally guarantee you’ll be ironing pirates’ pantaloons for the rest of your career.’

  ‘Dede said the same thing! But I’m not like you two.’ She looked away, sad.

  ‘Dede?’

  ‘Dede Dedeaux. She has a suite on the top floor. The entire top floor! Wait, maybe she could throw a party for you!’ June looked thrilled at this. ‘There’s always buckets of champagne. If you like drinking.’

  ‘What about the no booze rules?’

  June waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Dede can do what she wants.’ June didn’t seem too troubled by the blatant double standards.

  I got the old, familiar feeling of being trapped, so I changed the subject. ‘Look. Take me as an example. I’m going Downtown tomorrow and telling all the agencies I’ve been a secretary, because I was, even if it was just for Leonard. It’s not lying. It’s being…creative with the truth.’ I was beginning to like being Connie Sharpe with her can-do approach to life.

  June’s face flushed with shame. ‘I’m just not sure I’m good enough.’

  ‘Of course you are. I’ve seen your designs. One of them is as good as a Paris gown I’ve got.’

  Her face brightened. ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure it is. I’ll show you.’

  Back in the room, June held the purple gown up, awestruck. When she saw the label itself, she squealed. ‘Jacques Faliere! My absolute hero!’ So Shakespeare had been replaced. ‘What was he like? Did you go to Paris?’ She sat down on the bed and turned the skirt inside out, her expert eye getting down to the serious business of examining the inside of the fabric, the darts, the seams, the tiny stitches.

  ‘This is top secret. Leonard was a spy.’ I was lying on my bed, pillows up against the headboard, craving a drink. While I bet most of the other girls had secret stashes in their rooms, I didn’t want to push it with June.

  June gasped. I laughed. ‘I’m kidding.’ I said. ‘Seriously, a Free French aristocrat we met in London brought it over with her. We got friendly. We were the same size and did a trade. I had a gown she liked better.’

  June loved stories from my invented respectable English life so I didn’t hold back. It appealed to her love of the dramatic. And in a funny way, I enjoyed them, too. Connie Sharpe’s glamorous life in London was a tiny bit of compensation for years of incarceration.

  Later, I tried to drift off. Outside the open window, cicadas hummed in the rear yard and the air was like a warm blanket. Relief was slowly but surely seeping into my muscles and bones, dissolving the stiffness and damp I had thought I would just have to live with. I was finally uncoiling. I was safe. Now I could let myself remember what living was like. And I had my plans. Swimming in the sparkling Pacific, downing pina coladas on Hollywood terraces, and laughing like the starlets Mrs. Loeb disapproved of, next to some hunk in his convertible as we sped along the Pacific Coast. Maybe I would even hang out with this Dedeaux woman. I bet she knew the hottest clubs in town.

  Then it hit me. Could this new life be worth the risk of running? Where would I be now if I hadn’t? Probation would be over. Potatoes would have been harvested. There would still be mud ingrained in my fingertips and someone’s hand-me-downs to wear. Billy would no doubt have been done in anyway. Would I have stuck it out in Devon and married a farmer? As if! No, I’d have returned to London after Devon, and what? Waited tables in a teashop? Become a librarian, with a cat for company?

  Whatever his motives, Billy had made this all possible. He had loved the sun, and maybe he would have loved it here. But it was fitting he’d lived and died in South London, his Sicilian blood never even making it back. The Elephant and Castle was his true home.

  I rolled over, trying to free my mind of the image of his dead face.

  My eyes met the proverb embroidered onto one of June’s many cushions that her granny would send her. ‘Wherever you go, go with all your heart.’

  15

  Downtown was heaving with people, high buildings and traffic. After the empty streets of London, the huge snake of cars was thrilling. Everything was vast here. I felt small, inconspicuous and very hidden.

  It would be fun to drive again. I made a mental note of the models that really struck me. A cream dream. A nifty gray convertible. I could see myself whizzing around in any of those, but my dough wouldn’t stretch to buying a car. There were the green rental cars but driving one of those would feel a bit like dancing with the ugly guy.

  I passed a department store. Even the mannequins were better here. Stylishly sculpted, expertly painted to look like movie stars frozen in time. There was a movie theater or fancy restaurant on every corner. Sharply suited women overtook me on the sidewalk. Career girls with places to go and bosses to serve.

  And I looked like one of their breed, in my navy suit and silky polka dot shirt, topped with a tilt hat in the latest style. As soon as I’d landed in New York I’d swanned up and down Fifth Avenue and blown a chunk of Billy’s dollars on new clothes. Crisp blouses with floral prints and covered buttons, a pantsuit, and new evening gowns. I indulged in a faux fox fur jacket to replace the one Elvira had taken at Waterloo, and a white stole, faux fur also, to go with the evening gown. I bought a few more hats and pairs of shoes. And, of course, a bigger suitcase to cram it all in. My final indulgence was having my hair dyed. Should I return to the ivory blonde of the previous decade, when I ran around with a spiv? The hair stylist thought I could carry it off. But no, I was somebody new now. And deep down, I didn’t want my hair to remind me of Lena. So I opted for a nice caramel blonde. Sunset Blonde, it was called. It wasn’t showy and neither would it show up my mousy roots too fast.

  As I didn’t have a clue how to type, I could at least sign up for classes. Once I could bash my fingers in sequence on a keyboard, how hard could filing be? I’d had a relatively paperless existence up till now, Billy had taken care of that side of life. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to write anything down, let alone type it.

  It was just too hot. Sweat trickled down the front of my neck as I looked up at the tall building where De Lane’s Secretarial School was. ‘Learn shorthand, typing and stenography here,’ a sign declared. ‘Acquire new skills and find the career you always dreamed of.’ Exactly opposite, on the other side of the street, a blue neon sign for Mikey’s, a bar.

  It wasn’t a difficult choice. One drink, and then I’d face the secretarial school.

  Stenography for beginners. Drunk beginners, even better.

  The door was heavy, with thick frosted glass panels. Inside, murky smoke hung around the wide bar like fog. Groups of men had congregated like buffalo at a waterhole. Swing music blared out from a large jukebox in the corner.

  I stopped in my tracks, halfway in and halfway out.

  All eyes turned on me. The men were shabbily suited, most with the jaded look of the overworked and underpaid. I knew their type immediately.

  Cops.

  I’d stumbled upon the police department’s Friday afternoon watering hole. Nice one, Connie.

  Turn around and walk straight back out!

  Most of the men looked away, uninterested, went back to their conversations. The eyes of a few lingered on me. Looks of appreciation? I looked serious in the suit. Wait, if Connie Sharpe could hold her head up high and order a drink surrounded by the law, I could relax. I didn’t have a choice, anyway; walking straight out would generate suspicion. Putting a confident look on my face, I headed straight for the bar.

  The barman was a wiry pixie of around sixty, wearing a striped apron. He came straight over and I ordered a gimlet. ‘One gimlet for the lady in blue coming up.’ He spoke with remnants of an Irish accent. In a second, I remembered Maureen O’Reilly, and her singsong Irish accent. Maureen, always plausible, even when she was stitching me up, her eleven-year-old protégé.

  The semi-naked mermaid tattoo on his forearm seemed to writhe as the barman reached for a glass.

  The Los A
ngeles Chronicle lay on the stained marble bar top. The front page was about the atomic bomb on Nagasaki. Another universe. Absentmindedly, I flicked past the front page, to be confronted with the face of a black man. An Arnold Moss, on death row. I didn’t read on. His blank stare leapt out amidst the blurry words, and it made my stomach lurch. I knew that feeling when they shove a camera in your face to capture the moment of quicksand swallowing your life. That’s how you’ll forever be known, whatever you did, guilty or innocent. My gut instinct for the guy was pity. I had no reason for it other than I’d been there. I quickly closed the pages.

  Sorry, Arnold, I don’t want your bad news. Don’t take me back to jail with you. Not today.

  I closed the pages, pushed the paper away and downed the gimlet.

  ‘He’s gonna fry, then burn in hell.’ A growl in my ear. I turned. One of the cops, a sweaty bull in a brown suit, breathed whisky fumes into my face. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot. ‘That’s what a cop killer gets.’

  ‘Is that so?’ My voice was frail. Was he hitting on me? His voice was heavy with menace rather than lust. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. ‘Come out back to my car I’ll tell you everything. You be nice to me, you’ll find out sure enough everything you want to know.’