One Shoe Gumshoe

When my gaze reached up to her face, I found she was looking back at me while I had examined her so closely. There was no squirming embarrassment nor the anger that might be expressed by ordinary girls when they are being closely observed by a member of the opposite sex.

No, she was actually smiling, as if she was mentally checking off each detail in turn just as I did, waiting for a response from me to the appropriateness or otherwise of her outfit, her clever disguise as a humble detective's secretary.

I could now see how she could easily play the role of a young student, as the magazine article had drawn attention to an award-nominated role in a recent film where she played the part of the first female lawyer in Ohio, America, from an age prior to acceptance as a student by the university, through her long career to her retirement and death by old age.

Oh, she couldn't hide how pretty she was, of course, any more than the pretty librarian that I saw yesterday had attempted to do by dressing down so plainly. That particular girl had dressed deliberately as a defensive mechanism, to deter unwanted men's attraction, her true beauty not emerging until she was enthused by a subject close to her heart.

But the actress Miss la Mare revelled in her ability to play whatever role it was necessary for the moment to play and was pleased to be looked at and, probably, hoped to be admired in turn for her skilled portrayal. There was no shame or embarrassment, the manipulated variation of her looks were a valediction of her stock-in-trade as a successful moving picture artiste.

"What do you think?" she asked, still using her acquired English accent, "do you anticipate that I will pass muster among those 'fly-boys' as your young and innocent assistant?"

"I believe so, Miss- er, Mary, I really do believe so." I smiled.

She beamed even wider, her eyes sparkled and she looked quite spectacularly beautiful again.

"Where did you manage to borrow the spectacles?" I asked, "or are they yours?"

"Oh, they are mine all right, but I don't need to wear eye glasses, these are theatrical props," she said, "just plain glass in 'em. I often wear these to sneak out of hotels, and that is exactly what I did this morning, only from the staff entrance at the back, as though I was a night worker going home."

"I bet that not many of their night workers can afford a cab from the West End across to Liverpool Street station," I remarked.

"Oh!" she chewed her lip and spoke more softly, but still in character, "that's probably why the cabbie kept looking at me strangely. I wondered if he knew who I was and I was damned worried that I would be less than convincing when you saw me. But maybe he thought I was someone from er ... some other role-playing profession." Her eyes lit up and the corners of her mouth gave way to a slight smile.

"I don't think so, Miss Jones, Mary, not wearing those clothes. You really do look the part, not too smart, nor too shabby, quite respectable working clothes for a young and, as you said, innocent woman. Sometimes the hotels do send their female staff home by cab, especially at times where they could be vulnerable, when there may be few respectable people about."

She stood up, holding onto the edge of the window as she spun halfway around and spun back the other way, posing for my full scrutiny, perectly in balance in the moving train.

"Not bad, eh? I got the clothes from my hotel maid Milly's sister. She is almost exactly my size and lives just a couple of tube stations away from the hotel and, as she is getting married next month, she needed some smarter clothes. It was a fair trade, I thought."

"So you swapped one of your outfits for one of hers?"

"Oh no, well, not quite. I took took two suitcases with me, about five different outfits in all, including shoes, actually Milly carried the heavier one for me. Sheila, that's the girl's name, is marrying a merchant seaman when he gets shore leave after the next trip across the Atlantic. The church is all booked, as well as a weekend honeymoon in a place called Margate at a boarding house. Some things in life don't stop, just because a war's on."

"True. So she was grateful for one of your outfits?" I enquired.

"Oh, I left her all five to keep, and the two suitcases, too. She'll appreciate taking them away for the weekend in a decent set of luggage."

"Remarkable," I said, "five outfits for one, plus luggage? Sounds like Sheila got quite a bargain."

"Two outfits I got," she grinned, "one light blue suit, skirt and jacket, with white piping around the lapels and hem of the skirt, plus this one. The blue one was her best outfit but it fitted me beautifully, looked fun to wear, and she insisted that I take it. She cried with joy over the clothes I gave her, so I could hardly refuse. She was generous but smart, having saved the suit for me to try on last, so it was easier to persuade me to leave with it on. It really is a cute little outfit and so I thought 'Mrs Jones' should also keep it for best. I carried this other outfit back in a paper carrier bag and Milly had to press it when we got back to my suite last night."

It was getting lighter outside now and soon the train passed out of the smoky city and entered the flat countryside that characterises the county of Essex. The rising sun, with its orange-red glow lit up her fresh face, while she eagerly soaked up her first experience of the British countryside.

She remarked on the smallness of the fields, the wide variety of unknown-to-her cow breeds and sheep and pigs on show and the lack of grain silos, and how impossibly green everything was, compared to her mid-western ranch and the area surrounding her house in California.

At some point she offered me half the bar of chocolate she had purchased at the station, which relieved a little of the weariness that long journeys tend to impose on one, even in such company as Mary.

She was a remarkable woman, I thought. Here she was looking for her missing husband, who she hadn't seen for at least seventeen months, yet she was enjoying the view out of the windows, engaging in conversation, sharing a little treat she had bought for sixpence, and was full of smiles throughout what might otherwise have been a truly tiresome journey for us.

She was, I decided, a joy to be with. Even once the carriage filled with passengers, she cheerfully engaged with them while remaining in character, as the train tediously stopped at every single large and small station along the line going north east from London.

We changed trains eventually and climbed aboard a small rural train going down the single track towards a few villages beyond the isolated airfield. We were once more alone in the carriage, and very soon we were comfortably referring to each other as Edgar and Mary, a team of two business-like colleagues who gave any observers the impression of having worked well together for some time.

CHAPTER FOUR

UP IN THE AIR

MID-MORNING on Thursday we arrived at the remote East Anglian railway halt, named after the airfield we were heading for, the bomber squadron base that missing pilot Bradford Gold had operated from for about five or six months the previous summer and autumn.

The halt could barely be called a station, we had been warned by the station master at the nearest mainline station that the platform was only long enough for the first of the two-carriage rural train to alight. The terrain was flat for miles around and on the edge of The Fens, nothing was higher than a low bush to stop the fresh cold wind whistling in from the North Sea, spraying that fine driven rain that seeps through, wetting anything and everything in its path.

There was a car waiting for us, driven by a smart WAAF Sergeant, who couldn't possibly be more than twenty years old. She was only expecting one passenger to take to the AOC, but she cheerfully accepted Mrs Jones as my secretary and told us that was no problem.

Neither would it be a problem at the gate, the WAAF Sergeant assured us, as apparently "Brass Hats" and Air Ministry visitors brought miscellaneous secretarial ladies along for the trip all the time.

The WAAF Sergeant informed Mary that she could quite safely leave her valise in the car after she had freshened up in the WAAF Mess, as she was scheduled to take us back to the railway halt once our business was concluded.

I left Mrs Jones, who sat up front with WAAF Sergeant Livings, chatting away quietly and conspiratorially together. They both spoke in the same precise English of the Home Counties Middle Class and appeared to share an infinity, however bizarre, knowing as I did that my colleague had never set foot in the Home Counties, other than pass through it twice by train in the last 72 hours!

I heard the odd snippet, as they talked about life on camp in general and relationships between flying officers and other ranks in particular, while I settled back, confident that Mrs Jones would report in full on the way back.

She had an easy way about her and, in her fake but unimpeachable English accent, had charmed several fellow passengers on the journey up thus far.

When we had a moment to ourselves I had asked how she could converse so freely, knowing how stiff I usually was with people. She replied that it was essential for her acting profession to thoroughly research her roles; if she was playing a nurse for example, she or the Studio would arrange for her to spend a week or two in a hospital, and a good way of finding out the real nitty gritty of any situation was by holding innocent conversations where people didn't even realise they were being studied and interrogated.

As soon as she said it, I recalled that by that same subtle process on our very first meeting I had told her more about my engagement to Mildred breaking down than I had ever told anyone in the last quarter of a century, including any of my own family.

The Air Officer Commanding was an athletic, upright chap in his middle fifties, called Bradley, with hair greying at the temples and a thick, dark brown handlebar moustache, clearly a veteran of the Royal Air Corps of the Great War. He greeted me tersely, while ignoring Mrs Jones' presence entirely.

"Quite honestly, Inspector Onslow, I think you may have had a completely wasted journey, what? As I explained during our telephone conversation yesterday, I was only appointed to the squadron for the final month that Flight Lieutenant Gold was here, so I never really got to know the damned fellow much at all."

"When you did meet him, Sir, what were your initial impressions?" I asked.

"Well, Gold seemed rather casual in his manner, like many from the former colonies in the Americas, you know. He didn't much like proper procedure, and was quite unorthodox in his behaviour towards the chaps under his command. Oh, he was bold and very brave undoubtedly; he was one of our best pilots, actually, but he was damned difficult to discipline. Much better suited to the fighters that he decided to transfer orff to. Jolly good move on his part, if you ask me, all glory without the grind. Still, I've asked around since our little chat on the old blower and found that our Squadron Leader Wentworth was his WingCo when Gold first showed up here bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a Pilot Officer, so I have asked him to pop along and have a chat with us."

Apparently, WAAF Sergeant Livings was under instructions to fetch Wentworth as soon as she'd dropped us off, because just then came a knock on the door. Two men, an officer and an RAF squaddie walked in on the AOC's crisp "Come!" command and saluted the AOC smartly. Sergeant Livings remained outside the room and closed the door behind them. I assume she departed, no doubt for a deserved cup of tea and a warm somewhere by a hot stove.

"Ah, Wentworth, this is Detective Inspector Onslow, ex-Scotland Yard," the AOC bellowed, "he's been roped in from retirement to investigate some case or other and needs to get a handle on Flight Lieutenant Gold's life while he was here. Apparently he's an important part of some enquiry, but he's gone and got himself missing in action. You knew him when he first arrived as a wet behind the ears Pilot Officer, didn't you, Wentworth?"

The young officer nodded and turned to me, "As I explained yesterday afternoon to AOC Bradley, Sir, when Flight Lieutenant Gold first arrived here he was put with Blue Section B Flight where I was Acting WingCo, having previously been Red Section Leader of A Flight. Gold was rather old for a new flier, over 40, I think, but it was clear to us all that he was a bloody superb natural pilot, even though he'd never flown in a Wellington bomber before basic training. She's a tough old crate to fly straight if she gets hit and on that last mission 'Goldie' put in a jolly good show bringing the old girl back home in one piece."

"Goldie?" I asked.

"Sorry, all rather juvenile, I know, Inspector, but we all go by silly nicknames, mostly based on our surnames. Gold was 'Goldie'. Before becoming SL, I was always 'Worthy', and probably still am behind my back!"

Squadron Leader Wentworth looked as though he was still in his early twenties, fresh-faced with ginger hair, impossible to believe he held the rank that he was promoted to, which was an indication of the tragic losses our fly-boys were having to contend with in this war, defending our vulnerable shores from the deadly dangerous skies, or taking the fight to the enemy halfway across the continent as these bomber crews were doing night after cloudless night.

"How well did you know Gold?" I asked of the young officer.

"Not as well as I'd like, to be frank, Sir. He was a friendly enough chap, very funny, full of amusing stories in the Mess, you know, but everything about him was all on the surface, you know? He never let any chap get deep, although Stanton was quite close to him, his Flight Sergeant. As WingCo, I usually picked a different one of the inexperienced Pilot and Flying Officers to co-pilot with on raids. Not just the inexperienced ones, but also those who didn't appear to be coping well under the pressure, you know? They are mostly young chaps, many of 'em hardly out of university, you know? To have the WingCo or SL along on board was mostly to boost the confidence of the crew in their pilot."

"Did you ever fly with Gold?" I asked.

"Yes I did, but I only needed to fly with Gold once. I joined him on a leaflet dropping raid at night across some five or six German cities. I think it was on only his third or fourth sortie since he got here. After that I thought he was a perfectly sound pilot and top-ho captain of his crew. He was simply an excellent pilot and he navigated himself all the way over and back again without any assistance at all from me, although I was there at hand if needed. He also seemed to work well with his crew, most of whom he had only had under his command for a week or so. He was so competent coping with every task we threw at him that I felt no need to fly with him again, as there was always another pilot that needed a crutch to lean on far more than Goldie ever did."

"What was he like between flying missions when he was on the base?" Mrs Jones spoke for the first time.

"Ah. This is my assistant Mrs Mary Jones," I said, realising that Bradley had not bothered with any introductions, "she is helping me take notes to get this enquiry completed as soon as possible."

"He was very relaxed, Mrs Jones." Wentworth smiled easily at the girl, "You may not be aware, but being an American, like our pilots from the Dominions, he was much more at ease with the men of the ordinary ranks than English officers are, coming straight from university or a comfortable middle-class background."

His face went noticeably pink as he admitted so. "He didn't drink beer, I believe. We officers tend to use the larger pub on the main road, but you really need a motor or get a lift to reach it. Gold mostly drank coffee when it was available in the officers' mess and cold water rather than tea when it wasn't. He always had plenty of spare cash on him and he walked down with his crew to the village pub once or twice during the Flight A rest days. I never heard that this was to the extent of any detriment to their performance. Actually, Aircraftman Lilley here was telegraphist/gunner for a dozen of his flights."

He turned and waved a hand at a diminutive fellow, another airman probably in his early twenties, with light sandy hair and a ridiculously sparse sandy-coloured moustache. As the four of us turned our attention to him, he nervously saluted again and stood smartly to attention once more. I addressed the fellow.

"So, what did you personally think of Flight Lieutenant Gold?"

He nervously licked his lips before speaking, "Well, sir, I never wuz a full member of 'is crew, like, cos I replaced Murray what had the appendix-itus, so I wuz on'y roped in as a stand-in, like. Mr Gold tried a number of different crewmen to fill-in like, before he then settled on poor Jamieson."

"What happened to Jamieson?" Mrs Jones asked.

Lilley glanced nervously at Wentworth before replying.

It was the Squadron Leader who turned to Mrs Jones and answered for him, "Jamieson died of his wounds on Gold's last mission. Gold and his crew were only a couple of sorties short of a long rest, for 80 completed missions anyway, so they were disbanded and sent on leave shortly after Gold requested a transfer to Fighter Command."

"What happened to the rest of the crew?" I asked.

"In addition to Gold," replied Wentworth, turning to me, apparently speaking from memory, "there were five crew, Stanton, Jamieson, Arnolds, Petersen and Hardy. Flight Sgt Stanton was co-pilot, navigator and bomb aimer. After Gold left, Stanton was promoted to Pilot Officer but soon got himself shot down on a mission over Mannheim we believe. Jamieson the radio operator died of his wounds on that last sortie. The tail gunner Arnolds was killed outright by machine gun fire earlier in the raid. Petersen was forward gunner and he was wounded badly in the chest and leg and has still not yet returned to duty. The last one, Hardy, was the waist gunner and after his leave he returned to duty with another couple of crews without really settling down with either. He was lost when his plane went down in the Channel only three weeks ago."

"Is Murray, the radio operator that suffered the appendicitis, still around?" Mrs Jones asked.

"No, Ma'am," AOC Bradley replied, "He was shot down over Germany on his very first flight back from medical leave, but we have been notified by the channels of the International Red Cross that he is a prisoner of war. He was injured, although his wounds were not life-threatening."

"Goldie may have been lucky," Mrs Jones remarked, "but his crew apparently weren't."

"True." Wentworth replied. There was not much more he could say.

"Do you have an address for the injured gunner Petersen?" I asked.

"Yes," AOC Bradley said, "I'll have that noted for you before you leave, Onslow. Is that all?"

"You said that Gold never drank alcohol, so why do you think he went down to the local pub with his men so regularly?"

Wentworth and Bradley clearly had no answer, so both looked at Lilley.

Her nervously replied, "I think it wuz so that he could better know the men, Sir. We, er, ovver ranks don't get much chance to see the officers outside of the trainin' flights and sorties, Sir. Goldie, sorry Sir, that's what the blokes all called him, though not to 'is face like. Well, he treated us in the public bar, knowin' we'd be uncomfortable in the saloon with the toffs, beggin' your pardon, Sir. As for drinkin', while he wuz wiv us at the Stag & Hounds, well, I fink he wuz only drinkin' lemonade or ginger ale on the couple o' times what I was asked to join 'em wiv the rest of the crew."