Forests of the Night

by David Stuart Davies

  I nodded in agreement and ordered another pint for my thirsty companion who had just drained his glass.

  ‘Certainly, I’ll check for you but I don’t hold out much hope. A dark-haired lad about ten or eleven in a blue raincoat, possibly called Peter. Not much to go on there.’

  ‘I know. But somehow I feel responsible…’

  ‘Responsible? How?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I shouldn’t have let him escape, I suppose.’ I shook my head. ‘I can’t explain it.’

  ‘You are going soft in your old age, my son.’

  ‘Maybe. Anyway, let me know what you can.’

  ‘Will do. And you must come round for a meal with Alice and me some night. You’re looking peaky. One of Alice’s meat and potato pies will take some slack off your belt.’

  ‘That would be good,’ I said, knowing that it would never happen.

  * * *

  It was the middle of the afternoon by the time I got to Bermondsey south of the river and the offices of Leo Epstein, Solicitors. They were up a rickety staircase above a shoe-repair shop. I tapped on the door and entered a reception area which housed several filing cabinets and two desks. One desk was empty, the typewriter shrouded in its black cover, but a dark-haired girl was seated at the other desk sifting through some sheets of paper. She looked up and smiled. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, her smile broadening. She was very pretty.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, returning the smile and removing my hat. ‘I’d like to see Mr Epstein.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment Mr…?

  My name is Hawke, John Hawke. No, I don’t have an appointment. Is that a problem?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. What shall I say you want to see him about?’

  Before I could reply, the door of the inner office opened and a thin, dark, good-looking man with a shiny bald head and keen features came halfway into the room. This I deduced was Boss Man, Leo Epstein. I judged that he was in his early thirties and yet his manner and bearing were those of a much more mature man. On seeing me, he smiled too. It was a practised, professional smile. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

  I nodded.

  ‘This gentleman, Mr John Hawke, wishes to see you, Mr Epstein,’ said the pretty girl.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, as though she had explained something very revealing about me. ‘What is the nature of your business, Mr Hawke?’

  ‘Pamela Palfrey.’

  At the mention of the girl’s name his brown skin paled. The veneer of his supreme self-confidence cracked a little. ‘What exactly…’

  ‘In your office, eh?’ I suggested.

  Epstein hesitated for a moment and then held his door open for me to enter. In comparison with the bare and utilitarian outer office, his domain was luxurious: thick wool carpet, mahogany desk, velvet curtains and a very nice-looking drinks cabinet. From the swift manner with which he ushered me to a chair and swept past the cabinet, it was fairly clear that I wouldn’t be offered a snifter. No doubt drinkies were reserved for wealthy clients of which, no doubt, there were a few.

  ‘I am a private detective, Mr Epstein.’

  Mr Epstein raised an elegant eyebrow. I am sure that he’d seen enough private detectives in his line of work to have deduced that for himself. We carry a certain shabby aura with us.

  ‘I have been employed by Mr and Mrs Palfrey to locate their daughter, Pamela. They’ve lost touch with her.’

  Epstein nodded but said nothing

  ‘As I understand it, until recently she worked for you.’

  Epstein nodded again and steepled his fingers together. But the lips remained closed.

  I persevered. ‘What do you know about her disappearance, Mr Epstein?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  So it was like that, was it?

  ‘Now, that can’t be absolutely true, Mr Epstein, and as a solicitor I am sure that you will be fully acquainted with the concept of absolute truth.’

  ‘I know that she handed in her notice about a month ago and I haven’t seen her since. I thought it was unusual and somewhat abrupt but employing young typists is a risky business. They are always leaving, moving to live nearer their boyfriends or getting themselves pregnant or married.’

  ‘Why not employ older typists then?’

  Something I’d said really tickled Epstein’s fancy, so much that he chuckled. ‘Well, one likes to see a pretty face around the place. I am sure you know what I mean.’

  I pursed my lips. ‘I am sure I do know what you mean Mr E, but Pamela Palfrey was hardly a pretty face, was she?’

  It was Epstein’s turn to look bewildered. ‘If you say so, Mr Hawke,’ he said softly.

  ‘Did Pamela give a reason for leaving? She wasn’t pregnant or getting married, was she?’

  ‘Good gracious, I think not. She just told me that she’d found another job with better pay.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I do not pry into the private lives of my employees.’

  ‘Weren’t you curious?’

  ‘Why should I be?’

  I shrugged.

  Suddenly, he leaned forward over the desk. ‘Look, I told all this stuff to her parents when they came round here quizzing me. Quite honestly, with a mother and father like that I don’t blame the girl for doing a disappearing act.’

  He sat back, his moment of earnest revelation over. His face slipped into an impassive mode once more.

  ‘Did she speak of her parents?’ I asked.

  Epstein shook his head.

  ‘Do you know of her friend, Samantha?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘I can assure you that I know nothing of Miss Palfrey’s personal affairs.’

  ‘I see you haven’t replaced her yet.’

  ‘I’m interviewing some girls tomorrow.’

  ‘Pretty ones, I hope.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your valuable time, Mr Epstein, but I’ll leave you my card in case you remember anything that might help – or indeed if Pamela gets in touch.’

  Epstein took my card as though I had handed him a dead rat and he dropped it on the blotter on his desk. It would be in the waste-paper basket before I left the building. ‘I cannot think of any reason why she should get in touch with me.’

  I waved goodbye and left him to check the vital statistics of the young things he was going to interview the next day.

  As I came into the outer office, the pretty girl looked up and smiled again. ‘Your business completed, Mr Hawke?’

  ‘Not quite … Miss…?’

  ‘Kendal, Eve Kendal.’

  ‘Well, Eve, you worked with Pamela Palfrey, didn’t you?’

  She nodded in a guarded fashion.

  ‘Look, I’m a private detective. I’m trying to find Pamela. Her parents are worried about her. I don’t suppose you know where she is?

  Eve shook her head.

  ‘What was she like? Did you get on with her?’

  ‘She was OK. She was pleasant and amenable but we weren’t close friends, if that’s what you mean. She romanticized a bit.’

  ‘About the movies.’

  ‘Oh yes. She was mad about the pictures.’

  ‘Did you ever go with her?’

  Eve shook her head.

  ‘Did she ever talk to you about Samantha?’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘A girlfriend.’

  ‘Never heard Pamela mention her, but I sometimes had difficulty shutting her up about her boyfriend.’

  The back of my neck tingled. ‘She had a boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes. A good-looking guy. Serious stuff too.’

  ‘You sure she wasn’t romanticizing about him as well?’

  ‘Oh, no. Why should she?’

  I thought of that podgy face in the snaps Palfrey had given me. There was every reason for her to romanticize about having a good-looking boyfriend.

  ‘Did you ever see him?’


  ‘Yes. He came to pick her up from here one day. I must admit he was good-looking.’

  The back of my neck tingled again. Something was wrong here. Handsome blokes don’t go around with plain Janes unless it’s for some ulterior motive.

  ‘What do you know about this good-looking fellow?’

  ‘Not much. He’s an actor and his name is Sam and he’s got gorgeous chest hairs.’ Eve giggled, her hand fluttering to her mouth. ‘Sorry, but Pammie was always going on about his chest hairs. I haven’t seen them personally, of course.’ She giggled again.

  A boyfriend called Sam, eh? No doubt he had been conveniently converted to the opposite sex especially for the benefit of Pamela’s parents. He had become the girlfriend Samantha that she talked about incessantly. There was more to this devious little lady than had first seemed apparent.

  ‘Did he have a last name?’

  ‘Pammy always referred to him as Sam.’

  ‘Where did he act?’

  ‘I think he was out of work most of the time, but Pamela reckoned he’d be a big star one day’.

  ‘Up there on the silver screen?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Didn’t you find it odd that this good-looking Sam was knocking about with Pamela who, not to put too fine a point on it, was hardly a looker?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Pammie was very glamorous. Nearly all the male clients used to give her the eye.’

  I shook my head in puzzlement. I just didn’t get it. I delved into my jacket pocket and retrieved one of the snapshots of Pamela kindly donated by her father and passed it over to Eve. ‘We are talking about the same girl here?’ I said.

  Eve stared at the picture. At first her face registered surprise and then amusement. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  I shook my head. ‘No joke. That’s Pamela Palfrey isn’t it?’

  Eve grinned. ‘Yes, it’s Pamela, but I’ve never seen her looking like this before. It’s as though she’s dressed up in a fancy dress competition. She’s not wearing make-up and her hair’s a mess … and those clothes.’ Eve’s hand fluttered to her mouth to stifle another giggle.

  ‘Tell me more,’ I said, fascinated by this strange turn of events.

  Eve cast a wary glance at Leo Epstein’s door. ‘I can do better than that. I can show you a photo of Pam as she really looked.’ So saying she went to her own desk and pulled out a buff folder. ‘Pam left in a bit of a hurry and she didn’t clear out her desk properly. She left some things behind – some make-up and this picture of herself. I’ve kept her stuff in case she came back for it.’

  She handed me the picture. It was no ordinary snap. It was mounted on card with an ivory border and had obviously been taken in a plush photographic studio. The lighting and the background was subtle and enhanced the features of the subject. Staring back at me was a stunningly beautiful girl with dark lustrous hair, large alluring eyes and full lips darkened into a glossy cupid’s bow. She did, indeed, look like a film star. She was the beautiful princess distantly related to the dull-looking frump in the sepia photograph. What a transformation.

  ‘That’s the Pamela I knew,’ said Eve, gently relieving me of the photograph so that she could return it to the folder and then back to her desk.

  I nodded and smiled, lost in thought for a moment. ‘That’s the Pamela I knew.’ The phrase struck a chord with me. It certainly wasn’t the Pamela her parents knew. The girl was living a double life. The case grew more interesting by the minute.

  I looked across at Eve Kendal who was studying me intently. She hadn’t the contrived glamour of the Pamela Palfrey as represented in her studio portrait; Eve’s beauty was more natural, less intimidating. I liked her.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Not quite. Tell me, Miss Kendal, do you have a boyfriend?’

  She shook her head shyly. ‘No, but what’s that to do with anything?’

  Now it was my turn to be shy. ‘Well, nothing really … I just wondered if you would care to come out with me for a drink this evening.’ I couldn’t believe I’d said it. Pretty girls usually bring out the mute in me. On this occasion my mouth had engaged before I had chance to reject the idea.

  She looked uncertain. I had seen the kind of frown that wrinkled her brow before. It was a precursor to a refusal.

  ‘I assure you that I am fully house-trained,’ I added, in a vain attempt to be jaunty. I made a mental note to myself: Don’t try to be jaunty in future.

  The frown faded. ‘OK then. But could we go to the pictures? I’m dying to see the new Tiger Blake picture.’

  Just in time I was able to prevent myself from blurting out that I had already seen it. ‘That would be great,’ I said with a smile. I didn’t mind sitting through the movie again, not if I was in the presence of such a choice piece as Eve Kendal.

  ‘It’s on at the Astoria, near Leicester Square. What say we meet outside at seven?’

  ‘Miss Kendal, you have a date.’ I slapped on my trilby and left, waiting until I was on the staircase before I out-grinned the Cheshire cat.

  * * *

  The evening at the cinema did not go as planned. My reason for asking Eve for a date was two-fold. I was sure that I could learn more about Pamela Palfrey if I talked with Eve in a more relaxed and intimate atmosphere, but more importantly I fancied the girl like mad.

  To my delight, when I arrived at the Astoria five minutes early, Eve was already there. She was wearing a little more make-up than she had in the office and she looked gorgeous. What such a looker was doing going out with a one-eyed oddity like me I couldn’t fathom. I didn’t want to fathom: I was just grateful.

  We sat in the stalls and endured a cartoon and a Laurel and Hardy short before there was an interval. I didn’t want to rush the Pamela Palfrey business so I asked Eve about herself. ‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ she said easily. ‘I live with my mother – my father left us many years back – and I work at Epstein’s. That’s it. I’m a fairly dull person really. Now what about you? It must be exciting being a detective.’

  I didn’t reply. At that moment my eye had been caught by something a dozen or so rows further down from where we were sitting. It was a little face staring back at me. Dark haunted eyes underneath an unruly comma of dark, tousled hair. I rose from my seat and leaned forward, peering into the amber gloom. Could I be mistaken? The face gazing at me blanched in recognition, the eyes widening in panic. No, I wasn’t mistaken: it was my errant lodger. It was the boy, Peter.

  Without a word to Eve, I jumped to my feet, rushed to the end of the row, squeezing past a number of irate patrons in the process. As I reached the aisle my feet became entangled with someone’s shopping bag. I lost my balance and stumbled to my knees. Muttering an apology to the bag’s owner, a fat woman in a fur coat with a face like a collapsed balloon, I leapt to my feet in time to see that Peter had also left his seat. He was nimbler than I and was already racing across the front of the cinema. I followed in his wake, cursing as I realized that the lights were dimming. As shapes turned into shadows, I spotted Peter slipping behind the velvet curtains by the illuminated Lavatories sign. I went after him and found myself in a draughty, dimly lighted corridor. Had he gone into the Gents hoping to hide in there? As I took hold of the door handle, I heard a loud crashing noise and, glancing further along the corridor, I saw that the emergency exit doors had been thrust wide open. I ran into the alleyway beyond the doors just in time to catch sight of Peter turning the corner at speed. By the time I reached the street I knew I had lost him. I gazed down the darkening thoroughfare where he had merged into a shifting mass of indistinct silhouettes. That was the second time I’d let him get away. I swore and hit my fist on the damp wall.

  By the time I returned to the body of the cinema, the big picture had started. Allowing my eyes to get used to the strange flickering half-light, slowly I made my way back to the row where I had been sitting with Eve. How was I going explain my strange behaviour to her, I wondered. What sort of
lunatic did she think I was? Someone who leaps from his chair without explanation or apparent reason and races around the cinema. Whatever she thought, the explanation would have to wait. When I reached the row, I could see quite clearly that she had gone. That’s good going, Johnny, I thought. A double loser in one night. It must be some sort of record, even for you.

  I left the Astoria just as Tiger Blake broke the bad news to the rest of the crew of the light aircraft: ‘We’re about to crash into uncharted jungle.’

  eight

  He had been at his club since the early evening. He had retreated there after a fraught meeting with his agent where he’d paced up and down the office, waving the letter about, cursing and calling into doubt the parentage of all the executives of Renown Pictures. His agent tried to calm him down but failed. He had no honest words of comfort to offer. It was bad news and this particular grey cloud had no silver lining.

  He had intended to get drunk at his club, to blot out the reality of what had been his blackest day, but after the first brandy and soda failed to soften his anger, he grew more bitter. How could those bastards do it to him after all the money he had made for them? Twelve fucking films – all of which had made money, good money – and now he was being cast on the scrap heap. After he finished the picture he was working on, they weren’t going to renew his contract. They were getting rid of him. What was the phrase they used: ‘Our relationship has run its natural course.’

  Bastards!

  They were not only taking away his occupation, but his lifestyle and his importance. With one letter they had made him an ex-star – a has-been. Somehow he would get his own back. He wasn’t finished yet. He’d show them. Somehow. This defiant resolution seemed to ease his pain and he ordered another drink.

  ‘Hello there,’ said one of the familiar faces in the club in passing. ‘Saw the latest effort. Jolly good show.’

  He nodded and smiled, acknowledging the compliment. There you are, he thought, after the man had passed by, ‘Jolly good show’. And so it bloody was … and yet. He took another gulp of brandy. What he really needed now was a woman. He could expel all his pent-up frustration, anger and energy in bedding a woman. Not the one at home, though. An anonymous red-blooded woman who would put a bit of passion into her lovemaking; someone who would do more than just lie there and wait patiently for the ghastly business to be over. That’s what he needed. Someone uninhibited, experienced and available. And, by George, he knew where to find one – for a price, of course. But what the hell, why not end this ghastly day on a pleasurable note?