Forests of the Night

by David Stuart Davies

  A telephone call would do it. But he wasn’t going to use the club’s facilities. They were far from private and the old bores who haunted the place were notorious for eavesdropping. He slipped out of the club to a nearby phone box. He was in luck – in this instance anyway. The lady was available, but not until later that evening. He could wait – the anticipation would be part of the pleasure.

  * * *

  After escaping from the man with the black eye patch, Peter roamed the streets aimlessly for an hour or so before he found himself outside a small fish and chip shop. The smell of the hot food lured him in and he spent some more of his precious money on cod and chips which the woman at the counter wrapped up in newspaper after he’d salted and vinegared them. He found an empty shop doorway some hundred yards away where he crouched and devoured his cooked supper in no time. After he had finished he felt warm and happy inside. He could have easily curled up in the doorway and fallen asleep, but after his experience of the previous night, he was wary of such places. He had to find somewhere more private, a spot where people didn’t pass by. And he thought he knew where. Wiping his greasy hands down the sides of his raincoat, he set off with determination.

  As he made his way through the darkened and deserted streets, he stopped at every litter bin and dustbin collecting any newspapers he could find. By the time he reached the perimeter of Regent’s Park he reckoned he had enough to make a reasonable mattress for himself. If he could get into the park, he was sure he could find some cover, maybe even a shelter, where he could kip down for the night. He knew the gates would be closed, so he’d have to find a place where he could clamber over the railings. He didn’t know what time it was but he knew it must be late. The moon was high and there wasn’t a soul about. It was best he made his move now. Choosing a dark spot, shaded by an overhanging chestnut, he flung his cache of newspapers over the railings and was just about make his first assault on the metal barrier when he heard a strange cry some little distance away. It was like one of those ghostly moans he’d read about in ghost stories: long and very sad. It frightened him. And then he saw a solitary figure staggering along on the other side of the road from him. The moan came again, quieter this time, more like an agonized sob. Terrified, Peter pressed himself against the railings, deep into the shadows.

  As the figure grew nearer, he saw that it was a man, moving slowly and sobbing. Suddenly he stopped, motionless for a moment, and then he made some attempt to pull himself together. Peter had never seen a grown-up so distressed, except Mrs Kitchen who lived two floors below. She went crazy when she learned that her son had been killed in a bomb blast, wailing and shrieking she was and tearing at her hair, but she was a woman and it was all right for women to cry – but not grown men.

  As the boy watched in the shadows, the man gradually pulled himself together. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and, as he did so, Peter observed that his hands were stained with some dark shiny blotches. Then he pulled up the collar of his overcoat. In doing so, he lifted his head and his features could be seen clearly in the moonlight. Peter almost wet himself as he recognized the man.

  It was Tiger Blake.

  nine

  As I opened the newspaper the following morning, after my abortive date with Eve, the first thing I saw was the face of Pamela Palfrey staring back at me. It wasn’t the Pamela Palfrey as represented in the snapshots given to me by her father. This one was the glamorous version. But there was that same strange haunted look in the eyes, despite the fact that she was smiling. The picture was placed below the headline: BRUTAL KILLING.

  Apparently Pammie Palmer, a model, had been found stabbed to death in the bedroom of her flat by her boyfriend Sam Fraser, late last night. He could think of no reason or motive for such ‘a senseless killing’. Nevertheless he had been taken in for questioning and was ‘helping the police with their enquiries’. I grimaced. I bet he was. There was no mention of the girl’s parents, or of how she had become a Palmer, or how she had become a model.

  I got on the phone straight away to Scotland Yard. Luckily I just caught David before he was about to leave the office on a job.

  ‘What can I do for you this time?’ he asked. His voice was weary and a little impatient.

  ‘The girl that was found murdered last night…’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I was trying to trace her. Her parents are clients of mine.’

  ‘Were clients, don’t you mean? Looks like it’s case closed, eh, old son?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. The name you have is not her real one. There’s something fishy about the whole business.’

  ‘Really…’

  ‘It seems that she was living two lives.’

  There was a pause, and I could almost hear the cogs of David’s brain turning over on the crackly line. ‘Look, Johnny,’ he said at length, ‘give me five minutes and I’ll get back to you.’

  When the phone rang again, it was a different voice on the other end – more polished and businesslike. ‘Mr Hawke, this is Chief Inspector Alan Knight, a colleague of David Llewellyn. I’m handling the Pammie Palmer murder case, I believe you have information which may be of use to us.…’

  * * *

  An hour later I was cradling a mug of hot sweet tea in New Scotland Yard, sitting across the desk from Detective Chief Inspector Alan Knight. He was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a face that seemed to have been chiselled out of granite. It was uniformly grey, full of gritty, sharp corners and the mouth looked as though it hadn’t seen a smile in a long time. I had told him the story so far, including my belief that Pammie had been maintaining two lives for a while – the frumpy, dull girl who mooned over movie stars and the pretty model with the actor boyfriend.

  ‘It was only recently that she had dumped the old persona to move on. She left her parents and it seems she went to live with Sam,’ I said, lighting a cigarette. I offered the packet to Knight but he shook his head.

  ‘Why did she do it?’ he asked.

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can guess maybe but that’s nothing for you to go on.’

  ‘Share your guess, Mr Hawke. The more ideas we have, the better I like it.’

  I hated being called Mr Hawke, but I reckon Chief Inspector Knight would have had trouble getting his tongue around the familiarity of ‘Johnny’. It struck me that he was the kind of fellow who had only just made first name terms with his wife.

  ‘Having met the parents and heard their side of the story, it seems to me that Pamela became the daughter they wanted her to be, plain, dull and obedient. She put on a performance for them. That would have appealed to the actress in her. She dressed in frumpy, shapeless clothes which hid her figure and wore no make up. But away from home, she was what she wanted to be…’

  ‘A model…’ Knight added sarcastically.

  ‘Maybe she needed her home base until she had secured enough money to fly the nest.’

  ‘And so the caterpillar turned into a sexy butterfly and fluttered away.’

  I winced. I hated mixed metaphors

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  ‘So who killed her?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘No more guesses.’

  ‘That gets dangerous. I’d need more evidence. Who do you think did it?’

  Knight leaned over his desk. ‘To tell you that, I’m going to have to shatter a few of your illusions, Mr Hawke. As you well know the term “model” has more than one interpretation. I don’t know about our Pammie being a pretty butterfly, but it’s fairly certain she was a prostitute and that her boyfriend Samuel Fraser was her pimp. Fraser already has a record for living off immoral earnings.’

  I wasn’t shocked. I half expected it. But I felt sad, sad for Pamela’s parents but mostly sad for Pamela. The world of glamour and money reduced down to a sordid sexual trade.

  ‘So Fraser is really in the spotlight?’

  ‘Full beam. Unless some other worm crawls out of the woodwo
rk, yes. You got any other ideas?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’d only just started the case. Would you mind telling me what you know – how it happened?’

  Knight sighed and glanced at his wristwatch. My usefulness was over; he didn’t really want to be wasting his time with me.

  ‘I really would appreciate it, Chief Inspector,’ I greased, in the most ingratiating manner I could muster.

  ‘Briefly then,’ the granite face snarled. ‘According to Fraser he got back to the flat in the early hours – sometime between one and two and found Pammie on the bedroom floor. She was in her nightgown and had been stabbed several times through the heart. He says he blacked out at the sight and it wasn’t until he came round again about an hour later that he rang for the police.’

  ‘Where had he been before returning to the flat?’

  ‘He claims he was at The Carlton Casino in Storr Street. We’ve got one of our men checking his alibi now. But that may not help him. He says he left at twelve-thirty – which he may well have done – but he didn’t ring the police until three-fifteen, which gives him plenty of time to come home, murder the girl, feign a blackout and then call us. It’s thin stuff.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure one will present itself.’

  ‘Could she have been killed by a client?’

  ‘Outside chance, I’d say. According to Fraser, she wasn’t due to “model” for anyone last night. There was no evidence of any visitors.’

  Before I could respond, there was a discreet knock at the door and a uniformed constable entered. ‘Sorry to interrupt sir, but the pathologist thought you ought to have this urgently.’ He passed over a note to Knight and vanished as quickly as he had arrived. Knight studied the note, his slab of a face giving nothing away and then he looked over at me, his lips crumbling slightly into a dry grin.

  ‘You were asking about motive. Well, I think we’ve got one. It seems our little Pammie was with child.’

  * * *

  I saw the way that Knight’s mind was working. There’s not much money to be made out of a pregnant whore, so you kill her. It was simplistic, a theory built on very shaky foundations, but one that was likely to stop the police from looking any further and eventually lead to Samuel Fraser’s conviction. Case closed and another feather in Chief Inspector Knight’s cap. Maybe Fraser had done the dirty deed but, for the moment, I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. If he had planned to murder the girl surely he could have come up with a better alibi than the one he’d given.

  ‘I’d like to see Fraser if I might, Chief Inspector. It will help me tie up a few loose ends to my case.’

  Knight sat back, his cold eyes glittering. ‘Don’t believe that would be a good idea, Mr Hawke. I thank you for your information but I think it would be better for both of us if you go now.’

  I shrugged nonchalantly and rose, pushing my chair back. ‘Have it your own way. I’ll leave you to find out about the dark lady yourself.’

  Knight’s brow shifted into a frown. ‘Dark lady? What dark lady? What are you on about?’

  I grinned and touched my nose with my right forefinger. ‘You’ll no doubt find out.’

  ‘Hawke, if you’re withholding evidence—’

  I’d lost the Mr now. ‘Oh, I really doubt if it is at all relevant, but then again it could be very useful. It’s not evidence as such, Chief Inspector … just a piece of illuminating information. Educational, I’d say.’

  Knight was angry now. He, too, rose from his chair, his body taut and his eyes registering anger. ‘Look here!’ he roared.

  ‘No, Chief Inspector, you look here … give me twenty minutes with Fraser and in return for your gracious favour I’ll tell you all about the dark lady.’

  For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. His massive hands clenched and shook but thankfully he fought manfully with his temper. After all it wouldn’t do to hit a law-abiding citizen who was assisting the police in their investigation.

  ‘Twenty minutes, eh? It can’t hurt,’ I added with a smile.

  ‘I’ll time you. And no word about the girl’s pregnancy.’

  I held up my hands in shock. ‘I know better than that.’

  * * *

  Samuel Fraser was a good-looking fellow with dark curly locks which could have appeared as effeminate were it not for his sturdy features and a thin Errol Flynn-type moustache which adorned his upper lip. He stood up as I entered and I observed that he was quite short and stocky and therefore would never make it as a leading man.

  I introduced myself as John Hawke, a detective on the case, and then offered him a cigarette. He took one and examined it closely. It was clear that he was used to a more superior brand than the lowly Craven A. However, this did not prevent him from lighting up and blowing the smoke in my direction.

  ‘You are an actor?’ I said.

  His eyes brightened at this. ‘Yes, I am an actor,’ he replied in an actor’s voice, dark, silky and slightly preposterous.

  ‘Would I have seen you in anything?’

  This stumped him momentarily. ‘I was in a thing at the Albery last year and I had a part in the last Tiger Blake movie.’

  ‘Ah, I’ve seen that,’ I said, blowing my smoke back at him.

  Thirty love.

  ‘What part did you play?’

  ‘I was one of the Nazi radio operators … a small role.’

  I nodded as though in sympathy. ‘A very small role.’

  ‘They promised me a bigger part in the next one.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’ll be able to take it.’

  Fraser stopped mid-inhale as he realized the gravity of my observation. ‘Look,’ he said suddenly, stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette ferociously, ‘this is a crazy notion. I didn’t kill Pammie. She was my girl … we were going to get married as soon—’

  ‘As soon as she’d made enough money – lying on her back and thinking of England.’

  ‘Why you…!’ He jumped up and took at swing at me. He missed by a mile and I laughed. He swung his fist again. This time I caught it in my hand and wrenched it sideways, bringing it down with some force on to the bench. Fraser gave a cry of pain and slumped back in his chair. Not only was he a little runt, but he was a cowardly one as well.

  ‘Look, perhaps you don’t realize how deep in the shit you are, but I’m here to tell you that unless you play straight, your next performance may well be on the gallows.’

  This was something that the angry little fellow had not contemplated. The colour drained from his face and, as if by magic, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

  ‘I didn’t kill her. Honest. I didn’t kill her. I really cared for her.’

  Strangely enough, I believed him. This wasn’t a performance any more. The voice had lost its cheap artifice.

  ‘Any idea who did?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Right, listen to me, Samuel, my boy, the police have got it into their thick heads that you’re the chump who murdered Pammie. And indeed why should they look any further?’

  ‘But you told me you’re the police,’ he said in a strange whining fashion.

  I shook my head. ‘I said I was a detective working on the case. I’m a private investigator. I was employed by Pammie’s parents to find her. Or to be more precise to find Pamela Palfrey. You knew of your girlfriend’s double life, of course.’

  Fraser nodded. ‘She was Pamela when I first met her. It was me who suggested she change her name.’

  ‘Well, under whatever name we use, I’ve found the Palfreys’ daughter for them, after a fashion. Now I reckon it’s my duty to find her murderer as well. And that’s how I can help you.’

  ‘Help me…?’

  ‘Strange as it may seem, I don’t reckon you did kill her. Don’t ask me why; I just have an instinct about these things. And, anyway, it seems sensible and a matter of principle to take the opposite view to Detective Chief Inspector Knight. But before I can be of assistance to you,
you’ve got to do your bit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tell me all about Pammie. How you met and how she ended up being … your girl. The whole story and the truth.’

  ‘Can I have another fag?’

  ‘As long as you smoke this one.’

  He nodded.

  I passed over the packet. ‘OK, Sammy, now spill the beans.’

  ten

  Sammy’s Story

  I first saw Pamela, as she was then, at the Regent dance hall. It was about six months ago. I was on the prowl that night. I needed another girl. My acting work had dried up again and I was desperately short of money. With a girl, the right girl, I could easily make fifty quid a week. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was the one. She was special: she had star quality.

  I got talking to her in the bar. Bought her a drink. Spun her a tale about my illustrious acting career and by the end of the evening we were smooching under the mirrorball. At the time I thought I was doing all the leading but looking back on it, I can see that I was the one being led. I was aware I couldn’t rush it with Pamela. She was not like the other girls I’d been involved with. But I didn’t need to force the pace. The whole thing took off quickly.

  We did the traditional thing for a while. Saw each other on dates: trips to the cinema, walks in the park, dancing, meals out. All that stuff. But we both knew we were marking time. We were holding the passion back, just to go through the hoops. Once we became lovers, the whole thing became so simple.

  She was desperate to leave home and live the film-star life and she came with a secret nest egg. She’d been saving for years, squirrelling away various amounts, until she had quite a sum. Enough for us to start renting a flat near Regent’s Park.