‘You didn’t tell me this when I came to the office,’ I said gently.
‘I didn’t know you quite as well then. I didn’t think it had any real bearing on Pammie’s disappearance. Is that what you think?’ She gulped down the last of her brandy.
What I thought was that old Epstein had difficulty with the truth. It would seem that his little confession to me about falling by the wayside just the once was only part of a much longer and probably more complex story. By throwing me a crumb of the much larger loaf he hoped to escape further scrutiny. Well, he was wrong.
‘I’m not sure,’ I told Eve casually, ‘but all information is useful in building up a full picture.’
‘Well, I can tell you this affair, if you want to call it that, fizzled out some months ago. I think Epstein got fed up with buying her presents and doling out cash for so little in return. I think he wanted to take matters further.’
‘What, you mean marriage?’
‘Possibly; he was that smitten. He was very cut up when Pammie resisted taking their relationship any further.’
I said nothing and sipped my brandy.
‘Now, Johnny, can we drop the subject? I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves.’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go through and listen to some jazz. You like jazz?’
Eve wrinkled her nose. ‘I prefer Ambrose or Henry Hall really.’
‘Hey, kid, you ain’t heard nothing until you hear the Tommy Parker quartet.’
Eve giggled. The wine and the brandy had made her a little tipsy. ‘Convince me.’
We found a little table to the left of the bandstand and sat down halfway through Tommy’s trumpet solo on ‘Pennies from Heaven’. Tommy was a competent player who fancied himself as Harry James but he lacked his smooth clarity of tone and adventurous spirit to be considered in the same class. After a version of ‘You’re the Top’ played at a remarkably slow tempo, Tommy introduced Beulah White, who straight away launched into a scat version of ‘S’wonderful’.
‘You think she could have learned the words,’ giggled Eve, her eyes glazing and her lids drooping.
‘Time you went home, young lady,’ I said.
‘You could be right.’
The onslaught of cold air that greeted us as we left the club seemed at first to accelerate Eve’s inebriation. I grabbed her arm to steady her and she gave me an affectionate peck on the cheek. I attempted to return the compliment but she pulled back and looked away. With a shrug, I hailed a cab.
‘I’ll see you home,’ I said, as the taxi pulled up by the kerb.
‘No, no. I can see myself.…’ She disentangled herself from me and tottered towards the cab door.
‘It’s no trouble, Eve. I think I should go with you.’
‘No!’ She responded so sharply that I was taken aback. ‘I’ll go on my own.’ She looked resolute and angry. I wondered what I had done wrong to bring about this sudden change in her demeanour. What had I done to upset her?
At this point the taxi driver joined in the conversation. Leaning out of the cab window, he grinned at me. ‘Don’t worry, mate, I’ll see she gets home safe and sound.’
By now Eve was inside the cab. Resigned to my fate, I leaned forward into the darkness. ‘I’ll give you a call,’ I said.
She did not answer.
I shut the door and the cab roared off, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust fumes wondering why such a wonderful evening had ended on such a sour note.
nineteen
I slept little that night wondering how I had managed to mar my relationship with Eve. I just hoped that it was the drink that had confused her a little. I thought we were getting on fine. Certainly I’d had a great night but it takes two to tango.…
I felt fairly miserable as I drank my first cup of tea of the day but then I brightened at the prospect of my excursion for that afternoon. I was off to a dream factory.
Then I had an idea about Eve. So I decided to put my own acting prowess to the test and adopt the persona of a certain Archie McPherson for a certain phone call.
* * *
Denham Studios was some thirty miles out of London. Before the war it had been a thriving film studio owned by Alexander Korda. He had been determined to make it the most modern film studio in Europe but by the late thirties he was in financial difficulties and the money men, in the shape of the Prudential Insurance Company, stepped in and took over. With the outbreak of war, all film production was stopped at nearby Pinewood studios and as a result Denham was swamped with productions. In 1940 it was working around the clock to turn out celluloid fodder to be lapped up by eager audiences desperate to lose themselves in other worlds far away from the reality of war.
The thought of visiting the film studio filled me with excitement. I might be going to interview a suspect in a murder investigation, but he was also Tiger Blake, my childhood film hero. I caught the train to Denham Village with a feeling of suppressed anticipation. I almost forgot the real reason for my journey.
Walking out of the station at Denham I was already conscious that I had left some of the dreariness and destruction of grey London behind. The sky seemed cleaner and the faces of people seemed fresher here. It was as though the shadow of war was not as dark or all-embracing in this semi-rural setting as it was in the damaged metropolis.
I felt a childish thrill as I announced my destination to the ancient cab driver. ‘Denham Film Studios please.’ Within five minutes I had been dropped off at the gates. The place certainly looked like a factory with its grey blocks of buildings and circular drum-like structures. The ghost of Alexander Korda was in evidence in the large faded lettering that ran down the length of one block stating LONDON FILM PRODUCTIONS. It was strange to think that within its walls fairy tales from all ages were created to be projected in cinemas around the world, allowing anyone with a few shillings or the equivalent to enter the magic escapist world of the cinema.
As I approached the entrance, a little man emerged through the swing doors and scuttled down the steps. My mouth dropped open in recognition. It was the comedian Arthur Askey. Obviously used to such reactions, he gave me a grin, touched his hat and hurried on.
I entered the foyer of Denham Studios through a pair of smoked-glass swing doors and passed into a gently humming beehive. The sound of suppressed activity was all around. Above me running around the whole area was a metal gangway along which many worker bees made their way, some carrying files, boxes, brief cases, while others strolled together in deep muttered converse. Occasionally one or two of them would disappear down a corridor running off from this mezzanine only to be replaced by others emerging from their own warren. It was all very futuristic, unreal, and reminded me of the sets of Korda’s version of H.G. Wells’ Things to Come. Perhaps he had modelled those on Denham, or vice-versa.
A commissionaire in a blue coat with gold braid at his shoulders stepped forward to meet me. Meet me rather than greet me. He was a large man, probably ex-army, ruddy of face and no-nonsense of nature.
‘What is your business here, sir?’ he said in a mechanical way. There was no real unpleasantness in his delivery, but I could not help detect a vague note of menace in his demeanour. Obviously he was there as the first barrier to prevent any star-struck film fan on a mission to obtain an autograph or catch a glimpse of their favourite star, from entering the building.
‘I’m Gus Andrews from ScreenTime magazine. I’m here to interview Gordon Moore. I have an appointment with Tristan Williams of Regent Films at two-thirty.’
The blue-coated warrior’s attitude altered immediately. His shoulders relaxed and his tight mouth relaxed. ‘Just have a word with Sonia at the desk and she’ll sort you out.’
Sonia was a busty young woman with half the make-up department on her face. It was obvious that she was hoping to be spotted by some producer or director passing through the foyer who would star her in his latest film.
‘How can I help you?’ she asked, in a husky mid-Atlantic dr
awl, her glossy red lips pouting at me as though they had a life of their own.
I told her the same story as I’d told the commissionaire. Her fingers tapped viciously on the intercom system and moments later a sibilant voice emerged from a tiny speaker.
‘Yes, what is it?’ There was irritation in every word.
‘A Mr Gus Andrews from ScreenTime has arrived,’ the red lips emoted into the microphone.
This information was greeted by a weary sigh. ‘I’ll be down in a few minutes,’ said Tristan before cutting himself off abruptly.
Before Sonia could relay this gem of information to me, I smiled and said, ‘I heard.’
‘If you’ll just take a seat,’ she purred, indicating a row of cinema seats across from the desk.
I did as I was bid and sat twiddling my thumbs. After ten minutes Tristan arrived. He was much as I imagined him. A lanky fellow, like me in his late twenties, but unlike me with an unruly mop of long hair and owlish glasses perched on the end of his long hooter. He was dressed in grey flannels and a shapeless rust-coloured jumper and for some reason he had a college scarf around his neck.
‘Mr Andrews, sorry to keep you waiting. It’s been one of those days.’
I bet you say that to all the boys.
‘That’s OK,’ I said, offering my hand. Surprisingly he gave it a hefty, manly shake.
‘Come with me,’ he beckoned, leading me up a staircase which led to the mezzanine. I was really going to enter the inner sanctum of filmdom.
He leaned close to me with a confidential air. ‘In your line of business you probably realize that stars can be … temperamental, to say the least. They are under such pressure to perform and be someone they are not that sometimes they can forget to be human. They can have their off days.’
It was his polite way of telling me that film actors can be a pain in the arse.
‘So Mr Moore has been a little difficult…?’
Tristan looked as though he was about to indulge a large bout of indiscretion but manfully he bottled it and just nodded. ‘Difficult just about sums it up.’
‘He’s still going to see me though?’
He shrugged. ‘I hope so.’
Tristan led me along a narrow corridor, down a flight of steps and through a door marked Studio H1. We stepped into what looked like an aircraft hangar. It was filled with cameras, lights, boom microphones and all the attendant paraphernalia of film making. I’d seen pictures so I know. There were also several individual sets, one of which appeared to be a prison cell, but the studio seemed deserted.
‘This is where they are shooting the new Tiger Blake,’ said Tristan, ‘but the crew have broken for an early lunch.’
I nodded, trying to appear like a world-weary film journalist to whom all this was old hat rather than the avid film fan I was, an innocent who had wandered into the magic kingdom. As we skirted the perimeter of the building we passed an enormous set with palm trees, sand and a lugubrious camel that was completely occupied in chewing some disgusting strawlike concoction.
‘The oasis,’ explained Tristan. ‘We have a big gun battle to film there later in the week.’
‘Oh, have we?’
Tristan nodded. ‘Don’t want to give the game away but Tiger gets badly injured in that scene.’
This information was imported in a part whisper as though my guide was breaking some confidential rule of his profession by leaking out the information. It came as no surprise to me, however: Tiger Blake always got badly injured at the beginning of the last reel, only to recover miraculously before the closing credits.
At the back of Studio H1 there was a row of low buildings resembling the utilitarian pre-fabricated houses which were springing up all round London to house the bombed homeless. These were smaller but looked tidier and more glamorous. Tristan led me to one of these, which had the name of Gordon Moore painted on the door along with a silver star.
‘Mr Moore’s dressing-room,’ said Tristan, unnecessarily. ‘This is where he rests up and checks his lines for the next shoot.’
I nodded.
‘Now, if you’ll wait here, I’ll see if Mr Moore is ready to see you.’
Gingerly he tapped on the door. There was no response. He tapped again, louder this time. And this time there was a response.
‘Go away,’ bellowed a voice from within.
Tristan raised his eyebrows and gave me a look which said, ‘Told you he could be difficult.’
‘It’s Tristan, Mr Moore. I have Gus Andrews here from ScreenTime. You remember you agreed he could interview you for his magazine.’
There was a pause and then the door was wrenched open. Tiger Blake stood before me. Well, to be precise, a raddled, paunchy, blotchy-faced Tiger Blake wearing an obvious toupee stood before me. He grinned in a theatrical manner at me. ‘Of course, Mr Andrews. Do come into my bothy. I can give you ten minutes.’ The grin disappeared as quickly as it came.’
‘Thank you,’ I said humbly and followed him inside.
‘Come back for him in ten minutes,’ Moore called to Tristan as he closed the door. It was an instruction, not a request.
The room was cramped, with a make-up mirror, table and chair, a small wardrobe and a large camp-bed. By the bed, on the floor, was a tray containing a large bottle of gin and an empty glass. Moore slumped on the bed and snatched up the glass. It was clear there’d be no drinkies for me.
‘So laddo, what d’you want to know, eh? What kind of crap do you want to feed to your readers, eh? Well, I can give you an exclusive if you want.’
I nodded, not wanting to interrupt his flow with words.
‘This is my last Tiger Blake movie. I have decided to give up making these bloody films. An actor of my calibre deserves something more, something better.’ He took a big slurp of his gin. ‘I was RADA trained you know. Did a season at Stratford, too. And where do I end up? Running through cardboard forests and shooting a lot of foreigners.’
He looked at me over the rim of his glass to gauge my reaction to his news. I didn’t give him one, but stared steadily back at him.
He pursed his lips, the fire of his anger waning. ‘So there you have it. Tiger Blake retires and Gordon Moore shuffles off into oblivion. What else do you need to know?’
‘I’d like to know if you killed Pammie Palmer.’
At first I thought he was going to have some kind of heart attack. He gave a sharp, guttural cry as his eyes bulged from their sockets, his face darkened to a deep red and he gripped his glass so tightly his knuckles beamed white.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked at length.
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, but it does. Are you the bastard who’s been calling me?’
I shook my head.
‘Then who the hell are you? What do you want?’
‘I want the truth. Did you kill Pammie?’
Gordon Moore stared at me for some moments. I could not tell whether he was angry or frightened. My guess was that he was both. He poured himself another drink and took a large gulp.
‘No, I did not kill her.’
‘But you visited her on the night she died. You were a client of hers. You rang her from a call box on Boynton Street, near your club and arranged to … see her at her flat.’
‘How … how do you know all this?’
‘That’s not important. If you didn’t kill Pammie, you’d better tell me what happened that night.’
‘Go to hell!’
‘All in good time. But if you are at all interested in saving your neck, I’d advise you to tell me the truth, otherwise you’ll have the police knocking on your door and they’ll want more than ten minutes of your time, I can promise you that.’
At the mention of the police, the colour began to drain from Moore’s mottled face.
‘Do you want money?’
I shook my head. ‘I just want the truth. Tell me about that night.’
twenty
Gordon Moore’s Story
; I’d had a terrible day. I received a message to visit my agent that afternoon. I assumed that it was about those bastards at Regent Films haggling about my fee for the new Tiger Blake farrago. They always came up with excuses to try and pay me a little less than the previous picture, but Bruce Mellor, my agent, is a shrewd guy and he usually got me a decent deal. So when I visited his office I had no notion that he was about to drop a bloody great bombshell. He didn’t beat about the bush, but told it to me straight. Regent weren’t haggling about my fee. They were happy to pay it because I was getting the push. After this picture they didn’t want me any more. I had out-lived my usefulness. They intended to bring in a younger, more attractive actor to take my part. Apparently, they were going to re-vamp the series, make it more appealing to the young or some such nonsense. In simple terms, I was washed up. You cannot imagine what that felt like. I was sick to my stomach. After fifteen years of playing the same stupid part how was anyone going to take me seriously as an actor … as a star? It was as though I was staring into a black abyss.
Bruce muttered his condolences and tried his best to convince me that this could be a real chance for me to get better, more lucrative parts. They were empty sentiments – a load of manure, in fact. I could see it in his eyes. A turning point in my career, he said. Well, it’s that all right. Turning off the main road up some narrow unmade track heading for oblivion. Of course, Bruce realized that with my departure from the star’s dressing-room, he was losing out as well. No more healthy percentages from old Tiger Blake.
I escaped the confines of his office and wandered the streets for a while trying to come terms with the horrible truth. But I couldn’t. How could I? The Tiger Blake movies and all the perks that went with them had been part of my life for over twelve years. I was in a state of bereavement.
Eventually, I went to my club and as usual tried to drown my sorrows in drink. But on this occasion, alcohol proved ineffective. Instead of leading me into the realms of misty amnesia, it only fuelled my anger and despair. Despite downing several large gins I stayed sober. I remained conscious and painfully aware of my own tragedy. If that sounds dramatic, just put yourself in my position. I was a film star, known all over the world for playing Tiger Blake, hero and tough guy. Always caught the baddie and always got the girl. It was my life, my livelihood and my key to all sorts of privileges. And now that had all been taken away from me. What have I to look forward to now? Bit parts in lousy B pictures and weeks in provincial rep – where I bloody started thirty years ago. What happens to my nice clothes, my big car, my world? I lose it all. Tragedy it is, I assure you. The brutal truth of my situation was too great to be affected by drink. But I needed some solace, something to cushion me against the pain of that great big dagger that had been stuck in my back, stuck there by those bastards at Regent Films. I needed love and tenderness. I needed passion. Well, I knew I wouldn’t get that at home. You won’t have met Mrs Moore, Sandra, have you? She could give the ice maiden a few lessons in frostiness.
Forests of the Night Page 11
