by K. Velk
He didn’t mind the room-temperature drink too much – ice was hard to come by in 1928 – because the pasty was so perfect. It was a D-shaped envelope of golden crust filled with meat and potatoes and onions. He broke the first one open, and though he knew that Cornish pasties were generally eaten cold, this one steamed invitingly. He was through both of them in less than ten minutes. A girl promptly appeared and took away his dishes. He sat for a few more minutes, wondering what he would do until Pip was due. He was already attracting unfriendly glances from the cook behind the counter, and so it was out into the street.
He wandered down the busy sidewalks of Kensington High Street, watching the crowd for the better part of an hour when the display in a music shop window caught his eye. Among various musical instruments and sheet music with inviting, bright covers, sat a record player. It was a tabletop model, with a wooden cabinet and a metal hand crank.
The phonograph, as the pretty sales girl told him, was an American model with an excellent reputation: “a Columbia Grafonola.” And, yes, for a small additional charge it could be crated and shipped to the Peppermore family at Westfield in Herefordshire. No other address details were necessary, which amazed Miles. The whole country was like a village, he thought. The record player came with a selection of the most popular records and those would be sent as well. She played one for him, an American jazz record called “Deep Henderson” by King Oliver, and while the recording wasn’t exactly high fidelity it had a certain, pleasing vintage sound. He asked the clerk if there were any records that taught typing. She laughed.
“I’m afraid the typist would be so busy changing records she would not have much time to learn. The maximum recording time is approximately three minutes, but of course that’s quite an improvement over the old cylinders. I suppose you are too young to remember those.”
“Yes, I guess I arrived too late for those,” Miles responded, alone in his little joke. Still, three minutes of music would be a lot better than the perpetual silence of the Peppermores’ cottage. He asked the salesgirl if there were anyplace nearby where he could buy a typewriter.
“You might try Harrods. You can get anything there. I am sure they will have a good stock of typewriters.”
He would have to fit a visit to Harrods in some other time. By the time the record player deal was sealed, the clock on the music shop wall showed that it was nearly time to meet Pip. Miles left the Peppermores’ address and jogged back to the Station.
He took up a post outside Brown’s Pies and scrutinized every smallish middle-aged man who passed. Now that it came to it, he wasn’t sure that he would recognize Pip. It had been so dark and he had been so rattled during their brief meeting outside Diamond’s London Pavilion. Every third passerby looked like Pip.
“So you’ve come,” Pip said, materializing from the crowd and startling Miles. He had a note of regret in his voice. Miles followed him into the pie shop and offered to pay for the pasties that he ordered. Pip waved him off. “I don’t want anything off you.”
“Have you found anything out? Do you know where Ada is?” Miles asked as they sat down.
Pip bit off a mouthful and chewed thoughtfully. “I believe I do,” he said at last, mopping up a bit of onion that fell on the thick white plate with the crust of his pasty.
Miles leaned in. “Well?”
“”ow old are you lad?”
“Nearly sixteen,” Miles replied irritably. “Why?”
“It’s only that I’ve been turning this whole thing over since yesterday, and I’m not sure I’m doin’ you any favors, nor her, sticking my nose in.”
Miles flopped back into his chair. “Look Mr. Pip, or whatever your name is, you would not believe what I have been through to get here. I may only be fifteen, but I am a, a, man on a mission.”
Miles knew this sounded ridiculous, but it was true and he had no time or patience for games. Without Pip’s information he would have no leads at all. He might never find Ada.
“I’ll tell you this for sure,” he added. “Wherever Ada is right now, she’s not there by choice. She needs help and no one but me is going to give her any. Unless you are?” He had touched a nerve. Pip winced
“No. I wish I could.” Miles noticed how caved in Pip’s cheeks were and how thin his hair was. He was undersized, smaller than Miles even, like someone who'd grown up without enough food. He was probably not so old as he looked. Pip was clearly a man who had led a hard life.
“I’ve got four kids, you see, and …” Pip stopped and regarded Miles through narrowed eyes. “Have you got any friends to ‘elp you?”
Miles hadn’t thought of this. But, oddly, the answer was, “Yes. I think I do. There’s this Oxford Professor and his future son- in-law. I can call them.”
“Well, aww right then. I’m goin’ to tell you what I know. It’s not much, but I think it’s probably enough. And I’ll admit it would ease my mind considerable to see that girl get away now, just at the beginning. Still, you mind, lad, it’s on your head that is – if you’re going to interfere with Mr. Diamond. I can’t be held responsible.”
“Of course not.”
“The people you’re dealing with don’t care about anything or anyone but themselves. They’ll smash your head in as soon as look at you if it serves.”
“I understand.”
“You’d best be quick, and quiet as you can manage.”
This was getting to be just too much preamble. “Where is she?” Miles asked impatiently.
“Tonight, what I heard is that they’ll take her to a cabaret in Islington – one of the posh ones. It’s called ‘The Ginger Jar.’ You’ll want to hire yourself a tuxedo. Not for your Jack Rags and Tom Straws is the Ginger Jar. Maybe you can get mixed in with the toffs if you dress the part. That would be my advice.
“Will she be performing?”
Pip shrugged. “I s’pose. Course it’s not usually the girls Mr. Diamond ‘as brought in that gets to perform at The Ginger Jar, but as I said your friend’s different. She’s got talent. ‘ere now, what has she told you about ‘im?
Miles shrugged. “Nothing at all. She started to once, but she was worried that I would interfere with her plans if I knew them.”
“Well, I don’t know her particular details, but I can guess what ‘appened. See, Jon Diamond goes about to the other variety houses, keepin’ an eye on the competition, like. He also looks for pretty girls in the crowd or up on stage. When he finds a likely one, he strikes up a conversation. Tells ‘em who he is and how he could make a girl into a star. It’s only a lot of jiggery pokery of course, but it’s amazin’ how many of these girls fancy themselves performers. They fall like dominos. He’s been through two dozen such already.” Pip shook his head. “It weren’t never like that when his father was in charge. Mind, the musical theatre’s no Sunday school and never ‘as been, but in old Ben Diamond’s day everything was at least on the up and up.”
He looked at Miles with a sad, weary expression. “I can’t stand to see another one go down that road. I got girls of my own at ‘ome.”
“What about the police?” Miles asked, feeling like a lightbulb must have appeared above his head. It was so blindingly obvious! “Why haven’t they been called in?”
Pip snorted. “Diamond’s got that fixed up proper. First of all, no one cares much about the girls he chooses. Like you said, if it weren’t for you, no one would come lookin’ for your friend. They’re all like that, the ones he gets. Even if someone did make a report, the way he’s got it set up it’s the girls who would be seen as the ones to blame. And of course he’s got others to do all the real dirty work. His name is kept out of the worst, should the worst ever come to light. And that ain’t likely to ‘appen since most of official London is entertained in his establishments. They don’t want any rocks turned over, no more than he does. No, the police wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole.”
“Well, what if the cops just went to the door of this Ginger Jar and asked Ada if she wanted
to stay or go? I mean, what could they do?”
Pip looked at him pityingly. “Listen young fella. If a bobby went banging on the front door and asking for your friend he’d find out quick that no one there had ever ‘eard of her. He’d be invited in to make a search of the premises, and he wouldn’t find nothin’, even if he were an honest man. They’d have her out of there and maybe out of London before the copper got back down the stairs. Then there would be a world of trouble for her, and your name is the one that would be mud.”
Miles felt desolate. Why did everything have to be done the hard way?
“Look,” Pip said, a little more brightly. “I admire you for tryin’ to help your friend. But don’t go at it like you’re stormin’ the Bastille, like you did the other night – that’s my advice anyway. You’re goin’ to ‘ave to be a bit, what’s the word? Subtle.”
Pip gave Miles the address of the Ginger Jar and told him that he shouldn’t bother going before ten, if he hoped to be inconspicuous.
“They come by the taxi-load after the theaters close. Bring your friends and get lost in the crowd if you can.”
Miles pulled two sovereigns out of his pocket and offered them to Pip. “I know you don’t want anything but maybe you could get something for your kids…”
Pip pushed the coins away and stood to go. “I only ask one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know me and have never seen me. Got it?”
63. Suiting Up
After Pip and Miles shook hands and went their separate ways, Miles found a red phone box on the street and began his preparations for the evening. It took him a few minutes to follow the posted directions about how to use the pay phone. He had to ask a passer-by about which coin to use but was finally connected to the operator. She put him through to Roger Carlisle’s house. God, what a blessing cell phones were and how Miles missed them!
“Hello. This is Miles McTavish. Can I speak with Professor Lightfoot, or Daphne, or Roger?”
“They’ve gone out I’m afraid,” a man said. “Is there any message?”
Oh now. What now? Miss Everett was Miles’ only other London contact, but he didn’t want to call her. She’d feel obliged to come and there might be trouble. But he had to make his move tonight. He had no idea where Ada might be tomorrow.
“Who’s this?” Miles asked, building a new plan out of the ruins of the old, again.
“It’s Millions – the butler.”
“Millions?” This was too much. “You aren’t kidding me, are you?”
“No, Sir.” Millions said dryly.
“Well, Mr. Millions, would you tell them that Miles McTavish called? Would you tell them that I have to go to a nightclub called the Ginger Jar to find the friend that I mentioned to them? Would you tell them that I think I could use their help there tonight? I’ll be there about ten. The Ginger Jar. Have you got that? It’s where St. John Street and Spencer Street come together, in Islington.”
“Yes, Mr. McTavish. I shall tell them upon their return. However, they may not be back by ten. Perhaps, if you require assistance, you will want to wait until you can speak with them yourself?”
“I can’t wait. They’ll understand about that.”
“Just as you say, Sir.”
“One more thing, Mr. Millions. Do you know where I might be able to rent a tuxedo for tonight?”
“Burleigh’s in Sloane Street. They close at 6:30.”
“Thanks. What’s the nearest Underground station, if you know.”
“Knightsbridge.”
“Thank you, Mr. Millions.”
“You are most welcome Mr. McTavish.”
Back in his hotel room, Miles eased himself into his rented tailcoat. He had insisted on wearing the stiff-fronted shirt and white tie back from the shop, to the barely concealed horror of Burleigh’s clerk. The fancy shirt and tie had looked silly on the Underground, paired with his patched corduroy pants and scuffed boots, but he didn’t want to be alone in his hotel room with the white bow tie undone. Now, at last he had the whole ensemble put together and he couldn’t help admiring himself.
He had never been dressed in anything as remotely formal as this suit and he had to admit he was pleased with the effect. He had even rented the shiny black “court shoes” and bought a pair of silk socks that the clerk had referred to, embarrassingly, as “stockings.” Miles had declined the offer of a top hat. That, he felt, would be going too far – from dressed-to-kill to Mr. Peanut.
The hotel barber had trimmed and dressed his hair. His Oak Gate scar showed to advantage under the slight cowlick, Superman style, that the barber had contrived. Miles knew he had grown in his few months in 1928 and the suit showed off his new stature. He knew he still looked very young, but he also looked rich, and he hoped that in a crowd of nightclub goers he would be like just another penguin out for a good time.
He filled his pants pockets with sovereigns until they nearly bulged. Mrs. Davies’ leather bag was getting lighter by the moment. This gave him a pang, but he felt sure that this was not the night to economize. Lady Fisher had said money could be like a sword and shield in London and he might need both in the next few hours. Leaving the Stone and the iPod safely tucked under the mattress, he went down to the front desk to execute the next part of his plan.
“I have a cousin called Ada O’Shea who may be arriving tonight,” he told the desk clerk. “As I am going to be out myself, I would like to reserve a room for her, if that is possible?” For once, not even an eyebrow was raised. Then he tried the Lightfoots one more time from the phone in the lobby.
“I am sorry Mr. McTavish, but they have not returned,” Millions said. “I assure you that I shall give them your message as soon as possible.”
Miles couldn’t wait. He asked the doorman to hail a cab for him and he was off into the London night.
64. The Ginger Jar
Miles asked the cabbie to leave him off two blocks away from the nightclub. It was only 9:30 and he would wait awhile for Roger and the Professor before he tried going in. He didn’t want to be seen lurking around so he used the extra time to do some reconnaissance. He located the nearest Underground station in case he needed to use the tube later, and checked out the building. There were windows around the back of the club, but they were too high up for him to be able see inside. He tried the back door and found it locked.
After his survey he found a dark spot under the awning of a flower shop across the street and waited. Jon Diamond evidently knew how to create an exciting nightspot. The Ginger Jar was faced with white stone that reflected the light from the street lamps and the passing traffic. Giant red paper lanterns flanked the entrance. The club’s name was written in faux Chinese characters over the gleaming glass and brass door. He could hear the sound of a piano every time the doorman hauled it open.
Cab after cab began to arrive, discharging laughing passengers. None of them, however, were Roger and Professor Lightfoot.
After about forty five minutes in the shadows hoping to spy a familiar face, three long cars arrived together. Brightly dressed women spilled forth, accompanied by their tuxedoed escorts. The women were a whorl of jewels and feathers. One wore an ankle-length white coat. Miles didn’t know when he would get a better chance to get lost in a crowd so he took a deep breath and plunged across the street. As he slipped in behind the group, one young woman dropped a slinky metal purse.
“Excuse me, ma’am? You dropped this.”
A pair of kohl-rimmed blue eyes swiveled to meet his. He sensed a moment of judgment, and that he had passed. A smile spread across the lady’s face.
“You’re a young thing, aren’t you?” She replaced the bag on her small white shoulder.
Miles returned the smile.
“Not so young, Ma’am. Hoping to meet up with some friends of mine here – but they haven’t arrived yet.”
“I say, are you American?”
“Yes ma’am. From Texas.”
“Oh how
simply delicious. Are you a cowboy?”
“Yes ma’am, I am in fact.” Well, why not? He needed to keep the conversation going long enough to get past the doorman.
“Wonderful!” She said. “Gordon. Look what I’ve found.” She pulled at the sleeve of the young man in front of her. “It’s a gen-u-ine cowboy from Texas,” she said, apparently trying to sound American. “Talk to him, Gordon. He has the most charming accent. Err, what’s your name?”
“Billy,” Miles said without missing a beat. “The one and only Billy Shears.”
“Gordon, it’s ‘Texas Billy Shears. Isn’t he splendid?”
Gordon didn’t seem impressed. He limply shook Miles’ hand. “Charmed.”
And then they were through the door and in the smoky, syncopated interior.
“What’s your name Miss?” Miles asked in the hokiest Texas accent he could manage.
“I’m Felicity Sherston,” she said absently, craning for people she might know even as she handed her wrap to the coat checker. Just beyond the entry, a large fountain splashed. Several delighted-looking women were fishing at its edge with short poles. A waiter stood by, holding a towel and a plate. Apparently you could catch your own dinner at the Ginger Jar.
Miles stuck with the Felicity and Gordon crowd as the maitre d’ showed them to a group of tables at the edge of a large dance floor. Gordon pulled out a chair for Felicity and Miles wasted no time pulling another one up next to her.
“Is that Tallulah Bankhead over there?” Felicity asked Gordon, who had commenced packing a pipe as soon as he sat down. He looked in the direction indicated by his date with a bored air. “Hmm. Seems so.”
She turned to Miles. “You Americans are taking over the place. Do you know Miss Bankhead?” Through the crowd, Miles could just glimpse a striking blonde woman in a black dress. Even at this distance and with all the noise, he could hear her full-throated laugh. He wasn’t sure why he knew her name, but it was familiar. “No. I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.
