by Graham Ison
‘We have discovered the body of a young woman buried on the site of a burned-out garage at Ditton in Surrey, Major Craddock,’ began Catto. ‘The only clue to her identity came from an informant who said that he believed her to be young and married. We have no name and no description. Unfortunately, the body had been dismembered and a photograph would not be of any use for identification, there having been some putrefaction already.’
Craddock nodded, but otherwise did not react. He had seen too many dismembered bodies to be affected by such a gruesome description of the police find.
‘One source,’ Catto continued, ‘suggested that the young lady was a showgirl or actress. The pathologist put her age at somewhere between seventeen and twenty-three. Another informant thought she was about twenty and danced like a professional. She was sometimes in the company of a Captain Guy Stoner, late of the RFA.’
‘I’m afraid dancers come and go, Sergeant Catto. There are always girls who think they’ve got a better job somewhere else, and others who come knocking at the door seeking employment. As the club’s name implies, we have a cabaret every evening and we’ve employed quite a few girls in the years since I opened. As for this Stoner, I’ve never heard of him. Have you tried asking him?’
‘I’m afraid he’s been murdered, too, Major,’ said Catto.
‘Great Scott! You’re being kept busy, then.’ Craddock stopped and appeared to be thinking. ‘I’m damned sure that all the girls who have worked here always left after giving the proper notice, usually a week, and I don’t think we had one who just disappeared without telling me – or rather without telling Marjorie.’
‘Who is Marjorie, Major?’ asked Ritchie.
‘Marjorie Hibberd, my right arm. Mrs Hibberd is first and foremost the show’s choreographer. But she’s more than that. She’s a sort of mother hen who makes certain the costumes are right, makes sure the band is present and correct, the piano is tuned, and generally keeps an eye on the girls to ensure that none of the members takes advantage of them. She’s very good at it, too. I suppose she must be at least fifty now, but she was quite a dancer in her day, so I’m told. She would know about any girl who disappeared. Would you like a word with her?’
‘That might well be helpful, Major,’ said Catto. ‘Thank you.’
Reaching across his desk, Craddock lifted the earpiece of his pedestal telephone and requested that Marjorie be asked to come to his office.
The woman who entered some five minutes later wore a sleeveless black dress that came to mid-calf, and an expensive but discreet string of pearls. She had kept her figure and was clearly still very fit, and she moved with the sort of grace one would expect of an accomplished dancer.
‘You wanted me, Major?’
‘Marjorie, these two gentlemen are police officers.’
‘Oh?’ Marjorie glanced suspiciously at Catto and Ritchie. ‘You’re not from the Vice Squad at Vine Street, I hope.’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Catto, sensing that Marjorie Hibberd had also had dealings with that particular unit and did not much care for the attitude of its officers. ‘We’re from the Whitehall Division.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, then.’
‘Sit down, Marjorie,’ said Craddock. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Not right now, Major, thank you. So, how can I help the police?’ she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on Craddock.
‘We’re trying to identify a young woman who has been murdered, Mrs Hibberd,’ said Ritchie.
‘And you think it’s something to do with the Twilight Cabaret Club?’ Marjorie Hibberd’s comment sounded more like a criticism than an enquiry.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Catto, ‘but Major Craddock wondered if you knew of any showgirl who had disappeared without giving notice.’
Marjorie appeared to give the matter some thought, but then shook her head. ‘I honestly can’t recall any of the girls having left without giving notice,’ she said eventually.
‘Well, thank you, Marjorie,’ said Craddock. ‘It was a bit of a long shot, anyway.’
‘I’ll give it some thought, Major,’ said Marjorie, as she rose to leave. ‘If anything comes to mind, I’ll let you know.’
‘If anyone is likely to remember, it’s Marjorie,’ said Craddock, once the woman had left the room. ‘Of course, she’s not infallible and she does have quite a lot on her plate. As I implied earlier, there’s a brisk turnover of dancers and it’s sometimes difficult to keep track of—’ The club’s proprietor stopped suddenly. ‘Celine Fontenau,’ he said, and turned to take a foolscap-sized book from his desk. ‘It’s an old army habit,’ he continued. ‘I always kept an unofficial roll of my chaps. My parade state, I called it. Made it much easier when it came to identifying their remains.’ For a moment he looked immeasurably sad as he recalled the number of trench burial services he had conducted in the mud and under threat of constant shelling and sniper fire.
‘The name Celine Fontenau sounds French,’ said Catto. ‘Was she French or was that just a name she used for show business?’
‘Oh, she was French all right,’ said Craddock as he found the entry in his book. ‘As I recall, she was rather full of herself. More confident than the average showgirl of her age. In fact, she looked more like a Parisian model than a dancer, but I asked to see her passport and that showed that she was born in Marseilles. I wanted to make sure that she wasn’t under the legal minimum age for the job. One has to be very careful in this business, and you get all sorts of young women coming to Soho in search of what they think is the high life. For the most part, they’re silly little girls hoping to find a rich husband.’ He chuckled. ‘And if he’s got a title, that’s a bonus. Marjorie was off sick for a few weeks about that time, so I’m not surprised she didn’t remember the Fontenau girl. I considered sacking her at one stage because she was inclined to cause trouble among the other dancers. Anyway, I decided to leave it until Marjorie came back to work, but by then the girl had walked out.’
‘Did you happen to make a note of her date of birth, Major?’ Catto took out his pocketbook, ready to make a note.
‘Twentieth of July 1907.’
‘When was it she disappeared?’ asked Ritchie.
Craddock referred to his book again. ‘Friday, the eleventh of March,’ he replied, without hesitation.
‘You’re sure of that?’ Catto wanted to be certain. The fire at Ditton had taken place just three days later.
‘Yes,’ said Craddock. ‘It made me short of a girl for the show, and in the absence of Marjorie, I had to get the senior dancer and the band leader to revise the whole routine in the space of about an hour. I don’t know whether Celine Fontenau got a job anywhere else in the West End, but there are more unemployed showgirls in London than you can shake a stick at, Sergeant Catto.’
‘Do you happen to have an address for her, Major?’ asked Ritchie.
‘No, I’m afraid not. Even if I had, she’d probably be long gone by now.’
‘D’you know of any men friends Celine Fontenau might have had?’ Catto asked.
‘We discourage liaisons between our girls and the members, Sergeant,’ said Craddock. ‘But that said, it’s virtually impossible to prevent them meeting away from the club. A substantial tip to a waiter from a member will ensure that a discreet note is passed to one of the girls.’
‘But you don’t know of any men Celine might have been seeing, Major.’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ Craddock shook his head. ‘Sorry I can’t be more helpful. She was a flighty little piece, was that Celine, and it doesn’t really come as a surprise to hear that she’s been murdered.’
‘We don’t know it is her, Major,’ said Catto, surprised at Craddock’s ready assumption. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
Next morning, Catto and Ritchie went to the Aliens Registration Office. Although convinced that making enquiries about Celine Fontenau would lead them nowhere, it was an enquiry that had to be made, if only to avoid Hardcastle’s
wrath.
The constable manning the counter was probably fifty years of age and, as he was nearing the end of his service, had acquired a soft billet bullying foreigners who were seeking refuge in the United Kingdom. Without asking any questions, he slapped two forms on the counter.
‘Fill ’em in, and then bring ’em back along with your passports.’ The constable then made the mistake of turning his back.
‘Come back here, you, and move a bit bloody smartly,’ said Ritchie, in what Catto presumed was his best parade-ground voice.
The startled constable, taken aback by the sound of an authoritative and educated English accent, returned to the counter.
‘I’m Detective Constable Ritchie of the Whitehall Division, and this is Detective Sergeant Catto. If I were in your position, cully, and wanted to stay in that position, I’d be very careful what you say next, and that you do everything possible to assist my sergeant. Understood?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you was in the Job.’
‘You didn’t bloody well ask, did you?’ responded Ritchie.
‘I want you to show me everything you have on record for a Frenchwoman named Celine Fontenau,’ said Catto. ‘She was born in Marseilles on the twentieth of July 1907, and I want it now.’
‘Yes, Sergeant. I’ll attend to it immediately.’ The constable, now fearing that he would be back walking a beat come Monday, scurried away to do Catto’s bidding.
Once the PC had disappeared to a back office, Catto turned to Ritchie. ‘Next time, Ritchie, if there is a next time, just remember that I’m quite capable of dealing with bloody-minded constables. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.’
‘Sorry, Skip, but blokes like that make my blood boil. They let the Job down.’
Five minutes later, the PC, now an obsequious shadow of his former self, reappeared clutching an index card. ‘There’s not a great deal to help you, Sergeant. Not that I know what you’re looking for.’
The card showed that Celine Fontenau was born on the date that Major Craddock had given Catto and Ritchie. She had arrived in England on Monday the fifth of October 1925 and had registered with ARO on the twentieth of that month. Her address was a dwelling house in Balls Pond Road in Islington, North London, where she was employed as a house parlourmaid. The card also showed that she was unmarried. Attached was a photograph of an attractive blonde, but whether it was of the person whose dismembered body had been found at Ditton was open to conjecture.
‘Thank you,’ said Catto, returning the card. ‘I take it you’ve received no further information since the date she registered.’
‘No, Sergeant.’
‘So, with any luck, she’ll still be at that address,’ said Catto, musing aloud.
‘If she’s not, she’ll have committed an offence under the Aliens Registration Act of 1914, Sergeant,’ volunteered the helpful constable.
‘Bit difficult to prosecute her if you don’t know where she is,’ Ritchie pointed out. But the logic of his argument escaped the constable.
EIGHT
It was half past two when Catto and Ritchie called at the Balls Pond Road address in Islington, the details of which they had obtained from the Aliens Registration Office.
The butler who answered the door was skeletally thin, and what remained of his greying hair manifested itself as little tufts on either side of his head. But his most noticeable feature was his rounded shoulders, as though the burden of his office, or perhaps the weight of his faded morning coat, was too much for him to bear. He gazed at the two police officers as if they were strange beings who had just arrived from another world. Experience told him that they were not guests of the master and mistress, but neither did they appear to be itinerant salesmen.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Catto of the Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police, and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Ritchie.’
The butler’s attitude softened, albeit slightly. ‘I’m afraid that the master and mistress are away,’ he said, hoping that the police officers would go away, too.
‘I presume you’re the butler.’ Catto noticed that his speech was slightly slurred.
‘That is correct.’
‘In that case it’s you I wish to speak to, Mr …’
‘Parker’s my name.’
The arrival of the police wanting to speak to him appeared to have disconcerted Parker more than a little, and Catto wondered what dark secrets the man was hiding. In his experience, a butler was always fiddling something, and it was, more often than not, the wine book that recorded his master’s cellar stock. And judging by Parker’s slurred speech, he was also drinking some of it.
‘It concerns a house parlourmaid by the name of Celine Fontenau, Mr Parker.’
‘Oh, that little French trollop!’ The butler looked relieved that, after all, it was not him in whom the police were interested. ‘You’d better come in, gentlemen.’ He opened a door leading off the hall and conducted the two officers down the stairs, across the kitchen and into his pantry.
‘I take it, from your reaction, that Miss Fontenau is no longer in employment here.’
‘No, she ain’t, and good riddance, too. She got herself a job as a dancer at some Soho dive. At least, that’s what I heard she was doing, but I had my doubts about that.’
‘How did you hear that, Mr Parker?’ asked Catto.
‘We butlers stick together, Mr Catto. It’s like a secret society. Intelligence what’s likely to be useful to those of us in the profession gets passed around, see?’ Parker reached across for a bottle of sherry. ‘Fancy a drop?’ he asked, as he poured a large measure into a glass near at hand.
‘No, thanks,’ said Catto, and Ritchie shook his head. ‘When did Miss Fontenau leave here?’
‘She never left in the sense that she gave notice. She just pushed off without a word. But just to make sure, I’ll look at my day book.’ Parker moved a large leather-bound book from the edge of his desk and opened it in front of him. ‘I make a note of everything that goes on in this household,’ he explained, as he donned a pair of spectacles and began to thumb through the pages. ‘You never know when it might come in handy.’ Given that the butler appeared to be over sixty years of age, he must have made a great number of entries in his book. Perhaps he was intending to write his memoirs one day, thought Catto. ‘Here we are, gents. She started work as a house parlourmaid on the fifth of October 1925.’
‘When did she leave, then?’ asked Ritchie.
Parker turned a page and ran a finger down the entries. ‘She weren’t in her room on the second of August.’ He glanced up. ‘That’d be 1926, the August bank holiday. Just as well that the master and mistress was away at their country estate. Put me in a right two-an’-eight, being one short. I shouldn’t have been surprised, mind you; I’d had to reprimand her on more than one occasion for slovenly work. Anyway, all her stuff was gone from her room, and we never saw hide nor hair of her again. Like I said, I did hear through my contacts that she’d got herself a job as a dancer or some such thing up one of them nightclubs in the West End.’ The butler closed the book and placed a hand on it. ‘And that’s all I can tell you, gents.’
‘Did you report her missing, Mr Parker?’ asked Ritchie.
Parker laughed, although it was more of a grating cackle. ‘Not likely,’ he said. ‘They might’ve found her and brought her back.’
‘D’you know which nightclub it was that she went to?’ asked Catto.
‘No, that’s the one thing I never bothered to find out. Of course, I wasn’t much interested after she’d gone.’ To which Parker added once more, ‘Good riddance, if you ask me.’
‘What about references?’ asked Ritchie, somewhat naively.
‘I shouldn’t think getting a job as a dancer would depend on how you shaped up as a house parlourmaid, would you?’ Parker smirked. ‘Unless you’d been providing services to the master that was a bit more than dusting and polishing.’ He winked at
the two officers and drained his sherry glass before filling it up again. ‘Although …’ he began pensively.
‘Although what?’ asked Catto, sensing that Parker was about to betray what he thought was a confidence.
‘Well, I shouldn’t really say this, but I think there might have been a bit of hanky-panky between her and the master. Of course, the mistress tolerated the master’s carryings-on up to a point, but there came a limit, if you know what I mean. If the mistress and the master hadn’t both been away that weekend, I’d have thought her ladyship had given Fontenau her marching orders.’ Parker gave an expressive shrug. ‘Who’s to know, eh?’
On Saturday morning, Catto took his seat in the detectives’ room and stretched his arms above his head. ‘We’ve got two choices now, Ritchie,’ he said. ‘We can keep on doing the rounds of the nightclubs, or we can investigate this Celine Fontenau a bit more. But we might be wasting our time.’
‘Couldn’t we ask the guv’nor for advice, Skip?’ asked Ritchie.
Catto leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, his hands linked. ‘I can see you don’t know Mr Hardcastle as well as I do, Ritchie. I’ll tell you exactly what he’d say. He’d say, “You’re a sergeant, Catto. Use your initiative. It’s what you’re paid for.”’
‘But supposing you did that and it all went wrong, Skip?’
‘Then he’d want to know why we hadn’t asked him for advice in the first place. You can’t win.’
‘Well, what are we going to do?’ asked Ritchie.
‘I’m going to do something the guv’nor would never think of: I’m going to ask the press for help.’
‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed Ritchie. ‘The old man hates the press. He’ll blow his top if he finds out.’
‘Only if it doesn’t get a result,’ said Catto. ‘Anyway, he won’t find out.’
‘Well, which papers are you going to pick?’
