“Time to plan what we’re going to do to find this Lizzie Spence.”
“Had an idea about that,” said Kat.
“Yes, I thought you would.”
“We have the photo. Your West End isn’t far from here?”
“A brisk walk, but, yes, Leicester Square, Piccadilly… all relatively close.”
“We go to the theatres, ask around. Show the photo.”
“Lot of people to ask. Lot of theatres.”
“Worth trying, no?”
“Absolutely. We can grab a bite to eat on the way at the Lyons Corner House on Shaftesbury Avenue.”
“Corner House? Sounds very exotic.”
“Oh, believe me it is. An English institution. Five floors of goodies. Meanwhile, I’ll ring up Alfie – you remember, my old batman from my flying days? Get him to meet us this evening. There’s a grand pub in that area, near St Martin’s. The Lamb and Flag.”
“Think he can help?”
“Here’s the thing about Alfie. You see, he’s been on both sides of the constabulary. Knows people. And he knows people who know people. Be good to see if he can ask around.” Harry nodded. “London, as you may get to see, has a bit of underbelly here and there.”
“Surely not here in Bloomsbury?”
“Well, we are far from the days of old Jack the Ripper and the shady ladies of the Ten Bells Pub. But not too far.”
“Interesting.”
“But first, I want to call this Grosvenor Talent Agency,” he said, taking out the card that Pleasance had given him.
“What are you thinking?”
“Talent agency, worked with Pleasance, and therefore probably the esteemed Madame de Souza too. Let’s see what Mr Grosvenor recalls.”
Harry shot a glance to a side table by the love seat that faced the fireplace – on it, a very modern-looking telephone.
“With a bit of luck, that new-fangled device is up and running.”
He strode over, picked it up and listened for a dial tone.
“No need to go through the operator – apparently,” he said. “Just dial the number yourself.”
“Amazing,” said Kat. “What will they think of next?”
“Indeed,” said Harry. “Think we’ll have to wait a few years before Mydworth has one of these!”
And he started dialling.
5. Walking the West End
Kat looked at Harry, as he finished dialling the number from the card in his other hand.
His face showing – so far – no one was answering.
Then, his eyes widened.
“Is this the Grosvenor Talent Agency? Good. Excellent. Like to speak with Cedric Grosvenor. Um, no, he wouldn’t necessarily know me. But I think, well, it’s something that pertains to his business.”
Harry grinned at her as he lied to the receptionist at the other end.
“Splendid.”
He lowered the receiver and covered the mouthpiece.
“Amazing what a bit of persistence can do.”
*
The receiver back to his ear, Harry looked out of the nearby windows.
“Why yes, Mr Grosvenor? Sir Harry Mortimer here. Yes, um, I was given your card by a mutual acquaintance.”
“Yes, Sir Harry, how can be of assistance?
“You see, well my wife – Lady Mortimer – and I are looking into the matter of a young woman who has vanished.”
Harry let the statement hang a bit. Hard to gauge Cedric Grosvenor’s reaction to the question without seeing his expression.
“Vanished? Dear me, how distressing.”
“Exactly. The girl’s mother? So very upset. Distraught, one might say.”
Kat had walked beside him. Leaned close, so – he guessed – she could pick up some of Grosvenor’s response.
“I can imagine. But – um, Sir Harry – how can we at the Grosvenor Agency help you in this matter?”
Harry saw Kat nod. A slight tilt of the head, signalling – go on. Press the man hard.
“Now, the young lady in question came up to the Big City a few weeks back, seeking fame and fortune. Dancer, you see.”
“Ah, a familiar story, Sir Harry.”
“Oh really?”
“It is a sad fact of life, sir, that as theatrical agents we are often importuned by such hopeful, yet naïve, young women.”
“I can only imagine. And when that happens…?”
“We inform their parents – and there the matter ends.” Grosvenor cleared his throat. “Usually.”
“I’m sure the parents appreciate it.”
“Invariably, they do. Tell you what, Sir Harry. If you can furnish me with a name, I would be happy to pass it around among my acquaintances in the theatrical world? Make some discreet enquiries for you?”
“Oh, very kind of you, Mr Grosvenor. Her name… Lizzie Spence.”
“Lizzie Spence,” said Grosvenor slowly, as if writing it down.
“Doesn’t ring a bell?” said Harry.
“No, I’m afraid not. Is there a special reason why it should?”
“Apparently Lizzie studied dance with a ‘Constanza de Souza’, who appears to be an associate of one of your employees, one Oliver Pleasance.”
A gamble, that statement, Harry knew.
“Ah. Mr Pleasance. Not actually an employee, I must make that very clear.”
“But you know him?”
“To my cost,” said Grosvenor. “Chap’s a bit of a ‘stringer’, you know. Always has some kind of little scam under way. Let me guess – he gave you the impression he can get girls work in the West End, eh?”
“That he did.”
A long pause.
“And mentioned my name?”
“Correct again.”
“Dammit. Stuff and nonsense, I’m afraid. Doesn’t work like that – and I shall take Pleasance to task for that liberty if he ever dares show his face in my office.”
“Ah, I see. Well. Perhaps, as you say, you could pass the name around. Lizzie Spence.”
“Absolutely. Dreadful situation, I’m sure.”
Again, Harry paused. Grosvenor sounded genuine.
Then he looked at Kat’s eyes. If suspicion could change eye colour, it was doing exactly that right now.
“Is that all, Sir Harry?” said Grosvenor. “I have clients I must attend to. I’m sorry. Good luck with your endeavours.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr Grosvenor.”
Harry shot a grin at Kat.
“If we have any questions, you can be sure I’ll ring you back.”
To which Grosvenor gave a simple, “Absolutely. Any time. Pleasure talking to you.”
Harry put the receiver down and shrugged.
“Dead end,” he said. Then he saw the suspicion still in her eyes. “You don’t think?”
“He sounded very helpful, that’s for sure. But isn’t it funny that he didn’t feel the need to ask for any information about Lizzie. Age? Looks? Dancer? Actress?”
“God – you’re right. As if he knew the answers already?”
“Just a theory.”
“I always like your theories,” said Harry.
“Also, tell you another thing, I have never, ever, met a guy I liked with the name ‘Cedric’.”
“Really?” said Harry, smiling. “Well that seals it then, doesn’t it? Let’s give it a day, see what the word is on the street about Cedric Grosvenor, and then maybe go pay him a visit.”
“Face to face. Yes, great,” said Kat. “Now – lunch?”
“Spot on!”
*
Four hours later, just off Drury Lane, down a narrow alleyway, Kat stood close to the stage door of the Gaiety Theatre.
She saw Harry check his watch.
“We’re due to meet Alfie in a bit.”
“Last one on the list, Harry.”
“Good. This going from theatre to theatre… hasn’t been a roaring success, has it?”
She and Harry had been speaking to whomever they could roust in
the theatres to come and speak with them, just hours away from evening performances.
“Batting zero,” she told Harry. An expression, the derivation of which she had to explain. “Baseball,” she had said. “And the batter keeps missing.”
At that, the stage door popped open as if wedged too tight in its frame. Kat almost didn’t see the man who had just effected the opening: short, squat, a chuck of cigar wedged in his mouth, and cloth cap on his head.
“What yers want? The girl at the ticket office… she says it was important. Tell you two what’s ‘urgent’… getting that bloody show running inside this outdated barn!”
The Gaiety, Kat had noted from the marquee outside, was featuring a show dubbed the “London Follies”.
The star names in bold meant nothing to Kat, but below the title performers, the “Follies” promised “Dancing! Singing! Romance and Adventure!”
No sparing of the exclamation marks there.
“Are you the stage manager?” she said to the squat man.
He rolled his bulbous head at that question as if either it was obvious or totally wrong.
Take your pick.
“This show… this outfit? Big hit – but you know what? Everyone still does a bit of everything.”
Having had similar conversations as they traipsed around the West End, Kat wasted no time.
“We’re looking for a girl. She came to London, looking for work – to perform – and has gone missing.”
At that, with the photo extended in his direction, the stage manager took off his cap, rubbed his hand through the few wisps of hair that still remained and, as if necessary, for what was to follow, removed the cigar stub from his mouth.
But before speaking, he did lean close, and stare at the picture.
“Pretty one. Got nice eyes. But then—” he looked up to Kat, and then Harry, “don’t they all.”
Harry cleared his throat. “But the point is Mr…”
“Coyne.”
“Mr Coyne, have you seen her? Auditioning, or—”
Now the hat went back on his head, a signal perhaps. Dialogue over. The cigar, still thankfully unlit, also popped back in.
“No. And I tell you what. You seem like a nice couple. Maybe take in a show yerselves from time to time, eh? Even if I did see her, right? What are the odds I’d remember? So many girls, come here, like… er… what are them insects?”
“Moths?” Kat guessed.
“Yeah. Them things. They go right to the flame, don’t they? And some of them…”
He left the rest of the sentence unfinished.
“Another look,” Kat suggested.
And though Stage Manager Coyne probably wanted to get back to the pre-show mayhem inside the theatre, he took a moment, looking Kat right in the eye. “Yer worried, eh? I’ll tell you this: from what I know – the things that happen – well, you got good reason to be.”
And, at that, he leaned close and took one more look, the slow shake of his head not without a hint of remorse. “Good luck. Here,” a look around the alleyway signifying the great city they were in, “you’re going to need it.”
And at that, the great metal stage door slammed shut behind the man.
6. A Pint with Alfie
Kat and Harry walked slowly away from the Strand; that wide street easily rivalling the bustle, if not the expanse, of Broadway. Though for Kat, walking around here was all rather disorienting. Compared to the orderly grid that was Midtown Manhattan, these streets of London seemed purposely designed to resemble a maze.
“All this,” she said, feeling a bit defeated, “going to the theatres? Seems kinda pointless.”
Harry didn’t answer right away, just took her hand and they walked.
She looked down at the cobblestones below them. At one point they had to dodge a place where someone’s horse had relieved itself, the results left to sit there until the rain – or street cleaners maybe – would swipe it away.
Now crossing Bow Street, she saw cars and pedestrians going back and forth, the flow looking confused and random. Some heading to pubs, she guessed, some home. Some ready for a show, dinner.
“Tell you what, Kat. After we have our chat with Alfie, how about” – his hand linked to hers – “we head over to the Berkeley?”
“Berkeley?”
“Hotel on Piccadilly. Smashing place for a cocktail and – if we can get a table – quite a passable dinner. Discuss what exactly we’re doing here.”
“If anything.”
Harry nodded at that.
“Sorry, Harry. Feeling a tad overwhelmed. First day in London, wandering around, asking questions.”
“And getting nowhere?”
“That’s what it feels like,” she said. “Meanwhile – somewhere out there, on one of these streets, is Lizzie Spence. Alone maybe. In trouble? Lost?”
Harry stopped, put his hands gently on her shoulders, and for a few seconds the hubbub and the jostling crowds seemed to disappear.
“We’ll find her, Kat. We will.”
She looked at his face and felt her own confidence lift again. She smiled.
“You’re right,” she said. “We will.”
He took her hand again, and they headed off.
As they crossed another busy street, she and Harry joined the throng bristling left and right. Men in sharp suits and perfectly creased hats. Workers shuffling by with boxes of tools. Drivers trying out the horns on their new cars, as if a steady stream of gooselike honks would make the traffic go faster.
As they walked.
“Traffic wasn’t like this when I was here last,” he said.
“There will come a day when all these streets have stop lights.”
“Well, by then – pied-à-terre or no pied-à-terre – I hope for us to be in the sunny hills of Provence, maybe growing our own grapes.”
“Making our own wine?”
“Who knows? Anything’s possible. And with you beside me to help…”
And Kat laughed. When she was feeling a little low – like now, with their zero results – he had such a great knack of helping her just shake it off.
She had to remember to do the same for him when the time came.
“Ah, here we are,” Harry said, suddenly whisking her off the main street and down another mysterious cobbled lane.
Ahead she could see the lights of a pub – from the sound of it, a busy one.
“The famous – nay, infamous – Lamb and Flag,” said Harry. “Prepare yourself to meet dear old Alfie.”
*
Harry spotted Alfie immediately, though the smoke-filled pub was jammed. Not ideal for a quiet chat.
“There he is. Corner table, and using his infamous ‘glower’ to keep those two seats safe from the horde.”
Harry sliced his way through the crowd, pints and cigarettes in their hands, a gauntlet of the six o’clock hour in one of London’s best.
Closer, and Alfie looked up, his pug-like face broadening into a smile.
He looked back at Kat who trailed only inches behind him.
Whatever will she make of this man, rough edges and all? Harry thought.
In moments, he’d know.
*
“Harry,” Alfie said, standing, not on his account, Harry knew – they were way past any “Sir” formalities – but certainly, for Kat.
“Alfie, my friend, may I present to you my wife, Lady Mortimer—”
But Kat wasted no time cutting him off, taking a chair, and Alfie’s hand.
“Kat will do just fine,” she said with a big smile. “Pleased to meet you, Alfie.”
Alfie shot a look, grinning to Harry.
At the smile, the accent? he wondered.
And Harry had to remember exactly where Kat came from.
Having helped her dad run the Lucky Shamrock in the Bronx – right on Broadway, as the great road trailed its way into the countryside – no question she’d be totally comfortable here.
“What are we drinking?” Alfie s
aid.
Harry remained standing.
“If I can fight my way back to the bar, three pints of mild?”
And, as if they were lifelong chums, Alfie and Kat looked up, all smiles, nodding.
*
Kat took a sip of her warm beer (still getting used to that) and studied Alfie as he talked.
Office worker’s suit, shirt and tie – faded, but clean. Creases where they should be.
But she could sense that Alfie wasn’t quite at ease in such clothes.
Hands like baseball mitts. Face with deep folds and pouches. A man who liked his drink. With that ruddy face, and the hands, you could see he did his share of hard work.
His shoulders and neck, pretty densely packed with muscle.
Tough character, she decided.
One that Harry trusted completely.
He had told her how Alfie had served with him in the war in France, watched his back as both of them got out of some dangerous scrapes together.
Then, after the war, Alfie had apparently fallen on hard times and paid for some bad choices with a prison stretch. When they reunited after a few years, Harry had helped him get a steady job.
But, as Harry had said, with Alfie’s “connections”, nobody knew what was happening in London better than he did.
She watched as he took a big draught of his pint, wiping his lips and bristly moustache afterwards.
“So, Harry, glad you’re back in old Blighty. But you said you needed my help?”
“Do believe so, old chum. Kat…”
At that, Kat pulled out the photo of Lizzie Spence and slid it to Alfie, while Harry told him of the girl running away, and disappearing in London.
*
Kat saw that Alfie held the photo carefully, as if the small black and white image was fragile.
“Bad show,” he said, his eyes going from her, then to Harry. “Not that uncommon, these days. The things that get into the heads of young people. And the two of you? Trying to help?”
Harry nodded, then the slightest glance to Kat.
“What we were hoping, Alfie, was that you might ask around. Maybe your, um, mates, people you know? See if they have any idea where such a girl might end up?”
Alfie’s face was grim, taking the task seriously.
“Okay. You know, Harry – and you too, Kat – I’d do anything to help.” He gave the photo a gentle wave. “You say you’ve checked out all the big theatres?”
Mydworth Mysteries--London Calling! Page 4
