Chapter 55
It took Cook an hour of reconnaissance and two pints to fully establish what was going on.
The U-shaped bar was busy on all sides – thirty or forty drinkers at any one time, standing or sitting at high stools.
Young women back from a day of shopping.
Elderly matrons, watching out for the honour of said young women.
A solid number of military men – the RAF represented most strongly, but Cook saw both army and navy dress uniforms. Most of the military personnel were his age or older, careerists who presumably worked nearby at the Admiralty, the War Office, or Adastral House.
Others were young men, in town to let off steam.
Some of the young women didn’t fit in. Cook counted six in total, but he focused on two of them, on his side of the horseshoe bar.
Both were dressed in an approximation of a young heiress, but even a casual observer could tell they hadn’t got it right.
Their make-up was too loud. The colours of their clothes ever so slightly brighter than the bright young things surrounding them.
Cook wasn’t a fashion critic – he couldn’t think of an item of clothing he owned that wasn’t some variant of brown – but he knew enough to notice things that didn’t fit.
As he looked around the crowded bar, filled with soldiers, civil servants, and the great and the good from across Europe, the girls stood out.
Presumably by design. Like a colourful window display.
Cook watched a young couple standing at the bar. A pilot officer and one of the young women, leaning in, a cigarette in her mouth, so the pilot officer could light it for her.
‘Drinking alone?’ a woman’s voice disturbed Cook’s reconnaissance. Without asking for a reply, the woman took the other seat at Cook’s table. She had a drink in her hand – a large cut-glass tumbler liberally filled with whisky.
‘You don’t belong here any more than those girls do,’ she said. ‘I’ve been watching you.’
She was American, judging by her accent. It made her sound like a movie star. Cook gave his best impression of a smile, trying to hide his annoyance at being disturbed.
The woman held out her hand. ‘Eleanor Goodrich. New York Herald. How about you?’
Cook took her hand. They shook.
‘Douglas Jardine,’ he said. Jardine had captained England’s cricket team, brought home the Ashes from Australia. Goodrich seemed unaware, and Cook immediately felt guilty for making her seem foolish in his eyes.
Cook wasn’t sure he’d ever met a real journalist, let alone an American one.
Eleanor Goodrich was dressed like she was ready for an expedition.
White linen shirt, khaki waistcoat, liberally supplied with pockets.
He couldn’t see below the table and hadn’t been watching when she’d sat down, but he guessed she’d be wearing khaki trousers and desert boots.
‘Who do you write for?’ she asked. ‘I’m open to collaborations, but only if I get the lead byline.’
‘What do you think the story is?’ Cook asked.
‘So there is a story.’ She smiled. She looked across the crowded room to the bar.
‘You’ve been pretty focused on the bar,’ she said. ‘I thought at first you were eyeing up those working girls, choosing which one you wanted. But you don’t need to sit all the way over here to do that. Most of the men who’ve come in to pick up a girl dive straight in, from what I’ve seen.’
‘How does it work?’ Cook asked. ‘I presume a man doesn’t simply walk up to the girl and ask the going rate?’
Eleanor cocked her head, reassessing the man in front of her.
‘You tell the bartender you’re interested in some company,’ she said.
‘He’s the go-between. A veneer of decency if you will.
You pay him for an expensive drink that never gets delivered, then you go to your room.
A few minutes later, one of the girls follows you, and Bob’s your uncle.
They call them the Hyde Park Harriers, apparently. The girls, that is.’
They both watched. Another airman was in close conversation with the barman. A pound note changed hands.
‘What kind of stories do you write?’ he asked.
‘Human interest,’ she said. ‘What it’s like to live in London. The blackout. The bombs.’
‘You won’t see much of that in here,’ Cook said.
‘London’s a drain,’ the woman said. ‘Everyone in Europe ends up getting sucked in, and everyone who ends up in London ends up here.’
‘You should be careful,’ Cook said. ‘I’d imagine if you hang around places like this talking to strangers, people might think you’re a spy.’
‘I’m not a spy, I’m an American. We’re neutral.’
‘So how do you go about getting information for your stories?’ Cook asked. ‘You just walk up to them and start asking questions?’
‘In fairness it usually works better than this,’ she said.
Cook nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a girl. Her name’s Ruby. She’s missing and her family are worried. Thought I’d ask around.’
‘I’d say you need to talk to one of the girls at the bar,’ Eleanor said, ‘instead of skulking back here. One of the things I’ve learnt in my line of work – if you don’t ask questions, you don’t get answers.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Cook said.
‘How much money have you got on you?’ she asked. ‘They won’t talk for nothing, they’ve got jobs to do. You’d be better off hiring one of them, but they’re not cheap. Two pounds for half an hour, from what I heard. And you’ll need a room here. Do you have one?’
Cook didn’t answer. He was beginning to regret telling her what he was doing.
‘I’ll get you one,’ she said, looking at the girls at the bar. ‘Which one do you want?’
‘No need.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘You’re paying, by the way, but I’ll do the awkward bit.’
She got up, excited by her mission. Cook put his hand on hers, firmer than politeness would allow.
‘Really,’ Cook said. ‘No need.’ He put an edge into his voice.
She took her hand back and stared at him, flushing pink.
‘Just trying to be helpful,’ she said, backing away.