Wimbledon Members' Dining Hall

INTRO

Documenting my seven backpacking trips to the Wimbledon Tournament hooked me on the writing craft and I started writing fiction. In my mystery "N'Awlins Confidential," I fictionalized what breakfast might be like at the Members' Dining Hall. It seems someone is killing past Wimbledon Champions. One was killed last year and Scotland Yard fears a repeat murder this year. Though the case is none of my PI Hackney McTrite's business, he can't stay out of it. He meets with Inspector Edward Whitney of the Yard and past Champion Jim Tisdelle, the likely candidate to be murdered, to discuss the problem.

Meeting in Member’s Dinning Hall

Pampered doesn't quite describe how members of The All England Club are treated: perhaps mollycoddled. One glance around the Members' Dining Room proved it. The walls were appropriately decorated with framed pictures of great players from the past. Fine linen’…anything other than Irish…covered tables set with sterling silver cutlery and sparkling Royal Doulton china. We drank from Waterford crystal glasses that the reflecting light off the facets seemed to place a minuscule galaxy within our reach. Twelve attractive waitresses fluttered about, catering to whims of the affluent posed on overstuffed chairs.

They sat with wives and friends chatting and emoting. Laughter was politely subdued. Men dressed in white pants and solid colored blazers, with gold buttons and silk shirts. Wives and girl friends looked like they had just stepped off a Paris fashion runway. Glittering jewelry adorned all the appropriate places.

Last year I'd been commingled with two English couples of local gentry at Wimbledon's Long Bar. The crowded conditions had brought it about. So, I knew they were a trifle standoffish. They will sit forever without acknowledging your presence. However, knowing the English as I do, I don't think it's snobbery. They simply respect the privacy of others. If you initiate a conversation, they'll talk without looking down their noses, even if you wear tennis apparel and need a shave, which had been my situation. Once their shyness has been penetrated, they become warm and friendly. The English culture has elements of politeness that may be unique. Everyone treats each other with respect and dignity.

We'd just engorged a breakfast made in heaven. I drank my third café au lait. The others sipped an aromatic tea that Inspector Whitney dubbed Essence. We'd been waited on hand and foot, and I'd relished the pampering.

Tisdelle, Edward and I sat with a distinguished English gentleman of seventy introduced as Illustrious Sir R.A.A. Presley, no kin of Elvis I was certain. One swivel of his old pelvis would put him on the floor. Caring not to call him Sir R.A.A or R.A.A or Sir Presley, I decided to address him as Mister Presley. Actually, he intimidated me with his innate arrogance, and I was too apathetic to ask him what R.A.A stood for.

He was Secretary of The Lawn Tennis Association. The big wig I'd hoped to meet at the Museum and failed to connect. When we first sat down for breakfast, he'd complained he was peckish. I'd surmised that was slang for lost of appetite. And then he baffled me when he ordered three soft poached eggs on buttered rye, hash browns, and a double order of English bacon.

Champion Tisdelle, pushing seventy, stood six feet. His shoulders paralleled the polished wood floor; however, a slight portion of his proud chest had descended, forming the small potbelly that spoke of his love for excess. He wasn't just a champion; he was a British subject who'd won the most prestigious Grand Slam Tournament in the world. That said, he was a handsome chap, which was the reason why, I suppose, he'd been married three times. I wasn't hard over for an explanation, but quite possibly, he suffered from some testosterone deficiency. Well, quite possibly his age had something to do with it.

I entertained an unusual surmise, considering I was as heterosexual as Errol Flynn was, which I readily related with. I doubt if the poor devil's had a wet dream in months: an erection in a year. An orgasm might be out of the question.

But a flare radiated from him that suggested he'd been a gay Cavalier in his day: gay in the romantic sense. Perhaps, the way he gawked at our waitress was the flare. Mind you, her feminine endowments were superb. And being brutally honest, his exposed skin looked like a well-worn saddle and was a charbroiled darkish brown. Several blotches on his face smacked of skin cancer. I knew he still played frequently and in the hot sun. Foolish that.

I wiped my mouth and said tactfully, "Jim, what kind of a man was Pete Singleton?" (Singleton the suspect killer)

Jim was rich now, but you can't make a silk wallet out of a sow's belly. He answered in his blue-collar English. "Friendly, outgoing, and fun loving. He worshipped the gentler sex. Didn't have much time for men. I was probably as close to him as anyone. At least until I kicked his ass thoroughly in the finals. He'd been out with Millie the night before. He'd probably banged her two or three times."

I noticed R.A.A. grimace. His mouth gathered flies. "Banged, as in intercourse?" I mumbled, covering a smile.

"No! More like fornication." R.A.A. grimaced again and his face turned red.

"Did Millie have a last name?" I asked.

"Yes, Mink. No, I'm being facetious. Smoot."

R.A.A covered a smile. The levity went over Inspector Whitney's head, and I pressed my lips together.

"Where did she live?"

"She had a flat in Wimbledon Village. I can't remember where anymore."

"How close were they?"

"He was inside her constantly." He chortled vulgarly. R.A.A. emoted again. "Actually, he was crazy about her."

"How did he feel about his own family?"

"I don't think he cared for his wife. He was always demeaning her. She was frigid as a nude Eskimo sitting on a snow bank, to hear him tell it."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"The day he lost his fourth final. I met him in the men's locker room. He steamed. He sat on a bench naked as a plucked chicken, using expletives and calling the man in the tall chair every four-letter word he could think of. He felt cheated. I tried to console him, but he scoffed at me, and I left him alone. I understood his feelings. I'd been a runner up once."

"Where are you staying Jim?"

"A B&B on Church Road."

"That's convenient."

"Yes, quite."

"What's the telephone number?"

He told me.

"Edward, I don't have any more questions. It's your turn."

Edward informed Tisdelle of the measures the Yard had taken to keep him safe. One man was to be with him at all times. And two men would be posted at his place of residence: one inside and one outside. I felt certain he would be safe. Then, I wasn't so sure after regarding Inspector Whitney closely and remembering his ineptitude.

I listened and finally said, "Excuse me chaps I have work to do."

As I traversed the length of the room ignoring eyes that studied, weighed, and judged without pretense, I had thoughts. So, I finally met up with Sir R.A.A. Presley, the big wig I'd tried to meet before but couldn't connect with, and I didn't ask the man one damn question. Not even if I could get in touch with him later. How dumb can one be? I'm sure he has the say about the people who are offered discretionary reserved tickets

I hurried from the grounds and headed for The Bistro, a smokey little French café that served the best cappuccino in Europe. Maybe the roach droppings added the unique flavor. And they have a pubic phone. Yes, hairs grow out of the speaking end. I always covered the entire phone with my handkerchief. Rather absurd, considering I'd return to my table and finish my cappuccino, and then have another. I really wanted to get my hands on a phone directory of Wimbledon Village. I walked a block on Somerset Road and turned right on Marryat Road, which climbs four feet every ten feet forward, a stairway to the stars.

I was feeling like leaning against a building and catching my breath by the time I reached High Street. It was worse than that. I wanted to flop on my butt and sit a spell. I still had four squares to traipse. Three pubs stood along the way, and I wondered if I had the willpower to cruise passed them. I held my nose and marched dauntlessly towards The Bistro. A group riding horses clopped by, and I was glad I held my nose. Where are the clowns when you need them? Traffic was light. Pedestrian traffic was even lighter. The sun showed brilliantly over the Commons. I knew that wouldn't last. As soon as the tournament started, rain clouds would appear to spoil the fun.

Pleased to espy a table available on the sidewalk, I found keys in my pocket and placed them on the table to claim possession. I went inside to order a cappuccino.

She was attractive in a plump sort of way. A fine head of black curls, touching her shoulder blades, framed a charming face endowed with sensual lips and alluring brown discs. I could handle all of that and not miss a beat, but her décolleté dress sent me reeling…visions of the Grand Canyon. "What would you like, monsieur?" she asked, sounding olé olé.

"Large cappuccino. Is there a telephone directory for Wimbledon Village around?"

"Oui, Monsieur. It's in the entrance to the men's room. Ah! You would like to peruse it sitting? I'll give you the proprietor's directory. Please don't flee with it." She exuded vivaciousness French to the quick.

"Do I look the type?"

"No, Monsieur. I jest."

She handed me the directory. I did a circus act getting the café and directory to the table on the sidewalk. I sat. I sipped the cappuccino and got whipped cream on my upper lip. I could only imagine what someone might think as I licked it off with my tongue. Then, I heard a horn blow. I glanced to the street. She, the dishwater blonde, waved. I waved back. And then I noticed some handsome young man walking my way. Well, you can't be right all of the time, I thought.

I started thumbing through the S pages. Surprisingly, I found two Millie Smoots. One lived on Saint Mary's Road. I ruled her out immediately. I took a sip of cappuccino and made a beeline for the public phone inside, thinking about how to approach Millie without flushing the covey.

Nothing clever entered my cerebrum. I reached the phone and dialed. On the second ring, I heard an older woman's voice. "Millie Smoot speaking."

I put forth my best Oxford accent. "Mmm! Smoot! Actually, I was ringing for Mister Singleton."

"Who's calling?"

"Sir R.A.A Presley. I'm Secretary of The Lawn Tennis Association.

"Pete's not in at the moment, sir. Could he call you?"

"Thank you, but I would prefer to ring back."

"Click!"

I felt like a master criminologist returning to my table. I was the personification of Sherlock Holmes with a smidgen of Doctor Watson sprinkled in. In one interview and one telephone call, I'd discovered where the alleged culprit lived. What I couldn't fathom is why he hadn't changed his name. Maybe his wife was pleased to be rid of him.

I repeated the address several times out loud. "Seven sixty nine Vineyard Hill Road. Seven sixty nine Vineyard Hill Road." Now, I remembered that it ran off of Leopold Road. I'd stayed in a Bed and Breakfast close by last year. It was less than two miles away. I felt a chill, realizing a cold-blooded killer lurked nearby.

I scolded my morbid imagination and thought of pleasant pursuits, like Centre Court. Now, I felt relaxed for the first time in days, and then I saw Ralph Shaw (He’s a character that’s escaped the police) ducking into The Fox and Hound. My biorhythm doubled…then tripled. The dark glasses and French chapeau he wore hadn't fooled me for one second. I'd seen that face a hundred times in cold-sweat nightmares. I slugged down the cappuccino. I rushed for the public phone. I dialed the Yard.

"BRrring!"

…

"I'd like to speak to Inspector Whitney. Please make it snappy."

…

"Yes, it's a critical situation. I've spotted an escaped criminal."

…

"Thank you."

"Inspector Whitney here."

"Edward, Ralph Shaw just went into The Fox and Hound."

"Egad!" He exclaimed. "That's a doodle."

"Shit, Edward, we have a crisis on our hands and you're talking in nursery rhymes. What the hell are we going to do?"

"Are you armed, Hackney?"

"Not no but hell no. My thirty-eight rests in my rental, which is parked in front of my Bed and Breakfast. Don't you blokes have Bobbies with big sticks in Wimbledon Village? Anyway, he's not my problem. The man's meaner than a drunken alligator with rotten teeth. I'm not about to take him on unarmed. He's probably carrying a knife one-foot long."

"Watch him. Follow him if he leaves. I'll call the Village police and have them apprehend him. A one-foot-long knife's no match for a three-foot long night stick."

"Wonderful."

"Where are you?"

"The Bistro half a block away. Shit man, hang up and call."

"Relax McTrite. No one goes into a pub and stays less than an hour. And then there are those Irish pubs. They come and are pulled out by their feet at closing time."

"Whatever."

"Click!"

"I was as nervous as kitten up a tree. I kept my eyes glued on the entrance. One minute passed. Two minutes. Now five minutes. No sign of a cop. Ten minutes died a nervous, begrudging death.

The door opened. Ralph darted out, crossed High Street quickly, and entered a gray Jaguar. Ten seconds later, he glided away like a pirate ship in the night. Despondency crept over me like a closing crypt. I wondered what he'd learned inside. I still have that homicidal maniac to sweat. The demonic phrase kept bouncing around in my head like a squash ball. Damn, Edward is about as nifty as a gravedigger with shingles. I wanted to strangle him.

Now, the Village cops arrived. Surprise! Surprise! I alighted and went inside steaming. Instead, my frustration turned to lust when the French girl wiggled her tongue at me. I supposed she'd been turned on by the generous tip I'd proffered earlier.

I ordered another cappuccino and returned to the sidewalk. I thought about calling Edward, but I figured he was on his way by now if he hadn't wrecked or forgot where he'd parked. I decided then that I wouldn't tell him about Millie Smoot and the elusive four-time runner up. Given half a chance he'd screw up the ploy royally.

Sure enough, Edward showed up twenty minutes later. The Black Maria, with the foot soldiers, continued to The Fox and Hound and parked out front lights flashing like a Christmas tree. Two cop with nightsticks dashed for the pub entrance. Inside, I could imagine the startled looks on customers' faces.

Edward parked his small police car on the curb, placed a blue flashing light on the roof, and alighted. I wanted to run and play hide-and-go-seek. I gave him a smoldering look. "You guys have defecated in your hats again. Shaw hauled ass fifteen minutes ago."

"Bugger-all. I'm not in the mood for an argy-bargy, McTrite."

"Neither am I, Whitney. I just hate knowing that maniac's loose. He doesn't like me you know."

"Yes, I know. If he were there just fifteen minutes, we didn't have a chance to begin with. We never can get the troops out that fast. If it was tea-time, it'd taken an hour. We exist in reality not a Clancy novel."

"Right, I understand."

"I have a request to make. Could you come by the Yard before you go home and sign a deposition? In that way, you won't need to come back. My superior suggested it."

"Certainly, Edward. I'm sorry I was short fused."

"Ah, the business is frustrating. We'll get him and soon. What did he drive away in?"

"A gray jaguar."

"Stolen I'm sure. I'll call the yard and put an all points out on him. I go now. I hope we meet again, Hackney. You're a resourceful detective. I think I could learn a great deal from you. Thanks ever so much. Enjoy Wimbledon. I think you'll like my son. Ta! Ta!"

"Goodbye, Edward."

I couldn't believe I'd risen to my feet and was strolling towards The Fox and Hound. My curiosity had overwhelmed me. I had to know what questions he'd asked Mary.

She talked to the same handsome rugby star when I entered. She broke away and came my way. I shouted, "Just a glass of water, Mary. I only want to ask several questions."

She obliged and set the water near. I drank and set the glass on the bar. I summed up her looks and said, "Has someone been in asking about William?"

"Yes. There was a chap in here thirty minutes ago. He asked if William was around. I told him he was away. Then he asked about you. I told him I thought you'd gone home. He had a quick half-pint and left. Shortly after that, two cops looking rather official appeared. I assumed they might've been looking for the man. Five minutes later, another bloke appeared and talked to the two Bobbies. Then, they all buggered off. A tempest in a teapot, I'd say."

"Well, not exactly. The man was Ralph Shaw. He's William's Uncle. He's the one who tried to end William's life prematurely last year."

"Coo! Blimey! He's the jailbird who just escaped?"

"Yes, Mary. You talked to a killer."

"He didn't look like a killer."

"They never do."

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