The Sunday Gentleman (41 page)

Before leaving London, I began to research the agony column, questioning the oldest employees of
The Times
and spending hours poring over back editions of the newspaper. Later, in Los Angeles, in 1948, I wrote my story of the world’s foremost Personal column. I wrote about it for pleasure, as one writes about an unusual hobby like collecting porcelain buttons or locks of human hair or epitaphs on tombstones. I then filed away my precious story, awaiting some future time when the immediate postwar tensions and the atmosphere of all-work-and-no-play would be supplanted by a new era of leisure and well-being. While preparing this book, I decided that such a day had dawned. Many Americans who sought escape from the harsher aspects of life, who wanted mental diversion and fleeting peace of mind, were turning more feverishly to crossword puzzles, Double-Crostics, mathematical games, and James Bond. Surely these were the ones to be reminded of the stimulations, challenges, amusements, and ultimate contentment available to them every day through their local Personal columns, heirs to the honored agony column of
The Times
of London.

As a matter of fact, in recent years I have found that more and more Americans are reading, and later, reciting their favorite items from, the Personal columns of their own favorite newspaper. Every so often, lately, I find myself reading a newspaper report or feature about a Personal advertisement in some other city that has led to the arrest of a criminal, the reunion of a long-separated family, the location of a missing heir, the exposure of an espionage ring, or the beginning of an exotic adventure.

In October of 1962, the Hearst newspaper chain carried the story of a Personal advertisement that had appeared in the San Francisco
Examiner
six months earlier, and which had led to a denouement that few authors of fiction could equal, let alone improve upon, in their most fertile imaginings.

The circumstances that fostered this dramatic Personal advertisement were these: In 1954, an elderly antique dealer named Clarke was found dead in his shop. He had been tortured, then slashed to death. In his shop were also found two ornate swords bearing bloody fingerprints. In 1960, the Federal Bureau of Investigation came across fingerprints of a steel-worker named Robert Lee Kidd, who was living in Gary, Indiana. His fingerprints matched those on the swords in the shop where the antique dealer had been murdered six years before.

The authorities learned that Kidd, a former sailor, and a heavy drinker, and his devoted wife, Gladys, had lived in San Francisco at the time of the crime. A year later, they had moved to Gary, where Kidd found steady employment and settled down. Kidd was charged with the murder, brought back to California for trial, tried, found guilty, and sentenced to the gas chamber. After the state Supreme Court reversed the verdict on a technicality, a second trial was held. This resulted in a hung jury. When a third trial was scheduled, Gladys Kidd, by now totally impoverished, passionately certain of her husband’s innocence, became desperate. What she wanted was a topflight criminal lawyer, who believed in her husband’s innocence as firmly as she did. Without knowledge of such an attorney, or funds to hire him if she found him, she wondered what could be done for her mate. The critical trial was only eight weeks off. At almost the last minute, she struck upon the idea of inserting a brief advertisement in the Personal column of the San Francisco
Examiner
.

Gladys Kidd wrote her ad, paid for it, and in the normal process of events it appeared in the classified section of May 2, 1962:

I don’t want my husband to die in the gas chamber for a crime he did not commit. I will therefore offer my services for 10 years as a cook, maid or housekeeper to any leading attorney who will defend him and bring about his vindication. 522 Hayes St UN 3-9799.

The drama inherent in the routinely printed advertisement sent Gladys Kidd’s plea and offer vaulting onto front pages of newspapers throughout the country. Five prominent attorneys immediately came forward and offered to serve her. She selected Vincent Hallinan, one of the most gifted and colorful attorneys in San Francisco, a city filled with great lawyers. Hallinan set out to prove that Kidd was a decent human being, and at the same time to imply that the police had done a poor job of investigation and to cover up their failure had built a shaky case against Kidd.

In the third trial, the defense attorney interrogated a University of California criminologist, who stated that neither of the swords in the victim’s antique shop had been employed as the murder weapon. Kidd’s attorney then interrogated an antique specialist, to show that such swords were sold, bought, resold frequently, and the same ones turned up in shop after shop. Finally, the attorney interrogated Kidd himself, and revealed that Kidd and a friend had often browsed through San Francisco antique shops, and had once visited a shop where they had come upon these same swords, picked them up, and engaged in a playful duel during which Kidd’s fingers were cut, which accounted for his bloodstained prints. Apparently, the weapons had found their way to Clarke’s shop, although Clarke had not been murdered with either weapon. The jury deliberated, and after eleven hours announced that Kidd was not guilty. But when it was time for payment, attorney Hallinan declined to accept Gladys Kidd’s offer of ten years’ bondage.

Once again, a Personal column had served not only dreamers—but justice.

Yet, it is unlikely that this Personal column, or any others in America or the rest of the world, would have existed to serve people like the Kidds had not the agony column of the London
Times
made such advertisements fashionable and popular.

Recently, I wondered if the situation of the original agony column, and the rules under which the column was conducted, had been altered in any way during the seventeen years since I had written about it. I made inquiries of the managers of
The Times
and soon had my answers.

Since 1962,
The Times
, as well as its advertising offices, has occupied quarters in a new building, unscarred by bombs. Mr. Canna, the advertising veteran of thirty years who had been in charge of the agony column when I had been in London in 1947, had retired from
The Times
and relinquished his supervision of the column in 1952.
The Times
appeared loath to mention his successor by name, informing me: “These days no one individual has sole charge of the Personal column…It would be misleading to introduce personalities.”

The placement and format of the column remain immutable against the changes often demanded by progress—the front page and tiny type are as ever. Today, customers cannot submit an ad of less than two lines, for which they are charged eighteen shillings and sixpence per six-word line. However, in seventeen years, many old restrictions—such as those against political ads, foreign-language ads, matrimonial ads, and ads longer than five lines—have broken down. An executive of the London
Times
defined the new and more liberal policy for me as follows: “There are now no restrictions on size or language (provided that we are sent a translation for our own records); we do however still exclude all forms of display advertising from these columns. Political advertisements are generally acceptable; so, within the bounds of reason and good taste, would be lonely-hearts advertisements—although I do not recall any instances of such advertising. Adoption advertisements are illegal in this country.”

But the most outstanding attraction of the agony column, its colorful contents, remains unspoiled by time. In studying the Personal notices for 1962, 1963, 1964, and 1965, I was relieved and pleased to see that the column was still a parade ground for the dramatic, the provocative, the bizarre, the comic, the romantic, the mysterious.

Only a few new trends disturbed me. While
The Times
always permitted the agony column to serve as a marketplace for the wares of individuals, they had also always sternly rejected any invasion from retail dealers. However, unless I misread certain ads, this commercialized invasion has slyly begun. In an issue of
The Times
for September, 1964, I was at first heartened, then disillusioned, by the following:

Deirdre—Fly at once. All discovered—Hugo. Everyone knows about us! All agree you must leave London now! Come and work out of town with me. If your firm won’t go, you must. Tell your fiendish bosses lots of new offices going up in Essex, Herts, etc. Get him to write to Mr. A. Galbraith at the Location of Offices Bureau…

To the true agony-column addict, this deceptive realty salesmanship is deplorable. AH purists must regard such invasions of the column’s function as beastly.

However, I must quickly add that individual sales of personal wares, or inquiries after objets d’oddity, are as tantalizing and satisfying as they have ever been. I need only quote a sampling of advertisements concerning goods that appeared between 1962 and 1964, to reassure fellow devotees:

Honeymoon tent, brand new and unused; cost 42 pounds, will accept 34 pounds. Write Box K 160.

Lordship of Manor. Ancient documents and right to use the title “Lord of the Manor” 13th century origin; will only be sold to British residents with good references. Write Box E 1470.

Covered Waggon Or Suchlike. Will any person who abominating seeing children left outside, while parents are drinking, lend any two large covered vehicles to use during the rebuilding, as a temporary children’s play place.

Regretfully, too, I found some indication, in a certain type of new advertisement, that England is fast becoming a land of many Scrooges. “A large number of people,” an executive of
The Times
told me, “have been putting ads of holiday greetings in the Personal column instead of sending Christmas cards.”

More or less typical of these were the persons who, in the Christmas week of 1962, placed this ad in the agony column: “C.T.P., N.J.S.L., T.A.M.E., I.M.O., D.I.A.H. are too idle and too broke to send Christmas cards”—and then offered their best wishes, wholesale, to one and all.

Happily, in Christmas week of 1964, another English couple recanted a similar heresy, when they advised the agony column readers, “Mr. and Mrs. Frank Muir will not be making an announcement in
The Times
this year. Instead, they will be sending their friends Christmas cards.”

As always, no week passes without some English subject advertising his gratefulness (for whatever intriguing and undisclosed personal benefits he has received) to the Maker and the Son and all the Heavenly Hosts. Glancing through the agony columns of recent years, I found F. M. T. proclaiming, “Many Thanks to Almighty God that we are justified by Faith alone,” and J. B. calling out, “Grateful Thanks to Our Lady of Fatima, St. Jude, and St. Anthony,” and J. A. N. flatly stating, “Many Thanks for Religious Freedom in Protestant England,” and J. P. pathetically imploring, “Saint Martin de Porres, half-caste and illegitimate, cure us of intolerance.”

The balance of the Personal columns of the last four years I found brimming with gems of dramatic promise, casual little advertisements ready to send a hundred Peter Flemings into a hundred strange adventures. Some recent examples from the agony column of
The Times
are:

Darling Rita—most beautiful 20-year old for the next 365 days—My love always, John.

Madame Serphoui Mendillian seeks her son, Antranik Mendillian, born…Turkey, 1910. Would anyone having any information concerning his whereabouts please contact Mme. Serphoui Mendillian…Marseille, 15c, France.

Married Couple in late 30’s would like to join lively party for Christmas, please reply to Box S 651.

Crocodile Hunting. Advice wanted, good dinner offered. Write Box P 1896.

A lady of title would like to chaperone debutante. Every advantage. Write Box M 1307.

A Persian passport was left in a train on Saturday 5th December; if found please return it to Embassy.

MacGreen—Would Mrs. MacGreen of London, who had in her care, Victor Rober Liukkonen from Finland, about year 1899, please contact Mrs. Jenny Lind, Helsinki Liisankatu 17 C 19 Finland.

Finally, on May 13, 1965, the Personal column of
The Times
received a unique curtsy of homage from an American visitor. On that date, the agony column carried the following advertisement:

New York—Extremely reliable and competent young woman, 25-35, needed to look after girl of seven and boy four in New York City; English or French native language. Telephone, Hyde Park 3808 or 9666, between 10 and 12.

The advertisement had been placed by Mrs. John F. Kennedy.

Confident that there will always be an England, I am satisfied that there will always be an agony column and a world (minimum two lines, no display ads) of infinite wonder.

11

Millionaire’s Chariot

When in February of 1945, Franklin D. Roosevelt offered the magnificent gift of a fully equipped C-47 to King Ibn Saud of Saudi Arabia, international diplomacy was challenged. Winston Churchill, for one, felt that his country must not be outdone by the United States’ effort to butter up the old Arab war-horse. Yet, what could austere Britain offer to match F.D.R.‘s airplane?

Then Churchill hit upon it. While he knew Ibn Saud owned five hundred automobiles, varying widely as to age and pedigree, he also knew that the Arab did not possess that ultimate luxury which Churchill, the British people, and most of the world’s leaders regarded as England’s foremost product Churchill promptly offered Ibn Saud a Rolls-Royce.

As it turned out, Churchill’s gesture proved to be as impractical as it was enthusiastic. For while F.D.R. was able to make good his offer by immediately delivering the C-47, Churchill found on his return to London from the Summit Conference that the Rolls-Royce factory in Crewe—as well as those in Derby and Glasgow—was still (by his own order) turning out engines for Spitfires, Hurricanes, and Lancasters. Nary a Rolls-Royce limousine had been manufactured since the outbreak of the war. For Churchill, it was an embarrassing position in which to be caught, and the loss of diplomatic face incalculable. Churchill consulted with his Ministry of Supply, and the Ministry, in turn, huddled with the harried directors of Rolls-Royce. In the end, it was decided that Ibn Saud’s limousine must be given the highest priority. 284