Champagne Charlie

Like the "forward look" in new U.S. automobiles, the upswept bristles of Major Michael Woodfall's military mustache created an impression of dynamic motion even when the major himself was at ease. Alone his glorious mustache would have been enough to command the respect of the stoniest of Mayfair's headwaiters. But added to the mustache were such other facts as the fit of the Savile Row suits, which clung to his lithe frame with the easy perfection of a snakeskin, and the verve with which he followed hounds with the Cornwall Hunt.

Few could doubt that gallant and dashing Major Woodfall's D.S.O. and Military Cross were well and truly earned on the field of battle. All took it for granted that his relatively humble job as managing director of a small London hotel was in reality a cover-up for the vital and undercover Secret Service work at which he often hinted over a confidential whisky and soda at the Ritz bar or the Dorchester.

Gem Picking. Like most of the attractive and susceptible women who crossed the major's path. Junoesque Helen Hackman found his glamour and gallantry well-nigh irresistible. Signed on as his private secretary and bivouacked at his hotel, Helen spent many a happy hour in the major's company, dropping in at supper clubs by night, driving through the countryside by day. If Helen had a moment of doubt when the wardens at Dart moor Prison waved a cheery greeting to her companion one day as they drove by. it was promptly dispelled by the major's quickly reassuring words: "I used to do welfare work at the prison, my dear."

Just as reassuring to Helen was the major's eventual proposal of marriage and his subsequent visit to London Jeweler Theodore Williams. For, like everything Major Woodfall did. the purchase of a suitable wedding gift for his bride was consummated in style. It began with a -L-70 ($196) dinner at the Ritz for Jeweler Williams, ended with the shrewd selection of some -L-6,800 worth of gems at Williams' place of business. Paying for the lot by check. Major Woodfall pocketed a particularly appealing brooch (worth -L-585) with the words that Miss Hackman wished to wear it over the weekend. He strode out of the jewelry store and disappeared. By the following day the check had bounced, and Miss Hackman, forlorn and bereft, was wondering who was to pay her hotel bill.

Dangerous Freedom. Last week, after running down the elusive gallant at a fashionable Irish country house, where he was staying as a weekend guest with another "wife." the weary police turned Major Michael Woodfall over once more for trial at London's Old Bailey. He was, their records plainly showed, neither a major nor a Woodfall but an operator better known to the Yard as Champagne Charlie. In a lifetime of high living, assuming identities that ranged from that of "Sir Patrick Murphy, ex-governor of the Bahamas" to that of "Roland Jones, heir to a fortune," 35-year-old Charlie had suavely separated hundreds of impressionable Britons from thousands of pounds. Born to middle-class respectability, he had spent a third of his life in jail and only nine months in the army. His only decoration was a dishonorable discharge.

"You," said Mr. Justice Cassels, dispatching the pride of Mayfair back to prison for nine more years, "are a danger whenever you are free."

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.