‘And not one word to no one, girly.’
‘No,’ Breda promised. ‘Me lips is sealed,’ and when the man left the bedroom, swinging his torch, sank back against the pillows, sobbing with relief.
In the past few months CBS’s European coverage had gathered steam. Even Mr Willets cast an envious eye at the American network’s European Roundup which featured live conversations between a newscaster in New York and correspondents from London, Washington, Rome and Bucharest, linked by a complex intercontinental network of short-wave transmitters and land lines.
The BBC’s new twice-weekly programme, tentatively and rather obviously called Speaking Up for Britain, would, of necessity, be less ambitious in scope and require the close cooperation of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation who had studios in New York, Washington and Boston.
One could safely leave the technical aspects to the BBC’s engineers, Mr Willets said. His concern was with content and tone and where to find an intelligent presenter who would bring more to the mike than a pleasant speaking voice; a problem his assistant, Susan Hooper, was doing her level best to solve.
‘Bob, Bob Gaines?’ Peter Slocum said. ‘Where did he find a pretty little thing like you? Come in, come in, and welcome.’
Susan was not impressed by the Lansdowne’s resident Lothario. He was tall, exceptionally so, with haggard, hawk-like features, though his voice was soft, almost beguiling, and his hands, which he waved about a lot, were hypnotically expressive.
‘Is Robert here?’ Susan said. ‘May I speak to him?’
‘Oh, so it’s Robert, is it? Are you an intimate of my esteemed colleague and, if so, why haven’t we met before?’
With a touch of hauteur that she instantly regretted, Susan said, ‘I’m from the BBC.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ Pete Slocum said. ‘Step inside and tell me more.’
‘No,’ Susan said. ‘I mean it: I am from the BBC.’
‘Well, we won’t hold that against you, Miss …’
‘Hooper, Susan Hooper.’
There was quite a ruckus going on at the far end of the corridor. A stocky young woman burst from the door of one of the Lansdowne’s suites and catapulted herself towards the elevator pursued by a skinny young man who seemed to have forgotten that he wasn’t wearing trousers.
‘It’s only a month,’ he shouted. ‘It’s not the end of the goddamned world, Phyllis.’
‘He’s now going to tell her he’ll come back for her,’ Mr Slocum predicted, sotto voce.
‘I will come back, you know. I swear I will,’ the young man cried as the woman hurled herself into the elevator, closed the gates and disappeared.
‘And will he?’ Susan said.
‘Probably not,’ Mr Slocum said. ‘Bob’s in Paris.’
‘For how long?’
‘It’s not my habit to impart information to persons in passageways.’ He extended a large hand and, without touching any part of her, ushered her into the apartment. ‘And whatever you may have heard to the contrary, I don’t bite strangers.’
Several doors opened off the hall, bedrooms and a bathroom, Susan guessed, and a small kitchen in which a very dignified man in a canvas apron was ironing shirts at a fold-down board.
‘Our valet,’ Peter Slocum told her. ‘He comes with the apartment, whether we like it or not.’ He shepherded her before him into a well-lighted, fully furnished living room at the end of the hall. ‘Is it too early for martinis? No, it’s never too early for martinis.’ He moved to a Jacobean dresser that served as a bar. ‘We have fresh lemons and the vermouth is guaranteed dry.’
‘No, thank you,’ Susan said politely.
‘Something else then. Tea, maybe?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Sure you are; very fine.’ Cocktail shaker in hand, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘But all business, I guess.’
‘Yes, all business.’
‘And what sort of business do you have with our Bob?’
‘I prefer to discuss it with Mr Gaines personally.’
‘Now, are you being coy or are you constrained by the BBC’s policy of telling nobody nuttin’?’ Pete Slocum opened the cocktail shaker and poured the mixture into a glass. ‘You’re not from the censor’s department, are you?’
‘Certainly not.’ She yielded. ‘News and Talks.’
‘Then you must be Basil Willets’s right-hand girl.’
‘Robert told you, I suppose.’
‘Bob didn’t have to tell me. There are no secrets in the grill room of the Savoy. Old Baz is heading up an expansion of the North American service – what’s it called? yeah: Speaking Out for Britain. Am I right?’
‘Up,’ Susan said. ‘It’s Speaking Up for Britain.’
‘Time someone round here did,’ Pete Slocum said. ‘You can’t leave it to Ed Murrow to make all the running for you.’ He sipped from the cocktail glass like a horse from a trough. ‘If you want to influence American opinion you must fight your corner. Radio is one damned good way to do it.’
‘Why is Bob in Paris?’
‘He’s covering the latest Allied War Council meeting in case the French decide to show Chamberlain the finger and sign a peace treaty with Germany.’
‘Is that liable to happen?’
‘No, no. The French have more grit than we give them credit for. If Hitler does invade France they won’t surrender, at least not without a fight.’
‘When will Robert be back?’
‘Who knows? He can post from the Paris office and might hang on for a week or two if there’s enough going on to make it worth his while.’
‘Does Robert have a girl in Paris?’
‘Hey, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?’
‘No,’ said Susan. ‘I don’t.’
‘Bob had a girl – but not in Paris. Back home.’
‘Where is that?’
‘Paterson, New Jersey.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She ditched him for another guy.’ Pete Slocum finished his martini, went to the bar and poured another from the shaker. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘We weren’t – I mean, aren’t close friends.’
‘In that case,’ Pete Slocum said, ‘what harm in the whole truth? Pearl wasn’t just any old girl. She was Bob’s wife. Some sneaky Johnny-on-the-spot stole her while Bob was covering the Berlin Olympics back in ’36. How come you know Bob, anyway?’
‘We met through a mutual friend.’
‘Vivian Proudfoot?’
‘Yes.’
Susan had an uncomfortable feeling that Peter Slocum knew a lot more about her than he let on.
She glanced ostentatiously at her watch.
‘Leaving so soon?’ Pete Slocum said. ‘I thought we were just warming up. Drag up a chair and have a drink.’
‘Another time,’ said Susan.
She didn’t wait for him to put down his glass. He followed her into the hall with it in his hand.
The valet popped his head from the door of the little kitchen and said enquiringly, ‘Mr Slocum?’
‘Thank you, George,’ Peter Slocum said. ‘I have it.’
He came up behind her, so close that she could smell gin on his breath. She swung round to face him.
‘When Robert returns from Paris …’ she began.
‘Ask him to call you.’
‘Yes. Please.’
‘At the BBC?’
‘Yes.’
He juggled the glass and offered his hand. She hesitated, then took it. His fingers closed around her wrist.
‘Maybe we’ll meet at the Lagoon some time,’ he said. ‘If we don’t – well, just make sure you don’t break Bob’s heart.’
‘I don’t know what you mean?’ Susan said.
‘Sure, you do, honey,’ Pete Slocum said, and ushered her out of the apartment without another word.
6
Breda had been in the Brooklyn Club only once before. One afternoon, some three years ago, sh
e’d brought Billy here to meet his grandfather. The club then had been empty of customers and, in the cold light of day, had seemed seedy and down-at-heel. How things had changed. Even at four in the afternoon the lane in which the club was situated was buzzing with young servicemen.
There was nothing furtive in the behaviour of the lads in the queue who, Breda guessed, were either on leave or, more likely, passing through London on their way to a posting. They were simply in search of a good time which, Steve Millar had indicated, meant a few beers and the chance to get off with a girl for a half-hour or so, no questions asked.
Breda had left Billy with her mother, had filched a half-crown from the till and, to save time, had taken a cab to the club. The cabby had given her a queer look when she’d told him where she was going but only after he’d dropped her at the head of the lane did she realise that her wide-skirted camel coat and turban hat – her ‘going out’ rig – made her look more like a tart than a wife and mother.
She was not displeased, however, when the blokes in the queue whistled and exchanged suggestive remarks and when she gave them a wink and a wiggle they parted to allow her access to the big wooden door that was the Brooklyn’s only entrance.
The door was already open. Two men in cheap lounge suits and gaudy ties were taking cash at a table on the landing at the top of the stairs; large men, much older than Steve Millar but just as well muscled.
‘What you after?’ one of the doormen asked. ‘You lookin’ for work, you come back later, talk to Terry.’
‘I’m not lookin’ for work,’ Breda said. ‘I’m lookin’ for Mr Romano, Leo Romano. I’m his daughter.’
The doormen exchanged a glance.
One said to the other, ‘Fetch Vince.’
‘I don’t want Vince,’ Breda said. ‘I want Mr Romano.’
For big men they moved with astonishing alacrity.
One grabbed Breda by the arm, yanked her over the threshold and, to howls of protest from the lads outside, slammed the door. The other man had already vanished downstairs. It dawned on Breda that she’d made a horrible mistake in coming here.
Snatching her arm from the doorman’s grasp, she snapped, ‘If you don’t take your dirty paws off me, you’ll be sorry when my daddy—’
‘Your daddy!’ the doorman snarled. ‘Your daddy’s as good as dead when Harry gets his hands on him.’
‘Who’s Harry?’ Breda said.
At that moment two men came running up the staircase. She recognised the first one immediately by the ugly white scar that ran from his eye to the corner of his jaw.
‘You,’ she hissed. ‘I knew you wasn’t no bleedin’ copper, you bastard.’
‘Have you found him?’ Vince said.
‘Have I ’ell.’
He took her by the shoulders, pushed her against the wall and might have struck her if someone hadn’t taken him by the shoulder and yanked him away. Something akin to a scuffle broke out – all Breda could see were flailing hands and arms – then she was staring up into a familiar, though not particularly friendly face.
‘Breda,’ Steve Millar said. ‘What are you doin’ here?’
‘Come to talk to me daddy.’
‘Stupid bitch,’ Vince said. ‘Ha’n’t she got no sense?’
‘Okay, okay,’ Steve said. ‘It’s obvious she don’t know nothing or she wouldn’t be here. Jackie, get that bloody door open. We’re losing custom.’ Then, with an arm about Breda’s waist, he escorted her downstairs.
The leaden cloud that had covered London for what seemed like months had broken up at last. It was still cold but pale mid-February sunlight caught the tops of the buildings around Portland Place and spirits within Broadcasting House had been high for most of the day.
Susan had seen precious little daylight, though, and the buoyant mood in which she and Mr Willets had started voice-testing candidates to take part in Speaking Up for Britain had gradually changed to one of gloom.
‘Nothing abstract, Professor Schmautz. Every story must conjure up a picture. Imagine you’re talking to an audience of blind persons. Mental vision is required. Imagery. Do you think you can manage that for me?’
The professor had nodded but had gone droning on in an impenetrable accent that, no matter how interesting his material, was an absolute stinker for radio. Susan had crossed the gentleman’s name off the list even before Mr Willets drew a hand across his throat.
Eamon Riley, a ‘People’s Poet’ from Liverpool, fared no better: ‘Quieter, please, Mr Riley. You’re booming.’ But it was fiery old Sir Claude Endicott who really tested Mr Willets’s patience to the limit.
‘Thumping the table is not the same as thumping a tub, Sir Claude. I would be awfully obliged if you’d desist.’ Sir Claude was unable to control his fist or his temper, however, and ranted on about how he had seen it all coming and how Roosevelt should be shot for not leaping to offer aid to Britain. Eventually Mr Willets slipped into the studio and, to the old boy’s chagrin, wrested the microphone away from him.
It wasn’t a live microphone, of course. It relayed the speaker’s voice no further into the ether than the listening booth adjacent to the studio where only Basil Willets, Susan and Larry, the long-suffering sound controller, could hear it.
‘A woman next,’ Larry said apprehensively, for sound controllers were less than happy coping with female voices. ‘It’s not me doesn’t like women, Mr Willets. It’s the microphone, you understand.’
‘Of course, Larry, of course. Just do the best you can.’
The ‘Oxford’ accent still dominated the airwaves but flattened vowels and clipped consonants had, of late, given ground to plain King’s English with, now and then, traces of cosy regional accents that hinted if not at fish and chips at least at cocoa and carpet slippers.
In spite of intensive coaching, oiled by several gins, Susan was unsure which voice Vivian would bring to the studio, or, indeed, what she would choose to read.
She was more nervous than Vivian when she picked her friend up from the guest lounge.
‘At least,’ Susan said, ‘you look very smart.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Vivian said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to smarm all over me? Isn’t that what assistants are for?’
‘Now, remember, don’t go all affected and, for heaven’s sake, don’t sound like a woman with a mission. My neck is on the block, Vivian, for recommending you.’
In fact, she’d encountered no resistance from Mr Willets when, with some trepidation, she’d put forward Vivian’s name as a possible contributor.
They hastened along the corridor, Susan, trotting to keep up with Vivian’s mannish stride, issuing all sorts of last-minute instructions. ‘You must, absolutely must, lower the pitch of your voice to keep vibration to a minimum and do, please do, try to sound sympathetic.’
‘Am I ever anything else?’ said Vivian, then, when the door of the listening booth came in sight, quickened her pace and opened her arms wide.
‘Basil,’ she hooted. ‘Dear old Basil, after all these years. You haven’t changed a bit.’
And Mr Willets, waiting by the open door, said, ‘No more have you, my dear. No more have you,’ and, to Susan’s utter astonishment, went up on tiptoe and kissed Vivian Proudfoot on the lips.
The band had an amplifying mike on stage and Tannoy speakers relayed the music to every corner of the room. The bar which had once been the Statue of Liberty had been renamed the Britannia but nobody seemed to care what it was called provided the beer taps worked which, in the glimpse Breda had of them, they seemed to be doing most effectively.
Steve steered her round the edge of the dance floor and shoved her into a room at the rear of the bandstand where, to her alarm, he left her to stew.
She seated herself on one of the chairs and looked nervously around. There was nothing much to see except a row of filing cabinets and a desk; nothing much on the desk save a telephone, a glass ashtray and something that looked like a black snake but that closer inspection reveale
d to be a torn silk stocking. She started when the door swung open and the raucous sound of jazz music swept over her. Steve put a glass into her hand and kicked the door shut to keep out the noise.
‘Brandy,’ he said. ‘You look like you could use it.’
‘Too bloody true,’ said Breda.
She drank the contents of the glass in a swallow and accepted the cigarette that Steve offered with a nod of thanks. Steve hoisted himself on to the desk and, balanced there, looked down at her.
‘What the hell possessed you to come here, Breda?’
‘I really thought the guy was a copper.’
‘What guy?’
‘The geezer what broke into our ’ouse when Ron was on night shift. Scared the daylights out of me. Said ’e was some sort of copper. I believed ’im. Didn’t you know Vince ’ad come to my place?’
‘No,’ Steve said, ‘but it doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Where is ’e? Where’s my daddy? What’s ’e done?’
‘He’s scarpered,’ Steve Millar said.
‘Where’s ’e gone?’
‘My best guess, he’s on a boat to Nova Scotia or some other place in Canada. I reckon that’s why he wanted you an’ Billy over there. On the other hand,’ Steve went on, ‘he might be holed up waitin’ for new papers. If he is hid, he better be hid good. Harry’s got the word out.’
‘Harry?’ Breda said.
‘Harry King.’
‘Oh, God!’ said Breda. ‘Is that who’s after ’im? No wonder ’e scarpered.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Steve said, ‘a bag full of Mr King’s money scarpered with ’im.’
‘He stole from Harry King?’ said Breda. ‘Geeze!’
‘He’s probably been skimmin’ off the top for years.’
‘Your wife did the books for my dad, right?’
‘Yeah, but Rita finally shopped ’im to Harry.’
‘I thought you was Dad’s friend.’
‘I was,’ Steve said, ‘but I got a kid now. I can’t afford to get on the wrong side of Harry King. I don’t know who tipped Leo off but it wasn’t me. Harry told me an’ Vince to make sure Leo didn’t do a runner until Harry got here with the boys. We were too late. Leo went out the back window of the girls’ lavatory. Broke it down with a fire axe, blackout shutters an’ all. He cleaned out two grand’s worth of savings in cash from his bank plus whatever he had stashed in the office safe.’
The Wayward Wife Page 5