by Murray Sayle
‘Well, you still haven’t told me why you and Jowls come all the way over here to do this.’
‘More doors, more doormen,’ said O’Toole. ‘What sort of a club is it when everybody’s a member?’
‘How will you know when you’ve made it?’
‘I don’t know what I want,’ said O’Toole, ‘m not going to get it, anyway, whatever it is.’
‘You took an awful lot of words to say that.’
‘Your fault, you’re a good listener,’ said O’Toole. ‘You know, you’re much too agreeable a person to get saddled up with my disappointments.’
‘I thought I was a bystander getting it in the chops.’
‘Come a bit closer,’ said O’Toole, in fact, let’s go home to the inner room and have a cup of tea.’
Elizabeth was sitting on the bus seat with her back against the wall. O’Toole lay on his back with his head in her lap, looking up past her bosom, her round chin and a curl on her forehead at the ceiling, and smoking. A motherly teapot squatted on the bare floor between its twin cups and saucers. The only light was the red glow of an electric fire, like hell, O’Toole phrase-made, seen through a Venetian blind. Nice line for the Catholic Herald.
He moved his head, exploring with the back of his neck the Platonic form of pillows.
‘Don’t wriggle,’ said the girl.
‘The head-rest is the best feature of this crummy set-up,’ said O’Toole.
‘Oh, it’s not all that bad,’ said the girl. ‘It depends on who you’re with, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Anyway, you’ll be able to move out of here soon, if you keep going with your job. But it doesn’t matter if you don’t, I don’t mind simple furniture.’
‘Or none,’ said O’Toole. ‘That’s the trouble with one-night standing. The conditions are never right and it doesn’t give people a chance to give of their best. One can’t expect much from boat-decks, bus seats and the nephews of Remus at alleyways and crossroads, can you?’ He felt the girl move uneasily and explained, ‘The last bit is strictly for local colour.’
The girl laughed and relaxed, I’m more interested in people than in places,’ she said. ‘But I know what you mean-you like someone and you worry about disappointing them.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ said O’Toole, I only...’
‘And don’t you, idiot,’ said the girl, tugging a strand of O’Toole’s hair.
‘That’s not the worst feature, either,’ said O’Toole, it’s such an impersonal business, isn’t it? Now and again you meet someone you really like, but you can’t get off the merry-go-round to follow it up. But I take it you don’t select all your...er...accomplices out of the red wine in garrets crowd. You don’t seem that sort of girl to me.’
‘I haven’t had all that many accomplices,’ said the girl. ‘You just came along at a particular moment. You had a good word for it yourself—what was it, sprain liniment. I’m surprised I like the treatment.
‘I suppose Henry Something is the big-money man in your life,’ said O’Toole. ‘How does he fit into the picture?’
‘He really has a lot to offer, and I think I can make him happy. I have to get married some time, you know.’
‘You’re playing with fire and you know it,’ said O’Toole. ‘But you do it with a lot of courage and dignity.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Sorry,’ said O’Toole, laughing. ‘It just slipped out. You know, the men I’ve met here haven’t impressed me all that much, except for one or two odd cases. It’s the women who are bringing me round. Now and again I get a glimpse of that island breed stuff.’
‘Speaking of women,’ said the girl, after a pause, ‘what’s the story about Jenny?’
O’Toole felt a guilty pang: the old irrational feeling of disloyalty.
‘Ah, the time bomb in Jowls’ letter finally went off,’ he said. ‘An old accomplice, yesterday’s newspaper now glimpsed when you unwrap the fish.’
‘A painful case?’
‘Sort of. I don’t know if you have any experience of show business types. They can be fascinating if you happen to find one with any brains. But that doesn’t mean they haven’t got the same psychological twist as the lowliest chorus girl. Pretty well without exception, they come out of screwed-up backgrounds, and sooner or later they sink back into them. But they think they’ve found a lover who will always be young, always be loyal, never criticise or complain.’
‘The public?’
‘Clever girl. The big love of their lives is that warm, grateful monster out there in the dark, who will wash all their troubles away with a hot, sweet, sticky gush of applause.’
But show business people have private lives, too, don’t they? You read enough about them.’
Oh, they sleep around a bit with real people. It hardly ever lasts. Just one man, or one woman, can clap away like hell for years, but sooner or later the entertainer sees them not as a person any more but as a pitifully poor house. I ought to know, I’m a bit show business myself.’
‘How did it finish? Nasty?’
‘It all sordid itself out in the end,’ said O’Toole.
‘What do you want me to do, clap?’ asked the girl,
I’ve got a million of ‘em,’ said O’Toole. ‘This is a crazy world, isn’t it? Thanks to the chain chemists, the act of passion which people worried about for centuries is turning into a sort of horizontal handshake. Then, slowly, tentatively, just like they always did, people get to know one another. Or they never do, just like always. The chemist can’t help you there.’
‘I don’t want to inflate your ego, which is monumental enough already, James,’ said the girl, in a teasing voice. ‘But it’s people like you who make life hard for tea-planters.’
‘Where would the word-spinners be without people like you?’ asked O’Toole tenderly, and he reached his arm behind her yielding back in the cosy half-dark.
Elizabeth had gone, finally, but only because of the impossible size of the bus seat. O’Toole squirmed restlessly on it, his feet freezing, locked in a loop of emotions. He began, and in a few minutes came back to, a longing for his own kind, for the world he had thought was his: Jenny, what have you done to me, what am I doing to this girl, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny.
XV
SLEEPING badly, O’Toole was late to the office. A picture in the Express, with a caption about ‘rising young Australian actress, Jennifer Taylor’ didn’t help. She was smiling at the world in an empty and oddly meretricious way. Going up in the Sun’s lift, O’Toole felt poor, obscure and impotent.
Norman Knight looked up with a grin from a typewriter. His blazer was, as ever, lintless and well-pressed, the handkerchief peeping from his sleeve aggressively white. The more O’Toole saw of his ruddy, broken-nosed good looks, the more he liked him.
‘Sit down and have a cup of char, Digger,’ said Knight. ‘I liked the way you handled the Green golf murder story. Couldn’t have done better myself, if you’ll pardon the comparison.’
‘Coming from you that’s real praise, Norman,’ said O’Toole, sitting and pouring a cup from the teapot at Knight’s elbow, is this leading up to something?’
‘I’ve borrowed you for the day,’ said Knight. ‘We’ve got a hard day on the vice ahead of us. I want you to get your exes sheet in as soon as possible and we’ll hit the road. This might be the most important interview of this whole series, so I particularly want you along.’
‘Who are we seeing?’
‘We need a vice czar to hang this present lot on. Sort of arch villain of the piece. I think I’ve flushed him.’
‘The North South Trading Company?’
‘Bullseye. While you were up in Liverpool I dropped in up the road at Bush House and started digging in the company files. There’s a whole spider’s web of shady little companies woven round this North-South operation. Not only do they own the massage joint, but a lot of slum property elsewhere, all in the Soho and Bayswater R
oad areas. The spider in the middle of all this appears to be a man named Hawkesley. John Hawkesley. He seems to have a respectable business too, making cigarette lighters, of all things. That will be his front. Our first job is to try him on for size as the emperor of London vice.’
‘How do we know him, Norman? By a birthmark?’
Knight grinned, ‘It will depend on getting an admission, or series of admissions, out of him. Barr won’t wear a direct accusation unless we get Hawkesley to admit to us that he’s a big vice operator. That’s why I need you along. Get your swindle sheet in and we’ll go round and have a chat with him.’
The Churchill Lighter Company had a registered office over a snack-bar in a narrow street in Soho. The firm’s name was painted on a peeling board, indicating a narrow entry and a steep stair. O’Toole followed Knight past a barrier of stinking dustbins up the stairs to an ante-room. An angular woman sat at a stained desk.
‘Mr. Hawkesley,’ said Knight.
‘What is it about, please,’ asked the woman, lowering a copy of The Queen.
‘Just tell him we’re close personal friends,’ said Knight. ‘Very important.’ There was no doubt in his voice.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said the woman, rising to disclose an optically flat chest. She knocked timidly on the door, and after a moment came out and said, ‘Mr. Hawkesley can only spare a minute.’
‘That will be plenty,’ said Mr. Knight, going in.
Mr. Hawkesley’s office had once been painted with some cheap concoction, in a medical shade of yellow, which had never dried properly. A desk, chairs and an impractical-looking filing cabinet were the only furniture. Mr. Hawkesley was a middle-aged man, short, stout and thinning on top, who would clearly never know why one tie went better than another with a striped brown suit. He had a fugitive air of authority, like a man promoted sergeant in the Pay Corps early in 1945.
‘John Hawkesley?’ asked Knight.
‘That’s me,’ said Hawkesley. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘My name is Knight and this is my colleague, Mr. O’Toole,’ said Knight, sitting down. ‘I believe you make cigarette lighters, Mr. Hawkesley.’
‘That’s correct. What’s the trouble, purchase tax?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Knight. ‘You’re also the owner of premises in Elizabeth Street, off the Tottenham Court Road, through a concern called the North South Trading Company of which you are the only shareholder.’
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘I’m only asking you to confirm the facts, Mr. Hawkesley,’ said Knight. ‘They’re all on record.’
‘What if I am?’
‘You also own properties in the Bayswater Road area, through different flimsy companies.’
‘Well?’
‘All these premises are brothels, Mr. Hawkesley, and what’s more they are brothels catering to obnoxious perversions.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ said Mr. Hawkesley, relieved. ‘You want a cut, eh?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Knight, I represent the Sunday Sun newspaper, and I intend to publish the fact that you are the owner of these premises and that you are living on immoral earnings. My colleague here has heard your admissions.’
‘My God,’ said Mr. Hawkesley, gripping the edge of his desk. ‘Ronson’s have sent you to smash me.’
‘What do you mean, Ronson’s?’ asked Knight.
‘The small man hasn’t got a hope in hell,’ said Mr. Hawkesley bitterly. ‘You start a little business, and as soon as you cut into the big concerns’ territory, they smash you.’
‘I’ve got nothing to do with Ronson’s or any other manufacturer of cigarette lighters,’ said Knight. ‘Mr. Hawkesley, I’m here to stamp out your evil business. Why not give up and get out?’
‘Look, boys, give me a break,’ said Mr. Hawkesley, whining. ‘Give me the chance you’d give a mangy dog. At least let me get rid of my stock. Only a few dozen gross, I swear it. Then you can have the field to yourselves.’
‘Can’t you understand we have nothing to do with cigarette lighters?’ asked Knight. ‘My colleague here will tell you that we’re not interested in the manufacturing side of your activities.’
‘That’s right,’ said O’Toole, clearing his throat. ‘We’re reporters. Forget the lighters and tell us about your corrective massage business.’
‘I can’t afford a big ad, but I might be able to manage a monkey’s worth,’ said Mr. Hawkesley. ‘Next week, honest.’
‘We’re not soliciting advertisements,’ said Knight, losing patience. ‘We just want the truth.’
‘In God’s name what is this about?’ squealed Mr. Hawkesley. ‘You’re in business, aren’t you? You’d take an ad from Ronson’s, wouldn’t you?’
‘Let’s get back to the place in Elizabeth Street,’ said Knight. ‘You own it, don’t you?’
‘Course I do,’ said Mr. Hawkesley. ‘Anybody can find that out.’
‘You know what it’s being used for, don’t you.’
‘Nobody would want to live there, would they?’
‘Just answer my questions, Mr. Hawkesley.’
‘You’re crucifying me,’ said Mr. Hawkesley. ‘Yes, I let it to a couple of girls. They’re not doing anyone any harm, are they?’
‘They tell me you charge fifty pounds a week rent,’ said Knight, casually.
‘Well, they’re bloody liars. Twenty-five and I pay the light and gas bills.’
‘So you know they’re using the place for immoral purposes, if no one would live there.’
‘Look, boys, I’ll close it up straight away,’ said Mr. Hawkesley. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of it. Leave my name and the Churchill lighter out of it and I’ll see you’re all right.’
‘What do you mean, you’ll see we’re all right?’ asked Knight, bristling.
‘I don’t expect you to go away empty-handed,’ said Mr. Hawkesley. ‘I can manage two hundred and you can chop it up between you. That way, we’re all sweet, eh?’
‘You heard this man offer us a bribe,’ said Knight, turning to O’Toole.
‘I heard him,’ said O’Toole.
‘Jesus, what’s up with you people?’ asked Mr. Hawkesley. ‘We’re all in business, aren’t we? You can find plenty of other things to write about. Why pick on me? In fact, I’ll give you an article on my new lighters. Latest thing from the States. I’m offering you a decent cut, and all the work you’ve done is look me up at Bush House, which any mug can do. If you didn’t like my place, no one asked you to go there, now did they?’
‘We’re fighting vice and the rats like you who run it,’ said Knight.
‘What do you mean, fighting vice. You’re selling it, same as me. Don’t give me any of that high-and-mighty talk.’
‘That’s a nasty accusation, Mr. Hawkesley, and I’ll remind you I have a witness here,’ said Knight.
‘How much are Dunhills paying you?’ asked Mr. Hawkesley, cunningly.
‘I don’t take bribes from anyone,’ said Knight.
‘Well, it beats me,’ said Mr. Hawkesley. ‘If we can’t do business, why did you come here?’
‘We’ve heard all we want,’ said Knight. ‘We’re going.’
‘Look, three hundred,’ said Mr. Hawkesley. ‘You’ll ruin me.’
‘It’s useless offering bribes,’ said Knight. ‘You’ll have to take what’s coming to you, and in my opinion it’s overdue.’
‘Won’t you let a man live?’ asked Mr. Hawkesley, grabbing Knight’s sleeve. ‘I always knew lighters were a tough game, but I never expected anything like this.’
‘I advise you to get into a decent business before you go to prison,’ said Knight from the door.
‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Mr. Hawkesley, slumping behind his desk. Then he stiffened in a fury. ‘The same to you,’ he shouted at the departing reporters. ‘All right, I might be a bit bent, but at least I’ve got a heart, not like you poncing sticky-beaks.’
Knight was laughing as Mr.
Hawkesley’s voice faded down the stairs. ‘Now we’ve heard everything, Digger,’ he said. ‘Ronson’s have sent us to smash him. That’s really the limit.’
‘I can see his point of view,’ said O’Toole as they walked down the alley in search of a cup of tea. ‘He figures one business is much like another, and basically we’re all trying to make an honest shilling. He made us a pretty handsome offer, and we unaccountably came over high-and-mighty on him. As he sees it, there can only be one explanation. We’ve already got a better offer elsewhere. By the way, don’t you have any use for an easy hundred?’
‘When I go off the rails, Digger, it will be for something big,’ said Knight good-humouredly. ‘I might look at fifty thousand. I’m certainly not taking any hundreds off Tottenham Court Road ponces.’
‘But you can be bought if the price is right.’
‘Everyone can.’
‘You’re just agreeing with Mr. Hawkesley,’ said O’Toole. ‘To tell the truth I just can’t see you taking a back-hander, no matter how big. You have to believe you can be bought, because you share the common feeling that a man who won’t sell out for money is anti-social.’
‘Maybe you’re right. No one has offered me fifty thousand, anyway.’
‘By the way,’ said O’Toole. ‘Ronson’s haven’t got shares in the Sun, have they?’
‘They might have one or two,’ said Knight. ‘There are thousands of shareholders. It wouldn’t help them if they did in a case like this.’
‘Now there’s a funny thing,’ said O’Toole. ‘I never asked anyone before. Who does own the Sun? Who’s the big top man?’
‘There isn’t one,’ said Knight. ‘There’s a board responsible to the shareholders. Mostly lawyers and accountants. The shareholders don’t care what goes in the papers as long as they pay dividends. Neither do the board. All they do is appoint the editors of the various papers, and they-Cam Barr, for instance, with the Sun-they run them how they please.’