by Murray Sayle
‘To make money.’
‘That’s it.’
‘You know, poor blundering Hawkesley might have been on to something,’ said O’Toole.
‘Don’t let it worry you,’ said Knight, in many ways, it’s a better setup than having some Lord stick his nose into everything.’
‘You disappoint me,’ said O’Toole. ‘I had an idea in the back of my mind there was a belted earl somewhere round the place grubbing through the pin-up pictures with blue-veined shaking old hands.’
‘That went out in the thirties,’ said Knight. ‘There won’t be any more Press Lords. Too big a business these days.’
‘And I suppose the people who made them lords in the old days never read the papers these boyos owned.’
‘Probably not,’ said Knight. ‘Let’s find that cuppa, Digger.’
Over tea and sweet biscuits, Knight explained the next job.
‘You’re going to enjoy this one, Digger,’ he promised, I’ve been in touch with a girl named Eileen and she’s laying on another one for you—a bit of young stuff, I gather. This one is over in Knightsbridge.’
I’m getting sick of the wrong side of town,’ said O’Toole.
The entrance was beside an expensive Knightsbridge milliner’s. Knight and O’Toole paused outside, the stream of lacquered women on their way to Harrods dividing to swirl around them.
‘I used Commander Williams again when I phoned. Digger,’ said Knight. ‘You’d better be your pal McNaughton. All you need to keep in mind is that we’re here for a bang-up afternoon’s fun. I’ve got great hopes of this one: the Knightsbridge angle alone makes it good. Let me make the running for a bit, just turn on your bushwhacker charm and find out as much as you can. And remember, don’t expose the old person, eh?’
O’Toole ran his hand over his fly, then carried two fingers to his forehead in salute. ‘Aye, aye, Commander,’ he said.
Knight led the way up three flights of stairs and knocked briskly on a cream-painted door, triggering off giggling inside.
‘It’s not locked,’ said a woman’s voice.
Knight pushed the door open, and over his shoulder O’Toole saw a thirtyish woman in a black-based floral housegown.
‘Hullo, m’darling,’ said Knight. ‘Williams. Remember, I phoned this morning. This is Commander McNaughton, over from Australia to freshen up on torpedoes, y’know. Secret stuff, of course. Hullo, who’s this pretty little thing?’
O’Toole saw another, much younger girl by the window. She might have been nineteen, anyway inside the age-group when any face is pretty, even with this one’s too prominent teeth.
I’m Eileen,’ said the older woman to O’Toole. ‘This is Kathleen,’ she said to both men. Kathleen simpered.
‘Well, we’ve got the ingredients here for a cosy little party, eh, girls?’ said Knight, rubbing his hands together. ‘Got anything to wet the whistle, m’darling?’
‘Oh, you men,’ said Eileen coyly, if it’s not the other thing, it’s the drink.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Knight. ‘Kathleen and I will slip over to the boozer and get something to liven the party up a bit. Dave, you can entertain Eileen while we’re away. Won’t be long’
‘A pleasure,’ said O’Toole, sounding clumsy and provincial to himself. He hadn’t expected such chumminess from Knight. He tried a jolly party-goer’s smile.
‘Oh, I won’t eat him,’ said Eileen, half-motherly.
‘He’ll melt in the mouth,’ promised Knight. There was general laughter in which O’Toole played a token part. Then Knight and the girl left, hand in hand.
‘Now tell me about yourself,’ said Eileen, moving her chair closer to O’Toole’s and allowing the housegown to part enough to show a sagging triangle of breast.
‘Well, I’m regular Navy, you know,’ said O’Toole.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Dave,’ said O’Toole, expecting disbelief. ‘I just love the way you say that,’ said Eileen brightly. ‘As a matter of fact, my husband’s a Canadian, you know.’
‘Oh?’ said O’Toole.
‘You’ve been there?’
‘Not exactly,’ said O’Toole. Studying his answer, he decided it was a clear-cut yes-or-no proposition. You’ve either been in Canada or you haven’t. Eileen didn’t seem to notice.
‘You’d like him. He’s a dear,’ said Eileen.
‘He’s not around?’
‘On tour,’ said Eileen. ‘Not very practical if you know what I mean. He’s a singer. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning him.’
‘Oh, not at all,’ said O’Toole. ‘Very free and easy, show business people, aren’t they?’
‘I’m in show business myself,’ said Eileen. ‘I suppose you guessed.’ She leaned closer.
‘Tom is a great fellow,’ said O’Toole. ‘Commander Williams. He’s showing me round London.’
‘I suppose you’re pretty gay in Australia,’ said Eileen. ‘All those sheep-farmers.’
‘My word. Have a great time. Like Canada.’
‘We must keep the Commonwealth together,’ said Eileen.
‘You’re right,’ said O’Toole. There was no sign of Knight and the girl.
‘I’m sure Don-that’s my husband-would like you,’ said Eileen. ‘He likes a good listener.’
‘Sounds a broad-minded type.’
‘Silly boy, of course he is,’ said Eileen, I wondered why you were so nervous, particularly being Navy.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ said O’Toole, trying to imitate Knight’s open-hearted manner. ‘We’re a bit slow, we country boys, y’know.’
‘I’d rather have a man like that than the other way, if you know what I mean,’ said Eileen, flapping the front of her housegown. She had nothing on underneath, all the way down. ‘Rather warm in here, isn’t it?’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said O’Toole. This sounded uncooperative, so he added, ‘Come from a hot climate, y’know.’
At this moment, O’Toole heard Knight and the girl come laughing up the stairs.
‘Ah, there you are, children,’ said Eileen, I was just trying to persuade Dave here to be a devil and take his coat off.’
O’Toole looked to Knight for help. ‘Come along, Dave, get into the spirit of the party,’ said Knight, tormenting him. O’Toole slowly took his jacket off, catching a hand in a sleeve. Eileen helped. He had a sweater on underneath.
‘I’ll put it inside,’ said Eileen, going through a door.
‘Care for a snort, Dave, to get you relaxed?’ asked Knight, with a careful wink.
‘Thanks, Commander,’ said O’Toole.
Knight poured four shots of gin from the bottle he had brought back with him. Then Eileen came back.
‘Oh, thanks, darling,’ she said. ‘Are you two infants going into the other room?’ O’Toole noticed uneasily that something about the way she spoke reminded him of Elizabeth.
‘We certainly are,’ said Knight. ‘Be careful now, Digger.’
‘What’s that he calls you?’ asked Eileen, when the others had gone.
‘Digger,’ said O’Toole, with a harsh laugh, it’s what we Australians call one another. Comes from the Army. Or we sometimes call each other “sport”. Not in the biological sense, of course.’ Eileen looked blank. She’s not as bright as Elizabeth, anyway, thought O’Toole. ‘Tom’s a great one for a laugh,’ he added. The gap in the housegown was widening again.
‘All the better for it,’ said Eileen. ‘I think people ought to let themselves go now and again, don’t you?’
‘Why not?’ said O’Toole. ‘Within reasonable limits, of course.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Eileen. The gap closed suddenly.
‘Nothing, just a figure of speech,’ said O’Toole. ‘Pay no attention.’
‘By the way, dear, there’s something I should have mentioned to Tom,’ said Eileen. The gap oozed open again. ‘We have to pay the rent here, you know.’
‘Of course,’
said O’Toole. ‘Actually Tom’s the captain as you might say. Why not nip in and check with him?’
‘I’ll do that small thing,’ said Eileen.
O’Toole took a deep gulp of his gin as soon as he was alone. With his foot, he pushed Eileen’s chair away from his own as far as his leg would reach. She just missed catching him on her return.
‘They’re really having a ball in there,’ she said. ‘But your friend Tom says he’s left his wallet down in his car,’ she added accusingly.
‘Oh, he’s a terribly honest chap,’ said O’Toole hastily. ‘He got a bit twisted out in the East, you know. No reflection on you, don’t think that for a second. I’m sure he’ll pop down in a minute or two and do the right thing.’
‘He’d better,’ said Eileen. There was a sudden muffled burst of giggling from the inner room. ‘I do like to be business-like, don’t you, dear?’ she added.
‘Oh yes,’ said O’Toole. ‘Cash on the nail, the only way to do business.’
‘A girl can’t be too careful, really, these days,’ said Eileen, moving her chair closer and annihilating all the distance O’Toole had gained while she was out. ‘There are a lot of very mean men around, really mean.’
‘I know what you have in mind,’ said O’Toole. ‘Times are tough.’ He wrenched his eyes away from the front of her housegown.
‘My husband’s not like that, thank goodness,’ she said. ‘Don is the soul of generosity, when he has something to be generous with, poor dear. There I go talking about him again.’
‘Feel absolutely free,’ said O’Toole.
‘Oh no, you must be bored with him,’ said Eileen. ‘Let’s you and I get more friendly, shall we?’
‘Let us indeed,’ said O’Toole. This sounded strained so he forced a smile. Eileen put her hand on his knee. He stifled a violent virginal twitch.
‘No, you haven’t got a thing to worry about with dear old Tom,’ he said quickly. ‘Terribly honest.’
‘I’ll get angry with you in a minute if you keep on and on about Tom,’ said Eileen crossly. ‘Aren’t I more interesting?’
O’Toole seemed to have exhausted every possible avenue of conversation. He steeled himself to slip a chaste hand under the housegown, to buy time. Then it occurred to him that Eileen might take this as an invitation to throw it off altogether. With a tepid kiss, he thought, there would be less immediate danger, although even this was a long way to go for a newspaper story—and at that moment Knight came running through the inner door, his collar hanging from the stud, his jacket over his arm and a smear of lipstick on his face.
‘Let’s get the hell out of here, Digger, quick,’ he said to O’Toole as he passed.
O’Toole jumped to his feet. ‘My coat,’ he said to no one in particular, then remembered it was in the inner room and went for it.
There was a bed, a cupboard and some chairs. On the bed, in a pool of light from a reading-lamp, Kathleen lay stark naked. Her face showed a mixture of bewilderment, voluptuousness when she spotted O’Toole, and buck teeth. Probably thought he was Knight returning. She really hasn’t a bad figure at all, thought O’Toole as he grabbed his coat from a chair. He turned for a second look, then felt foolish. ‘Good evening,’ he said, moving toward the door. It seemed the polite thing to say.
Eileen seized his arm outside.
‘What on earth’s going on?’ she asked.
‘It’s my mate, not me,’ improvised O’Toole. One of his queer turns. Malaria. Just gone for a breath of fresh air. I’ll fetch him back, never fear.’
‘Come back yourself,’ said Eileen.
‘Of course,’ said O’Toole, plunging down the stairs.
Knight was waiting in the street, his coat on, fiddling with his collar. ‘Into the pub, quick, Digger, before we’re spotted,’ he said.
They got their breaths back in the saloon bar. Knight seemed pleased.
‘We’re on to a hot one here, Aussie,’ he said. ‘Sorry I had to drag you away like that just when you were getting better acquainted with Eileen, the cunning old sow. She came bursting in just when Kathleen was telling me everything.’
‘She was worried about her money?’ said O’Toole.
‘Not half as worried as she’s going to be,’ said Knight. ‘Did you notice Kathleen had stripped off? It was her idea. I let her peel down to get her confidence.’
‘Did you expose your person?’ asked O’Toole.
‘It was a very near thing,’ said Knight. ‘That’s why I had to scarper like that. Kathleen was getting impatient. Sexy little bitch. Any idea how old she is?’
‘Oh, about nineteen. I’d say.’
‘Fifteen. What’s more, this is her first job. We’ll put it right on Eileen, procuration. She could fetch five years for it.’
‘Kathleen didn’t look too unwilling to me,’ said O’Toole.
‘Oh, she knows what it’s for, all right,’ said Knight. ‘Randy as they come. Wait until her father reads the paper. He’ll tan the hide off her.’
‘You’re going to put her in the story? How about this protection of juveniles stuff?’
‘Doesn’t affect us. She gave me her address and phone number. I told her I was a prospective regular, but there was no need to cut Eileen in. I said you were more Eileen’s type.’
‘Thanks.’
‘She lives out Kennington way somewhere. Respectable family by the sound of it. That makes it all the better, of course. Eileen, the vampire of Knightsbridge, preys on suburban maidenhood. We’ll nip straight out and see Dad before Kathleen discovers her new boyfriend isn’t coming back.’
Knight and O’Toole sped through the heavy breeding districts of South London to the girl’s address, a house like a hundred others in a Victorian concertina terrace.
Knight knocked, and the door opened six inches. A man in shirtsleeves peered round. He looked as if he had done outdoor work and lots of it.
‘We’ve come about your daughter, Kathleen,’ said Knight.
‘Police?’
‘No. I’m Norman Knight of the Sunday Sun. This is my colleague, Mr. O’Toole.’
‘Oh, you are, are you. What do you want?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news about your girl. She’s in serious moral danger,’ said Knight.
‘Nothing doing, mate,’ said the man. I’ve got an idea what you’re after and I don’t want any part of it, see? Of course, if the price is right, that might be different.’
‘That’s a callous attitude, I must say,’ said Knight.
‘Call it what you like,’ said the man. ‘I know you lot. You’ll get nothing here for nothing.’
‘There’s no call to be rude,’ said Knight. ‘We’re here in your daughter’s interests.’
‘Pigs might fly,’ said the man. ‘When I want your help I’ll ask for it. And that will be never.’
The door slammed, rattling sheets of stained glass. A chain grated behind it.
‘Come on, Digger,’ said Knight. They went back to the car.
‘The news that we are a commercial outfit seems to be spreading around,’ said O’Toole.
‘Money is all these people think of,’ said Knight bitterly. ‘No wonder his daughter has gone on the game. We can hang about and wait for her to come home, but Dad is bound to get to her first and that will be that. I can’t swear I wouldn’t do the same in his position, of course.’
‘I wonder why she took it up.’
‘Only sort of work she could find in the West End, I expect.’
‘We’ve had a funny day,’ said O’Toole. ‘First Hawkesley wants to pay us, then this bloke wants us to pay him.’
‘Keeps the money circulating,’ said Knight.
XVI
‘THIS IS really not good enough, O’Toole,’ said Barr, glancing at the clock on the newsroom wall. ‘Half an hour late. Your work seems to be shaping all right, but the spirit is missing. I want men who are dead keen to get on.’
‘I had a late night on the vice,’ said O’Toole.
‘Well, just remember who is paying who around here,’ said Barr. ‘We have to keep some sort of discipline in the office. Are you a music-lover, by the way?’
‘As much as the next man,’ said O’Toole.
‘Good enough,’ said Barr. ‘Here’s a quickie for you. Have you heard of Ricky Rogers, the crooner?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘I’ve been tipped off he’s selling his life-story to the Graphic. Selling, if you please. It will be a load of old bollocks concocted by some publicity man, but it means a lot to the rock-and-roll crowd. I’m not going to let them get away with it. All we need is a bit of diplomacy. I want you to go and see him and con him along. Tell him we’re doing a series on the top singing stars and he can’t afford to be left out. In fact, say we’ll start the series off with him, if he’s agreeable.’
‘Will he ask for money?’
‘Probably. Look terribly hurt. It’s enough to have to publicise these dead-beats without paying them for the privilege. Don’t mention the life-story angle; just explain you’re assembling a few personal details. A few meaningless scraps, that’s the line to use. You might have to explain what “meaningless” means. Get a line on his life-story from the cuttings and add a few things he tells you-his favourite colour and that sort of thing. Basically they all have the same life-story, anyway. We’ll run the lot on Sunday as “My Life by Ricky Rogers” with a seven-point line somewhere “as told to James O’Toole”. That will cover us and kill the Graphic’s series stone dead.’
‘And the other singing stars?’
‘We’ll forget them. I want the story in good shape by this afternoon, so you’d better get going straight away. His agent is a woman, by the way—she’s expecting you. If he cooperates we might mention the feature in an ad during the week, which will snooker the Graphic completely. Go to it, boy.’
The office was in Regent Street, decorated with moulded plastic chairs in clanging colours. There was a dusty pot plant growing from a mixture of earth and cigarette stubs in a tub in the waiting-room. The agent, busty and bright, said her name was Mary Lou. She walked O’Toole into an office where Ricky Rogers in person sat sulking on a foam-rubber divan. His face was boyish and podgy, his skin blotched as if he had just started using an electric razor. He might have been twenty-five, or he might have been the original chubby youth amenable to discipline.