The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “Fascinating,” the host breathed. “Absolutely fascinating.”

  “If it’s so fascinating, why do you have Venables sitting out there in the waiting room? So he can throw a few lies into this affair?”

  “This is Britain, Katherine. We do have a reputation of hearing both sides of an argument.”

  “I’ll tell you what he’s going to say right now. That my newspaper is engaged in a vendetta against him.”

  The interview ended on that note. Katherine was escorted out by the program secretary. In the hallway, she passed Alan Venables. For the briefest moment, their eyes met, then Venables was gone.

  Level with the waiting room door, Katherine stopped. “You don’t have to show me out,” she told the program secretary. “I’ll stay and listen.” She resumed her seat in the waiting room, listening as the show was piped in.

  Venables wasted no time. The instant he was introduced, he branded everything that Katherine had written in the Eagle, and claimed on the program, as “a vicious pack of lies, invented by a woman who should be writing fiction, not news.”

  “Mrs. Kassler claims her source is unimpeachable.”

  “Nonexistent is more like it,” Venables fired back.

  In the waiting room, Katherine clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug painfully into her hands. Tears of anger sprang to her eyes. How could a man sit in front of a live microphone and lie like this? Had he no conscience? No soul?

  “What would be Mrs. Kassler’s motive for lying?”

  “What it’s been all along, from the moment the Daily Eagle made its ridiculous claim that the British Patriotic League was recruiting hooligans from football games. To smear us. The Daily Eagle, for its own reasons, supports the people who would plunge Britain into the abyss. Not halfway into it, where we are now, but right to the very bottom of the pit. All the British Patriotic League wants to do is tell the people of this nation the truth. Rather than allow that truth to be heard, our enemies attack our peaceful rallies. And their supporters, like the Daily Eagle, invent these libelous stories so it would appear to the guileless that our enemies have valid reason to attack us.”

  Venables paused for breath before launching into his grand finale, and Katherine felt herself becoming more and more upset by his callous distortion of the truth.

  “Eventually, all lies are seen for what they are. In time, everyone in this country will know the truth about slandermongers like Mrs. Kassler, and her father’s newspaper, the Daily Eagle. The truth about the British Patriotic League. The truth about the problems our beloved country faces. And the truth shall set them free.”

  Katherine was waiting in the corridor when Venables was escorted from the studio. The smirk on his thin face froze as he saw her.

  “You filthy, disgusting liar!” she shouted, and slapped him across the face with all her strength. Stunned, Venables staggered back into the secretary’s arms. By the time he recovered enough to speak, Katherine was on her way downstairs to find a taxi that would take her to Fleet Street.

  *

  The slap haunted Katherine for the entire day. The confrontation with Venables at the BBC became a major story, aired first on the radio, then in the early racing editions of that evening’s newspapers. Reporters from other papers telephoned her to learn more. Promises flowed like molasses that they would be kind to her; after all, they said, if one reporter was maligned, they were all maligned. Katherine ignored the offers of professional friendship. She simply issued the same statement to them all: she had become so distraught over Venables’s lies that she had lost control of herself and hit him. End of quote, end of story.

  She offered a more detailed explanation to her father, who telephoned the instant he heard the story. “Instead of relaying the news, Daddy, I lost my temper and became a part of it.”

  “Your temper told you to do the right thing,” Roland said.

  She did not go out for lunch that day for fear of becoming a target for a camera or a sharp pencil the instant her feet touched the street. She wasn’t hungry anyway. She doubted that she would even be hungry by that evening, when she was supposed to have dinner with John Saxon. Seeing Venables and having to listen to his poisonous lies first thing in the morning had killed her appetite, even if slapping him hard enough to make her own hand tingle had sharpened it again for a moment.

  Twice during the day, messengers brought up gifts that had been left at the downstairs reception desk. The first was a bouquet of red roses. The attached card read, “You’ve got your mother’s temper and my right hook, and I’ve never been prouder of you. Roland.” Katherine placed the roses in a vase on her desk, and left them, with the card, for everyone to see.

  The second gift came in a brown paper bag. Boxing gloves! She knew who’d sent them even before she read the accompanying note. She telephoned the International Press Agency, and asked for Raymond Barnhill.

  “What am I supposed to do with these?”

  The American journalist roared with laughter. “They’re for when you turn professional. The way I heard it on the radio, you’re the next Marciano. Better looking, of course.”

  “Thank you.” An unwelcome thought occurred. “You didn’t send this story —”

  “Over the wire? Damned right I did. This is human interest at its best. This time tomorrow, you’ll be a household name from Blowing Rock, North Carolina, to Oshkosh, Wisconsin.”

  “That’s what I always wanted, you louse,” she said, and hung up. But she was smiling all the same.

  As the afternoon drew on, she thought about her date with John Saxon. She could imagine what he’d say when they met. He would accuse her of giving even more publicity to Alan Venables and his politics of hatred. That was one thing she found so hard to understand about Saxon. How could such a successful man have such an ostrichlike mentality? How could he be so blind and timid when it came to something as important as this?

  *

  Saxon served dinner at home that evening, ordering from the same French restaurant he had used on the night Katherine had returned from her first ride on a soccer special. This time, he chose turbot fillet poached in white wine and mustard, complementing it with a bottle of Meursault from the comprehensive wine cellar he maintained at his in-town residence.

  “God, that was wonderful,” Katherine said as she finished the last morsel. “You may not be able to cook, but you certainly know how to order in.”

  “Do you know why I ordered in?”

  Katherine made a noise that was half yawn, half sigh. So far, Saxon had not mentioned the day’s events; she was certain that he was about to compensate for the lapse. “Because everyone would have been looking at us if we went out?”

  “Your picture did appear in the newspapers.”

  “It was an old picture, John, the one used ages ago for ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ I don’t even look like that anymore.”

  Saxon split the remainder of the Meursault between the two glasses. “That was the only time you ever really used your talents, you know, when you ran ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ What you’re doing now is a shameful waste.”

  “Please, John, don’t start that again!”

  “Instead of shouting at me, you should be grateful that I care enough to worry about where your career’s heading.”

  “And just where is my career heading?”

  “Down. You’re wasting yourself by fighting this bunch of fascists. Leave them alone; they’ll die a natural death.”

  “Like hell they will. What about the disgraceful things that have been happening?”

  “That’s some group of monsters called the British Brigade, not Venables’s British Patriotic League.”

  “What is it going to take for you to see they’re one and the same, John? Haven’t you heard of the dual-track strategy?”

  “Not until this morning, when you suddenly popularized the term. Where did you get it from?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Oh, I see. Your sour
ce gave it to you, did he? This unimpeachable source who’s provided you with information on every move the British Brigade’s ever made. Katherine, take my word for it — Frederick Forsyth doesn’t need any help from you.”

  “You agree with Venables that I’m writing fiction?”

  “I’ve yet to see any fact. I know, your source . . .”

  “Damn it, John Saxon! My source is real! He exists!”

  “Who, Brian Waters?”

  Katherine’s face sagged. “How did you know?”

  “Who else would you know who could be mixed up in something like this? Did you pay him to be a spy?”

  “Yes, we gave him something.”

  “Are you sure he’s not earning it by telling you whatever he thinks you want to hear?”

  Katherine stared stonily at Saxon, unwilling to even consider that possibility.

  Saxon’s voice softened. “Katherine, can’t you see that even if what you claim is true, Venables’s big-lie technique is still stronger? And do you know why? Because the British public does not want to hear your truth. It makes them uncomfortable to know that something could be wrong at the middle of their society.”

  “And just how comfortable will they feel when they finally realize how evil this man Venables is?”

  “Dear, sweet, naive Katherine. It will make no difference at all. As long as it doesn’t increase the price of a pint of beer or a pack of cigarettes, the British public couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss.”

  Katherine touched a hand to her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead like a smooth stone in the sun. Was it the half bottle of Meursault, or the argument? “Is that how you really see my audience, John? Are they that apathetic?”

  “That’s how I really see them. The man in the street would rather see you tearing some department store to pieces on ‘Fightback’ than listen to you telling him the truth about some dangerous sociological problem.”

  “I don’t want to believe you, John. But if I ever find out you’re right, then I’ll telephone Jeffrey Dillard and take that ‘Fightback’ job.”

  *

  Detectives investigating the British Brigade attacks interviewed Katherine. They asked about her source. She answered that the information had been given to her over the telephone by a man who identified himself each time with a prearranged codeword.

  At the same time, police questioned the executive committee of the British Patriotic League. All three men — Venables, Trevor Burns, the propaganda director, and Neville Sharpe, the financial director — denied any knowledge of the British Brigade.

  Despite Katherine’s published allegations, and their own investigation, the police could not link the British Brigade with the quasi-respectable, if extreme, British Patriotic League. They could not even identify a single Brigade member. To provide the police with the proof they needed, Katherine would have to bring forward Brian. She would have to put him in the spotlight, and identify him as a traitor to the madmen he was pretending to support. There was no way she would do that.

  For a month after the story in the Eagle, nothing was heard from the British Brigade. No acts of violence were perpetrated. The organization appeared to have folded in on itself. Even Brian had no information. He had not heard from Venables since the meeting to arrange the arson attack on the West Indian club.

  At the beginning of December, the silence was finally broken. Venables summoned Brian late at night to Patriot House. They met in Venables’s private office on the top floor, sitting on opposite sides of a gray steel desk.

  “You live with your grandfather, don’t you?” Venables said. “You haven’t let him know of your connection to the British Brigade, have you?”

  “Of course not. He knows I belong to the British Patriotic League, but that’s all.”

  “Does he know you’re out tonight on League business?”

  “No. You telephoned after he’d gone to bed.”

  “Good.” Venables rested his chin on his hands and stared across the desk at Brian. “We’ve learned the name of the traitor, the Brigade member whom the Daily Eagle calls it source.”

  Brian’s stomach lurched; his throat constricted with fear. “Who is it?”

  “Someone in your group. Michael Edwards.”

  “Who?” Brian asked, before remembering that Michael Edwards was Ginger’s real name. “That’s daft. It can’t be him.”

  “Can’t it? Think about this. The Eagle gets a picture of Edwards at a football game, and then they get a picture of him at the Brixton rally. Convenient, eh? That way, they can tie up their story of the League recruiting football hooligans. At the same time, they make Edwards a celebrity within the League. They arrange a cover for their own spy, don’t you see?”

  The tightness remained in Brian’s throat. Venables could just as easily have been talking about him. Hadn’t the Eagle arranged his cover in a similar fashion? Sid Hall, the Eagle photographer, appearing to pick a fight, and then backing down to make Brian look tough in front of the League supporters? But instead of choosing Brian as the spy, Venables had selected Ginger! If it weren’t so serious, it would be riotously funny.

  “You’re his immediate superior,” Venables said. “You’re responsible for him. For his rewards, and for his punishments.”

  “What kind of punishment?”

  “What’s the usual punishment for high treason?”

  Brian almost choked on the word. “Death?”

  Venables nodded, the grim reaper with watery eyes, stringy hair, and a beaky nose.

  “What’s wrong with a beating?” Brian asked.

  “And have him live to talk to police? To give them all our names? To tie up the loose ends for the damned Daily Eagle?”

  Brian knew he had to get away and find a means of stopping Venables. He’d telephone Katherine the instant he left Patriot House, let her use the Eagle’s influence with the police. And Ginger . . . he’d call Ginger as well, put him wise so he could find somewhere to hide until it was safe to surface.

  A telephone sat in the center of the desk. Venables dashed Brian’s hopes when he pushed the telephone at him and said, “Call Edwards now. Have him meet us here.”

  Brian hesitated for an instant before lifting the receiver and dialing the number of Ginger’s home. While he listened to the double ring, he offered up a silent prayer that Ginger would be out. But God was not listening. The call was answered, and Brian heard Ginger’s voice.

  “It’s Brian. Meet me at headquarters.” Suspect something, you idiot! Say you can’t make it!

  “Be right over,” Ginger answered cheerfully, a man walking to his own execution with a spring in his step.

  “He’s coming,” Brian told Venables.

  “You wait for him outside the building,” Venables said. “I’ll be in my car. When he arrives, bring him to my car, then you follow on your motorbike.”

  Venables locked the main door of Patriot House and walked away. Brian waited on the sidewalk, an anonymous figure in his jeans and denim jacket, crash helmet covering his face. After ten minutes, a bus passed. Ginger, standing on the platform, jumped off as the bus slowed.

  “What’s up, then, Brian?”

  “Venables wants you. He’s over there, in the Austin.”

  “What does he want me for?”

  “You’d better go ask him yourself.” Brian gripped Ginger’s elbow and guided him toward Venables’s tiny blue Austin. Unsuspecting, Ginger climbed in. The Austin moved away, and Brian followed on the motorcycle.

  He tailed the Austin for three miles, using the time to think of a way to save Ginger. No matter how big a bastard Ginger was, Brian did not want to be accessory to his murder. Or even worse, to be his murderer. No wonder Venables had wanted to be sure that no one knew Brian’s whereabouts that night.

  The Austin stopped. Brian pulled up behind it. They were in a dark, narrow street. On one side was a viaduct sheltering garages and body shops, all closed for the night. On the other side were railings, and a long gr
assy knoll leading down to railway lines. Over the years, some railings had been bent. Venables slipped through. Ginger followed, then came Brian. The three men walked right down to the track. Clouds covered the cold sliver of a moon; it was so black that even the rails refused to shine.

  “What do you want to see me about then?” Ginger asked.

  Brian could not believe Ginger’s gullibility. Why did he think he’d been brought down to a railway line at the dead of night? To go train-spotting?

  “Your group commander will tell you,” Venables answered.

  Brian stepped in between the two men. It was time to end the charade. He couldn’t go through with it, not kill a man, push him onto the rails as a train went by — that was what Venables obviously had in mind. Instead of facing Ginger, Brian turned in Venables’s direction. “Forget it. I’m not getting involved in anything like this. You want to kill him for being a traitor, you do it yourself.”

  Venables’s gaunt face broke into an icy smile. The dimmest of lights bathed it, to lend the expression a ghostly perspective. On the crisp night wind came the faint rattle of a train gathering momentum as it cleared a speed zone.

  From behind Brian came Ginger’s voice. “He doesn’t want to kill me for being a traitor, Brian. It’s you who’s been talking his head off to the newspapers, not me.”

  Brian snapped his head around, fists rising in defense. Ginger swung his arm, and a steel bar smashed against Brian’s left cheek. He screamed in pain as his mouth filled with blood, bone, and broken teeth. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. Ginger stood over him, silhouetted in the gradually increasing light from the approaching train, the bar raised to deliver the final blow.

  The bar stayed raised. Venables bent over Brian, gloved hands going through the pockets of his jeans and denim jacket. Brian, too weak to resist, felt Venables remove his keys and the plastic case that held his driving license and insurance binder, the only identification he carried. Venables stood up straight. “Just as well we discovered the truth about this devious little bastard,” he said to Ginger. “All right, finish him off.”