A Crooked Sixpence Read online

‘An outrageous suggestion,’ said the lawyer. Of course, this will increase the damages.’

  ‘Why was the younger girl naked?’

  ‘I believe my client has a respectable young lady friend who visits her from time to time. I cannot accept for a second that she was improperly dressed.’

  ‘Why did this respectable young lady come with me to a public house to buy a bottle of gin?’

  ‘There is only your word for that, and you are hardly a person of credit.’

  ‘There were a dozen people in the bar, including my chauffeur and photographer.’

  ‘Perjury is cheaply bought, but easily exposed,’ said Mr. Morgan.

  ‘Let me tell you something, Mr. Morgan,’ said Knight. ‘We are publishing nothing about your client tomorrow. You might get an injunction over the weekend, but you will merely be stopping something which isn’t going to happen yet, anyway. If you apply for your injunction on Monday, we shall bring evidence to support our accusations. Your client will be spread over all the newspapers, not just this one. You won’t get your injunction, and we will get some nice publicity for our exposure. The best thing you can do in your client’s interests is to refund your fee and go back to collecting small debts.’

  ‘Don’t you dare to threaten me,’ bristled Mr. Morgan. ‘I am a professional man.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what will happen if you go ahead with this,’ said Knight.

  ‘You will regret this foul, wanton attack on the honour of a respectable woman, Mr. Knight,’ said the lawyer. ‘Your newspaper will be compelled by the courts to publish the fullest retraction and apology for your disgusting allegations. My client is not interested in money, of course, but I shall be compelled to ask the court for nominal damages-say, ten thousand pounds. You will find the British bench has a quick way with irresponsible, criminal defamation, Mr. Knight.’

  ‘Is this your first libel case, Mr. Morgan?’ asked Knight.

  ‘Are you disparaging my professional reputation?’ asked the lawyer, in a furious squeak. ‘I advise you to watch your tongue, sir, or you will find yourself in even more serious trouble.’

  ‘I have heard some amateurish approaches in my time,’ said Knight, amused, ‘but this business about your professional reputation is the silliest one I’ve heard yet. I’ve crossed swords with the best libel men in London and you’re certainly not one of them. Do you imagine we are frightened of you just because you’ve scraped through articles somewhere?’

  ‘This is outrageous, Knight,’ shrieked the lawyer. ‘You can’t adopt this tone with me. I am an officer of the court. This is a grave contempt.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Knight. ‘You are a pompous idiot, Mr. Morgan, and if you don’t like the sound of that I advise you to leave before you hear more.’

  ‘You’ll regret this, Knight, and so will your accomplice, whatever his real name is.’

  ‘O’Toole,’ said O’Toole. ‘James O’Toole.’

  ‘You’ll regret this, both of you. I shall increase the damages to twenty-five thousand pounds, at least, and your employers have only themselves to blame. I’ll see both of you in the dock before I am finished.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Morgan,’ said Knight, if I was ever in two minds about your client, I certainly am not now.’

  The lawyer snatched his briefcase from the table and stamped out. Knight lit his pipe.

  ‘Well, that settles Eileen, Digger,’ he said, if we let this snide little bastard get away with it, we’ll have every whore and ponce in London sending someone in here to ask for twenty-five thousand nominal damages. The silliest thing she could have done was to go to some cheap lawyer with a sketchy knowledge of the libel law and then lie to him about what really happened.’

  ‘When does the series start?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘Next Sunday, I think, with an announcement tomorrow,’ said Knight. ‘After this, I think we might lead off with Eileen.’

  O’Toole had barely got back to his desk when Jacobs came up with another man, a stranger.

  ‘You did a story about Ricky Rogers, didn’t you, Mr. O’Toole?’ he asked, with unexpected formality.

  ‘I did, Mr. Jacobs,’ said O’Toole. ‘This looks like visiting day.’

  ‘This gentleman wants to tell us something about it,’ said Jacobs, with a wink. ‘Would you attend to him?’

  ‘Surely, Tom,’ said O’Toole. ‘Better step into the waiting-room,’ he said to the visitor.

  The newcomer was short and fat, around fifty. He had horny hands and a good suit, like a man who has done well in the motor trade. His blood pressure looked high.

  ‘I’m James O’Toole,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Glad to know you,’ said the man. ‘I’m Ricky’s father. His real father, that is.’

  ‘Oh yes, I heard about you from your son,’ said O’Toole. ‘You encouraged him in his early struggles. You’re in the transport business, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re mixing me up with that ponce who is living off Ricky now,’ said the man.

  ‘Let’s get this straight,’ said O’Toole. ‘Mr. Rogers told me his father used to be a lorry-driver and was now his manager. Is that you?’

  ‘No, I’m his real father,’ said the visitor. ‘The man you’re talking about married his mother while I was away.’

  ‘Let’s start from the beginning, Mr...’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Saunders. That’s his real name, Ricky Saunders. Of course, he’s ashamed of his old Dad now he’s in the money.’

  ‘How does that come about, Mr. Saunders?’

  ‘It’s like this. I wasn’t exactly married to his mother, like. Just before Ricky was born I got seven years.’

  “What for, if that’s not too personal?’

  ‘GBH. That’s Grievous Bodily Harm. A dirty frame-up, of course.’

  ‘Of course, a frame-up. Where does Mr. Rogers Senior fit into the picture?’

  ‘Prendergast’s his real name. I suppose Ricky didn’t think that sounded too well on the stage, so he called himself Rogers. Well, this twot Prendergast...you’ll have to excuse the language but my feelings are pretty deeply hurt, like...’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ said O’Toole. ‘Go on.’

  ‘This Prendergast got on to the sweet side of Ricky’s mother while I was away. She’d promised to wait for me, too, but you know what women are. When I came out she wouldn’t have nothing to do with me. I let her keep the kid, of course, and this Prendergast brought him up. As a matter of fact, I more or less lost touch with them until Ricky started singing and I recognised his picture in the papers. He’d changed his name by then, but I knew him at once—regular chip off the old block.’

  There was, O’Toole noticed, a distinct resemblance. It was exactly the hint of this soured podginess to come which ruined Ricky’s present chances of being a handsome young man.

  ‘You saw him again?’ he asked the visitor.

  ‘Well, not right away, like. I was doing another three years at the time. They framed me for immoral earnings. I’ll be level with you, Mr. O’Toole, I haven’t been as good as I might have been. But I’m straight now, straight as a die. I’ve gone straight for Ricky’s sake. For my boy’s sake.’

  ‘I’ll bet he’s proud of you.’

  ‘That’s the trouble. Would you believe it, he treats me, his own father, like common dirt. It’s not right, is it? Oh, he’s slung me a few quid now and again, like, but I’ve had to go down on my hands and knees to get it. Once he even grudged me a lousy hundred nicker to get me out of a spot of bother with some cheques. Just a loan, that’s all I needed to tide me over. He wouldn’t come across until I said I’d send the cheques to the papers with a note saying who I was—just to scare him, of course, I’d never have dreamed of doing it. What makes my blood boil, he was making a thousand nicker a week at the time and this ponce Prendergast was getting plenty of it, I’ll bet. What do you think of a boy who treats his own father like that?’

  O’Toole looked suitably scandalised.
‘Was that the time he was topping the bill at the Palladium?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I was in the nick then,’ said the visitor, it must have been a few months later—he was in the Royal Command show and the papers were full of him. I can tell you, the kid’s rolling in it. Mind you, he can sing, and no mistake. Gets it from me. The girls used to be at me all the time in my young days to give them a tune. That wasn’t all I gave them, either.’

  Mr. Saunders winked obscenely and O’Toole joined him in a laugh.

  ‘Often thought of doing a round of the halls myself as Ricky Roger’s Dad,’ he went on. ‘Just for a bit of publicity to get me started off, like.’

  ‘Well, that’s a most interesting story,’ said O’Toole. ‘What do you want us to do about it?’

  ‘Print it,’ said the visitor. ‘The story of a father’s love that his son’s got no use for. I want you to bring the kid to his senses. Make him realise how shockingly he’s treated his old Dad.’

  ‘It mightn’t do Ricky any good,’ suggested O’Toole.

  ‘Of course it will,’ said Mr. Saunders, ‘I’ll write it myself, but you can touch it up here and there. It’s a warm, human story, and I know how you can dish it up, make it real inspiring. His fans will love every word of it.’

  ‘We could write it to save you the trouble,’ suggested O’Toole.

  ‘I’ll do it myself,’ said Mr. Saunders. ‘It’s my own life-story and I’m the man to do justice to it. When I sell my life-story, I want it treated right.’

  ‘Did you have any price in mind for your reminiscences, Mr. Saunders?’

  ‘Well, it’s worth something, you’ve got to admit. I’m not after money, of course, but I can’t let it go buckshee. Say, hundred and fifty nick?’

  ‘I’m not the man to decide,’ said O’Toole. ‘I suppose you can prove all this? Not that I doubt your word, of course.’

  ‘Dead easy. I’ve got Ricky’s birth certificate here—I treasured it over the years, like—and you can easily check up on me with the law.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said O’Toole. ‘Hang on here for a minute and I’ll put your idea up to the editor.’

  ‘You’re not going to ring Ricky, are you? I want to surprise him.’

  ‘I know how you feel,’ said O’Toole. ‘No, I’m not going to ring anyone, just have a word with the governor.’

  O’Toole crossed the busy office and found Starsh correcting a proof, a long filament of chewing-gum stretching from his mouth.

  ‘Nick, we’ve had a visit from Ricky Rogers’ father,’ he said. ‘He’s told me a lot more about the lad’s early troubles. A whiff straight off the sewer.’

  ‘We’ve got enough rubbish in the paper about him already,’ said Starsh.

  ‘This is different. This is a story, for a change.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It appears Ricky is a bastard, technically speaking. He’s probably not the only bastard in show business, of course, but he’s a special kind of bastard. It appears his father was in prison when he was born and, oddly enough, was in stir again when Ricky was topping the bill at the Palladium and doing his act for the Queen a few months back. Seems the old man’s been blackmailing him for years by threatening to tell all.’

  ‘Nice type.’

  ‘He even makes Ricky look good,’ said O’Toole. ‘His Dad’s a peg-legged, hump-backed, bad-breathed bastard of the old school.’

  ‘Will he co-operate?’

  ‘Ricky’s been getting stingy, and there’s some jealousy there about his de jure Dad, who’s usurped the paternal spot on the payroll. He’s ready to tell us everything for one-fifty. According to him all he wants is recognition as the man who sired the wonder boy.’

  ‘Cam ought to hear this,’ said Starsh. ‘Sounds like an interesting sidelight.’

  Barr, too, was writing when they went into his office.

  ‘O’Toole has something new on Ricky Rogers, Cam,’ said Starsh.

  ‘We’re not wasting more time on that pissology, are we?’ said Barr, annoyed at the interruption. ‘This might be worth it,’ said Starsh. ‘Tell Mr. Barr about it, James.’

  O’Toole told his story.

  ‘I can see how we can handle it,’ said Barr. ‘We give this individual his hundred and fifty for a signed story. Then we run something like this: “Get out of London, you beast, Saunders. Haven’t you done enough harm already? Drop dead. Ricky doesn’t want to know you and you’re not fit to mingle with decent people. Slink back to the slums, you gaolbird.” Then we tell the story, finishing up with how this vulture has blackmailed and bloodsucked the singing idol of millions of British teenagers. Then we round it off like this: “Now your spell is broken, you evil monster. The Sun has told your shameful story and the people of Britain know you for what you are. Never again can you profit from your shabby secret.” We might say this heartless father has even tried to hawk his son’s shame for money. Of course we put a line in somewhere to the effect that it’s not Ricky’s fault he’s illegitimate and his Dad’s an old lag. How does it sound, Nick?’

  ‘Neat,’ said Starsh. ‘Pity about the one-fifty, we can easily check this ourselves.’

  “We’ll have to pay him something to tie him up,’ said Barr. ‘What’s he like, O’Toole? Think you could con him into taking a fiver?’

  ‘He’s a hard man, I’d say, Mr. Barr,’ said O’Toole. ‘I might beat him down a bit.’

  ‘Give it a try,’ said Barr. ‘You two work on it, I’m busy here with the leader.’

  O’Toole rejoined the anguished father.

  ‘The editor is very sympathetic, Mr. Saunders,’ he said, “But I’m afraid our budget won’t go to more than fifty pounds. After all, we’re doing you a service by revealing the treatment you’ve suffered.’

  ‘Seventy-five,’ said Saunders.

  ‘I think I might be able to get that through for you,’ said O’Toole. ‘Can you type?’

  ‘Never got round to it, like.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ said O’Toole. ‘You tell me your story and I’ll type it out for you.’

  ‘Now, like I said, I admit I’m no clean potato, but I got a father’s natural feelings. Got that?’

  O’Toole began typing.

  Mr. Saunders took nearly an hour to tell his story, of which perhaps ten lines were usable. Then he left the office in high good humour.

  O’Toole sent out for a sandwich which he munched as he composed the exposure. He found the work agreeable, and particularly enjoyed the balance of his peroration:

  ‘Saunders, you worthless blackmailer, your evil spell is broken. You have done this innocent boy your last injury. Get out of London, out of Britain, out of sight of decent people.

  ‘Ricky, you are free at last. It is no fault of yours that your gaolbird father has fastened the shame of illegitimacy on you. To the broadminded people of modern Britain, it is no shame. Now the Sunday Sun has exposed this callous monster for what he is, you have nothing more to fear. Now, thanks to this newspaper, you can get on with your real job—the job of bringing joy to millions of British teenagers!’

  O’Toole was rereading his piece when, painted, perfumed, varnished, lacquered, bulging, bare and cloven in the chest, Mary Lou swept into the office. She spotted O’Toole at his typewriter and altered course majestically in his direction.

  ‘James,’ she said. ‘You’ve been terribly, terribly naughty.’

  ‘Have I?’ said O’Toole.

  ‘I just heard from that nasty little man who says he’s Ricky’s father,’ said Mary Lou. Of course he wanted money again and we’re sick of paying all the time. He says you have promised to print his disgusting article about Ricky.’

  ‘Does he now,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘I thought no decent newspaper would publish his lies,’ said Mary Lou. ‘You’ve met Ricky—you know what a marvellous person he is. This would ruin his career.’

  ‘His Dad says his fans will love every word of it,’ said O’Toole. ‘I thought it was his hu
man warmth they went for. Now they’ll know where he gets it.’

  ‘You know that’s not true,’ said Mary Lou. ‘If this is published, every time he gets up to sing they will shout a horrible word at him—you know what I mean.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said O’Toole. ‘A true word, for once.’

  ‘That’s not the publicity we want. You can’t give us publicity like that. After all, it’s not Ricky’s fault, is it?’

  ‘Look, Mary Lou,’ said O’Toole. ‘We’re not in the business of giving Ricky good publicity. This is supposed to be a newspaper. We print what we think people will be interested in. For years you have been feeding us your cooked-up rubbish about Ricky’s ties and his favourite dishes and we published it because deluded editors thought it was interesting. Ricky got rich in the process and you seem to be doing all right yourself. Now we’ve got something which is even more interesting. Maybe Ricky’s income will go down but that’s no concern of ours. We’re not here to build him up in the first place. Those who live by publicity can’t squeal if they die by publicity, can they?’

  ‘That’s blasphemous and horrible,’ said Mary Lou. ‘You must have a mind like a sewer. I’m not going to waste any more time with you, I’m going straight in to see the editor.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said O’Toole, but Mary Lou had stormed out of earshot. Sure enough, she went into Barr’s outer office.

  O’Toole left his typewriter and found Starsh.

  ‘There’s something odd going on here, Nick,’ he said. ‘That dame who just steamed in is Ricky Rogers’ agent or publicity woman, something like that. She’s the one who gave me the priceless load of crap about Ricky’s favourite classical composer. She seems to know we’re going to tip the bucket on her meal-ticket, and she’s gone in to talk Barr out of it. What I don’t like is, she’s still in there, and she seemed to know exactly where his office is.’

  ‘She probably knows him already,’ said Starsh. ‘Newspaper editors get about a bit, you know. Could the father have got at her in the meantime?’

  ‘Easily. He would have had time to get to her office, and there’s always the phone. He’s obviously trying a double-cross.’