A Crooked Sixpence Page 17

‘I don’t think she’ll get far with Cam,’ said Starsh.

  ‘When will we know?’

  ‘Perhaps never. Cam isn’t obliged to explain himself.’

  ‘We don’t want to have this heart-warming story of a father’s love tampered with, do we?’

  ‘I’ll nip in and see if I can find out what’s going on,’ said Starsh.

  O’Toole sat on the edge of his desk as Starsh scurried into the editor’s office. Above the clatter of the office, O’Toole thought he heard a woman’s voice raised inside, perhaps even a muffled scream. But there was too much going on in the newsroom to be sure.

  The sub-editors had already started work around the big horseshoe table a few feet from him, trimming and shaping the smaller stories for the news pages. There were twenty of them, in shirt-sleeves, heads bowed and pencils flying over piles of copy-paper. The bare arms and furrowed foreheads, the unbuttoned collars and loosened ties made them look like ageing schoolboys doing a gruelling Eng. Lit. paper. The chief sub-editor, a one-eyed elderly man who looked after the answers to readers’ queries during the week, presided at the centre of the outer curve of the table. He was working through a pile of stories from the basket at his elbow, reading the first few paragraphs of each, marking a spot on a clipped bundle of page schemes and throwing the document to one of the labourers with his order, ‘Five pars with a single-column staggered two-line head in eighteen’ or ‘Two-par fill, early page.’ For more complicated prescriptions, he wrote directions on the copy and sometimes drew the shape of headline he wanted.

  As the sub-editors worked, O’Toole noticed that their left hands were periodically busy on the table, the fingers thumping in order like practising pianists’. They were counting letters, reducing political turmoil in far-off republics to

  RED GRAB BID

  because eighteen-point Roman Ultra-Bodoni makes nineteen units (including spaces) in a twenty-four em line over a shallow double, and even the Russians haven’t developed rubber typefaces yet.

  Barr came out of the office first. He was patting Mary Lou on the shoulder, comfortingly, and smiling a polite social smile O’Toole had never seen before. Mary Lou looked a little tear-bruised around the eyes, which went effectively with her expression of sun shining through the rain. Starsh looked glum.

  As Mary Lou passed O’Toole, she let him have a silent broadside of venomous triumph.

  ‘Take this bravely, dear boy,’ said Starsh, breaking station to join O’Toole. ‘The idea’s been killed.’

  O’Toole saw Barr’s back as he led Mary Lou to the lift.

  ‘Dad’s right out?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘Except where he figures in Ricky’s struggle to the top. She looked through your original version and said it was okay. She didn’t seem to notice we’ve pinched his life history.’

  ‘But what about the dirt?’ asked O’Toole. ‘What happens to the real story? It’s right out?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘How on earth did she do it?’

  ‘It was a great performance,’ said Starsh. ‘I only caught the tail end of it, but it was brilliant. First she cried, then said her career was finished and so was Ricky’s. Finally she pulled out a bottle of pills and threatened to commit suicide right in the office, on Cam’s good carpet.’

  ‘This is fantastic,’ said O’Toole. ‘What do we care about Ricky’s career, or hers either for that matter? Who ever heard of an agent committing suicide because the lunch coupons were in danger? I thought we were here to tell the truth without fear or favour.’

  ‘We can’t assist this blackmailer in his filthy tricks.’

  ‘We were going to break his evil spell forever,’ said O’Toole. ‘What happened to that?’

  ‘I’m surprised, James,’ said Starsh. ‘I know you’re disappointed over your story, but you seem to be getting personally involved in this. You’re always pleading for mercy, aren’t you?’

  ‘For people who can’t defend themselves, yes,’ said O’Toole. ‘I’m not too keen on some of these attacks on wretched insignificant women who do a bit of whoring. I accept them because they’re news and we’re supposed to be printing news where we can find it. I’ve used news value as a standard all my life. Just because this great tub of low-class lard Rogers has enough money to hire some dame with a big bust to come down here and cry for him, I don’t see why he’s entitled to examine what we’re going to print about him and get the parts he doesn’t like killed.’

  ‘You’re taking this too seriously, James,’ said Starsh, smiling and shaking his head. ‘We might have had all sorts of trouble on our hands if this girl had carried out her threats. Besides, Rogers is a big public figure and we have to handle him carefully.’

  ‘We made him a big public figure,’ said O’Toole heatedly. ‘Here’s another small point. We now know that Rogers’ life-story is not only a nauseous piece of bum-sucking, it’s totally untrue into the bargain. What about the paper you can rely on?’

  ‘Don’t look at it that way,’ said Starsh. ‘It’s a good, inspiring read and it does no one any harm. Who cares if it’s been touched up a bit here and there, artistically speaking?’

  ‘I can’t see Rogers and his hired bosom getting away with this,’ said O’Toole. ‘This is getting close to dishonesty.’

  Starsh put a hand on O’Toole’s shoulder.

  ‘Look, James, we can all be guilty of rationalising our resentments, especially when there’s a natural disappointment involved. You strike me as an honest man, so I’ll be frank with you. Are you sure you haven’t got it in for Rogers because he’s making money? We have to be fair to the rich, you know, and treat them like anyone else. We’re not here to conduct class war on these people.’

  ‘All I want is for us to tell the truth,’ said O’Toole, ‘especially when it’s a good, juicy story. I can’t see why not.’

  ‘Policy, dear boy, policy,’ said Starsh. ‘Is it possible you are treating Rogers as a symbol for show business in general? Do you dislike all music-hall entertainers, for some reason?’

  ‘Why should I?’ asked O’Toole, with a start.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Starsh. ‘What I do know is, you’re starting to sound like Norman Knight in one of his more passionate crusading moments. After all, you must have guessed by now that Cam is the editor of this paper and Norman Knight isn’t because we need Norman’s energy in swinging the shining sword of reform, but even more we need Cam’s judgment to keep us out of bankruptcy and keep the show going. Come, come, James, you know this rock-bottomed honest pose is terribly naive. We might present a bit of fiction now and again as if it was literal truth, but what about Dickens and Dostoyevsky and the rest of the literary trade? They write the truth and pretend they made it up. It’s all dishonest, if you are going to take this stern puritan line.’

  ‘But look, Nick...’ said O’Toole.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear boy, but you’ll really have to defer this exposition of your views to some other time. We’ve got a paper to get out, you know.’ Starsh patted O’Toole’s shoulder again, as he left.

  O’Toole tore up his story in disgust and returned to his desk, boiling. He tried to imagine Ricky and Mary Lou as poor, put-upon people, but he couldn’t see Mary Lou poor in any heterosexual environment.

  Having for the moment nothing more to do, and unable to sit any longer at his desk, O’Toole went over to Jacobs, who happened to be between telephone calls.

  ‘They don’t want stories here, Tom,’ he said, if anyone wants me I’m out for a drink.’

  ‘You’re entitled to your break, but why the despairing tone?’ asked Jacobs. ‘Spent too much time on the nest lately?’

  Then the phone rang again, and Jacobs waved O’Toole away.

  ‘I’ll be in the Falcon,’ said O’Toole, leaving. Norman Knight came up at that moment.

  ‘I could do with one myself, Digger,’ he said. ‘Mind if I come along?’

  ‘Of course not, Norman,’ said O’Toole.

  XVIII<
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  KNIGHT and O’Toole were wedged in a corner of the bar, speaking softly because the place was full of people from the opposition papers.

  ‘It really gets me, Norman,’ said O’Toole. ‘For years I’ve been waiting to get something good on one of these repulsive show business types, just to even up the score for all the free publicity I’ve given them. A story finally comes along and Barr kills it because Ricky Rogers’ agent comes into the office and cries.’

  ‘That’s who she was,’ said Knight. ‘What have you got on Rogers? He goes with whores, or something?’

  ‘He might, for all I know,’ said O’Toole. ‘The story is, he’s a bastard, and his Dad was in stir when he was topping the bill at the Palladium.’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Knight. On the other hand, these crooning nine-day wonders are not really top-weight celebrities, are they? Barr might have smelt some sort of weird publicity stunt.

  ‘That really would be an original one,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘They’ll try anything,’ said Knight. ‘What did Starsh have to do with it? I saw him trailing the publicity woman out of the office.’

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ said O’Toole. ‘He found out what was going on for me. He seemed to take it pretty tamely, though, I thought.’

  ‘I’d be a bit careful with him if I were you,’ said Knight. ‘He’s straight enough, no question about that, but he’s clever and he knows it. I suppose you’ve noticed he writes or rewrites just about every word that goes into the paper. You know anything about his background?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said O’Toole. ‘Provincial by the voice, perhaps Jewish by the name. That’s all I can guess.’

  ‘Comes of a well-off family in Liverpool,’ said Knight. ‘Studied to be an accountant or economist, something like that. He’s got all the degrees. Became a Communist during the war and worked in some flea-bitten little publishing house in Prague, I think it was. Then he saw the light, came back here and started doing a Saturday trick on the subs table. That would be four or five years ago. Cam took a shine to him, although he just about had the arse out of his trousers at the time. Maybe that was why. Anyway, in no time he was Cam’s right-hand man, and I suppose he’s in line for the job if Cam ever turns it in.’

  ‘What do you mean, he saw the light?’ asked O’Toole. ‘Not your light, by any chance?’

  ‘Good God, no,’ said Knight, laughing. ‘He says he’s broken with the reds. Possibly he has, you can never be certain with these people.’

  ‘His job would tend to indicate that he has,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Once a Communist, always a Communist, that’s what they say’ said Knight. ‘As far as I’m concerned his politics are his own business. The thing you ought to know is that Barr takes a lot of notice of what Starsh says, and when the pair of them get together they’re likely to take some fantastic risks. Starsh hasn’t come up through the mill like you and I have, and he’s sometimes inclined to think his degrees entitle him to get away with murder. Just keep your eyes open, that’s all.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, Norman,’ said O’Toole.

  Jacobs called O’Toole to his desk when the pair returned to the office.

  ‘Editor would like to see you, Aussie,’ he said. ‘No idea what about. He said as soon as you came back.’

  Barr was reading a proof when O’Toole went in.

  ‘Sit down, laddie,’ he said. ‘I won’t be a moment with this.’

  O’Toole sank into a velvet-padded easy chair, intimidated by the distance he had to lean back to keep his feet on the carpet. It was not the sort of chair you could get out of without an undignified heave. Barr’s spectacles flashed in the light of his reading-lamp as he finished with the proof and put his initials in a corner. Then he raised his head and gazed at O’Toole, unsmiling and unspeaking for several seconds.

  ‘I believe you don’t like the way this paper is run,’ he said after the pause.

  ‘It’s certainly not what I’m used to, Mr. Barr,’ he said.

  ‘Anything in particular you object to?’

  ‘I think you must be referring to Ricky Rogers,’ said O’Toole. ‘Since you ask me, I think we passed up a good story.’

  ‘That’s my decision,’ said Barr.

  Of course,’ said O’Toole. ‘I can disagree without questioning your right to decide. I don’t. It’s your paper.’

  ‘I’m glad you see that,’ said Barr, with perhaps a touch of irony. ‘Let me give you a word of advice, O’Toole. I’m sure you can see how I like to run a paper, as a big happy family. I took a chance when I brought you in here. After all, you’re a stranger, you’re not accustomed to the way we do things. But I thought I spotted the Fleet Street touch in you, and I don’t think I was mistaken.’

  ‘Thank you,’ nodded O’Toole.

  ‘I may have overestimated you in other ways,’ Barr went on. ‘I thought you’d catch on to our methods quicker than you have. Frankly, there’s something about your approach I don’t like. I know you Australians have a reputation for being difficult. I’m prepared to go to a certain amount of trouble with you, because you seem to go after a story in the same aggressive way, and we can’t have too much of that. But I draw the line when a reporter starts to get too big for his boots.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Now take this Rogers story,’ said Barr. ‘Considered just as news, it’s good—we’ve both been in this business long enough to know that. But there’s another side to it you mightn’t see. You had a good story, you would have had a page-one by-line on it, and you’ve missed out. You’re disappointed, and I’m prepared to understand that and make allowances for it. But when you let your anxiety for a by-line blind you to everything else in the situation, you’re letting the team down.’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly the by-line, Mr. Barr...’ O’Toole began, but Barr cut him short.

  ‘It’s my job to see the whole picture,’ he went on. ‘This chappie Rogers mightn’t mean much to you or me, but we mustn’t forget he’s the idol of millions of British teenagers.’

  ‘He certainly is,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Now I won’t mince words about this,’ said Barr. ‘This is a paper with a largely working-class readership. It’s those readers who pay our salaries, O’Toole, and don’t you forget it. These people mightn’t have as much so-called good taste as the West End snobs, but they’re decent people and their hearts are in the right place. I won’t have snide snobbish attacks on their heroes in my paper.’

  ‘I would never have thought I was a snob,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Neither would I, until this came up,’ said Barr, ‘I’m making allowances for the fact that you’re new over here, laddie, or you wouldn’t be on the staff now. It’s possible that you’re keeping snobbish company outside the office and you’ve picked up the wrong attitudes without realising it. I don’t care where you get it from. The point I want to make is, I’ll sack any man without a second’s hesitation who tries to sneak that sort of thing into my paper. Got that?’

  ‘Got it,’ said O’Toole. He hadn’t even begun to digest this accusation.

  ‘I hope this is the last time I have to say it,’ said Barr, it’s a final warning, and I’m serious. Now that we’ve cleared that up, I think I might still be able to get you that by-line.’

  ‘Oh?’ said O’Toole.

  ‘I suppose you saw the society strangling in the papers this morning?’

  O’Toole had. It concerned a girl in a fur coat who had been found strangled the previous night in an alleyway near Marble Arch. She apparently came from a middle-class suburban family and had no police record for soliciting, or at least none the Press had been able to find. The location and the fur coat had lifted it out of the ruck of routine murders, and the first edition of the Express had christened it ‘Park Lane Society Strangling’. All the other morning nationals except The Times and the Guardian had followed suit in the later editions, the Telegraph compromising with ‘Park Lane Murder Mystery.’
The Sketch had offered five years’ free subscription to any registered reader who could produce the girl’s missing handbag. The Mirror had a box-Brownie snapshot of the girl, evidently from some relative, headed ‘She Kept Her Last Big Date—With Death.’

  ‘I saw the story,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘You couldn’t really miss it,’ said Barr, smiling for the first time. ‘Now this is a long-shot, but it might work. I think I told you at the time I thought your handling of the Liverpool golfing husband story was up to top-class Fleet Street standard.’

  O’Toole nodded.

  ‘Now I have an idea in the back of my mind that you’ve done something with Michael Macedon, haven’t you?’

  ‘I tried to buy his story,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Of course,’ said Barr. ‘How did you leave him—friendly?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said O’Toole, ‘I’d say we’re quite good friends.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Barr. ‘He’s one of these deb’s delight Park Lane types, isn’t he? He’s bound to have known this girl, moving in high society circles and all.’

  ‘It’s quite possible,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘You can see the possibilities,’ said Barr. ‘I want you to put it right on him—get his full denial, with his alibi. Use the business about swearing on the Bible again, if you like. Saturday night he’s probably at home dressing for some big shivoo. You should be able to see him and get back in an hour and a half, say. That would give us an hour to clear the story through the lawyers before the first edition. No, come to think of it, we’ll hold it back till the second in case some of the others want to get in on it. That would give you a clear three hours. What I have in mind is something like “Society Playboy’s Angry Denial—Peer’s Nephew says, I’m No Strangler”. If you get it, I can promise you that front-page by-line after all.’

  ‘But...’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Any problems?’ asked Barr sharply.

  ‘Nothing,’ said O’Toole, heaving himself out of the chair. ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘Good lad,’ said Barr. ‘You won’t forget our little talk, will you?’