A Crooked Sixpence Read online

  The Sweeneys seemed to be settling down to camp in the waiting-room.

  ‘Mr. Sweeney, I think we can help you,’ said O’Toole, in the meantime, you’ve got nowhere to stay. Would you like to put up at my place for the night?’

  ‘Now, that’s really very kind of you, Mr. Towel.’

  ‘O’Toole. My place is small, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.’

  O’Toole turned restlessly on the floor of his kitchenette. His head was in a dark corner under the sink; his feet projected into the living-room, where the priest was snoring loudly in O’Toole’s bed. His wife was a shadow on the pillow beside him. The child slept happily in an opened suitcase.

  Six hours ago I was unemployed, thought O’Toole. Now I have this warm human drama doing me out of my bed. This poor bastard is certainly in a tight spot, but where else can he get two-fifty for a load of nonsense, and somewhere to sleep thrown in?

  V

  O’TOOLE was finishing the story of the star-crossed lovers:

  What does the future hold for this TORMENTED COUPLE and their innocent love-child?

  Here, in HOSPITABLE BRITAIN, they hope to find the forgiveness they sought in vain in CRUEL AFRICA.

  Father Sweeney wants a job. He knows no trade, has no qualifications except a little Latin, and the deep human sympathy of a man who has SUFFERED-a man who has the courage to start again.

  Is there, IN THE WHOLE OF BRITAIN, an employer who will take a chance on this man, knowing that he has broken THE MOST SACRED LAWS of the Church and of Society?

  The Sunday Sun has told his tragic story with one thought in mind-the hope that somewhere, among its thirteen million regular readers, there is someone who will show Father Sweeney that his FAITH IN BRITAIN has not been misplaced.

  O’Toole’s right thumb was tired from holding the shift-key, but on rereading the story seemed not too bad. Some of this, he thought, comes close to home. I have no trade myself except a little Latin and the warm human sympathy of a man who needs a job badly. Odi et amo. Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, de inde mille mille mille centum. At tu, Catulle, destinatus obdura.

  He had sneaked early out of his cellar, leaving bus fare for his sleeping guests. He reasoned that they would be along soon, as there was nothing to eat in the place. Everyone in London who charged money for food would help O’Toole kick the priest in the teeth.

  ‘Mr. Towel? Can you spare a minute?’

  Sure enough, the worried Irish face around the door of the office, the apologetic Irish voice, and still no collar: he probably didn’t have any non-clerical ones.

  O’Toole gathered the typed slips of his story, waved the visitors into the waiting-room and followed them in.

  The wife smiled brightly.

  ‘Thank you for the hospitality,’ said Sweeney. ‘We were very comfortable. Can you do anything for us?’

  ‘This is the score, Mr. Sweeney,” said O’Toole. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve written an article, and if we publish it we’ll pay you two hundred and fifty pounds. All I want is your signature on each page.’

  O’Toole handed over the story, motioning the priest not to read it for a moment.

  ‘Before you begin, let me say it’s probably not what you’d like to read about yourself. I just work here, Mr. Sweeney. I know what they want’—O’Toole noted as he spoke that I had become they—‘and I know what they’ll pay the money for. You’ll notice I’ve put an appeal on the end for someone to give you a job.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you. May I read it now?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  The priest turned the sheets with a marked, instinctive reverence for the written word. O’Toole watched uneasily.

  ‘This is dreadful!’ said the priest. ‘No offence to you, Mr. Towel, but this is a sensational vulgarisation of the whole situation. I know I have done wrong, but this...’

  ‘I can probably get you three hundred,’ said O’Toole, if you need the money, better get as much as you can. I can make a few alterations here and there if there’s something you particularly don’t like, but I might as well tell you frankly they want something along the general lines of this story, or it’s no dice.’ There’s that they again, thought O’Toole. We give him the good news, but they put him under the chopper.

  ‘You surely can’t realise what you’re asking me to do,’ said the priest.

  ‘I’ve got a fair idea,’ said O’Toole. ‘You’ve got something to sell, and I’m offering you the best price. You can hawk it up and down the Street if you like, but you can safely take my word you won’t better our offer. If you don’t want to sell, no hard feelings.’

  ‘I understand. It’s a lot of money, especially in my situation. When...when would I get it?’

  ‘Tuesday. Cash if you like.’

  ‘It would make all the difference to us. But, naturally, you’re a businessman and you want your pound of flesh, if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  ‘I suppose I am,’ said O’Toole. ‘Personally, I don’t know what I’d do in your position, and I know that’s not much help. Look, here’s a pound. Go and have breakfast, the three of you. No strings. Ring me when you’ve thought it over.’

  ‘That’s very generous. When do you want a decision?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to say, within a couple of hours.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the priest. ‘I’ll telephone you. And thank you again for your courtesy.’

  Jacobs came up as the family left.

  ‘How’s the religious desk, Aussie?’

  ‘I’m not sure. His Reverence is thinking it over.’

  ‘You should have conned him into signing up on the spot.’

  ‘I thought I’d better leave it to him.’

  ‘You’re crazy. So’s he, if he doesn’t take the lolly. What does he care what people think of him in Brighton or Bradford?’

  ‘He’s sorely tempted, I can tell you. The priest and the man are wrestling within him, to coin a phrase.’

  ‘Nice line,’ said Jacobs. ‘Would you go and see Barr? He’s asking for you.’

  VI

  THE bust of Napoleon hadn’t changed, but Barr’s manner was distinctly more fatherly.

  ‘I thought you did a bang-up job on the Sweeney story, as soon as you got what we were after,’ said Barr, warmly. ‘Is he all signed up?’

  ‘Not yet, but I think he will,’ said O’Toole, with a modest smile.

  ‘Your end of it was just what we wanted, anyway,’ said Barr. Of course you can never be sure of these crooks until you’ve got them tied up, and sometimes not even then. As far as you’re concerned, I think there might be a job here for you, if you can keep on delivering the goods.’

  ‘Just try me out,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘That’s just what I’m going to do, laddie,’ said Barr. ‘I’m putting you on a week’s trial as from today. There are a lot of things you don’t know yet, of course. I’m going to assign you to one of our top men to see how you shape on the team. You’ve met Norman Knight outside, have you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I suppose you know he’s the best crime man in Fleet Street. I’ve built him up over the years as the reporter who names the names. He can be a difficult man at times, but you might be the type to appeal to him.’

  ‘What’s the job?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘Norman is doing a series on vice in London for me at the moment. He ties up the investigation side of it before the exposure actually starts running in the paper. Report to him and tell him you’re working under his orders for the next few days. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Good luck, boy,’ said Barr at the door of his office. ‘There are big opportunities here in the Old Country if you’re ready to work, ready to give us all you’ve got. There’s Knight over there.’

  O’Toole saw two men talking, or rather one talking and the other listening politely. One was about thirty-five, sandy-haired, with horn-rimmed glasses and a b
lazer with handkerchief tucked up the sleeve in the manner of naval officers and policemen, either of which, in a suitable uniform, he could have been.

  The other man was very old, very tall and very long-grey-haired, a monument standing at the centre of a gentle snowfall of ash from a cigarette bobbing between busy lips. He couldn’t possibly have been a crime reporter at any time after the case of Dr. Crippen, so the other man must be Knight.

  ‘You know what Lloyd George said to me, Norman?’ the monumental personage was asking. ‘He said he was too busy to see me. Didn’t believe him for a moment, of course.’

  Of course not, Prof,’ said Knight. He leaned forward and shouted. ‘Excuse me a moment, there’s someone here wants to see me.’

  ‘The Kaiser tried the same thing on another occasion,’ said the personage. ‘Remind me to tell you about it, Norman.’

  ‘Another time. Prof,’ shouted Knight. Then, turning to O’Toole, he almost whispered: ‘You want me?’

  ‘Mr. Knight?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I’m James O’Toole. I’m new around here. Mr. Barr told me to tell you I was to work with you.’

  ‘You an Aussie?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I thought I recognised that twang.’

  ‘I was going to say the same to you. You must be English.’

  ‘Irish, actually, way back,’ said Knight, laughing. ‘Glad to have you aboard, Digger. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a job on in a few minutes that might just appeal to you. Come down to the car and I’ll fill you in as we go.’

  Knight drove carefully down the Strand, giving plenty of hand signals, like a policeman. O’Toole studied the ruddy, broken-nosed profile over his slug-grey raincoat.

  ‘Done much in the Street?’ asked Knight.

  ‘This is my first job,’ said O’Toole. ‘I’m very green.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve been right through it in Aussieland,’ said Knight.

  ‘Pretty well,’ said O’Toole. ‘Courts, cookery, horoscopes, even a bit of culture.’

  ‘Crime work?’

  ‘Yes, a bit of that.’

  ‘Read any of my stuff?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Well, you’ll soon get the hang of it. There’s a lot of old bollocks talked about Fleet Street, you know: basically a newspaper’s a newspaper wherever you are. Just at the moment I’m putting together some stuff for another series on vice in London. I more or less specialise in it, or I seem to have been lately.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘Well, there are a couple of basic points you want to get into your head. The secret of this game is, never open your fly. Not on the job, that is.’

  ‘That’s a concession.’

  ‘It’s just common sense, really: you’ll have a lot of stuff poked at you, of course, but you’re no use to me if it gets around that you’re having it off with these whores on the side. Get me?’

  ‘I think I do,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Now here’s the score on the place we’re going to. It’s owned by a dirty Maltese ponce with a record as long as your arm, including plenty of immoral earnings and a couple of malicious woundings. What we want is positive evidence that the place is a brothel. I can’t go in myself because he knows me, but you’re a fresh face, and with that accent he’ll never rumble you. No offence meant, of course, Digger.’

  ‘None taken,’ said O’Toole. ‘I suppose I don’t announce myself as a new man from the Sunday Sun.’

  ‘Good God, no,’ said Knight. The idea gave him a lot of amusement. ‘You’ll be done up savagely if you do.’

  ‘Who am I, then?’

  ‘You’re a sailor looking for a bit,’ said Knight. ‘Use any name you like. Got any special fancies?’

  O’Toole thought. ‘There’s a newspaper columnist in Sydney named David McDougall,’ he suggested. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Knight. ‘Is he a pal of yours?’

  ‘Yes, he used to be a sort of friendly rival,’ said O’Toole. ‘Writes on art and politics and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Knight. ‘Now here’s the drill. I’ve been told that one of the girls in this place is called Eva. You go in and ask for her—say you’ve been recommended to her by a shipmate. Go and see her and establish definitely she’s a prostitute.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, you’d better get her to strip and name her price. That just about clinches it. Then you leave quietly, remembering you might have to go back if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘What sort of information do we want?’

  ‘Oh, just the usual. Ask her how much a short time and how much an all-nighter. We’ll see what this Maltese is getting out of the place.’

  ‘How do I get out?’

  ‘That’s up to you, Digger. You’ll see some sort of opportunity. The big thing is, don’t expose your person or commit a breach of the peace. Keep that in mind and you can’t go wrong. If there’s any rough stuff, you look out for yourself, of course, but no trouble unless you can help it.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  They were passing through Earls Court and turning into a side street off Earls Court Road.

  ‘I’ll have a cup of tea in the ABC at the Tube,’ said Knight. ‘There’s the place there. In you go, and good shooting.’

  O’Toole felt improbably respectable as he approached the scruffy terrace house. A wild yearning for a disguise flashed through him, and he tried to slouch as the only thing available. Then, boldly, he knocked. A man with a dirty shirt under a navy-blue chin opened the door.

  ‘I want to see Eva,’ said O’Toole, with the sort of voice his parents had told him was common.

  The man studied him without interest and jerked a black-rimmed thumb. ‘Upstairs.’

  O’Toole must have looked uneasy. ‘Top floor,’ added the man, looking up and down the street over O’Toole’s shoulder.

  O’Toole went down a dark corridor smelling strongly of cat’s urine, up three flights of rutted stairs, and knocked on the only door on the top floor.

  A voice, a girl’s, in a mixture of Cockney and Cleopatra trilled: ‘Come in, it’s not locked.’

  O’Toole walked into a narrow attic. A young girl showing signs of wear lay on a bed, dressed in some sort of housegown and evidently nothing underneath. She was reading a copy of Tit-Bits. A portable radio was giving out the BBC programme for schools.

  ‘Eva?’

  ‘That’s me,’ said the girl, smiling brightly. As she put down the magazine, O’Toole noticed that she didn’t clutch the gaping front of her gown.

  ‘I’m Dave,’ said O’Toole. ‘Dave McDougall. I got your address off a mate of mine. I’m just down in London for a couple of days. Off a ship. Liverpool.’

  O’Toole felt a sudden fear that Liverpool mightn’t be on the coast. Evidently it was.

  ‘You’re not a regular, are you, Dave?’ the girl asked.

  ‘No,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Normally, I only do regulars in the afternoons,’ said the girl.

  ‘My mate didn’t mention that,’ said O’Toole. ‘By the way, he didn’t say how much it was.’

  ‘What for?’ asked the girl.

  ‘Well, for a short time,’ said O’Toole. The phrase sounded unlikely, like something you’ve been told to say to a Chinese waiter.

  ‘Oh, three quid for regulars,’ said the girl.

  ‘How do I become a regular?’ asked O’Toole, answering to himself by coming here regularly, of course, chump.

  ‘You’ll be all right, Dave,’ said the girl. She began to remove the housegown. ‘Slip your things off, love.’

  ‘Er...How much for an all-nighter?’ asked O’Toole.

  The girl paused, the housegown half off. ‘I only do all-nighters Mondays and Tuesdays. I’ve got plenty of time now, though.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said O’Toole, desperately. ‘Look, there’s something I forgot to mention. I’ll just have to nip do
wn to the teashop to see a friend. He’s...he’s got the money.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll trust you,’ said the girl. On second thoughts, I’ll pop something on and come down and have a cup of tea with you.’

  She’s lonely, thought O’Toole.

  ‘I’d like to take you,’ he said. ‘But...he’s a friend of the wife’s.’

  ‘Okay, love,’ said the girl. ‘Don’t be long.’

  ‘Back in a flash,’ said O’Toole.

  The proprietor scowled at him suspiciously as he left. Knight, a solid British gentleman, was taking tea in the agreed place.

  ‘How’d you go, Digger?’

  ‘No doubt the place is a brothel, Norman. Your friend, Eva, wanted to come down and have tea with us.’

  ‘Some other time,’ said Knight. ‘Now tell me exactly what happened.’

  O’Toole recounted his story as they drove to the office. Knight seemed to enjoy it. ‘Write it for me and we’ll add it to the file,’ he said.

  ‘You mean, write it as a news story?’ asked O’Toole. ‘Girl offers body to phoney sailor—amazing revelations? Not exactly news, is it?’

  ‘No, no,’ laughed Knight. ‘Just make a note of the facts, and you can give me a hand when I eventually put the whole series together.’

  ‘Interesting people you meet in the newspaper business,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Hang on a bit and they’ll get a lot more interesting,’ said Knight. The doorman at the Sunday Sun seemed to have got used to O’Toole: he hardly looked up when the pair went in.

  As O’Toole was writing his account of the incident at Earls Court a light flashed on the telephone beside him.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Towel? This is Fa...Mr. Sweeney speaking.’ The priest sounded like a man afraid of the phone.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Sweeney.’

  ‘I’ve come to a decision. You’ve left me no choice, really. I’ll sign your...article.’

  ‘Fine, Mr. Sweeney,’ said O’Toole. ‘Could you come round to the office? I’ll try to get some money for your immediate needs.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful, thank you,’ said the priest.

  O’Toole went to give Jacobs the news.

  ‘Father Sweeney has decided to do business with us, Tom.’