A Crooked Sixpence Read online

  ‘Just a middleman,’ said O’Toole, it’s hardly possible that someone named Thomas Crapper should just drift into the game, or is it? Or maybe it’s one of those occupational names, like Farmer or Porter. Speaking of names—now, steady yourself—I never did catch yours.’

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I know that much,’ lied O’Toole. ‘What’s the rest?’

  ‘Le Galliene.’

  ‘Ah. Norman blood,’ said O’Toole, it’s the best.’

  ‘No, I think Huguenot originally. But everyone in this country isn’t obsessed with their background, you know.’

  ‘I’m just getting to grips with mine,’ said O’Toole. ‘Chains and leg-irons, guilty, seven years, next case. God Save the Queen, No Fishing by Order, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Does it bother you?’

  ‘It’s a complex emotion. One side is the prodigal returning to find that veal is off the menu. Another is a suspicion that the same old gang are on the job, only now they only transport them as far as obscure provincial universities or council houses in Barking. Then there’s the reaction: don’t tempt me with any of your lousy fatted calves, Jack, I’ve learnt to eat beef and like it in the wilderness. And the final stage is, you did me a good turn: it’s the judges and juries who ought to be pitied, they left themselves in gaol and they set us free by mistake.’

  ‘I love the way you say “a” in “mistake”,’ said the girl. ‘What was all the rest?’ She drank some more coffee.

  ‘I get the message,’ said O’Toole. ‘There are a lot of things I’d like to ask you now that we’re so chummy, but I’m shy.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Shy,’ said O’Toole. ‘Guilt piled on guilt. This Porter seems to fit in somewhere, for instance.’

  ‘Porter is out,’ said the girl, conclusively.

  ‘I guessed as much,’ said O’Toole. ‘At one point I thought I might be using you as sprain liniment. Perhaps you are, too. That’s pretty blunt for a shy man.’

  ‘Very,’ said the girl. ‘It could be the basis of an interesting arrangement.’

  ‘Where do I get in touch with you?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said the girl. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Don’t come over all British on me,’ said O’Toole. ‘Don’t you have a phone number?’

  ‘You can phone me at the War Office,’ said the girl.

  ‘I will,’ said O’Toole. ‘But that isn’t a promise. Just a dispassionate prediction.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said the girl, ‘I’ll have to fly or I’ll be late. Thank you, James. It’s been very interesting.’

  ‘I thought so, too,’ said O’Toole. ‘Look after yourself.’

  O’Toole finished his coffee alone. He wished he felt more cheerful.

  ‘What sort of a weekend did you have, Aussie?’ Jacobs, in shirtsleeves, was stirring his tea. His eyes were still too small and close together, but friendly.

  ‘Wearing,’ said O’Toole, ‘I tried some of this London vice you read about.’

  ‘Not like home, eh?’

  ‘Bit more primitive.’

  ‘Well, you’re loosened up for a day with your pal Knight. But first of all, I want your expenses.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t had any to speak of. What’s the score here?’

  ‘You must have had some. What about the priest? They’re big spenders.’

  ‘I could remember some.’

  ‘Barr expects you to make a fiver or so on what you actually spend every week. More than that is pushing it and you need a real story to back it up.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Fill in the form. I want rigid proof of every item, of course, restaurant bills and so on.’

  ‘I lost them.’

  ‘Never fear, Thomas is near,’ said Jacobs, opening his desk drawer and bringing out a handful of blank restaurant bills. ‘A bob each. It’s a little sideline I run. Don’t forget, I didn’t get them for nothing myself. Vary the handwriting a bit.’

  ‘I’ll take three,’ bringing out some change.

  ‘Here’s a strict kosher place I’ve had on my hands for weeks,’ said Jacobs. ‘Nice religious flavour.’

  Writing with his left hand, O’Toole prepared bills for three large meals. Better stick to plain, wholesome food, he thought. Steak and Kidney Pudding with Veg, three times, seventeen and six. Apple flan and custard eight shillings. No cigars or minerals. Paid with thanks. He transferred the total to an expense sheet:

  Meals for Sweeney Family—£2 12 6

  Taxis: London Airport and return—£1 10 0

  Reciprocal hospitality—10 6

  Advanced to Mrs. Sweeney—£1 0 0

  Baby Food—17 6

  O’Toole could think of nothing else. A rough cast showed the total a bit low for the recommended profit margin. There was a line left on the sheet so he added

  Gratuities—10 0

  and handed the documents to Jacobs.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Jacobs, screwing up a miser’s face. ‘What are these gratuities?’

  ‘Good will,’ said O’Toole. ‘Every time I saw an open hand I thrust two bob into it, mentioning Cameron Barr. Gives the paper a good name.’

  Okay,’ said Jacobs. ‘You’ll be working for Norman Knight from now on until further notice, so I advise you to clear out of the office before you get it.’

  Knight was on the other side of the newsroom talking to the personage with the Dean of Canterbury haircut.

  ‘I’m a theoretical Monarchist but a practising Republican,’ said the personage, ‘I used to tell the old King that...’

  ‘Very interesting, Prof,’ shouted Knight. ‘Afraid I have to go. I’ve got a job on with O’Toole.’

  Knight took O’Toole’s arm and swept him toward the lift.

  ‘Wonderful old chap,’ he said. ‘Won’t be any more like him in the Street. You cleared for action, Digger?’

  ‘What’s on, Norman?’

  ‘We’ll stroll up to Soho, take a cup of tea and lay out the week’s programme.’

  Knight and O’Toole paused in front of a newsagent’s window in Greek Street. The front part of the window was crammed with fly-spotted magazines, cracked kewpie dolls and similar unselling and unsaleable merchandise. The back was occupied by two big boards on which were thumb-tacked dozens of small white cards, some printed, some typed, some handwritten. O’Toole studied them uncomprehending: perambulators for sale, flats to exchange, Italian lady gives private massage, furniture confidentially removed.

  ‘Which ones are we interested in?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘The bent ones,’ said Knight. ‘Anything not above board. These ads here are offering you just about everything there is in the vice line from dirty books to flagellation and even straight sex if anyone’s interested in that.’

  ‘How do the customers tell which is which?’ asked O’Toole. ‘Come to that, how do we?’

  ‘There’s always something about the wording,’ said Knight. ‘See that one, “Confidential French lessons”? Private, perhaps, might be on the square, but not confidential. That’s a whore calling you, boy. Make a note of the phone number; she might have something to tell us.’

  ‘How about the perambulators for sale?’

  ‘They’re straight. Put a lot of people off sex, I should think. But see “Relaxing massage with corrective treatment”? That will be flagging. Anything mentioning corrective means the old whip and the chains.’

  ‘I think I can guess what “chubby youth amenable to discipline” does for a living-or, rather, has done to him,’ said O’Toole, reading from a card. ‘But how about “Miss Maria welcomes old and new friends”?’

  ‘She’ll welcome you all right,’ said Knight. ‘And a rough half-hour you’ll get.’

  ‘I suppose these models with own studio, lights, camera and film are whores?’

  ‘That’s it, business girls. Let’s go back to the office and phone for French lessons.’


  ‘There’s a phone box over the road.’

  ‘I want someone listening to the call. You’ll see.’

  In the deserted newsroom of the Sun, Knight and O’Toole each had a telephone hand-set to his ear. The switchboard had connected the two phones together. As a distant bell rang Knight, hand over the mouthpiece, said to O’Toole:

  ‘You talk to her, Digger, and I’ll make a note. Find out what you can about her business, as long as she doesn’t rumble you. Tell her we’ll be straight down.’

  O’Toole nodded. ‘Hello,’ said a distant voice, business-like.

  ‘Hello,’ said O’Toole, ‘Miss Raymonde?’

  ‘Miss Raymonde speaking,’ said the voice, with a sausage-and-mash London accent.

  ‘This is Major McNaughton,’ said O’Toole. ‘I saw your ad.’

  ‘Oh yes, dear.’

  ‘I’m ringing to ask your terms.’

  ‘It’s a guinea for friction and three guineas for the full course,’ said the voice, in a rehearsed tone.

  ‘Oh,’ said O’Toole, glancing up. Knight, grinning, was making notes.

  ‘How far do you go into the French language for three guineas?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘Can’t you pop round and see, dear?’

  ‘That will be best,’ said O’Toole, ‘I’d like to bring my friend, Colonel Williams along. We’re just back from India.’

  ‘I suppose that will be all right,’ said the voice, ‘I’ll get a pot of tea on.’

  ‘Make it strong,’ said O’Toole, replacing the hand-set. Then, to Knight, ‘What’s this about friction, Norman?’

  ‘She’s probably got a dozen ads up all over London offering French lessons, corrective massage, manicure and anything you fancy. She doesn’t know which one you’ve seen. Let’s go and have a look.’

  The mews house was freshly painted. O’Toole pressed the button marked ‘Miss Raymonde’ and a plump woman about forty, in a tweed suit and rabbit-wool jumper, came to the door. There was a blast of cheap scent.

  ‘Miss Raymonde?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘Are you the gentlemen that called?’ Her elocutionist had skimped the job.

  ‘Major McNaughton and Colonel Williams,’ said Knight.

  ‘Oh, come in,’ said Miss Raymonde.

  The flat was commercially feminine, with china and chintz curtains. The embroidered chairs had transparent plastic covers on them.

  ‘About the French lessons,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘The terms are three guineas—each,’ said the woman. She looked uneasily at Knight. ‘I don’t normally have two clients at once, and if one of you gents wouldn’t mind waiting...‘

  ‘Oh, I won’t bite,’ said Knight, expansively. O’Toole thought he was doing the officer-from-India act superbly. ‘Gentle as a lamb, y’know. Just tell us about the full course, m’dear.’

  ‘Well, I teach that French kind of love you know,’ said Miss Raymonde, putting an arch curve into her sagging body.

  ‘You mean you’re a prostitute?’ asked Knight. He sounded as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘Now don’t be old-fashioned, ducks,’ said Miss Raymonde, put out. ‘I’ll do whatever you like.’

  ‘This is absolutely disgusting,’ said Knight. ‘We’re officers back from India brushing up our French for the Civil Service exams, and you’re trying to get us to engage in immoral acts. Outrageous.’

  ‘Now don’t get on your high horse, dearie,’ said Miss Raymonde, startled, if you really want to learn French you can get free lessons from the LCC. But wouldn’t you like me to be nice to you, like?’

  ‘There’s been a misunderstanding here, Madam,’ said Knight. ‘We’re not sailors. We shan’t take up any more of your time. I can see that it’s valuable.’

  ‘Won’t you stay for a nice cup of tea, dear?’ asked Miss Raymonde.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Knight. ‘Come along, Major.’

  Knight laughed silently as they walked out of the mews. ‘We frightened the life out of that old sow, Digger. There’s nothing much for us in a one-woman show like that. Let’s go and try some corrective massage.’

  The address in the advertisement was a boxlike tenement in a grimy row off the Tottenham Court Road. Against a bell-push was a roughly printed sign: MASSAGE. With his finger on the button, Knight gave last-minute instructions:

  ‘We’re normal clients looking for massage. We’ve got arthritis. This doesn’t look much like Harley Street to me, but we’ve got to make sure.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The door clicked electrically open. The pair followed signs thumb-tacked at intervals up a dark stairway to the third floor. A woman wearing a stained white overall dress was sitting behind a desk in a parody of a doctor’s waiting-room, complete with dog-eared magazines.

  ‘We’re here for corrective massage,’ said Knight.

  ‘Three pounds each,’ said the woman, ‘I’ll take it now. Only one at a time. Who’s first?’

  Knight gave her three pounds, ‘I’ll see if the treatment does my friend any good first,’ he explained. ‘He needs it more than I do.’

  The woman opened a door and motioned O’Toole into the adjoining room. Another woman was standing beside a low divan covered with a greasy sheet: in the purplish light squeezing in between heavy drawn curtains it was difficult to guess her age. The frayed carpet and Victorian sideboard were old enough.

  ‘Strip off!’ barked the woman, as the door closed behind O’Toole.

  ‘I’m here for massage,’ said O’Toole uncertainly.

  ‘I know,’ said the woman. ‘Strip off.’

  O’Toole, reasoning that no one is going to massage you through a gent’s two-piece suit, obediently removed jacket and shirt.

  ‘The lot.’ The voice was inflexible. O’Toole took off his underwear.

  ‘Lie down.’ O’Toole thought it was still faintly possible that this was a seedy centre of the British medical profession: very faintly possible.

  ‘Now where’s the trouble?’

  ‘Arthritis,’ said O’Toole. The woman moved closer. ‘Here.’ He raised his hand to the small of his back.

  ‘Awwwww!’ O’Toole felt a searing pain, like a hot wire across his bare backside. He twisted half upright. The woman had armed herself with a heavy, short-handled whip. She pushed O’Toole back on to the divan and raised her arm for a second stroke. The whip had started to descend when Knight burst through the door, the other woman holding him by the arm.

  ‘Stop!’ said Knight. ‘You’ve indecently assaulted this man.’

  The woman with the whip turned to face Knight.

  ‘He’s here for corrective treatment, isn’t he?’

  ‘I wanted massage for my lumbago,’ said O’Toole. ‘I didn’t come here to be assaulted.’ He dressed rapidly.

  ‘What are you lot, coppers?’ asked one of the women.

  ‘We’re not police officers,’ said Knight. ‘We’re respectable businessmen.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve come for a free look,’ said the woman with the whip. ‘Well, there’s nothing to see.’

  ‘We want our money back,’ said Knight.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said the whip-woman.

  The other woman had gone out, unnoticed, and was back with two men in braces and shirt-sleeves. They had necks like elephant’s knees.

  ‘You mugs stirring it up or something?’ asked one.

  ‘We’re trying to get our money back,’ said Knight.

  ‘Just a minute, I know you,’ said the first man. ‘Aren’t you Norman Knight?’

  ‘I’m not going to discuss my identity with you,’ said Knight.

  ‘We don’t want any reporters nosing about here, see? You two hop it if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘Who are you to order us about, anyway?’ asked Knight.

  ‘Friends of these ladies. Now, are you going to get out or are we going to do you?’

  The lady of the whip nodded endorsement of the threat.

  �
�You’ll hear more about this outrage,’ said Knight.

  ‘Why don’t you get a man’s job, you nosey bastards,’ said the first gorilla, swinging a fist like a mouldy ham. Knight stepped back to the stairhead, saying to O’Toole, ‘Coming, Digger?’ He slipped his glasses into his top pocket.

  O’Toole followed him down the stairs, keeping carefully out of range. The medical quartet did not follow.

  Outside, the Tottenham Court Road was seedily uninterested.

  ‘That’s what happens when they rumble you,’ said Knight. He was polishing his glasses.

  ‘Who are your friends?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘Ponces’, said Knight. ‘They’re probably there to see that the owner of the business gets his cut. Nice types, eh?’

  ‘Who does own these buildings?’

  ‘I’m just going down to the council office to find out. You go back to the office and hold the fort. This should be a good one.’

  Barr’s secretary beckoned O’Toole as he walked into the newsroom. ‘Mr. Barr would like to see you, James, if you’re free.’

  Barr was behind his desk, looking through a pile of pin-up photographs.

  ‘Sit down, O’Toole,’ he said, smiling, ‘I liked the way you handled the priest story. Real feeling.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Barr,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘We have our own freelance clergyman and I nearly put him on it,’ said Barr. ‘But he’s C of E and I didn’t want any sectarian trouble. As it turned out, I don’t think he could have improved on your story.’

  ‘That’s nice to know,’ said O’Toole modestly.

  ‘I also liked the little feature on the public school boy in the fish-shop,’ said Barr. He smiled appreciatively. ‘Witty, laddie. Very witty.’ He pronounced the word ‘wi’y’, using the glottal stop as a Cockney says ‘Ge’ along nah.’ O’Toole gathered this was funny and made an appropriate expression.

  ‘The priest chiselled a lot of money out of us, but the circulation report indicates he was worth it,’ said Barr. ‘How would you like a job here?’

  ‘I’m trying to get into Fleet Street,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘I think you’ve got what we’re looking for,’ said Barr. ‘Heart and guts. And hard work, that’s what we want.’