A Crooked Sixpence Page 7

  ‘I’m ready, Mr. Barr,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Fine, laddie,’ said Barr. ‘I can’t offer you a lot in the way of salary to start. Things are pretty tight, you know. Newsprint very dear, advertisements slow. I might be able to get the directors to agree to twenty-five guineas.’

  ‘I’m ready to start low, Mr. Barr,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘That’s the spirit, boy,’ said Barr. ‘Mind you, most newcomers start at eighteen. Still, I think you’ve got what it takes. When the purse-strings get a bit easier, I’ll keep you in mind, of course.’

  ‘I’ll take the job,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Good lad,’ said Barr. ‘Are you tied up at the moment?’

  ‘I’ve been helping Mr. Knight with his vice series,’ said O’Toole, ‘I think we’ve got a job on this afternoon.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning will do for what I want, first thing,’ said Barr. ‘Here’s a big chance for you, right at the kick-off. Have you heard of the Honourable Michael Macedon?’

  ‘I think so,’ said O’Toole. ‘He’s been running round with some Czech film-star, hasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Barr. ‘Son of Lord Epping. I want the full story of the romance. Every stolen kiss, every little tickle, with plenty of big names and nothing left out. First person, of course.’

  ‘We’ll pay for it, I suppose.’

  ‘Start him at five thousand. Not a penny more than ten, unless it’s really good, and twelve is the absolute limit. Mind you, for twelve thousand I’d want the stains on his underwear.’

  ‘What do I do if he accepts?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘Rough me out five instalments and bring him in,’ said Barr, if the outline is okay, he can sign up and get his lolly. Know where he lives?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘My secretary will give you his address. It’s somewhere in Kensington. A number 9 bus will take you near enough. Short walk will do you good. Now, remember, not a penny over ten thousand unless it’s really sensational. Use your judgment.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Mr. Barr,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘You’d better,’ said Barr, ‘I’ve got a lot of faith in you.’

  Dazed, O’Toole found his desk. He was contemplating the sum of twelve thousand pounds, divided by twenty-five guineas, when Knight bustled in. He was beaming.

  ‘I think we’re on to something good, Digger,’ he said. ‘That building we were in belongs to an outfit called the North-South Trading Company. That tells you a hell of a lot, doesn’t it? They buy it in the north and sell it in the south, whatever it is. Sounds like the knuckle-crushers.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Freemasons. Never mind. I’ve checked up on the company. Hundred-pound capital, dodgy set of directors. They seem to own some more property. You busy tonight?’

  ‘No. I’ve got a job on for Barr in the morning, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at your place about nine and we’ll do an observation on one of their other places. If my guess is right, the whole lot are brothels.’

  O’Toole and Knight were sitting in Knight’s car, parked opposite a house in Queen’s Square off the Bayswater Road. Dusk had just faded to the luminous London dark. Knight brought out a notebook and pencil.

  ‘That’s the place over there, Digger,’ he said, indicating a four-storey house with nothing special to mark it out. ‘If our theory holds up, the girls ought to be getting into their stride for the night’s work. We’ll just keep an eye on it for a bit.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘Just who goes in and out.’

  The pair smoked as they watched the doorway, up five steps from the footpath. After a few minutes a young woman came down the street with a man, and let herself in with a key. Shortly after, another girl with a man. Then the first man came out alone, and a minute or two later the second man. Then both women left the house, and chatting together, walked down the street in the direction of the Bayswater Road. It was too dark to see much of the women, except that they were not sensational.

  ‘We’ve struck oil here all right,’ said Knight. ‘There’ll be more along presently. I’ll keep a note of when the customers go in and out. You keep an eye on your watch and let me know how long each one is inside.’

  O’Toole checked the glowing hands of his watch. Nine-twenty. No sign of the women.

  ‘Good job you haven’t got a wife if you’re working these hours,’ said Knight. ‘You leave one back in Aussie, Digger?’

  ‘Not exactly a wife,’ said O’Toole. ‘Anyway, she left me.’

  Oh?’ said Knight. ‘There’s the first one now. Let me know when he comes out and how long he’s had for his money.’

  Knight noted the time. ‘What do you mean, not exactly a wife?’ he asked.

  ‘We sort of had the honeymoon first,’ said O’Toole. ‘That went on for a couple of years. We often thought about making it legal, but we never seemed to be willing on the same day of the week.’

  ‘You broke up over there?’ asked Knight, in a kindly voice.

  ‘Yes, pretty messy,’ said O’Toole. ‘I decided I had to get out of town and come over here. As it turned out, she beat me to the boat.’

  ‘She’s in London?’

  ‘Yes. Doing very well. Someone spotted her for television before I could do anything about it. Not that I would have, of course.’

  ‘You see her?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ said O’Toole. ‘We’re not moving in the same income bracket these days.’

  ‘Ah, carrying the torch,’ said Knight.

  ‘I brought that Olympic torch back with me,’ said O’Toole. ‘I keep it at home as a reading light.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Knight.

  ‘One of those inevitable things,’ said O’Toole. ‘Sort of teacher-pupil deal. You know, newspaperman shows struggling young actress the bright lights. The trouble with running a drama school at home is, graduation day arrives. You hate to see them go.’

  ‘He’s just out now,’ said Knight. ‘How long did he get?’

  ‘I make it twelve and a half minutes,’ said O’Toole.

  Knight wrote the figure down. ‘I saw another go in about the time he went out,’ said Knight. ‘Start him off, will you?’

  ‘Right,’ said O’Toole. ‘You don’t want to hear my troubles, anyway.’

  ‘Well, I know you’re getting a bit now and again, just the same,’ said Knight.

  ‘I’m keeping the rust off,’ said O’Toole. ‘How about you, Norman? Respectable married man, I suppose?’

  ‘Used to be,’ said Knight. ‘Separated.’

  ‘Oh. Getting a divorce?’

  ‘Can’t, old boy,’ said Knight, ‘I’m a Catholic. Aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m a baptised but unconfirmed Anglican,’ said O’Toole. ‘Renegade spiritual Titoist. Did you think I was a Catholic?’

  ‘The name suggested it, I suppose,’ said Knight. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, no offence,’ said O’Toole. ‘We might have been once, but I think the O’Toole who went overseas to make good left his religion in Liverpool Gaol. There’s a family tradition he was a Tolpuddle Martyr or Dreadnought Boy or something of the sort. More likely he was a horse thief. Anyway, he got an hour a week off the chain gang for Church parade, so he became C of E in a flash.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t take my reference to the knuckle-crushers amiss,’ said Knight.

  O’Toole laughed in the darkness. ‘Good God, no. My old man was a general or something like that in the Masons, but I never got interested in it.’

  ‘He’s out,’ said Knight. ‘How long did he get?’

  ‘Eleven minutes,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘This is a real short-time house,’ said Knight. He noted the new figure. ‘You come from a knuckle-crushing family, then.’

  ‘You might say so,’ said O’Toole, it doesn’t bother me. But you’re in a tough spot, aren’t you, Norman? Does that mean you can never get ma
rried again?’

  ‘Not in a church anyway,’ said Knight, if you’ve got a religion, old lad, you can’t just forget what it says when it suits you.’

  ‘I can see the point when it’s a question of children to be protected, or the property of rich men’s daughters,’ said O’Toole. ‘Up to a point the prohibition of divorce works for women’s rights. But in your case it’s just a prison, isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s another one going in,’ said Knight. ‘Got the time? Yes, I suppose you’re right, looking at it from a common-sense point of view. Still we believe that God won’t have it, and that’s that.’

  ‘Surely the Church has changed its mind before,’ said O’Toole. ‘You know, money lending and all that.’

  Knight laughed. ‘God hasn’t changed his mind, Digger. Maybe, as you say, the Church is making a mistake on this one.’

  ‘How about the question of birth control?’ asked O’Toole. ‘Must make marriage pretty tense for a Catholic.’

  ‘Our break-up was over something like that,’ said Knight, it doesn’t make life particularly easy, especially if your wife has ideas of a career. I’ve seen a hell of a lot of people leave the Church in their twenties and come back when they’re fifty and the pressure’s off. There he is coming out again.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘His zip must have stuck,’ said Knight, noting the new figure. ‘These two birds between them must be clearing close to a score an hour.’

  ‘Tax free,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Tax free,’ said Knight. ‘No, getting back to the problem you mentioned, I must say I sympathise with anyone who just can’t stick it and follow the rules. I can’t pretend I’ve sorted it all out myself. Still, a man must do what he’s been brought up to think is right, and as far as the Church goes, you’re either in or you’re out. There’s another one going in now.’

  O’Toole glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I admire your sincerity, Norman,’ he said. ‘Business seems to be picking up here.’

  The two men smoked in silence.

  One thing, the answers aren’t in there, thought O’Toole. Not even if you get a whole half-hour for your money.

  X

  THE NEXT morning O’Toole, after the fading but still fierce stab when there weren’t any letters, took a solitary breakfast and went to see Macedon.

  The building was a solidly-constructed one near the South Kensington Tube. O’Toole pushed open a door eight feet high and heavy enough for a stockade in unpacified territory to find a lift installed about the time of the Boxer Rebellion. It no longer worked. It looked as if it hadn’t worked since the early thirties. The stairs, however, were brassbound and likely to last the monarchy out.

  O’Toole climbed and knocked at the door on the top floor. A man about thirty, boyishly good-looking in a well-cut dark suit showing signs of wear, answered.

  ‘My name is O’Toole,’ said O’Toole. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr. Michael Macedon. On business.’

  ‘He’s abroad,’ said the man, a shade annoyed at something, in Spain. Probably gone for good.’

  ‘Oh,’ said O’Toole. ‘Then I suppose I can’t give him a message.’

  ‘Quite out of the question,’ said the man. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said O’Toole, ninety-nine parts out of a hundred certain about the identity of the man facing him over the doormat. ‘As a matter of fact I wanted to make him a financial offer for some assistance. A very handsome one. But it’s no use unless I can find him quickly.’

  ‘Oh?’ said the man. ‘You’re not here to collect from him?’

  ‘Just the reverse,’ said O’Toole. ‘He stands to gain quite a bit.’

  ‘Better come in, old boy,’ said the man. ‘I’m Macedon. I don’t suppose you want to discuss this on the doorstep.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said O’Toole. ‘I won’t take up a lot of your time, if you’re just leaving for Spain.’

  ‘No need to twist the knife,’ said Macedon, grinning. O’Toole followed Macedon into the room. It was about forty feet long, with the air of an antique shop nearly sold out of stock. Part of the sloping ceiling was glass, drawn curtains showing a blue north sky. In one corner loomed a grand piano, with a yellow brocaded settee next to it and a gilded wooden angel looking down from a striped wall. On a painted wooden chest stood a set of fisherman’s glass floats, entangled in yards of net. A bust of Macedon in bronze stood in another corner. There was no carpet on the warped floorboards.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Macedon, waving to the yellow settee. ‘Now, what sort of business do you want to discuss?’

  ‘I’m from the Sunday Sun...’ began O’Toole.

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry, old boy,’ Macedon broke in, ‘but there’s absolutely nothing doing. You’re about the tenth newshound that’s been round, you know.’

  ‘Well, you can guess what I’m here for,’ said O’Toole. ‘I won’t beat about the bush. I’m here buying, not begging.’

  ‘It’s nice to hear it,’ said Macedon patiently. ‘The trouble is, there’s nothing to sell.’

  ‘Possibly not,’ said O’Toole. ‘But just let me suggest a price if there was something to sell. I like the sound of the words.’

  ‘Go ahead, suggest.’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds?’

  ‘You’re talking my language,’ said Macedon. ‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t know that accent could be so charming. Could I offer you a cup of tea?’

  ‘I just fancy one,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Fiona!’ Macedon called through the flat. The head of a pretty girl appeared round the door. She looked annoyed but smiled perfunctorily at O’Toole.

  ‘Could we have a brew-up, do you think?’

  ‘Coming up,’ said the girl, disappearing.

  ‘What you want, of course,’ said Macedon, ‘is the story of my affair with Miss Dvorak, every stolen kiss, every secret meeting, with nothing held back and plenty of big names. In the first person, of course.’

  ‘That’s about it,’ said O’Toole. ‘Nicely summed up.’

  ‘That’s exactly what the last man wanted,’ said Macedon. ‘At less than half your price, I might mention. Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’ll have to hear the truth sooner or later. Frankly, old boy, there never was an affair. I’ve never even had a nibble with the girl. I’ve only seen her twice in my life, both times through an alcoholic haze. Mind you, I wouldn’t mind, if she didn’t, but it’s just never happened.’

  ‘Nothing there at all?’ asked O’Toole, intent as a doctor asking where it hurts.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Macedon. ‘Frankly, the girl’s a bone-head. Not that I’d object to that, normally, but there has to be a limit.’

  ‘Well, that kills that.’

  ‘Afraid so,’ said Macedon. ‘You certainly haven’t offended me with your offer, old boy, and I suppose at a pinch you and I could cook up something to satisfy your ravenous readers. The trouble is it would land me in all sorts of trouble, family and that sort of thing. Might cost me more than you’re offering in the long run.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ said O’Toole, it wouldn’t help to raise you a thousand or so, would it?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Macedon. ‘Not that the cash wouldn’t be handy just at the moment. But it’s right out of the question. Don’t go, though, tea’s up in a moment.’

  The girl reappeared with a tea-tray. She was wearing a housegown and grubby mules, but she looked even prettier. O’Toole decided she had put lipstick on in the meantime.

  ‘This is Miss Spenser, Mr...’ said Macedon.

  ‘O’Toole.’

  ‘Yes, O’Toole. He’s another reporter.’

  O’Toole and the girl exchanged nods.

  ‘You’ve just arrived in the land of opportunity?’ asked Macedon.

  ‘Few weeks,’ said O’Toole. ‘I’ve just started with the Sun.’

  ‘Found somewhere to live?’

  ‘More or less. Bloomsbury, undergr
ound.’

  ‘Bit depressing, isn’t it? The reason why I mention it is that one of my lodgers has just moved out and I’m looking for another one. You might be interested.’

  ‘No objection to coloured?’ asked O’Toole.

  ‘Not at all, racial or political,’ said Macedon. ‘We’re very free and easy here.’

  ‘What sort of rent are you...asking?’

  ‘Three-ten a week. Plus sixpence per bath per mistress per morning. Lodgers’ baths in with the rent, within reason. I’ve had to put this rule on because some of the lodgers’ women were washing me out of house and home, so to speak.’

  ‘Seems reasonable.’

  ‘Would you like to see the room?’ asked Macedon. ‘I was just going to advertise it down at the tobacconist’s.’

  The room was a bright little box, with a painted floor and a blue and white striped bedcover. The window looked out over the Imperial Science Museum.

  ‘Very pleasant,’ said O’Toole. ‘Quite a different flavour from my present place. If I took it, when could I move in?’

  ‘Right away,’ said Macedon. ‘Week in advance, if that won’t put any strain on you: times are hard.’

  ‘I’ll phone you and confirm.’

  ‘I think you’ll be happy here, so far as a bed can make anyone happy,’ said Macedon.

  ‘It might be better if you paid the rent to me,’ said the girl. The prospect of O’Toole as a neighbour hadn’t seemed to affect her either way.

  ‘Probably be better,’ said Macedon. ‘Considering the way things are.’

  O’Toole put his head round the door of Barr’s office. Barr, writing on a proof, looked up impatiently.

  ‘Macedon wasn’t having any at any price, Mr. Barr,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Come in, laddie,’ said Barr. ‘Just the man I want to see. Did he throw you out?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said O’Toole. ‘Quite a friendly type. But he claims there isn’t anything in the romance angle, not even for ten thousand.’

  ‘You can’t always count on co-operation from these people,’ said Barr, unexpectedly tolerant. ‘What are you doing at the moment?’

  ‘I’ve been helping Mr. Knight with his vice.’