The Death Beat

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  As the lift stopped on the fourth floor she was met by a tearful Vicky Thompson, the office assistant. “Oh, Miss Denby, I don’t know what’s happened,” she blurted out, “but it’s the worst I’ve ever seen him!” Vicky shook her head, sniffed back her tears, and stepped into the lift. “If anyone wants to know where I am, I’ll be helping Mr Molanov in the morgue.”

  Poppy nodded in sympathy and watched as the young woman pressed the button for the third floor archive, known in journalese as “the morgue”.

  It was heart-warming to see how well Vicky and the Russian archivist got on. Ivan was now training her to be his assistant – much to Rollo’s chagrin. But the archivist didn’t care. “Tell that Yankee he can get a doggy body anywhere.”

  “Dog’s body,” Poppy had gently corrected.

  “He can have as many bodies as he likes! Mees Thompson is going to work for me.”

  There was no denying that Ivan needed an assistant, particularly now that he had a child at home and no longer spent his after-hours working, trying to keep his loneliness at bay. The bubble of joy rose again in Poppy’s chest as she thought of the day Ivan had been reunited with his young daughter – and the role she had played in making it happen.

  Yes, Poppy was in an optimistic mood and it would take a lot more than a grumpy editor, a country in industrial turmoil, and disapproving parents to quench it. She pushed open the newsroom door and stepped into a haze of pipe smoke and coffee fumes. On her way to her desk she greeted three other journalists pounding away on their Remington typewriters, trying to meet deadline. Among them was the political editor, Ike Garfield, who had written the lead article on the miners’ strike. He looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink – and if she wasn’t mistaken, he was wearing the same shirt, braces, and bow-tie as he had the day before. “Morning, Ike. I hope you didn’t spend the night here.”

  The West Indian man raised a tired eyebrow and grunted. Oh dear, thought Poppy, then put down her satchel at her desk and went to make them both a cup of tea. But as she opened the door to the small kitchenette she didn’t see the diminutive frame of her editor coming out, carrying a hot brew. They cannoned into each other, splashing hot liquid over them both.

  “Jake, Mary, and Jehoshaphat!” bellowed Rollo and released a string of New York expletives that would make a dock worker blush.

  Poppy was tempted to swear herself when she saw the coffee stains on her new coat and shoes, but she refrained.

  Rollo turned on her, his moon-shaped face ablaze. “What the –?”

  Poppy put up her hand: “An accident, Rollo. It was an accident. We’re equally to blame.”

  Rollo opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He scrunched up his eyes and took in a sharp breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. “Sorry, Miz Denby. Are you all right?”

  Poppy’s mouth was tight, braced for the fight she had thought was about to come. Then her face softened. “Nothing that won’t come out in the wash.” She took a dish cloth from the sink and mopped up the spilled coffee on the floor. Rollo stood over her, his short legs planted on either side of the brown pool. She thought for a moment he was going to offer to help, but instead he said: “I’ll see you at the ed meeting at twelve. Can you make sure all the troops are there? I’ve got an important announcement to make.”

  Poppy looked up at her editor. The blood was slowly retreating from his face and his eyes… Golly, are those tears welling? But before she could examine him further he took what was left of his coffee and left the room.

  Poppy finished cleaning the floor, then examined the damage to her shoes and coat. Suede stained so easily; she did the best she could but soon decided a visit to the dry cleaners would be needed. She sighed, removed the dripping daffodil from her lapel, and threw it in the bin.

  CHAPTER 2

  Poppy tapped her way through the morning on her typewriter, organizing her thoughts about the play she had seen the previous evening – a controversial new show called A Bill of Divorcement – into a well-considered, balanced review. It was an “issue” play about a man returning to his family home after spending some years in a mental asylum only to discover that his wife had divorced him. Under the existing law, something like that could never happen, as women did not have the same rights as men to initiate divorce. But as Poppy and the playwright Miss Clemence Dane both knew, there was a bill working its way through parliament that would give women the same rights as men to sue for divorce.

  If the bill was passed, her aunt’s dear friend Grace Wilson – currently serving time in Holloway prison for perverting the course of justice – might finally be able to divorce the husband who had been refusing to initiate divorce proceedings for the past seven years.

  Poppy wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Raised in a Christian home, she believed that marriage should be for life. But having met Grace’s estranged husband she doubted they would ever be happy together. And then there were the women she knew who suffered physical and emotional abuse from their husbands. Should they be compelled to stay married? And, in the case of the play, the wife who thought her husband might never return from an asylum. But what about the husband? It wasn’t the poor man’s fault that he’d become ill. And did he really deserve to be abandoned like that? Golly, it was a complicated issue. One thing she did know, though, was what was good for the goose should be good for the gander, and if men were able to sue for divorce then so should women.

  She tried to keep her own views out of the piece and judge it on its artistic merits: good acting, good directing, a good script. And the fact that it gave the audience something to discuss and debate at the theatre bar afterwards was a bonus. Yes, she would give this one four stars out of five.

  As she typed her final “ENDS” at the bottom of the copy there was a stir in the office as her fellow journos put down tea and coffee cups, scraped back chairs, and shuffled their way to the editorial meeting room at the far end of the fourth floor. Poppy looked at her watch: Crikey! Is it that time already?

  She strode across to the editorial in-box and placed her review on the pile waiting to be collected by one of the Globe’s two sub-editors. Then she went back to her desk and picked up her pencil and notebook. She left her sage coat on the back of the chair and straightened her chocolate-coloured skirt and custard yellow blouse before joining the exodus to the noontime meeting.

  “You look almost edible,” said a male voice from behind her. She turned to see the athletic frame of the Globe photographer Daniel Rokeby striding out of the stairwell.

  Poppy felt a pleasurable glow in her cheeks. “Why, Mr Rokeby, you shouldn’t say things like that. Tongues will soon be wagging.”

  “They can wag away,” he grinned, and matched his step to hers. She resisted the temptation to put her arm through his. This was the office, after all.

  “You up for a spot of lunch after the meeting?”

  She shook her head, dislodging an unruly blonde curl from a finger wave. “Sorry, I said I’d meet Delilah. You know how glum she’s been lately…”

  Daniel gave a rueful smile, his grey eyes showing his disappointment. “We still on for tonight though?”

  Poppy pushed the curl behind her ear. “Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

  Daniel laughed and held open the meeting room door for her. “I hope you’re looking forward to spending time with me and not Rudolph Valentino.”

  Poppy sidled past him and lowered her voice: “Can’t a girl have both?”

  Before Daniel could answer, there was a bellow from the front of the room: “Rokeby! Denby! Do your courting on your own time!”

  The assembled journalists laughed, Poppy flushed and Daniel muttered: “What’s got his goat?”

  At the front of the room, standing only four and a half feet tall, was Rollo. Pacing up and down, his over-large hands bunched in fists, he looked only slightly calmer than he had in the kitchenette.

  “Right, what have we got for above the fold?” he growled. “Ike?”<
br />
  The West Indian journalist ran a hand over his stubble and sighed. “Threat of joint trades union walking out in sympathy with miners.”

  Rollo stopped pacing and glared at him. “What the hell has that got to do with London?”

  Ike straightened up and glared back. “The whole damned city could grind to a halt if the transport union joins in!”

  “Then say that!” yelled Rollo.

  “I have!” replied Ike.

  The newsroom took a collective intake of breath as the two journalistic heavyweights squared up to one another. “What’s wrong with him?” whispered the sports reporter.

  “Dunno,” replied the finance editor.

  After exchanging a few editorial punches Ike stood up and turned to walk out. “Copy’s been filed,” he grunted and headed for the door.

  Rollo shouted after him: “Come back now!” Ike kept on walking. “Please…” Ike stopped. He turned around and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for Rollo to continue.

  Rollo ran his hand through his ginger hair and leaned his backside on a desk. “I’m sorry, Ike. You’ve done a great job in difficult circumstances. And I haven’t made it any easier, I know.”

  Ike uncrossed his arms but remained standing.

  Rollo cast his gaze across the assembled journalists, stunned into silence by his behaviour. “I’m sorry, everyone. But I’ve, well, I’ve just had some news…”

  Poppy leaned forward. Oh dear, what’s happened?

  Rollo’s usually robust complexion drained of blood. “And I’m afraid it affects all of you.”

  “Redundancies coming,” someone muttered.

  Oh no! Poppy steeled herself, expecting the worst. She felt tears well in her eyes.

  Daniel reached out and took her hand. She squeezed it.

  Rollo cleared his throat and continued. “I’m afraid you’re going to be getting a new senior editor for a while.”

  Is he ill? Poppy assessed her mentor for signs of sickness. There was nothing she could see.

  “Are you leaving, Rollo?” asked Ike, edging back to his seat. “Why?”

  “Who’s replacing you?” asked the financial editor, and the other journalists shushed him.

  Rollo raised his hands. “No, that’s all right. Harry’s asking the right question. And so is Ike. I’d expect nothing less from this team.” He surveyed the room and a look bordering on fatherly pride came over him. “You’ll know that Archie Weinstein’s been in town.”

  The associate editor of The New York Times. The assembled journalists nodded. Yes, they knew that. Rollo had been on edge since the day his fellow American paid him an unexpected visit last week. Rollo had done the appropriate back slapping and declaratory “why, what a top surprise, old sport” but Poppy and the rest of the Globe staff could see Rollo was far from pleased to see his old colleague from the home country.

  “Well,” said Rollo, clearing his throat. “The good news is that Archie was very impressed with our little rag. Very impressed indeed.”

  “And the bad news…” prompted Daniel.

  “I’m getting to that, Danny Boy. The bad news is that he’s looking at investing in a London newspaper. He wants to partner with someone this side of the pond.”

  “Well, that’s not so bad, is it, Rollo?” asked Poppy. “You’ve been looking for some investment for a while, haven’t you?”

  Rollo looked at Poppy, his eyes pained. “I have, Miz Denby, I have. But not like this.” He looked up at the rest of the staff. By now the printers, the accountants, and even Mavis the receptionist had edged into the back of the small meeting room. Behind them Ivan Molanov the archivist filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking out all light from the hall. “Speet it out, Rollo. Tell us what you done.”

  Rollo let out a long breath, his chest visibly deflating with the effort. “He wanted a sixty per cent share.”

  Mutters of outrage rippled through the room. “I hope you told him where to shove it!” offered Harry.

  Rollo’s lips tightened into a smile. “I did, Harry, I did. And he was none too pleased. But then… well, last night we went to my club and –”

  Dear God, don’t let him say what I think he’s going to say, thought Poppy, her eyes searching for Rollo’s, willing him to look at her and tell her it was going to be all right.

  “You lost it in a poker game,” observed Ike flatly. There was no condemnation in his voice. It was just a statement of fact. Rollo shrugged.

  The rest of the staff did not take it so calmly. The air went blue with expletives as Rollo stood, head bowed, unable to meet the vitriol of his friends and employees. Poppy had never seen him so cowed. Although a small man he normally had a giant presence and she willed him to rise to the challenge. Eventually he raised his shaggy head and then his hands and tried to calm the furore. The hubbub diminished but did not cease. “Let him speak!” growled Ivan and an uneasy silence settled in the room.

  “Ike is partially right. But not entirely. Poker was involved, yes, but I did not lose the paper. Not yet, anyway. And if I have anything to do with it, I never will.” His spine began to straighten. His shoulders relaxed, his chin raised.

  Poppy nodded her approval. “Can you explain what did happen then?”

  Rollo cleared his throat. “Indeed I can, Miz Denby. As I said, Weinstein wanted a sixty per cent share. I’d turned him down. But then, last night –”

  “You gambled away our jobs!” spat out Harry. He was shushed by the rest of the staff.

  “Let him finish,” said Daniel and leaned forward, still holding Poppy’s hand.

  “Thanks, Danny Boy. If you all stop flapping your chops I’ll tell you.”

  Harry grunted, folded his arms over his chest, and leaned back in his chair.

  “No Harry, I have not gambled away your jobs. Your jobs will be safe, no matter what happens. I did, however” – he raised his hands – “unwisely enter into a wager. Weinstein’s nose was so out of joint when I turned down his offer that he announced in front of the whole club that if he was editor he could double the advertising revenue on our little rag within three months. I laughed at him and said he’d never get the chance. But then… well…”

  Here it comes, thought Poppy and groaned inwardly. Rollo could never turn down a wager.

  “Well, then someone suggested we play for it. If I won – and of course I almost never lose – Archie would go back to New York with his tail between his legs. But if Archie won… he would be given the chance to prove himself right.”

  “Meaning…” prompted Ike.

  “Meaning,” said Rollo, beginning to slump again, “he would take over here for three months.”

  “And you lost,” said Harry, struggling to hide his disdain.

  Rollo nodded glumly.

  Poppy’s heart reached out to him. “But it’s not that bad. It’s not permanent, is it?”

  The editor shook his head. “No, it’s only for three months. But… if Archie Weinstein succeeds in doubling the ad revenue in that time then I will have to accept his offer to buy sixty per cent of the paper. And if he has sixty per cent…” he shuddered. Poppy did too. If Weinstein owned two-thirds of the Globe Rollo would no longer be in control. He might as well have lost the whole thing.

  “But it’s not a done deal, is it?” clarified Daniel, his tone encouraging. Poppy squeezed his hand gratefully. “You’re a stonking businessman, Rollo – your poker habits aside – and if you haven’t been able to double the ad revenue in three years, why should he be able to in three months?”

  Rollo straightened up and grinned. Poppy chuckled. The Cheshire cat was back.

  “My thoughts exactly, Danny Boy. And I suppose it won’t be the worst thing in the world going to New York…”

  Poppy let go of Daniel’s hand. “New York? Who’s going to New York?”

  Rollo shrugged apologetically. “I am. Weinstein said he doesn’t want me around trying to scupper his deals. So we’ve agreed that while he’s here I’ll
be in New York.”

  “And when’s all this supposed to happen?” asked Ike.

  “I’ll be leaving next Saturday. So that’s a week. Don’t worry, I’ve got some ideas on how to minimize his chances of success. Ike, Poppy, I’d like to see you in my office after the ed meeting. But for now, we’ve got a paper to put to bed. So, what’s going below the fold?”

  Half an hour later the assembled journalists sloped back to their desks. Not much work was done as they gathered in groups discussing Rollo’s mad-cap predicament and wondering what sort of boss Archie Weinstein would make. Poppy and Ike didn’t join in, but, as requested, headed towards Rollo’s office. Ike knocked and pushed open the door. Rollo was sitting at his desk, his red hair speckled with dust motes that had been dislodged from a stack of files perched on a filing cabinet behind him. He didn’t bother flicking them away.

  “Take a seat,” he mumbled, his head bowed over a sheet of paper.

  Ike pulled out a chair for Poppy, which she accepted with a small smile, then sat down beside her.

  “Righto,” said Rollo, putting his pen back in its holder, then taking a sheet of blotting paper and pressing it onto whatever he had been writing. After a moment he lifted the blotter, picked up the paper, and blew on it before passing it over the desk to Ike.

  “Here, team, are my initial ideas of how to keep the paper afloat while doing the minimum amount of work.”

  Poppy craned her neck to read the scrawl.

  “I never thought I’d say it,” Rollo continued, “but it’s in our best interests not to get any scoops for the next three months. Do you think you can handle that, Ike?”