by John Creasey
“By all means. Or would you prefer port?”
Gideon thought: I wish he wouldn’t fuss so much, and then he came to a startling conclusion: that Nagel was nervous. They had talked about the immigration situation over a homely dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with delicately-cooked vegetables, apple pie with cream and one of the most flavourful Stiltons Gideon had tasted for years. He would never want a better meal.
“Brandy for me,” he said.
“Edward?” Nagel and Mesurier, it proved, were old friends.
“Brandy,” Mesurier said.
“I think we’ll take the big chairs,” decided Nagel; there were three huge armchairs at one end of the room, and he proffered them and cigars, placed a trolley with port and brandy and glasses as well as some plain chocolate mints so that all could reach, before going on: “Commander, what exactly would you like me to do?”
Gideon, although expecting the question, was nevertheless not ready for it.
“To say exactly isn’t easy,” he hedged.
“No. I understand that. However – you have stated in clearest terms a very grave social problem. It has become obvious that this greatly concerns you, distresses you, and you feel – forgive me if I am wrong – you feel that the situation is both more than the police can properly control and more than they should be expected to. And you state that you have an uneasy feeling that you only scratch the surface of the problem, that much more is going on than any of us realise.”
“Or can find out,” Mesurier put in.
“That’s about right,” Gideon admitted, warming to the subject. “I think public opinion needs to be aroused, so the public need informing as a first move.”
“But how can they be informed if the full facts are not known?” countered Nagel.
“That’s what we must find out,” Gideon said. “The full facts, I mean.”
“But as you’ve said, only the Home Office, being in control of home affairs, and the local authorities can do that,” Nagel reminded him. “You want me – or some newspaper – to take the issue up so that the Government and the local authorities are virtually compelled to make greater efforts.”
“Exactly,” Gideon approved, heartily.
“You must see the one almost insuperable difficulty,” Nagel declared.
“I see difficulties, but not insuperable ones,” retorted Gideon.
“Then I doubt if you see the one that worries me.” Nagel poured out port for himself and the light glinted on it, ruby red. “If any newspaper takes this up as an issue, then it will be accused of having a political motive. You can see that, can’t you.”
“Does it matter, provided there is no political motivation?” asked Gideon.
Nagel sipped, paused, sipped again and said: “Yes, Commander, it does. A case against a newspaper doesn’t have to be proved, as in court. It is simply rumour or word of mouth. If the Daily Star took this case up as the situation stands at present, then all of the Unity Press Group would be accused of having a political angle. Since our politics are right-inclined we would be strongly accused of trying to create a situation which would make it more difficult for a left-wing government to control the problem of both immigration and integration. And we would doubtless be accused of undermining any right-wing government. “
Gideon said heavily: “I see.”
He should have expected this, of course; he should not have felt so hopeful, so optimistic simply because several things had gone right. He should have known that Nagel, like any newspaper owner, would have first to consider the economics of his newspapers, and take every action with distribution in mind. He could not simply take sides for an ideal; for a cause. He had to justify whatever he did in terms of circulation and advertising revenue.
“But the Daily Star is wholly independent,” Mesurier remarked. “It doesn’t have to care what is said about it.”
Nagel looked at him from beneath his lashes, broodingly.
“I wouldn’t say that, Edward. No newspaper can be wholly independent of its advertisers, for instance.”
“I thought that was what you were saying, in spite of your inclination to the right,” remarked Mesurier.
“No,” contradicted Nagel. “I was stating the facts as I see them. Commander, you know, don’t you, that no newspaper can change government policies and even if one tries it can seldom influence government attitudes.” The question was rhetorical and Gideon knew there was no need to answer. “However, the public can change policies on occasions. Do I understand you to mean that you believe that the situation in Britain concerning the conditions of life for many coloured immigrants is so bad that if the people knew how bad, they would demand action to improve it?”
Gideon said, heart rising: “That is exactly what I believe.”
“Simon,” Mesurier began.
“Let me think a minute, Edward.” Nagel silenced the other with a glance as well as the words; and for what seemed a long time he was silent. There was no sound at all in the room except the breathing of the three men, until he sat up, sipped the port and went on almost as if he were addressing a public meeting. “Are you also implying that neither the Home Office nor the local authorities want to probe too deeply for fear of what they’ll find out if they do?”
Gideon raised both hands, but before he could speak Mesurier said: “Whether Gideon thinks that or not, I think it.”
“Some local authorities are much better than others,” Gideon remarked.
“No doubt.” Nagel spoke as if he were really thinking about something else. “Commander . . .” he paused.
“Yes, sir?”
“Commander, by ‘political’ I don’t necessarily mean party political, of course. I mean that the newspaper would be accused of forcing this issue because it believed that the nation was in danger. And the danger, as seen by most people, especially those who would oppose us or revile us, would assume we meant social danger; that we were concerned with keeping Britain white, and were opposed to mixed marriages and integration and indeed most immigration. It would be said that although over many years we have argued that a human being is a human being and the colour of his skin should not be held either for or against him, we are in fact rigidly anti-Communist and think a man’s political opinions should be held against him if they can be considered treasonable. It will be said, I must emphasise, that in truth we are opposed to coloured immigration. There are aspects of the immigration situation which I don’t like but I am not and the policy of my newspapers is not anti-colour. However: it could be made to appear so if we were to take up this cause, and I don’t want that to happen.”
He sat back in his chair and sipped port, giving the impression that he had said all that needed saying. Mesurier stirred but did not speak. Gideon’s mind was working very fast, as it always did when a problem on which he had concentrated for a long time was brought to a head. He had a sense of great tension; a feeling that Nagel was looking for but hadn’t yet found a way of helping without taking the risks which were undoubtedly there.
Suddenly, Mesurier asked: “What circulation would you drop, Simon?”
“Probably twenty-five thousand – what’s left of what we absorbed when we took over the Clarion. Too much,” he added. “We would not hold all our advertisers, and you don’t need telling how significant they are.”
Mesurier said: “I know only too well,” and shifted again in his chair.
Gideon was very still, aware of the gaze of the other two men. It was almost as if they were expecting a miracle from him. And at the back of his mind there was something which he couldn’t quite bring to the surface. To fill in what could become an awkward pause, or else to justify himself for his caution, Nagel went on: “Commander, you don’t need telling that the economics of Fleet Street are as difficult and in some ways as shaky as the nation’s. Most ne
wspapers are working on a very slender margin. A few can ride out almost any crisis, but others can’t – that is why so many have died in the past twenty years. The Daily News has a readership peculiarly its own and is likely to hold it provided it maintains its political and social attitudes. The Star, however, is the smallest of the mass circulation newspapers, and is the target of all the fierce competition of the truly big ones. We are in constant danger of being squeezed out. One false move and we would go.” Nagel glanced across at Mesurier, as if pleading for collaboration although he did not ask for it.
Mesurier volunteered: “It won’t help Gideon if you say no although you wish you could say yes, but – for what it’s worth, the Fleet Street strike was postponed because the owners were able to offer incontrovertible figures showing that a two-week strike would put the Daily News out of business, and four weeks would finish the Daily Star. Until the last minute no one believed us.”
Nagel raised his hands, and then asked: “How about that brandy?”
“No,” Gideon said, almost sharply. “No. Do I understand you would do what you can if you felt it safe for the newspaper?”
“Yes,” Nagel answered.
“And being safe from the charge of political motivation would be sufficient?”
“Yes,” Nagel answered, as quickly and as positively.
“So if there were a proven danger to the country, not simply political danger in the sense that you’ve talked about today, you could proceed?”
Now both men watched him without moving; as if they were suddenly hypnotised. And in a way he felt as if he were hypnotised, by an idea. He was caught again with his problem of finding exactly the right words to say what he meant. The sense of tremendous importance of his mission increased; as if this could go one way and end in disaster, go the other way and be a success beyond his wildest hopes. He must find the right words; must say exactly what he meant, not grope as he had with Nigel Simply.
Suddenly, he demanded: “If you had reason to believe that what happened at the docks today was part of a nationwide attempt to change the Government’s policies by force, would that be the answer?”
Mesurier said as if to himself: “Well, well, well!”
“Go on,” urged Nagel.
“These so-called Strike Breakers consisted partly of trained mercenaries, men with guerilla warfare training and experience. They thought it would be a cakewalk today, that’s why they ran into trouble. They came to frighten the dockers out of striking. Their real strike-breaking weapon was fear. At least twenty-five of them will be up for first hearing tomorrow. We shall ask for eight days remand in custody to make inquiries. I think we shall prove beyond doubt what they were up to – civil interference by violence. Would that be a strong enough motive to justify you taking a stand?”
Very quietly but with shared tension, Nagel said: “Can it be applied to the immigration problem?”
“This afternoon we found a cellar in East London packed full of Pakistani ‘immigrants’,” Gideon stated. “They had come ashore last night near Shoreham in Sussex and were traced to London. Just before we raided the houses where they were being hidden, a man attempted to throw two phosgene canisters into a special ventilation shaft. Had they gone down into the cellars all of the men would have suffered, most would have died. It is virtually certain – certain enough for you to base an argument on it – that this was a cold-blooded attempt to kill the Pakistanis. And,” went on Gideon in a voice which vibrated throughout that panelled room, “photographs taken at the docks show the man who tried to kill the Pakistanis was in that raid, but obviously he escaped. Is that enough? One was an attempt to break a strike by force. The other was an attempt to murder unlawful immigrants. Both are examples of using violence as a political weapon by the same man, a member of a group of ruthless men. Is that enough?”
When he had finished, Gideon felt himself sweating; at the neck and forehead, in the small of his back and under his chin. His mouth was parched, too, but for the moments that followed he could do no more than sit back, looking at Nagel, glancing at Mesurier and aware that the smaller man was also tense and strained. He gulped, then sipped what was left of his cold coffee. The little movement was the signal for Nagel to move in his chair, also, and for him to say very simply: “Yes.”
The single word was everything Gideon wanted to hear and yet at first its full force did not dawn on him. “Yes.” Gradually, understanding came: yes, it was enough for Nagel to take up the cause. Could the man mean it? Could he have misunderstood? Nagel was now sitting forward, gripping both arms of his chair, and Mesurier was leaning back at full length, his long pale hands over his face.
Nagel repeated: “Yes, Commander. We shall link these two events together on our front page in the morning. We shall run a leading article which will insist that the danger in the industrial front and over immigrants is so great that the full facts must be discovered and divulged. Yes,” he repeated, standing up and looking at the portrait of the old woman at the end of the room. She was so lined and yet she looked so alive and alert and wise.
For the first time, Gideon saw the words on a small plaque on the bottom of the frame. They read: If the cause is just – dare all.
He had no shadow of doubt that the motto was coursing through Nagel’s mind.
It was Mesurier who spoke next, very quietly, as if he were exhausted and having difficulty in speaking. Gideon reminded himself that it was less than two days since he had talked to this man about the subject; and only now did he realise what a strain Mesurier had been living under.
“Will it be better if I take the same theme, do you think? Or support you the next day?”
“Support me,” Nagel said. “Don’t give anyone a chance to say we got into a huddle to turn this into a circulation booster. Commander, I shall need to send two or three of the Star’s best men to see you or anyone you care to nominate, so that we get all the facts and figures right. I imagine you would prefer someone else.”
“Three people,” Gideon said, quietly. “My deputy, Alec Hobbs, who has been in direct charge of the dock situation. Superintendent Lemaitre of N.E. Division, who was present when the attempt to murder the men in the cellar was made. And – you’ll need to do this by telephone, I’m afraid – Superintendent Honiwell who has been working on the problem of illegal immigration for months. He’s up in Lowestoft, and you’ll probably need to go through the local Superintendent, named—” He broke off, frowning. The name was on the tip of his tongue but he could not think of it. But Hobbs would and if the worst came to the worst, the Daily Star would have to go direct to Honiwell. Suddenly he realised that he hadn’t begun to tell Nagel how much he thought of the decision.
“Commander,” Nagel said, “you’ve given me a chance to take positive action. I’ve wanted for a long time to commit myself to a cause.” He stood smiling at Gideon, and suddenly turned to Mesurier and said: “Are you satisfied, Edward?”
“I’ll be satisfied when we’ve really got the Government moving,” Mesurier said. “But I think this will do the trick. I really think it will. Now! I must get back to my office. Can I give you a lift, Commander?”
“I’ve a car,” Gideon said, and went on quickly: “If I could use the telephone—”
He talked to Hobbs on one line as Nagel was talking to his news editor on another, and Hobbs promised to alert both Honiwell and Lemaitre. There was excitement in his voice as he responded. Gideon knew that this mattered at least as much to Hobbs as it did to him. HERE
Word went from Nagel to the news editor, from the news editor to the composing and the machining rooms. Hold the front page of the Daily Star. Word went out from the managers to the foremen. Everything else could be run, but not page one and so not pages two and fifteen and sixteen. Soon, men in the big rooms by the side of the huge machines were standing idle. A few complained, most slipped away for a cup of tea or a ciga
rette. Rumours started. The huge rolls of paper stood idle, both on and off the Heidelbergs. The smell of printer’s ink, of lead, of newsprint, seemed to get stronger as the waiting time lingered. Outside, men waiting by vans to rush the earlier editions to the stations to catch the last trains to the provinces, began to fret; unless a move came through some trains would be missed. Messages flashed to and fro, but the front page did not come. Gradually, the presses stopped rolling, all the work they could do finished.
Out in the field, the Star’s top newsmen questioned, pleaded, argued, gradually created part of the story. First, Hobbs’s. Next, Lemaitre’s. At last, Honiwell’s. As the stories were sent in by teletype and telephone the men in the sub-editors’ room began to work at speed. Gainswell, the best news editor on Fleet Street, read the stories, then the galley-proofs as they were pulled. Three men and a girl sat with him, cutting, comparing stories with photographs, putting in sub-headings. Gradually he pasted up the front page, selected the photographs, ordered the type size for headlines and sub-headlines. When the page looked ready to go, he snatched it up and ripped it across and across. A little man, bald but for a fringe of black hair, more cartoon than man, snipped off more of the headlines, bunched them, ran them in the shape of a diamond in the centre of the page. Someone gasped: “My God!”
Gainswell didn’t speak but breathed through his wide open mouth, picked up a big pencil and filled in the diamond. Across the middle were the words:
Britain in Danger.
Above, he scribbled:
Docks
Battle
and below he scrawled:
Immigrant shiploads die
Then he used his pencil at incredible speed, showing where the stories already set and proofed, should go. Now his assistants worked with him, before long there was a paste up as simple as could be to follow. Across the top of the page beneath the title, photographs – Gideon, Hobbs, Willis Murdoch, a Pakistani, Old Homer, Lemaitre, another Pakistani, a ship. Across the foot, more photographs – of the prisoners, Murdoch, Harriet Holmes, a Pakistani girl, a helmeted policeman. Soon, a full paste up was spread over his desk.
