The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “What about the photographs, for heaven’s sake?”

  “He claims they’re fakes.”

  “He would. What else?”

  “He said that if young people want to join his movement, because they agree with the League’s aims, then they’re welcome. And as for any newspaper that would carry such scurrilous libel, well, they’re just a bunch of communists.”

  “If it’s libel, why doesn’t he sue?”

  “Because he’d lose.” Waller leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands across his stomach. “Katherine, you were right. What you did for the Daily Eagle this morning has more than made up for any egg on the face over Skrone Motors. Now, it’s time to look ahead. You claimed in the story that the British Patriotic League is more dangerous than the other extremist groups. I think you’re right. I want you to keep on at them. Find out what they’re up to, and what makes them tick.”

  “May I have Heather Harvey and Derek Simon back?”

  “I think we can afford that.”

  Next, Katherine saw Lawrie Stimkin. “You may have noticed that I don’t think highly of women reporters,” the news editor said. “Real news reporters, I’m talking about, not the giggling, giddy girls who write fashion puffs for the women’s pages. Now I’m not saying you’ve made me completely alter my position —”

  Katherine spared Stimkin the pain and embarrassment of continuing. “If you’re trying to give me a compliment, Lawrie, I’ll take it. To tell you the truth, in the few months I worked for you, I might even have picked up a thing or two.”

  Stimkin absolutely beamed, and Katherine guessed she was the first woman to ever pay him a compliment.

  From the news editor’s office, Katherine returned to her own desk, where she telephoned Sally Roberts. “I’m taking you out to lunch,” Sally said. “To celebrate your getting back into the good graces of Eagle Newspapers. Be outside at midday.”

  Katherine replaced the receiver, feeling a mixture of satisfaction and disappointment. Everyone but her father had told her what a great job she had done. She toyed with the idea of telephoning him at the main Adler’s store in Regent Street, before deciding against it. Compliments should not have to be requested. They should be forthcoming voluntarily, like all the others had been today. Like Franz telling the children that the story was the most important article their mother had ever written. Even Lawrie Stimkin’s grudging admission.

  The telephone rang. “Don’t you respond to messages any longer?” John Saxon asked.

  “I was getting around to you.”

  “I thought I would have come first.”

  “You have to stand in line,” Katherine said, a shade pompously, “to congratulate me today.”

  “Congratulate you for what?”

  “Don’t play games, John. For that story on the British Patriotic League. It’s been so successful that I’m on a special assignment to find out all I can about them.”

  “Really? In that case, the only line I’ll join is the one for people who want to tell you what a damned fool you are.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a bloody little fool, and do you know why?” Without waiting for any kind of response, Saxon charged straight on. “You asked me several weeks ago if I’d ever heard of this organization. I told you no. They were too small, too insignificant, to even be listed in your file. You certainly changed all that today. What you wrote in this morning’s Eagle, with all the print, radio, and television exposure that’s going to follow . . . well, you’ve given the British Patriotic League more publicity than it could have got with a ten-million-pound advertising account at Saatchi and Saatchi!”

  “How can you call them unimportant when they managed to draw two thousand marchers for yesterday’s rally?”

  “Because the next time they marched, they would have numbered one thousand, and then five hundred. Even with coverage of the riot, their support would have died. But you, with this big story, you made sure three thousand are going to turn up next time. And when you start this special assignment, and give them greater publicity, you’ll have five thousand turning up. Five thousand morons looking to get their names and pictures in the Daily Eagle. Congratulations, Katherine.”

  Saxon’s words hurt Katherine. Instinctively, she sought a way to lash back at him. “Damn you, John Saxon! If that’s all you have to say to me, let’s forget about dinner tonight!” She slammed down the receiver, and sat staring at her typewriter.

  It was a childish reaction. A flash of spite, based, perhaps, on the disturbing possibility that Saxon was right. By exposing the League, had Katherine given them reams of free publicity, which might attract more troops to the cause? But there was no way Katherine was going to call Saxon back and tell him that. Tonight, she’d let him stew in his own juice.

  At precisely twelve o’clock, Katherine met Sally Roberts outside the main entrance of the Eagle building. The two women walked to the corner of Fleet Street, where Sally hailed a taxi and gave instructions for Hyde Park.

  “I thought we were going out for lunch,” Katherine said.

  Sally gave a mischievous smile. “You’ll see.”

  In Hyde Park, the taxi followed a route that brought it to the Serpentine. A dozen cars were parked on the Serpentine’s bank. Sally pointed in the direction of a gleaming silver Porsche with a black convertible top. Directly behind the sports car was a stately old limousine that was very familiar to Katherine.

  “Pull up next to the Bentley,” Sally told the cab driver.

  Katherine spotted Arthur Parsons sitting at the wheel of the Bentley. As the taxi drew alongside, she could see her father in the rear, a fresh red rose in the lapel of his double-breasted navy suit. Leaving Sally to pay the fare, Katherine climbed into the back of the Bentley and kissed her father.

  “I thought I was having lunch out with Sally.”

  “You are. With me as well.” Roland indicated a white wicker hamper on the floor of the Bentley. “Peg Parsons was busy all morning preparing this. Arthur brought it from the house, collected me at Adler’s, and drove me here.”

  As Sally joined father and daughter in the Bentley, Parsons opened the driver’s door and stepped out. “Half an hour, sir?”

  “Half an hour,” Roland answered.

  Katherine watched Parsons skirt the silver Porsche and begin walking along the bank of the Serpentine. “This is a lovely surprise — a Mrs. Parsons special lunch smack in the middle of Hyde Park on a sunny spring day.”

  Roland opened the hamper and withdrew a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon. Pouring champagne into three glasses, he said, “All morning long, I bet you’ve been muttering awful things to yourself because you thought I’d forgotten to tell you what a wonderful story you wrote, right?”

  Katherine felt herself blushing. “How did you know?”

  “After twenty-eight years, I think I know how your mind functions. You did something marvelous, Kathy, and you couldn’t understand why I wasn’t there to pat you on the back.” He tipped his glass toward her. “Kathy, I’m very proud of you.”

  A tear burned Katherine’s right eye. She blinked it back, and shone a big happy smile at her father. “Pass the food, will you? I’m absolutely starving.”

  Sally played hostess, distributing carefully packed china and silverware, crisp linen napkins. Finally she reached the lunch Peg Parsons had prepared. Smoked salmon, cold meats, salad, thin-sliced brown bread. All finished off with a fruit salad laced with vintage port.

  “I have a special fondness for lunching in a car in Hyde Park,” Roland admitted. “Mind you, this is only the second time I’ve ever done it.”

  “Tell me about the first,” Katherine said.

  “It was twenty-nine years ago. Your mother and I sat not fifty yards from here, sharing the back of a taxi. Our very first date, secretive as all hell . . .” Roland sighed gently. “And damned well unforgettable.”

  Sally patted Roland’s arm. “What about the poor girl you’d stood up the night be
fore, eh?”

  Roland gave Sally a look filled with the warmth of a lengthy friendship. And something more. Katherine watched the interchange with pleasure. “I assume you mean yourself.”

  “Was any other journalist in this car invited to Claridge’s to cover Ambassador Nicanor Menéndez’s ball? And did any other journalist in this car ask Roland Eagles to be her escort?”

  “What Sally’s tactfully trying to say,” Roland broke in, “is that I went to the ball as her escort, but was both ungracious and ungrateful enough to fall hopelessly in love with a beautiful girl whose hand I shook in the receiving line.”

  Katherine knew the story by heart, but she loved to hear it retold like this. “From everything I’ve ever heard, Sally, it was your own fault. My mother’s dance card was filled that night with members of the proper social set. My father would never have got a look-in if you hadn’t helped him out.”

  “What was that artist’s name?” Roland asked Sally.

  “The one who was dancing with Catarina when I made us bump into them? God only knows, after all these years.”

  Roland turned to Katherine. “You should have seen Sally that night. She was magnificent. She made us collide with your mother and her partner. As we broke apart, Sally grabbed hold of the artist and mentioned a story she’d once written about him.”

  “And while the poor man tried to gather his wits, your father waltzed off with your mother,” Sally finished.

  “One dance, that was all it took,” Roland mused. “First thing the following morning, I had roses sent to her at the embassy. She telephoned me, and I collected her for lunch. God, that was a lovely day.”

  “Poor Sally,” Katherine said. “I’d feel sorry for you if I didn’t know that helping my father meet my mother got you exclusive rights to the story of their elopement.”

  Sally grinned. “I made my reputation with that story. While the rest of Fleet Street had to make do with couched comments from the ambassador, I had the inside track. Not only did I know where the lovers were hiding, but I was the only journalist present at their wedding in Scotland, and I had the only photographs of the ceremony. Just like today, Katherine. The rest of Fleet Street shared a story about a riot, while the Eagle had an exclusive.” She raised her glass. “To exclusives. Let’s keep them in the family.”

  “You know, a friend telephoned me this morning to say I was a fool. That I’d done more harm than good by publicizing the British Patriotic League, and that the publicity would only help them get more members.”

  “Whoever your friend is, Kathy, he’s one hundred percent mistaken. Evil is like mildew; it thrives in darkness. Expose it to bright light, and it dies.”

  “Gerry Waller wants me to keep on with the British Patriotic League, find out all I can about it.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult,” Sally said. “Like me, when your parents eloped, you have a very favorable inside track.”

  “I do?”

  “The same inside track you’ve had all along.”

  “Brian Waters?”

  “We’re just suggesting it, Kathy,” Roland said. “Brian, because of his background, and his criminal record, is obvious material for the League. Should anything ever come of this organization, it would give us a head start on the rest of the street if we had someone on the inside.”

  “I’ll talk to Brian about it.” Katherine looked through the driver’s window to see Arthur Parsons approaching the car. Half an hour had passed already. Parsons walked around the silver Porsche that was still parked in front of the Bentley, and came to Roland’s window. “Should I tell Mrs. Parsons that lunch was satisfactory, sir?”

  “You may tell Mrs. Parsons that lunch was superb.”

  Parsons settled himself behind the wheel. “Ready to return to Regent Street, sir?”

  “I think so. Kathy, be careful how you drive Sally back to Fleet Street, there’s a good girl. She’s the only editorial director Eagle Newspapers has.”

  Katherine regarded her father as though he were mad. “Sally and I are taking a taxi back to Fleet Street. Surely you heard that my car was a casualty of the riot?”

  Roland shook his head. “I knew I’d forgotten something.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a key ring, which he tossed to his daughter. “Bonus for a job well done.”

  Katherine’s face lit up. The Porsche . . . it had to be! She hugged her father and kissed him. “Thank you! If anyone ever says that your daughter’s spoiled rotten, you can tell them you’re to blame!” She jumped out of the Bentley and ran to the silver sports car. The engine roared into life immediately. As it settled down to a steady throb, she rolled back the top and yelled: “Come on, Sally, what are you waiting for? Let’s go back to the Eagle in style.”

  Two messages awaited Katherine when she got back to her desk. One was from John Saxon, asking her to call him. The other was from Raymond Barnhill. After tearing up the piece of paper with Saxon’s message, she dialed the number of the International Press Agency.

  “Raymond Barnhill, please.” Moments later, Barnhill came on the line. “Hello, Raymond, Katherine here. Recovered from all of yesterday’s excitement yet?”

  “Don’t come on all chummy with me, you selfish bitch!”

  Katherine nearly dropped the receiver. Who did Barnhill think was on the other end of the line? “Raymond, it’s me. Katherine. Katherine Kassler.”

  “I know damned well who it is. Don’t you believe in sharing information?”

  Katherine understood. Barnhill was no different from any other journalist. He’d been beaten to a story, and he didn’t like it. “Don’t you believe in scoops, Raymond?”

  “What scoops? We don’t even work the same side of the street. What harm would there have been in tipping me off to this British Patriotic League connection with the soccer hooligans? My audience isn’t the same as yours. My readers are in the States. I could have arranged it so the story wouldn’t have come out in American newspapers until this morning, which is anywhere from five to eight hours behind here. Now it’ll get picked up in dribs and drabs, and I won’t get any kind of credit for it.”

  Katherine was nonplussed. “You’re acting as though I owe you a story, Raymond. I don’t owe you anything.”

  “The hell you don’t! You owe me for lending you the money to bail out your little thug of a friend in court. And you owe me for spiriting you and your photographer out of that riot yesterday. If I hadn’t come back to look for you, you’d have been statistics.”

  “You’re right,” Katherine said, surprising both herself and Barnhill. “I do owe you something for all that. But not a share in an exclusive story I’ve worked on for months.”

  “Then what?”

  Katherine remembered the broken dinner date with John Saxon. “It’s worth a dinner.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up outside your block of flats at six o’clock. Give me a chance to show off my new car.”

  Katherine drove up to Barnhill’s apartment block a few minutes after six. The American was waiting on the sidewalk. When he saw the Porsche, his eyes opened wide in admiration.

  “Must be nice having a father who owns a newspaper or two.”

  “He also owns three department stores. And yes, it is nice. It beats waiting for the insurance company to pay up. Are you going to get in, or are you going to stand ogling the car for the rest of the evening?”

  Barnhill climbed in, ducking way down to avoid the convertible top that was now stretched over the soft leather interior. “Very plush,” he said, settling into the contoured seat. “I wish you many years of happy driving.”

  “Thank you.” After checking traffic, she pulled away from the curb. “Tell me something about yourself, Raymond. Which part of America are you from?”

  “South Carolina. A tiny one-horse town near Columbia, the state capital.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Did I make it sound like a place that anyone could
miss? May I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Where are we going for this dinner you owe me?”

  “Wheeler’s, in Duke of York Street.”

  “That a fancy place?”

  “A very good seafood restaurant. Would you rather go somewhere else?”

  “I’ve been in this country for six months. I’m reaching the point where I’d kill for a good pizza.”

  “Is that what you eat back home in South Carolina?”

  “Sure, right along with grits and collards and real pit barbecue. But you wouldn’t know about such things. You were probably weaned on chauteaubriand and lobster.”

  “You’re becoming tedious.”

  “Sorry. I’ve always had a hang-up about being around people with money.”

  “Me, too,” Katherine surprised him by saying. “I’m perpetually suspicious about how they got it.”

  Barnhill roared with laughter. “Are you sure you haven’t got a bit of socialism lurking beneath your veneer of opulence and sophistication?”

  “I’ve never looked that deeply inside of myself. Mind you, our local Labour Party officials did ask me to run for office a couple of years ago. I had to turn down the offer, of course.”

  “Why? Did your father swear to cut you off without a cent if you brought such disgrace upon the family name?”

  A light turned red. Katherine braked sharply and suddenly enough to catapult Barnhill toward the dashboard. He stuck out his hands to save himself. “You’d feel a lot safer,” Katherine told him sweetly, “if you wore your seat belt.” As he glared at her, she added in a sharper tone, “It might surprise you to know that I work for the Daily Eagle because I think it’s the best newspaper on Fleet Street, not because my father is the owner. I neither ask for special treatment, nor do I expect any.”

  Barnhill patted the dashboard. “You’ve proved your point, thank you very much. I’ll take your advice and make sure I’m wearing a seat belt the next time I want to make a comment you might find unwelcome.”