The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  Standing next to Sid Hall, Katherine looked around the crowd of spectators, trying to spot Raymond Barnhill. He’d told her he would be covering the rally for the International Press Agency. Katherine and Barnhill had spoken several times since her return from Scotland. He had called to thank her for the postcards, first one, then the other. Somewhat hesitantly, he had asked her out to lunch, and she had accepted. Over lunch, they had agreed to be friends. It was nice, Katherine decided, having a man who was just a friend. She had not told John Saxon, though. That relationship was too recently back on an even keel to risk overturning it again.

  At last, she saw Barnhill, standing on the other side of the street. She should have seen him earlier; no one else was wearing a well-cut blue blazer and faded jeans. She waved, and Barnhill waved back.

  The meeting broke up without incident. The line of mounted police held. The German shepherds remained with their handlers. As Katherine and Hall walked back to where they had parked, a dozen placard-waving League supporters crowded them off the sidewalk and into the road.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re walking?” Hall snapped.

  One of the young men — short and compact, brown eyes hard in a surly face — glared belligerently at the Eagle photographer. “This is a free country. We can walk wherever we want to walk.”

  “What would a delinquent little Nazi like you know about a free country?” Hall’s camera dropped from his shoulder to his hand, dangling lazily by the strap. From a photographer’s tool, it had been transformed into a weapon.

  The youth gripped the pole of the placard he was holding. “Swing that camera at me, and I’ll shove this straight through you.” He pushed off the placard to reveal the top end of the pole, which had been sharpened to a wicked point.

  Katherine grabbed the photographer’s arm. “Let’s go, Sid. Let’s get out of here.”

  Eyes locked with those of the young man, Hall backed away. The instant he turned around, the League supporters burst into ribald laughter.

  “Well done, my son!” one shouted, clapping Brian Waters on the back. “Made him wet himself, you did.”

  Brian fixed the poster back on the pole, before any police officer could spot the sharpened end. “Wasn’t much of a man, was he? You’d think he’d want to impress the bit of stuff he was with, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d want to impress her as well,” said the youth who had clapped Brian on the back. “With this!” He patted his groin. Even Brian, who had once forced another young man to apologize to Katherine for an off-color remark, joined in the laughter.

  The laughter carried to Katherine and Sid Hall, who had reached the spot where they’d left Hall’s car. As they unlocked the doors, Katherine said, “I can just imagine what they’re finding so amusing.”

  “Either skewering me on that pole, or skewering you —”

  “On something else,” Katherine finished.

  Brian Waters had gone a long way toward establishing himself today. Katherine just hoped that the end results were worth all the bother.

  *

  A week after the Notting Hill rally, the first issue of a new magazine was mailed to Katherine at the Eagle. The cover showed a flaming sword set against the cross of St. George. At the top was the slogan “Patriot, The Magazine for a Greater Britain!”

  Wondering why the magazine had been sent expressly to her, and not to the news department, Katherine started leafing through the pages. She expected the lead story to be about the latest League rally. Instead, the main news was of fast expansion. The British Patriotic League was no longer headquartered in a shopfront in West Ham. It now had proper premises — Patriot House, in White-chapel, in the East End of London. Katherine read on. Membership drives in the economically depressed Midlands and north of England had resulted in the establishment of League chapters in Manchester, Leicester, and Birmingham.

  Before reading through the remainder of the Patriot, Katherine summoned her two assistants. “Check through local records,” she told Derek Simon and Heather Harvey. “Find out how much the League paid for Patriot House. Find out the size of the mortgage on the property, and which financial institution supplied the money. Also find out if the League has purchased any property in Manchester, Leicester, or Birmingham.”

  While Derek and Heather pursued that assignment, Katherine returned to Patriot. It was not some cheap mimeographed journal, but a well-produced magazine, complete with halftones and artwork that would have made many trade publications envious.

  Across the center spread, Katherine found a large portrait shot of Alan Venables, and an article by the League’s chairman on the organization’s history. “Three of us,” she read, “myself, as chairman, with Trevor Burns and Neville Sharpe, formed the League a year ago, because we were tired of waiting for the established political parties to tell the truth about what is wrong with this country. None of them — Conservative, Labour, or Liberal — has the backbone to admit that immigration, above all else, has dragged this country into economic and social chaos.”

  Katherine moved on. Suddenly, her eyes opened wide as she saw her own picture. It was a recent photograph. Very recent. Taken at the last rally. More than the photograph, it was the accompanying copy that really stunned her.

  “We Accuse!” ran the eye-catching headline. The first lines of copy read: “We accuse Katherine Kassler and Eagle Newspapers of lying. We accuse them of distorting the facts. We accuse them of smearing the good name of the British Patriotic League.” At the bottom of the article, past a hundred lines of text, was the byline of Trevor Burns, member of the League’s executive committee and editor of Patriot.

  Later in the day, Katherine showed the copy of Patriot to her father and Gerald Waller. Both men studied the attack on Katherine and Eagle Newspapers.

  “They accuse us of forging those photographs from the Brixton rally?” Waller said. “They even claim that we produced those Union Jack badges with ‘Niggers back to Africa’ written on them, and tried to lay the blame on the League?” He looked at Roland Eagles. “If you want my opinion, we should sue those bastards for everything they’ve got.”

  “How much can that be? We’d just look like bullies. There must be a better way.”

  The deliberations were interrupted by a telephone call for Katherine. She jotted down notes, then replaced the receiver. “That was Derek Simon,” she told Waller and her father. “He and Heather have unearthed some figures. Patriot House, the League’s new headquarters, was purchased for seventy thousand pounds. The League has also bought properties in Birmingham, Manchester, and Leicester, the three cities where regional committees have been established. The total purchase price for those three properties is one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. No mortgages are involved. Everything was paid for in cold cash.”

  “A hundred and ninety thousand pounds,” Roland muttered. “Never mind suing the League . . . we should be more interested in finding out where the money’s coming from. Whoever puts up that kind of money must be expecting one hell of a return on his investment! But what?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  IT WAS BOTH a supreme irony and an obvious choice for the British Patriotic League to locate its new headquarters in Whitechapel. Ironic, because for hundreds of years this area of London’s East End had been the welcoming point and first home for countless waves of immigrants. And obvious, because there had always existed among native East-Enders a bigoted blue-collar distrust of anything foreign, be it a dark skin, an odd accent, or a peculiar style of dress. The East End was a fertile breeding ground for extremist politics.

  The single impressive feature of Patriot House was its nameplate: red letters on a white background, with the flaming sword substituting for the i in “Patriot.” By contrast, the four-story structure itself was very ordinary. Dirty gray stone, dull windows, and an entrance framed by chipped and peeling paint. Erected after the war to fill a hole created by German bombs, Patriot House was a rundown nonentity in a row of anonymous build
ings that found daily use as offices, warehouses, and factories.

  Brian Waters rode a new motorcycle — bought with the money he was being paid by the Eagle for his undercover work — through the evening traffic until he reached Patriot House. He parked outside, chained the motorcycle to a street sign, and entered the League’s new headquarters. The building smelled musty. A notice board on the wall next to a small self-service elevator listed the occupants of Patriot House. The three members of the executive committee had their own offices on the top floor of the building. The only other space so far designated for a specific purpose was the basement, which was the assembly hall. Taped to the bottom of the notice board was a handwritten announcement that tonight’s meeting would take place there.

  Brian joined the flow of young men to the basement. By seven-twenty, one hundred youths were gathered, waiting for something to happen. Brian joined the group he’d met at the Notting Hill rally, when he had engineered the incident with Sid Hall and Katherine.

  At seven-thirty, a shrill whistle sounded. The noise of conversation stopped. One hundred pairs of eyes looked toward the raised platform at the end of the assembly hall. Alan Venables was standing there. “Welcome to Patriot House, headquarters of the struggle for a greater Britain!”

  In the confined space of the assembly hall, the roar of approval was deafening. “You men have been selected as the standard-bearers of the new Britain. You will be its shock troops. While others in the British Patriotic League go about the day-to-day business of organizing the party, you men will be at the forefront of change.”

  Another surge of excitement ran through the gathering. Even Brian — as much as he tried to remind himself that he was only present for the Eagle, and not because he sympathized with Venables — could feel it. It was the same thrill you got from standing in a crowd of supporters at a soccer game, the sensation that you belonged to something that was mightier than anything else in the world.

  Venables pulled a sheet of paper from the jacket of his tweed sportcoat. “All of you have been chosen to be the spearhead of reform, but even among you there exists an elite corps. Men who have demonstrated extraordinary ability and leadership. These men will be your group commanders.” He read ten names from the sheet of paper, motioning for the men to join him on the platform. The sixth name he read out belonged to Brian Waters.

  When all ten group commanders were assembled, Venables instructed them to introduce themselves. Brian listened to those who preceded him. They all took pride in revealing criminal records. When Brian’s turn came, he knew exactly what to say.

  “I was fined two hundred and fifty pounds for assault and battery. I told the magistrate that Liverpool fans viciously attacked my boots with their chins, but he wouldn’t believe me.”

  A roar of laughter swept the hall. “Don’t be so modest, Brian,” Venables said. “That wasn’t the only reason you’ve been made a group commander. You’re also up here because of the Notting Hill rally, where half a dozen witnesses saw you make the liars from the Daily Eagle back down.”

  After the introductions of the group commanders, Venables looked out over his audience. “You men comprise the British Brigade. You will be strong, you will be violent. Because in this world, strength and violence are the only ways to bring about change. You will act on orders you receive from your group commanders, who will, in turn, receive their orders directly from me. To the outside world, there can be no connection between the British Patriotic League and the British Brigade. Remember that.” Ten seconds passed while that piece of information sank in. “Group commanders, select your men. Ten men to a group. Get to know each other.”

  Brian chose the young men who had been with him at the rally. He wrote down their names, addresses, and telephone numbers. When the selections had been made, Venables dismissed the gathering, but ordered the group commanders to remain. He gave them each an envelope containing fifty pounds. “For expenses. Do your jobs well, and you’ll be looked after.”

  “What are our jobs?” Brian asked.

  “Causing trouble. The British Brigade is going to stir up so much trouble for immigrants that they’ll be forced to fight back. We want the streets running with blood. So much blood and so much chaos that the decent people of Britain — the white people of Britain — will demand the law and order that only the British Patriotic League can provide.”

  Walking up the stairs to street level, Brian decided that what he had learned tonight would not wait until he saw Katherine the following day. He had to telephone her immediately. The first pay phone he tried, close to Patriot House, was out of order. He jumped on his motorcycle and cruised along slowly, looking left and right. He spotted another pay phone, down a narrow, dimly lit side turning. This one worked. Holding his crash helmet in one hand, he dialed Katherine’s home number.

  “It’s Brian. I’ve got something that won’t wait.”

  Katherine invited him to the house. He replaced the receiver on its rest, turned around, and pushed open the door of the booth. A man stood outside, directly between Brian and his motorcycle.

  “Well, well, group commander. I thought it was you up on that stage. A real comedian you were, talking about people’s chins attacking your boots.”

  Brian could not recognize the man. The closest street lamp was twenty yards away, and while Brian’s face was illuminated, the face of the man accosting him was in deep shadow.

  “I saw you jump on your motorbike, and I thought I’d missed my chance. Guess I was just lucky that you stopped to make a phone call. Don’t look so tough now, do you, without your pals?” The man’s hands came out of his pockets. Glinting dully on one hand was a set of brass knuckles.

  “What pals are you talking about? I think you’ve got the wrong fellow.” Gripping the crash helmet tightly, Brian took a step toward his motorcycle.

  “You and your pals on the train to Birmingham, making me apologize to that woman. Taking our seats. Bet you thought you were hard men then, didn’t you?”

  Brian took another step, and the angle of the light changed. He caught a glimpse of fiery red hair. Ginger! Brian had been so intent on what Venables was saying — and then so thrilled to be chosen as a group commander — that he had not even noticed Ginger at the meeting. But Ginger had certainly seen Brian. And he believed that now was the perfect time to settle an old score.

  “Strange how you should have been with that Eagle woman writer and her photographer on the train that time, isn’t it? They got my picture that day, and they got it at the Brixton rally as well. They used both pictures in the paper.” The brass knuckles came up as Ginger adopted a loose boxing stance. “Even stranger how everyone should have seen you pushing that woman and her photographer into the street. Managed to make yourself a right hero, didn’t you?”

  The knuckles flashed through the air. Brian ducked, and in the same movement drove hard with his head into Ginger’s middle. The breath exploded out of Ginger. He doubled up. Brian lashed out with the crash helmet. It caught Ginger square in the face, splitting his lips. Brian felt warm blood spurt onto his hand as Ginger collapsed, groaning, onto the sidewalk.

  Brian knelt down, his mouth inches from Ginger’s ear. “You listen to me now. That woman from the Eagle, she made a fool of me. She used me that day on the train, tried to make it look as though she was really interested in writing about the fans, and all the time she was just using me so she could tie everyone in with the League. There’s only one thing I hate worse than being made a fool of . . . and that’s being reminded of it. So if you tell anyone how she made me look stupid, you’re going to think what I gave you just now is a pat on the back. Understand?” He grabbed hold of Ginger’s hair, lifted his head a couple of inches, and cracked it back on the sidewalk.

  Fifteen minutes later, Brian was in Hampstead. Katherine, who had been listening for the motorcycle, opened the door before Brian could use the heavy knocker and disturb the children.

  “My God, what happened to you?” she asked
when she saw him. Spots of dried blood covered his jeans and denim jacket. He mumbled something about a fight. Katherine took him through to the television room, where she had been sitting with Franz, and sat him down with a cup of tea.

  “Remember Ginger?” Brian asked. When Katherine nodded, Brian related what had happened, going right through the events of the evening, from the meeting in the basement of Patriot House to the fight with Ginger. “I told him you’d made a right fool out of me. That’s why I beat him up, I said, because I didn’t want him spreading it around and making me look small. But what if I haven’t scared him enough? What if he talks to Venables? What if Venables puts two and two together? I mean, he’s talking about us doing some terrible things.”

  Franz gave a faint nod. “Classic,” he said. “A classic example of dual-track strategy.”

  “What is that?” Katherine asked him. She was glad that Brian had come around with news. The League was the only topic guaranteed to interest Franz.

  “A very effective deception technique,” Franz answered. “Look how well the Palestinians use it. The Palestine Liberation Organization wants to establish itself as a genuine diplomatic force, but it does not wish to give up terrorism. So it delegates the terrorism to other organizations. This allows the PLO to continue butchering civilians. Simultaneously, the world believes what the PLO wants it to believe: that these foul acts are perpetrated by renegade Palestinians. Therefore, the only Palestinian body to trust — to negotiate with — is the PLO.”

  Hearing Franz use the PLO as a comparison sent a shiver down Katherine’s back. It was as though, for the first time, she could really understand how dangerous this latest band of lunatics really was. She turned to Brian.

  “Brian, don’t feel you’re under any obligation. If you think you’ve been compromised, step back. We asked you to find out what you could about the League. We didn’t ask you to put your head into a noose.”