The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  At two o’clock, an estimated eighty thousand rock fans were sitting on the grass around an open-air stage. They began to cheer when a young man with shoulder-length blond hair leaped onto the stage and lifted one of the half-dozen microphones. He wore salmon-pink jeans and a bright red shirt, with a huge silver cross hanging from his neck.

  “That’s right . . . you know me! I’m the Music-Maker, and I bring you the best music on radio every week.” The disc jockey’s voice boomed back from the trees, where speakers had been placed. “I’ve got a new job today. I’m master of ceremonies for the most stupendous music bargain you’re ever going to find. It’s all free. And it’s for a very good cause. Over there” — he pointed toward the unseen northern edge of the park — “in an hour from now, a gang of real sickos called the British Patriotic League will be holding a rally. Their aim is to stir up hatred. They want to get all of us hating each other. But that isn’t what we want, is it?”

  Needing no amplification, the roar came back: “No!”

  “What do we want?”

  “We want rock!”

  “What do we want?”

  “We want rock!”

  “And what do we want rock for?”

  And it came back, just as the Music-Maker had known it would. Eighty thousand voices roared, “We want rock for racial harmony! Rock for racial harmony! Rock for racial harmony!”

  A curtain dropped across the stage, cutting the Music-Maker off from the crowd. When it rose again, four young men and a girl were on the stage. Each had a hairstyle that was fifteen different shades of pink and orange. Their black leather clothing was studded with shining stars. Two of the men carried guitars, which they plugged into the amplifiers. Another sat at a piano. The fourth settled in behind drums. The girl held a microphone. The four young men started playing, and the girl began to sing in a husky, off-key voice. Another roar, louder than anything that had preceded it, swept up to the sky as the eighty thousand fans recognized the punk rock group that headed that week’s hit parade.

  To one side of the stage stood Roland and Gerald Waller. As the music continued, they walked right around the edge of the immense crowd. Purposely, Roland slowed his pace, so that Waller would have no trouble in keeping up. They passed several policemen, even a couple of entrepreneurs who were selling souvenir T-shirts, white with “Rock for Racial Harmony” printed in black capitals across the front. Roland did not complain; he was never against anyone making a living.

  “Look over there,” Waller said. “Mirror photographer.”

  The Mirror man was the fourth photographer Roland had seen from a major newspaper. “Marvelous, isn’t it? Despite the fact that this concert has been arranged by Eagle newspapers, the other papers are covering it. Shows how fair the press can be.”

  “What’s fair got to do with anything? They can’t ignore something as big and loud as this just because another newspaper has something to do with it. Roland, you’ve created a major event.” Waller started to laugh at what he considered Roland’s naïveté. The laugh changed quickly to a deep, hacking cough. He doubled up in pain, hands clutched to his chest. Roland looked around for assistance, but Waller recovered quickly. “It’s all right. I’m fine. Let’s just take it easy with the walking. I’ve got to put in a day’s work after I leave here, making sure your newspaper gets out tomorrow.”

  “That would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? Being responsible for such a major event, and then not having my own newspaper get out on the streets with the story.”

  At three-fifteen, Roland and Waller walked slowly to the northern edge of the park. The “Youth for Britain” rally was in progress. Alan Venables stood on a platform from which flew the Union Jack and the League pennant. On either side were his henchmen, Neville Sharpe and Trevor Burns. Standing fifty yards away, Roland and Waller counted the crowd. Fewer than a hundred, and of those, half a dozen were police officers, and another half dozen were press photographers. Venables’s voice was lost in the sound of music coming from the concert: a reggae band now, insult added to injury.

  Even as Roland and Waller watched, a group of four young skinheads broke away from the rally and headed in the direction of the concert. Minutes later, one of the souvenir salesmen walked through the sparse gathering, hawking “Rock for Racial Harmony” T-shirts. When he found a customer, it was too much for Roland. He laughed loudly. Venables swung around. When he recognized Roland, his watery eyes blazed sharp with hatred. Roland turned away, satisfied with every aspect of the day.

  Roland left the park at four-thirty, ninety minutes before the scheduled end of the concert. Crossing Park Lane, he walked the half mile to Sally’s apartment in Curzon Street. The music bounced off buildings, following him all the way. When Sally opened the door, she swore that through her open windows she had heard every note of every song played that afternoon.

  “Was the concert a success?” she asked.

  “Buy a copy of tomorrow’s Eagle,” Roland replied cockily, “and you’ll know whether it was a success or not.”

  *

  Roland had just finished showering when the telephone rang at seven-fifteen the next morning. While he wondered who it could be, Arthur Parsons rapped on the bathroom door.

  “Sir, it’s Miss Katherine.”

  “What?” Imagining the worst, Roland came out of the bathroom like a hurricane, a robe held about himself. Picking up the extension in the bedroom, he said, “Kathy, what is it?”

  “What a fantastic front page!”

  “What front page?”

  “The Eagle. You mean you haven’t seen it yet?”

  “We don’t get delivery until seven-thirty.”

  “Then ask Mr. Parsons to go out and buy one. You must see it, Daddy, it’s absolutely incredible. The whole issue!” She hung up, leaving her father damp, a little confused, and full of anticipation.

  Precisely at seven-thirty, the Eagle was delivered. Roland took it into the breakfast room, where Peg Parsons served him a cup of tea and two slices of toast. The front page comprised a two-word headline, “Racists Rocked,” and an aerial photograph of Hyde Park. In the main part of the photograph, eighty thousand people mobbed tiny figures on a stage. At the very top of the picture — the northern edge of the park — another stage drew only a handful of listeners. The photograph was by Sid Hall, who had covered the concert from a helicopter.

  Roland turned to the center spread. Close-ups of the concert, of the performers, of the audience. A shot of a small crowd of people, all wearing the souvenir T-shirts. And tucked away in one corner of the page, in contrast to all the fun, all the happiness and enjoyment, was a tiny photograph of British Patriotic League supporters dismantling their platform, putting away their pennants for another day.

  The copy accompanying the display of photographs was factual and straightforward. Eighty thousand young people had attended a rock concert in Hyde Park, organized by Eagle Newspapers, to protest a nearby “Youth for Britain” rally by the British Patriotic League. In surprise, Roland noted that the story bore Gerald Waller’s name. The editor rarely wrote anything. Even then, he never used his byline unless he was making a clear editorial statement. As major a news story as the concert was, it did not come under that classification. While he dressed, Roland made up his mind to ask Waller why he had decided to write the story and use his byline.

  At eight-thirty, a company driver collected Roland and took him to the Adler’s store on Regent Street. He rode the elevator to the fifth floor, walked past the restaurant, then along the row of buyers’ offices toward the oak door of his own office.

  “Mr. Eagles . . .” Roland turned around to see his secretary chasing him. “Miss Roberts from Eagle Newspapers just telephoned. Said she’d missed you at home. She wants to speak to you urgently.” The secretary ran on ahead of Roland. By the time he entered his office, she was dialing the Eagle number.

  “Sally, it’s Roland.”

  “You’d better get over here, Roland. Fast. Gerry Waller’
s secretary has found him dead in his office.”

  Roland was at the newspaper fifteen minutes later. Sally met him, and took him to Waller’s office. Outside, the editorial staff tried to get on with the business of filling a paper. Inside, a doctor went through the redundant motions of checking for life signs, before declaring that the Eagle’s editor had probably been dead for five or six hours.

  Roland closed the door and leaned against it. Waller was sitting behind his desk, wearing the same clothes he had worn to the rock concert. His eyes were closed, head bent slightly, face relaxed. He could have been sleeping; instead, he was dead.

  “What do you think happened?” Roland asked the doctor.

  “Heart attack, I’d say. Was he ill?”

  “Very. He was suffering from lung cancer, had a couple of months at the most. He had a strenuous day yesterday.” Roland turned to Sally. “What was he doing here so early in the morning? Gerry never came in until midday.”

  “The printers said he stayed downstairs until the first issues came off the press. Then he must have brought a copy back up here, shut the door, and pulled the curtains closed. Quite probably, no one even realized he was in his office. Not until his secretary went in there when she arrived.”

  “I see.” Roland left the office to find Lawrie Stimkin. Newspapers were like entertainment. The show had to go on.

  *

  The doctor’s summary opinion on the cause of death proved to be correct. Following the exertions of attending the rock concert, Gerald Waller’s heart had simply given out.

  For the days preceding the funeral, Roland went around in a depressed state. More than a talented employee, he had lost a friend. And, by walking Waller around Hyde Park that Sunday, he had been responsible. That Waller’s days had been numbered made little difference. Roland could not shake the feeling of guilt.

  At the funeral, Roland stood between Sally Roberts and Katherine. All of Fleet Street was there, a Who’s Who of the newspaper industry. The minister said that if any man could ever be said to have died where he wanted to die, that man was Gerald Waller. A newspaper editor dying at his desk, with the latest edition of his newspaper, hot off the press, in front of him.

  “Gerry got his wish, didn’t he?” Katherine whispered to her father. “He told me a couple of months ago that he would go happily if he could be at the helm for just one more big story.”

  The byline . . .! Waller writing the story and using his byline, actions that had so puzzled Roland. Now he understood. “Rock for Racial Harmony” had been Waller’s last major story, as editor and as a writer. Even as instigator, because the idea of a free rock concert had been his. And he had wanted the world to know about it. He had willingly run himself into the ground that Sunday, because that was the way he had wanted to go out.

  Roland did not feel so guilty anymore.

  *

  Three more “Youth for Britain” rallies were held that summer by the British Patriotic League. At Birmingham, in June; at Manchester, in July; and at Leeds, in August. Each time, Eagle Newspapers, with the help of Sidney Glassman and his son Lionel, organized an admission-free “Rock for Racial Harmony” concert. Each concert drew anywhere from fifty to eighty thousand young people, while the most successful “Youth for Britain” rally attracted fewer than five hundred.

  It was a summer that Roland could look back on with enormous satisfaction. He had used his newspaper company not just as a tool to bring news to the public, but as a weapon to help destroy what he saw was wrong with society. He told this to Katherine when she brought the children to Adler’s one Thursday afternoon during the school summer holiday.

  “Not only that, Daddy, but you provided entertainment for a few hundred thousand rock fans at the same time.”

  When Katherine left Adler’s, heading for the “Fightback” studio and the final preparations for that night’s show, Henry and Joanne remained with their grandfather. Roland would take them to Stanmore for dinner; after the show, Katherine would collect them.

  Jeffrey Dillard was waiting when Katherine arrived, his eyes shining with excitement. “Katherine, I’ve just picked up a marvelous item for the show.”

  Warning bells began to ring. “For tonight?”

  “No. It needs to be researched properly, but it’s hot, believe me. Almost too hot to handle.”

  “Tell me, Jeffrey.”

  “In Paul’s office. He also thinks it’s a splendid topic.” Dillard led the way to Paul Hyde’s office. The producer was sitting at his desk, checking the schedule for that night’s show.

  “There’s a tremendous scandal about to break,” Dillard said, “and we’ve got the inside story. One of the big London casinos has been taking down the license-plate numbers of all the fancy cars parked outside competing gaming clubs — Rolls Royces, Aston Martins, Mercedes, expensive cars like that.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “The license-plate numbers get checked by a contact in Scotland Yard. Once the casino has the identities of the owners, it tries to persuade them to play at its tables.”

  “What kind of persuasion?” Katherine asked, although she could already guess. What temptation would mere money be to the owners of such cars?

  It was Hyde who answered. “Women. Jeffrey’s learned that the casino’s offering those car owners the services of expensive prostitutes. Some of the car owners, apparently, have peculiar tastes, and these women are catering to them.”

  “How did you find out about all this, Jeffrey?”

  “From one of the sources I used when I ran ‘Fightback.’”

  “Which casino is going to all this trouble? Not to mention corrupting Scotland Yard.”

  “The Grosvenor Sporting Club.”

  “I was under the impression that the Grosvenor was a very above-board establishment. They retained their license after the government inquiry into criminal infiltration of the gambling industry. Which is more than can be said for many of the clubs.”

  “I know, I know,” Dillard said. “It seems this underhand scheme is the brainwave of the Grosvenor’s newly appointed membership director.” He stared straight into Katherine’s blue eyes. “Melvin Glassman.”

  Katherine returned Dillard’s gaze unflinchingly. “Forget it. I wouldn’t touch a story like this with a barge-pole.”

  “Don’t be so hasty, Katherine,” Hyde said, as she started toward the office door. “Jeffrey seems to think it would be perfect for ‘Fightback,’ and I’m inclined to agree with him.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “What are your objections?”

  “As juicy as this story might be, it is not our kind of topic. We are a prime-time family show. We come on at seven o’clock in the evening. Children watch us. What are they going to think about bribery and corruption and prostitution, especially if some of those prostitutes are catering to weird tastes? Most importantly, where is the fighting back in all of this? No one’s come to us and said they’ve been cheated, they’ve been swindled, they’ve been run over by some massive corporation or government bureaucracy. This is something for the police to look into. It is not for us.”

  On top of that, she added silently, I am not going to use the show to embarrass a very dear friend of my father, who is unfortunate enough to have a crook for a son. Call it unethical, but when you’ve got the power in your hands, you’re a damned fool if you don’t use it.

  “Have you quite finished?” Dillard asked.

  “No. If you’re still so keen on going ahead with a totally inappropriate topic, tell me. I’ll step aside and make room for you; don’t worry about that. I’ll type my letter of resignation right now, because I will not remain in a job where I feel compromised.”

  Slowly, Dillard shook his head. A smile began. “You win. I thought I might be able to go up against you, but I was wrong.”

  “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a show to prepare.” Katherine left Hyde’s office wondering whether Dillard had been really serious ab
out using such a topic, or just testing her resolve in case he wanted to push something through in the future.

  Either way, she felt that she had come out on top. It would be a long time before he tried to test her again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  IN THE UNITED STATES, Labor Day signifies the end of summer and the start of fall. August Bank Holiday, the last Monday of the month, serves the same purpose in England, ending a weekend of special summer events, such as craft and farm festivals, military musical tattoos, and regattas.

  The fun fair on Hampstead Heath was one of the traditional events. Katherine and John Saxon took Henry and Joanne on Monday afternoon, watching while the children took at least one turn on every ride, and tried their luck at every stall. Henry had an uncanny aim, whether throwing a ball or a dart. He couldn’t miss. Consequently, Katherine and Saxon were soon loaded down with prizes. As Katherine watched Henry pierce yet another balloon, she felt grateful that Joanne was as awkward at throwing as her brother was adept.

  At five-thirty, as the sun began to dip over the western edge of the Heath, they returned to Saxon’s car. When Katherine placed Henry’s prizes in the trunk, Joanne began to cry.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” Katherine asked.

  “It’s sad.”

  “What is? Henry winning all the prizes, and you winning nothing? Don’t worry, he’ll share them with you.”

  The young girl shook her head. “Summer ending is sad. Soon it will be cold, and we won’t be able to play outside.”

  “Of course you will. You’ll play different games; that’s all.” Katherine looked to her son for help.

  “We’ll ride the toboggans Uncle John bought for us last winter,” Henry said. “Don’t you remember those?”

  The flow of tears lessened. Katherine looked at Saxon, who was smiling softly.