‘I say! You’ve had far more than two pounds’ worth of service out of me.’
‘Yes. Tell me, how are you and Colonel Bartowers getting on these days?’
We were now heading West fast in a taxi. Bobby Brent straightened himself, looking every inch an honest soldier.
‘The Colonel and I have a sound working agreement.’
‘Good.’
‘He trusted me. Unlike some I might mention. I made a cool hundred for him only last week. Yes. And would Dan Bolt own two properties, two gold mines at Notting Hill without me? You’ve got to trust people. That’s your trouble. You don’t.’
We got out half a mile beyond Notting Hill, ouside a corner building whose street windows were still boarded up from war damage. But there were lights in the upper windows.
Bobby Brent let me in to a long low room, badly lit, that had Dan’s trestles and working tools standing neatly slacked in one corner. A half-circle bar had been installed, I saw the dim lighting was designed. A dozen wall-lights shed a reddish glow. Bobby Brent turned on a white working light, and the wall-lights became regularly-spaced red spots on arsenic-green surfaces.
‘Is the decor your idea?’
‘Decor! That’s not how it will be. Think I don’t know how to do things?’
He took out a sheaf of poster-sized papers and spread them on the counter. They were all erotic semi-nudes, of an exotic nature.
‘We’re going to have these stencilled on the walls. What do you think?’
‘What sort of clientele do you have in mind?’
‘Take a look out of the door and see for yourself. This’ll be a place people can come at evenings, not too expensive, and plenty of class for their money.’ He pulled a clean sheet of drawing-paper to him and began sketching another nude. ‘See the idea? It’ll be the same as a night-club I saw in Cairo in the war. Now that was a place.’
‘It seems a bit old-fashioned to me.’
‘That’s what you think. Your ideas might be all right for the West End, People who can buy what they like don’t like to have their dirty ideas pushed down their throats. But in a neighbourhood like this, they need to know what they’re getting.’
‘Why, is it going to be a brothel as well?’
‘I say! You’d better be careful you know, That reminds me. You stay here. I’ll telephone my friend. He’ll have an idea or two that’ll interest you, you’ll see.’
I waited for about half an hour. Then Bobby Brent came back with a small ratlike man who introduced himself as Mr Ponsonby’s lawyer, Mr Haigh.
Bobby Brent could not prevent himself from smiling with premonitory triumph.
‘And now,’ I said, ‘let’s have it.’
They exchanged glances. Bobby Brent nodded.
Mr Haigh said; ‘You’re a writer, is that correct?’
‘That is correct.’
‘And you’d like to make some money on the side.’
‘Mr Ponsonby thinks so.’
‘Mr Ponsonby knows his way about. Now. You know about the libel laws?’
‘You tell me.’
‘That’s right, we like someone who’s careful about what they’re getting. But I know my trade. Now. You write a story. You get it printed. Doesn’t matter where. Anywhere will do. And then — bob’s your uncle if you go about it right.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘All right, all right. We’ll start from another angle. Have you had a story published in a magazine lately?’
‘As it happens, yes.’
‘Good. Right. Take a look at Raymond here.’
‘I’m looking.’
‘He’s in your story. How would you describe him?’
‘Tall, dark, handsome.’
‘Not enough.’
‘Sinister.’
‘No, no. It’s the distinguishing marks you have to go for. Take another look — right? He’s got a scar under his jaw.’
‘Bayonet,’ said Bobby Brent, modestly. ‘Commandos. The man next to me — should have stuck the dummy, stuck me instead.’
‘Right. Now. A tall dark handsome man — sinister is not the right note, it’s the wrong touch. With a scar down under his jaw. Now, what does this man do in your story? Right, I’ll tell you. He breaks the law. Doesn’t matter how. Bob’s your uncle. Right?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Raymond here comes to me. A lawyer. Right? I write to the publishers. My client’s been libelled. Easily identifiable. Damages. Settled out of Court. One hundred nicker, just like that — split.’
‘Nice for you.’ I said. ‘But what about me?’
‘Insurance pays. You don’t. The publishers don’t. I’ve made hundreds that way. Hundreds. Always settle out of Court, they do — frightened of Court. The libel laws work against them. Only once went to Court. We lost. Mistake. But what’s one mistake with so much to gain? How about it?’
‘I’m not entirely clear in my mind.’
‘Right. Try again. Take me. How would you describe me — as a writer, mind.’
‘Small, furtive, rodentlike.’
‘Nab, not those fancy words. Look at my face. What do you see? I’ve got a mole. Look. Now, there’s your character for you — a lawyer with a good practice, his office situated so and so, and the name’s important, not Haigh, too close, something like Hay, or Hag — enough to establish malice. And with a mole on his upper cheek, he does something he shouldn’t. It’s in the bag. Not that I want you to use me — it’s too close the knuckle in a manner of speaking. But Raymond here. Or I can find someone, I got three hundred once, split three ways, it’s a hundred nicker each — what’s it cost you — spend an evening scribbling something, good enough to sell. I know three writers — they’ve lived off the libel laws these five years. Right, Now, what do you say?’
‘What immediately strikes me is, I’m surprised you’re interested in such small stakes. Knowing the way Mr Ponsonby operates, what’s even a hundred to him?’
They exchanged another glance.
‘Raymond Ponsonby’s in a class by himself,’ said Mr Haigh. ‘That I grant you. And I’m not saying it would be Mr Ponsonby who’d oblige. I’m not saying that. I was using him and myself as examples. Right?’
‘I’ll think it over,’ I said.
Bobby Brent controlled, with difficulty, a look of pure vicious triumph.
We all shook hands. Mr Haigh departed, hoping he would have the pleasure of my further acquaintance.
We locked up. ‘And now, a taxi,’ I said.
‘You want your pound of flesh, don’t you?’
‘I’m learning.’
I saw him laugh silently.
In the taxi he pulled out a piece of paper. ‘Here’s the contract,’ he said. On it was typed: ‘In pursuance of an arrangement come to this day the………. 1950………. contracts to pay Raymond Ponsonby the sum of ?50 or half the proceeds of the damages gained from ………. Publishing Company, as a result of the story written by the said ………. libelling the said Raymond Ponsonby, in terms to be agreed in private treaty between the said ………. and the said Raymond Ponsonby before the story is written by the said ………. such payment to be made within a week of settlement being received from the said publishing company.’
‘You just fill in your name,’ he said casually. ‘Of course it’s a draft. To give you the idea. We knocked it out in Mr Haigh’s office while you were waiting.’
