Paper Money (3 page)

After the war they set up a small chain of High Street chemists' shops,

with the object of guaranteeing their markets. The trouble was, they

knew all about chemistry and nothing about retailing, and the shops ate

up most of the profits made by the factory.

"I was working for a stockbroker at the time, and I'd made a little

money playing the market. I went to my boss and offered him a half-share

in the profits if he would finance the deal. We bought the company, and

immediately sold the factory to ICI for almost as much as we paid for

the shares.

Then we closed the shops and sold them one by one-they were all in prime

sites."

"I'll never understand this sort of thing," Peters said. "If the factory

and the shops were worth so much, why were the shares cheap?"?"

"Because the enterprise was losing money. They hadn't paid a dividend

for years. The management didn't have the guts to cash in their chips,

so to speak. We did. Everything in business is courage." He started to

eat his sandwich.

"It's fascinating," Peters said. He looked at his watch. "I must go."

"&g day?" Laski said lightly.

"Today's one of the days--and that always means headaches."

"Did you solve that problem?"

"Which?"

"Routes." Laski lowered his voice a fraction.

"Your security people wanted you to send the convoy a different way each

time."

"No." Peters was embarrassed: it had been indiscreet of him to tell

Laski about that dilemma.

"There is really only one sensible way to get there.

However ..." He stood up.

Laski smiled and kept his voice casual. "So today's big shipment goes by

the old direct route." Peters put a finger to his lips. "Security," he

said.

"Sure."

Peters picked up his raincoat. "Goodbye."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Laski said, smiling broadly.

ARTHUR COLE climbed the steps from the station, his breath rattling

unhealthily in his chest. A gust of warm air came up from the bowels of

the Underground, wrapped itself snugly around him, and blew away. He

shivered slightly as he emerged into the street.

The sunshine took him by surprise--it had hardly been dawn when he

boarded the train. The air was chilled and sweet. Later it would become

poisonous enough to knock out a policeman on point duty. Cole remembered

the first time that had happened: the story had been an Evening Post

exclusive.

He walked slowly until his breathing eased.

Twenty-five years in newspapers have ruined my health, he thought. In

truth, any industry would have done the same, for he was prone to worry

and to drink, and his chest was weak; but it comforted him to blame his

profession.

Anyway, he had given up smoking. He had been a nonsmoker for--he looked

at his watch-one hundred and twenty-eight minutes, unless he counted the

night, in which case it was eight hours. He had already passed several

moments of risk: immediately after the alarm clock went off at

four-thirty (he usually smoked one on the we); driving away from his

house, at the moment when he got into top gear and turned on the radio

ready for the five o'clock news; accelerating down the first fast

stretch of the A1Z as his large Ford hit its stride; and waiting on a

cold, open-air Tube station in East London for the earliest train of the

day.

The BBC's five o'clock bulletin had not cheered him. It had had all his

attention as he drove, for the route was so familiar that he negotiated

the bends and roundabouts automatically, from memory. The lead story

came from Westminster: the latest industrial relations bill had been

passed by Parliament, but the majority had been narrow.

Cole had caught the story the previous night on television. That meant

the morning papers would certainly have it, which in turn meant that the

Post could do nothing with it unless there were developments later in

the day.

There was a story about the Retail Price Index.

The source would be official government statistics, which would have

been embargoed until midnight: again, the mornings would have it.

It was no surprise to learn that the car workers' strike was still on it

would hardly have been settled overnight.

Test cricket in Australia solved the sports editor's problem, but the

score was not sufficiently sensational for the front page.

Cole began to worry.

He entered the Evening Post building and took the elevator. The newsroom

occupied the entire first floor. It was a huge, I-shaped open-plan

office. Cole entered at the foot of the I. To his left were the

typewriters and telephones of the copy takers, who would type out

stories dictated over the phone; to the right, the filing cabinets and

bookshelves of specialist writers--political, industrial, crime,

defense, and more. Cole walked up the stem of the I, through rows of

desks belonging to ordinary common-or-garden reporters, to the long news

desk which divided the room in two. Behind it was the U-shaped

sub-editors' table, and beyond that, in the crosspiece of the I, was the

sports department semi-independent kingdom, with its own editor,

reporters, and subs.

Cole occasionally showed curious relatives around the place: he always

told them: "It's supposed to work like a production line. Usually it's

more like a bun fight." It was an exaggeration, but it always got a

laugh.

The room was brightly lit, and empty. As deputy news editor, Cole had a

section of the news desk to himself. He opened a drawer and took out a

coin, then walked to the vending machine in Sport and punched buttons

for instant tea with milk and sugar. A teleprinter chattered to life,

breaking the silence.

As Cole walked back to his desk with his paper cup, the far door bumped

open. A short, gray-haired figure came in, wearing a bulky parka and

cycle clips. Cole waved and called: "Morning, George."

"Hello, Arthur. Cold enough for you?" George began to take off his coat.

The body inside it was small and thin. Despite his age, George's title

was Head Lad: he was chief of the office's team of messengers. He lived

in Potters Bar and cycled to work. Arthur thought that an astonishing

feat.

Arthur put down his tea, shrugged out of his raincoat, turned on the

radio, and sat down. The radio began to murmur. He sipped tea and gazed

straight ahead. The newsroom was scruffy--chairs were scattered

randomly, newspapers and sheets of copy paper littered the desks, and

redecoration had been postponed in last year's economy drive but the

scene was too familiar to register. Cole's mind was on the first

edition, which would be on the streets in three hours.

Today's paper would have sixteen pages. Fourteen of the first edition's

pages already existed as semi cylindrical metal plates on the press

downstairs. They contained advertising, features, television programs,

and news written in such a way that its age would--it was hoped--be

overlooked by the reader. That left the back page for the sports editor

and the front page for Arthur Cole.

Parliament, a strike, and inflation--they were all yesterday stories.

There was not much he could do with them. Any of them could be dressed

up with a today intro, like

"Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest on the Government's narrow

escape ..." There was one of those for every situation. Yesterday's

disaster became today's news story with "Dawn today revealed the full

horror ..." Yesterday's murder benefitted from "Detectives today

searched London for the man who ..." Arthur's problem had given birth to

scores of cliches. In a civilized society, he thought, when there was no

news there would be no newspapers. It was an old thought, and he brushed

it out of his mind impatiently.

Everyone accepted that the first edition was rubbish three days out of

six. But that gave no comfort, because it was the reason Arthur Cole had

the job of producing that edition. He had been deputy news editor for

five years. Twice during that period the news editor's chair had fallen

vacant, and both times a younger man than Cole had been promoted.

Someone had decided that the number two job was the limit of his

capabilities. He disagreed.

The only way he could demonstrate his talent was by turning out an

excellent first edition. Unfortunately, how good the edition was

depended largely upon luck. Cole's strategy was to aim for a paper which

was consistently slightly better than the opposition's first edition. He

thought he was succeeding: whether anyone upstairs had noticed, he had

no idea; and he would not let himself worry about it.

George came up behind him and dumped a pile of newspapers on his desk.

"Young Stephen's reported sick again," he grumbled.

Arthur smiled. "What is it, hangover or a runny nose?"

"Remember what they used to tell us? "If you can walk, you can work."

Not this lot."

Arthur nodded.

"Am I right?" George said.

"You're right." The two of them had been lads together on the Post.

Arthur had got his NUJ card after the war. George, who had not been

called up, had remained a messenger.

George said. "We were keen. We wanted to work."

Arthur picked up the top newspaper from the pile. This was not the first

time George had complained about his staff, nor the first time Arthur

had commiserated with him. But Arthur knew what was wrong with the Lads

of today. Thirty years ago, a smart Lad could become a reporter;

nowadays, that road was closed. The new system had a double impact:

bright youngsters stayed at school instead of becoming messengers; and

those who did become messengers knew they had no prospect, so they did

as little work as they could get away with. But Arthur could not say

this to George, because it would call attention to the fact that Arthur

had done so much better than his old colleague So he agreed that the

youth of today were rotten.

George seemed disposed to persist with his grouse. Arthur cut him off by

saying: "Anything on the overnight wire?"

"I'll get it. Only I've got to do all the papers myself--"

"I'd better see the wire copy first." Arthur turned away. He hated to

pull rank. He had never learned to do it naturally, perhaps because he

took no pleasure in it. He looked at the Morning Star: they had led with

the industry bill.

It was unlikely that there would be any national news on the teletype

yet; it was too early. But foreign news came in sporadically during the

night, and more often than not it included one story which could be the

splash, in a pinch. Most nights there was a major fire, a multiple

murder, a riot, or a coup somewhere in the world. The Post was a London

paper and did not like to lead with foreign news unless it was

sensational; but it might be better than "Cabinet Ministers today held

an inquest..

George dumped a sheet of paper several feet long on his desk. Not

cutting the sheet into individual stories was his way of showing

displeasure. He probably wanted Arthur to complain, so that he could

point out how much work there was for him to do with the early Lad off

sick. Arthur fumbled in his desk for scissors, and began to read.

He went through a political story from Washington, a Test Match report,

and a Middle East roundup. He was halfway through a minor Hollywood

divorce when the phone rang. He picked it up and said: "Newsdesk."

"I've got an item for your gossip column." It was a man's voice, with a

broad Cockney accent.

Cole was instantly skeptical. This was not the voice of a man who would

have inside information on the love lives of the aristocracy. He said:

"Good. Would you like to tell me your name?"

"Never mind about that. Do you know who Tim Fitzpeterson is?"

"of course."

"Well, he's making a fool of himself with a redhead. She must be twenty

years younger than him. Do you want his phone number?"

"Please." Cole wrote it down. He was interested now. If a Minister's

marriage had broken up, it would make a good story, not just a gossip

item. "Who's the girl?" he said.

"Calls herself an actress. Truth is, she's a brass Just give him a ring

right away, and ask him about Dizi Disney." The line went dead.

Cole frowned. This was a little odd: most tipsters wanted money, for