Night Over Water - Ken Follett [135]
Harry said: “There’s not as much of it as the papers make out. There’s only one white slaver in London—his name’s Benny the Malt. He’s from Malta.”
Margaret was riveted. To think all this was going on under her nose! “It might have happened to me!”
“It could have, that night you ran away from home,” Harry said. “That’s just the kind of situation Benny can work with. A young girl on her own, with no money and nowhere to sleep. He’d have given you a nice dinner and offered you a job with a dance troupe leaving for Paris in the morning, and you’d think he was your salvation. The dance troupe would turn out to be a strip show, but you wouldn’t find that out until you were stuck in Paris with no money and no way of getting home, so you’d stand in the back row and wiggle as best you could.” Margaret put herself in that situation and realized that she would probably do exactly that. “Then one night they’d ask you to ’be nice’ to a drunk stockbroker from the audience, and if you refused they’d hold you down for him.” Margaret closed her eyes, revolted and scared to think what might have happened to her. “Next day you might walk out, but where would you go? You might have a few francs, but it wouldn’t be enough to get you home. And you’d start thinking about what you were going to tell your family when you arrived. The truth? Never. So you’d drift back to your lodgings with the other girls, who at least would be friendly and understanding. And then you’d start to think that if you’ve done it once you can do it again; and the next stockbroker would be a little easier. Before you know it you’re looking forward to the tips the clients leave on the nightstand in the morning.”
Margaret shuddered. “That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s why I don’t think Frankie Gordino should be left alone.”
They were both quiet for a minute or two; then Harry said meditatively: “I wonder what the connection is between Frankie Gordino and Clive Membury.”
“Is there one?”
“Well, Percy says Membury’s got a gun. I’d already guessed he might be a copper.”
“Really? How?”
“That red waistcoat. A copper would think it was just the thing to make him look like a playboy.”
“Perhaps he’s helping to guard Frankie Gordino.”
Harry looked dubious. “Why? Gordino’s an American villain on his way to an American jail. He’s out of British territory and in the custody of the F.B.I. I can’t think why Scotland Yard would send someone to help guard him, especially given the cost of a Clipper ticket.”
Margaret lowered her voice. “Could he be following you?”
“To America?” Harry said skeptically. “On the Clipper? With a gun? For a pair of cuff links?”
“Can you think of another explanation?”
“No.”
“Anyway, perhaps all the fuss about Gordino will take people’s minds off my father’s appalling behavior at dinner.”
“Why do you think he let rip like that?” Harry said curiously.
“I don’t know. He wasn’t always like this. I remember him being quite reasonable when I was younger.”
“I’ve run into a few Fascists,” Harry said. “They’re normally frightened people.”
“Is that so?” Margaret found the idea surprising and rather implausible. “They seem so aggressive.”
“I know. But inside, they’re terrified. That’s why they like marching up and down and wearing uniforms—they feel safe when they’re part of a gang. That’s why they don’t like democracy—too uncertain. They feel happier in a dictatorship, where you know what’s going to happen next and the government can’t be turned out all of a sudden.”
Margaret realized that this made a lot of sense. She nodded thoughtfully. “I remember, even before he got so bitter, he would get unreasonably angry about Communists, or Zionists, or trade unions, or Fenians, or fifth columnists—there was always someone about to bring the country to its knees. Come to think of it, it was never very likely that Zionists would bring England to its knees, was it?”
Harry smiled. “Fascists are always angry, too. They’re often people who are disappointed