Money, money, money. He went into the Domino Room for the first time since Wilde’s funeral and nodded to a few people he knew but headed straight towards the Glasshouse Street side. It was Frank Harris he wanted — he intended to get his reimbursement for the Paris trip.
‘Been looking for you,’ Denton said, sinking into a chair. Harris was sitting alone at a small table, staring at an empty brandy glass.
Harris looked up. It seemed to take him a couple of seconds to realize who Denton was; then his usual look of malevolence vanished and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Denton’s face must have told him everything, because Harris frowned, then shrugged and grinned. ‘I have some money for you,’ he said.
This was so surprising that Denton thought Harris must think he was somebody else. His prepared speech of appeal and outrage stuck in his throat.
Harris began to pull money from various pockets and drop it on the table. ‘Took up a collection. To cover your expenses in the Paris expedition. People surprisingly generous. You sent flowers, did you? Damned good of you to go at all — can’t have you out of pocket-’ He grinned. ‘Actually, I think you’ll do rather well out of it-’
‘The flowers were as ugly as anything I’ve ever seen, but at least they were flowers. The card said, “Form the writters and artistes du Café Royale” — with an e.’
‘Was the funeral dreadful? Was it all terribly Catholic and French?’
Denton told him about the almost empty church, the miles-long ride to the cemetery.
‘Well, I’m grateful. Oscar liked to get his Johnson into funny places, but he was an artist!’ Harris pushed the crumpled notes and a pile of coins across the table. ‘Genius forgives everything.’
‘That’s what people say about Wagner.’
‘You’re not a Wagnerite?’
‘Lot of people screaming at each other in German. Pretentious horseballs.’
‘Don’t let Shaw hear you say that. You get along with Shaw?’
Denton was stacking the notes, mentally counting as he started to sort the coins, thinking he could pay off the shilling-apiece R. Mulcahys. ‘He’s delighted to meet me every time we’re introduced.’
‘Doesn’t remember you?’ Harris laughed. ‘Bit of a snob, actually. Typical Fabian — help the working-man, bring culture to the middle class, but Oh, please, don’t introduce me to one of them!’
Denton ordered a coffee and told Harris he was in a foul mood because he’d about run out of direction in his murdered-tart business, and he’d spent a dismal afternoon in a home for unwed mothers; meanwhile, he was counting money and checking off in his head the bills he could now pay.
‘Go back to writing.’
Denton made a face. ‘Actually, I’ve got an idea that might pay, thought you might like to buy it. Spent the afternoon at this God-awful place where the murdered girl had her baby. No wonder she preferred the streets — I’ve seen better prisons. I’ve worked in better prisons!’
Harris got his hungry look. ‘Anything in it for me? An exposé, something of that sort? I’m between magazines right now but I’m starting a new one, a society mag, in the spring. This suitable?’
‘Would take some digging.’
‘Getting down in the night soil and raking out diamonds? Like the man in Pilgrim’s Progress? Upper class love that, so long as they’re not expected to do anything.’
‘Pregnant women being worked like slaves, would that entertain them?’
Harris shook his head. ‘Social reform, not a good idea for my audience. They want something that they can tut-tut over before they have their after-dinner belch.’ Harris played with the foot of his wine glass. ‘Sex in it?’
‘Well, the women got pregnant, didn’t they? But there’s exploitation, injustice, ill-treatment-’
Harris shook his head. ‘Maybe if we got somebody inside. Maybe a woman journalist, posing as in the family way. Nice angle, that, actually.’ He signalled to a waiter. ‘Have another?’
‘The Café gets its linen done there. You could buttonhole Oddenino, get him to tell you what he pays. They’re making money, and the women aren’t getting it.’
But Harris wasn’t listening. ‘Actually, I could write it myself under a female pseudonym. I wrote as Mrs F. B. Strether a couple of times; I could resurrect her. I always saw her as a middle-aged woman with glasses and a huge embonpoint. Somebody younger for this, though — “How I Was Enslaved by My Unborn Babe,” by Elsie Dampknickers. “Your Clean Linen is My Dirty Secret — Chained to a Mangle by a Moment’s Indiscretion!”’ He banged on his glass for a waiter. ‘Sounds rather fun. You’d supply the eye-witness account of the deplorable conditions in this workhouse, and I could fabricate a couple of pathetic tales from recent inmates, with some titillation about how they got — do you say “knocked up”? In my days in Chicago people did. Wouldn’t need to put somebody inside, in that case. Might even pick up one or two of the post-partum graduates with a well-placed advert, in fact. But maybe not worth it. Get into trouble, advertising for women. Slant it towards the solid middle class — much moral indignation about child labour and the rights of women, “even women and girls who, though fallen, deserve better of England.” Eh? Catches the tone, you think? Maybe Pearson’s would take it. I’ll give you, let’s say, ten per cent for the idea and the information.’
‘I could write it myself.’
‘Not your manor, Denton; you haven’t got the properly low touch. Fifteen per cent?’
‘Half,’ Denton said, pocketing more than twenty pounds and admitting to himself that Harris could write such a piece better than he could.
‘That’s an unkind cut.’ Harris hunched over his empty glass. ‘A quarter.’ He glared at Denton. ‘Not in advance, you understand. What’s this about, then? You on your uppers, Denton?’
Denton shrugged.
‘Then let’s talk about something more your line: the new mag might lay out a few pounds for something about this murder that fascinates you so. Or what about this attack you suffered? Fellow stabbed you, didn’t he? Have to treat it in a genteel fashion — gentleman astonished by lower-class lack of civility. Invasion of your premises, working-class brute, collapse of civilization. Eh?’
‘Actually, he tried to kill me. Twice in one night.’
‘“Famous Author’s Night With a Monster”, something like that?’
‘You make it sound as if we went to bed.’
Harris waved a hand. ‘Scare the knickers off the well-to-do — if it could happen to you, it could happen to them.’ He smiled at the fresh glass that finally appeared in front of him. ‘Actually, if you’re hard up, there’s a market for a, shall I say, more specific account of your girl’s murder. Something, shall we say, graphic. Not for a, mmm, press you’d recognize — rather special, by subscription, your own name wouldn’t go on it — but spiced up with a few scenes of the right sort — first-person account of her early experiences, properly moist descriptions of what your man saw through his peephole on several occasions, then the gory murder — “What Mulcahy Saw.” Mmm. Nice. I’d take only ten per cent.’
‘Pornography, in short.’
‘Well, what’s in a name, Denton? We mustn’t think ourselves too grand for other forms of art when we’re hard up. It is art, you know — what is it if it isn’t art? It has its laws, its forms, its necessities.’
‘Old men in bedrooms with their tongues hanging out.’
‘And not just their tongues. Old and young, Denton, middle-aged and juvenile. What a sheltered life you’ve led! All men, my friend, all men. Pornography is simply what we all think but few dare to put on paper.’