The great charm of British films of this era is the glimpse of London and country towns the way they were all those years ago.
Trevor Griffiths is a prissy bank clerk with a sarcastic wife, glimpsed in one scene. The story is set in motion when one day he finds he hasn't enough change to pay his bus fare, and instead of owning up to the bus conductor (who's asking for exact fares), pretends he has paid. Unfortunately an inspector boards the bus, he continues to lie, and a nasty situation arises. (In fact, the officials make an awful lot of fuss about a few pennies.) He foolishly gives, not his name, but the details of a bank customer. Who is taken to court, and is so rude that he is fined £5. There's a reporter in court who scents a good story and the upright citizen's shame is splashed all over the press.
Segue to the newspaper offices. The reporter loses his job - why didn't he check that the man had an alibi? He drowns his sorrows and lets slip that the paper's owner keeps a girl in a London flat. But the gossip columnist has overheard, and happens to know a handy blackmailer, and...
The owner's secretary, engaged to the reporter, overhears the blackmailer's phone call and advises the owner to go to the police. "But my dying wife!" says the owner. So the secretary goes off to confront the girl in question - she must deny everything if asked.
And so it goes on...
It seems to be taking place in a country town rather than London, and there's a thrilling car chase featuring a bull-nosed Morris and what looks like a Reliant Robin through the streets of what could be Reigate.
Susan Shaw is good as the secretary. In one scene she is wearing a sleeveless tweed dress (they must have been awfully hot), and in the next scene she is wearing a backless sun dress - quite unsuitable for the office. And how did women fit anything into those tiny handbags?
In fact, any secretary who talked to her boss as an equal and listened in on his phone calls would have quickly got the sack - and there were no industrial tribunals or HR departments.
Trevor Griffiths is a prissy bank clerk with a sarcastic wife, glimpsed in one scene. The story is set in motion when one day he finds he hasn't enough change to pay his bus fare, and instead of owning up to the bus conductor (who's asking for exact fares), pretends he has paid. Unfortunately an inspector boards the bus, he continues to lie, and a nasty situation arises. (In fact, the officials make an awful lot of fuss about a few pennies.) He foolishly gives, not his name, but the details of a bank customer. Who is taken to court, and is so rude that he is fined £5. There's a reporter in court who scents a good story and the upright citizen's shame is splashed all over the press.
Segue to the newspaper offices. The reporter loses his job - why didn't he check that the man had an alibi? He drowns his sorrows and lets slip that the paper's owner keeps a girl in a London flat. But the gossip columnist has overheard, and happens to know a handy blackmailer, and...
The owner's secretary, engaged to the reporter, overhears the blackmailer's phone call and advises the owner to go to the police. "But my dying wife!" says the owner. So the secretary goes off to confront the girl in question - she must deny everything if asked.
And so it goes on...
It seems to be taking place in a country town rather than London, and there's a thrilling car chase featuring a bull-nosed Morris and what looks like a Reliant Robin through the streets of what could be Reigate.
Susan Shaw is good as the secretary. In one scene she is wearing a sleeveless tweed dress (they must have been awfully hot), and in the next scene she is wearing a backless sun dress - quite unsuitable for the office. And how did women fit anything into those tiny handbags?
In fact, any secretary who talked to her boss as an equal and listened in on his phone calls would have quickly got the sack - and there were no industrial tribunals or HR departments.