YOUNG BRAINS
Carver, who had been listening intently to the memory of a bygone event,
pushed away the remains of his frugal lunch, and shook his head as he
drew out a cigarette-case.
"By gad, Triff, old man!" he said. "If I'd been that chap I'd rather
have been hanged, I think. Not proven, eh?--whew! That meant----"
"Pretty much what the folk in court and the mob outside thought,"
asserted Triffitt. "That scene outside, after the trial, is one of my
liveliest recollections. There was a big crowd there--chiefly women.
When they heard the verdict there was such yelling and hooting as you
never heard in your life! You see, they were all certain about the
fellow's guilt, and they wanted him to swing. If they could have got at
him, they'd have lynched him. And do you know, he actually had the cheek
to leave the court by the front entrance, and show himself to that
crowd! Then there was a lively scene--stones and brickbats and the mud
of the street began flying. Then the police waded in--and they gave Mr.
Francis Bentham pretty clearly to understand that there must be no going
home for him, or the folks would pull his roof over his head. And they
forced him back into the court, and got him away out of the town on the
quiet--and I reckon he's never shown his face in that quarter of the
globe since."
"That will?" asked Carver. "Did it stand good--did he get the woman's
money?"
"He did. My aunt told me afterwards that he employed some local
solicitor chap--writers, as they call 'em there--to wind everything up,
convert everything into cash, for him. Oh, yes!" concluded Triffitt. "He
got the estate, right enough. Not an awful lot, you know--a thousand or
two--perhaps three--but enough to go adventuring with elsewhere."
"You're sure this is the man?" asked Carver.
"As certain as that I'm myself!" answered Triffitt. "Couldn't mistake
him--even if it is nine years ago. It's true I was only a nipper
then--sixteen or so--but I'd all my wits about me, and I was so taken
with him in the dock, and with his theatrical bearing there--he's a fine
hand at posing--that I couldn't forget or mistake him. Oh, he's the man!
I've often wondered what had become of him."
"And now you find out that he's up till recently been secretary to Jacob
Herapath, M.P., and is just now doing dramatic criticism for the
_Magnet_," observed Carver. "Well, Triffitt, what do you make of it?"
Triffitt, who had filled and lighted an old briarwood pipe, puffed
solemnly and thoughtfully for a while.
"Well," he said, "nobody can deny that there's a deep mystery about
Jacob Herapath's death. And knowing what I do about this Bentham or
Burchill, and that he's recently been secretary to Jacob Herapath, I'd
just like to know a lot more. And--I mean to!"
"Got any plan of campaign?" asked Carver.
"I have!" affirmed Triffitt with sublime confidence. "And it's this--I'm
going to dog this thing out until I can go to our boss and tell him that
I can force the hands of the police! For the police are keeping
something dark, my son, and I mean to find out what it is. I got a
quencher this morning from our news editor, but it'll be the last. When
I go back to the office to write out this stuff, I'm going to have that
extremely rare thing with any of our lot--an interview with the old
man."
"Gad!--I thought your old man was unapproachable!" exclaimed Carver.
"To all intents and purposes, he is," assented Triffitt. "But I'll see
him--and today. And after that--but you'll see. Now, as to you, old man.
You're coming in with me at this, of course--not on behalf of your
paper, but on your own. Work up with me, and if we're successful, I'll
promise you a post on the _Argus_ that'll be worth three times what
you're getting now. I know what I'm talking about--unapproachable as our
guv'nor is, I've sized him up, and if I make good in this affair, he'll
do anything I want. Stick to Triffitt, my son, and Triffitt'll see you
all serene!"
"Right-oh!" said Carver. "I'm on. Well, and what am I to do, first?"
"Two things," responded Triffitt. "One of 'em's easy, and can be done
at once. Get me--diplomatically--this man Burchill's, or Bentham's,
present address. You know some _Magnet_ chaps--get it out of them. Tell
'em you want to ask Burchill's advice about some dramatic stuff--say
you've written a play and you're so impressed by his criticisms that
you'd like to take his counsel."
"I can do that," replied Carver. "As a matter of fact, I've got a real
good farce in my desk. And the next?"
"The next is--try to find out if there's any taxi-cab driver around the
Portman Square district who took a fare resembling old Herapath from
anywhere about there to Kensington on the night of the murder," said
Triffitt. "There must be some chap who drove that man, and if we've got
any brains about us we can find him. If we find him, and can get him to
talk--well, we shall know something."
"It'll mean money," observed Carver.
"Never mind," said Triffitt, confident as ever. "If it comes off all
right with our boss, you needn't bother about money, my son! Now let's
be going Fleet Street way, and I'll meet you tonight at the usual--say
six o'clock."
Arrived at the _Argus_ office and duly seated at his own particular
table, Triffitt, instead of proceeding to write out his report of the
funeral ceremony of the late Jacob Herapath, M.P., wrote a note to his
proprietor, which note he carefully sealed and marked "Private." He
carried this off to the great man's confidential secretary, who stared
at it and him.
"I suppose this really is of a private nature?" he asked suspiciously.
"You know as well as I do that Mr. Markledew'll make me suffer if it
isn't."
"Soul and honour, it's of the most private!" affirmed Triffitt, laying a
hand on his heart. "And of the highest importance, too, and I'll be
eternally grateful if you'll put it before him as soon as you can."
The confidential secretary took another look at Triffitt, and allowed
himself to be reluctantly convinced of his earnestness.
"All right!" he said. "I'll shove it under his nose when he comes in at
four o'clock."
Triffitt went back to his work, excited, yet elated. It was no easy job to
get speech of Markledew. Markledew, as everybody in Fleet Street knew, was
a man in ten thousand. He was not only sole proprietor of his paper, but
its editor and manager, and he ruled his office and his employees with a
rod of iron--chiefly by silence. It was usually said of him that he never
spoke to anybody unless he was absolutely obliged to do so--certain it was
that all his orders to the various heads were given out pretty much after
the fashion of a drill sergeant's commands to a squad of well-trained,
five-month recruits, and that monosyllables were much more in his mouth
than even brief admonitions and explanations. If anybody ever did manage
to approach Markledew, it was always with fear and trembling. A big,
heavy, lumbering man, with a face that might have been carved out of
granite, eyes that bored through an opposing brain, and a constant
expression of absolute, yet watchful immobility, he was a trying person to
tackle, and most men, when they did tackle him, felt as if they might be
talking to the Sphinx and wondered if the tightly-locked lips were ever
going to open. But all men who ever had anything to do with Markledew were
well aware that, difficult as he was of access, you had only got to
approach him with something good to be rewarded for your pains in full
measure.
At ten minutes past four Triffitt, who had just finished his work, lifted
his head to see a messenger-boy fling open the door of the reporter's room
and cast his eyes round. A shiver shot through Triffitt's spine and went
out of his toes with a final sting.
"Mr. Markledew wants Mr. Triffitt!"
Two or three other junior reporters who were scribbling in the room
glanced at Triffitt as he leapt to obey the summons. They hastened to
make kindly comments on this unheard-of episode in the day's dull
routine.
"Pale as a fair young bride!" sighed one. "Buck up, Triff!--he won't eat
you."
"I hear your knees knocking together, Triff," said another. "Brace
yourself!"
"Markledew," observed a third, "has decided to lay down the sceptre and
to instal Triff in the chair of rule. Ave, Triffitt, Imperator!--be
merciful to the rest of us."
Triffitt consigned them to the nether regions and hurried to the
presence. The presence was busied with its secretary and kept Triffitt
standing for two minutes, during which space he recovered his breath.
Then the presence waved away secretary and papers with one hand, turned
its awful eyes upon him, and rapped out one word:
"Now!"
Triffitt breathed a fervent prayer to all his gods, summoned his
resolution and his powers, and spoke. He endeavoured to use as few words
as possible, to be lucid, to make his points, to show what he was
after--and, driving fear away from him, he kept his own eyes steadily
fixed on those penetrating organs which confronted him. And once, twice,
he saw or thought he saw a light gleam of appreciation in those organs;
once, he believed, the big head nodded as if in agreement. Anyhow, at
the end of a quarter of an hour (unheard-of length for an interview with
Markledew!) Triffitt had neither been turned out nor summarily silenced;
instead, he had come to what he felt to be a good ending of his pleas
and his arguments, and the great man was showing signs of speech.
"Now, attend!" said Markledew, impressively. "You'll go on with this.
You'll follow it up on the lines you suggest. But you'll print nothing
except under my personal supervision. Make certain of your facts.
Facts!--understand! Wait."
He pulled a couple of slips of paper towards him, scribbled a line or
two on each, handed them to Triffitt, and nodded at the door.
"That'll do," he said. "When you want me, let me know. And mind--you've
got a fine chance, young man."
Triffitt could have fallen on the carpet and kissed Markledew's large
boots. But knowing Markledew, he expressed his gratitude in two words
and a bow, and sped out of the room. Once outside, he hastened to send
the all-powerful notes. They were short and sharp, like Markledew's
manner, but to Triffitt of an inexpressible sweetness, and he walked on
air as he went off to other regions to present them.
The news editor, who was by nature irascible and whom much daily worry
had rendered more so, glared angrily as Triffitt marched up to his
table. He pointed to a slip of proof which lay, damp and sticky, close
by.
"You've given too much space to that Herapath funeral," he growled.
"Take it away and cut it down to three-quarters."
Triffitt made no verbal answer. He flung Markledew's half-sheet of
notepaper before the news editor, and the news editor, seeing the great
man's sprawling caligraphy, read, wonderingly:--
"Mr. Triffitt is released from ordinary duties to
pursue others under my personal supervision.
J. M."
The news editor stared at Triffitt as if that young gentleman had
suddenly become an archangel.
"What's this mean?" he demanded.
"Obvious--and sufficient," retorted Triffitt. And he turned, hands in
pockets, and strolled out, leaving the proof lying unheeded. That was
the first time he had scored off his news editor, and the experience was
honey-like and intoxicating. His head was higher than ever as he sought
the cashier and handed Markledew's other note to him. The cashier read
it over mechanically.
"Mr. Triffitt is to draw what money he needs for a
special purpose. He will account to me for it.
J. M."
The cashier calmly laid the order aside and looked at its deliverer.
"Want any now?" he asked apathetically. "How much?"
"Not at present," replied Triffitt. "I'll let you know when I do."
Then he went away, got his overcoat, made a derisive and sphinx-like
grin at his fellow-reporters, and left the office to find Carver.