IN THE "JOURNAL" OFFICE
The room was a long one, full of dazzling islands of light where
shaded lamps above the isolated sub-editors' desks threw their white
circles. This room, too, was smirched with black shadows; there were
odd corners where light never came. It never shone upon the big
bookcase over the mantelpiece, or in the corner behind the man who
conned the foreign exchanges, or on the nest of pigeonholes over
against the chief "sub."
When he would refer to these he must needs emerge blinking from the
blinding light in which he worked and go groping in the darkness for
the needed memorandum.
He was sitting at his desk now, intent upon his work.
At his elbow stood a pad, on which he wrote from time to time.
Seemingly his task was an aimless one. He wrote nothing save the
neat jottings upon his pad. Bundles of manuscript came to him, blue
books, cuttings from other newspapers; these he looked at rather than
read, looked at them in a hard, strained fashion, put them in this
basket or that, as the fancy seized him, chose another bundle, stared
at it, fluttered the leaves rapidly, and so continued. He had the
appearance of a man solving some puzzle, piecing together intricate
parts to make one comprehensive whole. When he hesitated, as he
sometimes did, and seemed momentarily doubtful as to which basket a
manuscript should be consigned, you felt the suggestion of mystery
with which his movements were enveloped, and held your breath. When
he had decided upon the basket you hoped for the best, but wondered
vaguely what would have happened if he had chosen the other.
The door that opened into the tape-room was swinging constantly now,
for it wanted twenty minutes to eleven. Five tickers chattered
incessantly, and there was a constant procession of agency boys and
telegraph messengers passing in and out the vestibule of the silent
building. And the pneumatic tubes that ran from the front hall to
the subs' room hissed and exploded periodically, and little leathern
carriers rattled into the wire basket at the chief sub's elbow.
News! news! news!
A timber fire at Rotherhithe; the sudden rise in Consols; the Sultan
of Turkey grants an amnesty to political offenders; a man kills his
wife at Wolverhampton; a woman cyclist run down by a motor-car; the
Bishop of Elford denounces Non-conformists----
News for to-morrow's breakfast table! intellectual stimulant for the
weary people who are even now kicking off their shoes with a sleepy
yawn and wondering whether there will be anything in the paper
to-morrow.
A boy came flying through the swing door of the tape-room, carrying
in his hand a slip of paper.
He laid it before the chief sub.
That restless man looked at it, then looked at the clock.
"Take it to Mr. Greene," he said shortly, and reached for the
speaking-tube that connected him with the printer.
"There will be a three-column splash on page five," he said in a
matter-of-fact voice.
"What's up?" His startled assistant was on his feet.
"A man found murdered in T. B. Smith's chambers," he said.
* * * * * * *
The inquest was over, the stuffy little court discharged its morbid
public, jurymen gathered in little knots on the pavement permitted
themselves to theorise, feeling, perhaps, that the official verdict
of "murder against some person or persons unknown" needed
amplification.
"My own opinion is," said the stout foreman, "that nobody could have
done it, except somebody who could have got into his chambers
unknown."
"That's my opinion, too," said another jury-man.
"I should have liked to add a rider," the foreman went on, "something
like this: 'We call the coroner's attention to the number of
undiscovered murders nowadays, and severely censure the police,' but
he wouldn't have it."
"They 'ang together," said a gloomy little man; "p'lice and coroners
and doctors, they 'ang together, there's corruption somewhere. I've
always said it."
"Here's a feller murdered," the foreman went on, "in a detective's
room, the same detective that's in charge of the Moss murder. We're
told his name's Hyatt, we're told he was sent to that room by the
detective whilst he's engaged in some fanciful business in the
north--is that sense?"
"Then there's the _Journal_," interrupted the man of gloom, "it comes
out this mornin' with a cock-an'-bull story about these two murders
being connected with the slump--why, there ain't any slump! The
market went up the very day this chap Hyatt was discovered."
"Sensation," said the foreman, waving deprecating hands, "newspaper
sensation. Any lie to sell the newspapers, that's their motto."
The conversation ended abruptly, as T. B. Smith appeared at the
entrance of the court. His face was impassive, his attire, as usual,
immaculate, but those who knew him best detected signs of worry.
"For Heaven's sake," he said to a young man who approached him,
"don't talk to me now--you beggar, your wretched rag has upset all my
plans."
"But, Mr. Smith," pleaded the reporter. "What we said was true,
wasn't it?"
"'A lie that is half the truth,'" quoted T. B. solemnly.
"But it is true--there is some connection between the murders and the
slump, and, I say, do your people know anything about the mysterious
disappearance of that dancing girl from the Philharmonic?"
"Oh, child of sin!" T. B. shook his head reprovingly. "Oh,
collector of romance!"
"One last question," said the reporter. "Do you know a man named
Escoltier?"
"Not," said T. B. flippantly, "from a crow--why? is he suspected of
abducting your dancing lady?"
"No," said the reporter, "he's suspected of pulling our editor's leg."
T. B. was all this time walking away from the court, and the reporter
kept step with him.
"And what is the nature of his hoax?" demanded T. B.
He was not anxious for information, but he was very desirous of
talking about nothing--it had been a trying day for him.
"Oh, the usual thing; wants to tell us the greatest crime that ever
happened--a great London crime that the police have not discovered."
"Dear me!" said T. B. politely, "wants payment in advance?"
"No; that's the curious thing about it," said the reporter. "All he
wants is protection."
T. B. stopped dead and faced the young man. He dropped the air of
boredom right away.
"Protection?" he said quickly, "from whom?"
"That is just what he doesn't say--in fact, he's rather vague on that
point--why don't you go up and see Delawn, the editor?"
T. B. thought a moment.
"Yes," he nodded. "That is an idea. I will go at once."
In the holy of holies, the inner room within the inner room, wherein
the editor of the London Morning Journal saw those visitors who were
privileged to pass the outer portal, T. B. Smith sat, a sorely
puzzled man, a scrap of disfigured paper in his hands.
He read it again and looked up at the editor.
"This might of course be a fake," he said.
"It doesn't read like a fake," said the other.
"Admitting your authority on the subject of fakes, Tom," said T.
B.,--they were members of the same club, which fact in itself is a
license for rudeness,--"I am still in the dark. Why does this--what
is his name?"
"Escoltier."
"Why does this man Escoltier write to a newspaper, instead of coming
straight to the police?"
"Because he is a Frenchman, I should imagine," said the editor. "The
French have the newspaper instinct more highly developed than the
English."
T. B. looked at his watch.
"Will he come, do you think?"
"I have wired to him," said the editor.
T. B. read the paper again. It was written in execrable English, but
its purport was clear.
The writer could solve the mystery of Hyatt's death, and for the
matter of that of the Moss murder.
T. B. read it and shook his head.
"This sort of thing is fairly common," he said; "there never was a
bad murder yet, but what the Yard received solutions by the score."
A little bell tinkled on the editor's desk, and he took up the
receiver of the telephone.
"Yes?" he said, and listened. Then, "Send him up."
"Is it----"
"Monsieur Escoltier," said the editor.
A few seconds later the door was opened, and a man was ushered into
the room. Short and thick-set, with a two days' growth of beard on
his chin, his nationality was apparent long before he spoke in the
_argot_ of the lowly born Parisian.
His face was haggard, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep, and the hand
that strayed to his mouth shook tremulously.
"I have to tell you," he began, "about M'sieur Moss and M'sieur
Hyatt." His voice was thick, and as he spoke he glanced from side to
side as though fearful of observation. There was something in his
actions that vividly reminded the detective of his interview with
Hyatt. "You understand," the man went on incoherently, "that I had
long suspected N.H.C.--it was always so unintelligible. There was no
such station and----"
"You must calm yourself, monsieur," said T. B., speaking in French;
"begin at the beginning, for as yet my friend and myself are entirely
in the dark. What is N.H.C., and what does it mean?"
It was some time before the man could be brought to a condition of
coherence. The editor pushed him gently to the settee that ran the
length of the bay window of his office.
"Wait," said the journalist, and unlocking a drawer, he produced a
silver flask.
"Drink some of this," he said.
The man raised the brandy to his lips with a hand that shook
violently, and drank eagerly.
"C'est bien," he muttered, and looked from one to the other.
"I tell you this story because I am afraid to go to the police--they
are watching the police office----"
"In the first place, who are you?" demanded T. B.
"As to who and what I am," said the stranger, nodding his head to
emphasise his words, "it would be better that I should remain silent."
"I do not see the necessity," said the detective calmly. "So far as
I can judge from what information I have, you are a French
soldier--an engineer. You are a wireless telegraph operator, and
your post of duty is on the Eiffel Tower."
The man stared at the speaker, and his jaw dropped.
"M'sieur!" he gasped.
"Hyatt was also a wireless operator; probably in the employ of the
Marconi Company in the west of England. Between you, you surprised
the secret of a mysterious agency which employs wireless
installations to communicate with its agents. What benefits you
yourself may have derived from your discovery I cannot say. It is
certain that Hyatt, operating through Moss, made a small fortune; it
is equally certain that, detecting a leakage, the 'Nine Men' have
sent a clever agent to discover the cause----"
But the man from the Eiffel Tower had fainted.
"I shall rely on you to keep the matter an absolute secret until we
are ready," said T. B., and the editor nodded. "The whole scheme
came to me in a flash. The Eiffel Tower! Who lives on the Eiffel
Tower? Wireless telegraph operators. Our friend is recovering."
He looked down at the pallid man lying limply in an armchair.
"I am anxious to know what brings him to London. Fright, I suppose.
It was the death of Moss that brought Hyatt, the killing of Hyatt
that produced Monsieur Escoltier."
The telegraphist recovered consciousness with a shiver and a groan.
For a quarter of an hour he sat with his face hidden in his hands.
Another pull at the editor's flask aroused him to tell his story--a
narrative which is valuable as being the first piece of definite
evidence laid against the Nine Bears.
He began hesitatingly, but as the story of his complicity was
unfolded he warmed to his task. With the true Gaul's love for the
dramatic, he declaimed with elaborate gesture and sonorous phrase the
part he had played.
"My name is Jules Escoltier, I am a telegraphist in the corps of
engineers. On the establishment of the wireless telegraphy station
on the Eiffel Tower in connection with the Casa Blanca affair, I was
appointed one of the operators. Strange as it may sound, one does
not frequently intercept messages, but I was surprised a year ago to
find myself taking code despatches from a station which called itself
'N.H.C.' There is no such station known, so far as I am aware, and
copies of the despatches which I forwarded to my superiors were
always returned to me as 'non-decodable.'
"One day I received a message in English, which I can read. It ran--
"'All those who know N.H.C. call H.A,'
"Although I did not know who N.H.C. was, I had the curiosity to look
up H.A. on the telegraph map, and found it was the Cornish Marconi
Station. Taking advantage of the absence of my officer, I sent a
wireless message, 'I desire information, L.L.' That is not the Paris
'indicator,' but I knew that I should get the reply. I had hardly
sent the message when another message came. It was from Monsieur
Hyatt. I got the message distinctly--'Can you meet me in London on
the 9th, Gallini's Restaurant?' To this I replied, 'No, impossible.'
After this I had a long talk with the Cornishman, and then it was
that he told me that his name was Hyatt. He told me that he was able
to decode the N.H.C. messages, that he had a book, and that it was
possible to make huge sums of money from the information contained in
them. I thought that it was very indiscreet to speak so openly, and
told him so.
"He asked me for my name, and I gave it, and thereafter I regularly
received letters from him, and a correspondence began.
"Not being _au fait_ in matters affecting the Bourse, I did not know
of what value the information we secured from N.H.C. could be, but
Hyatt said he had a friend who was interested in such matters, and
that if I 'took off' all N.H.C. messages that I got, and repeated
them to him, I should share in the proceeds. I was of great value to
Hyatt, because I received messages that never reached him in this
way. He was able to keep in touch with all the operations on which
N.H.C. were engaged.
"By arrangement, we met in Paris--Hyatt, his friend of the London
Bourse, Monsieur Moss, and myself, and Hyatt handed to me notes for
20,000 francs (£800); that was the first payment I received from him.
He returned to England, and things continued in very much the same
way as they had done, I receiving and forwarding N.H.C. messages. I
never understood any of them, but Hyatt was clever, and he had
discovered the code and worked it out.
"About a fortnight ago I received from him 3,000 francs in notes, a
letter that spoke of a great coup contemplated by N.H.C. 'If this
materialises,' he wrote, 'I hope to send you half a million francs by
the end of next week.'
"The next morning I received this message----"
He fumbled in his pocket and produced a strip of paper, on which was
hastily scrawled--
"From N.H.C. to L.L. Meet me in London on the sixth, Charing Cross
Station."
"It was, as you see, in French, and as it came I scribbled it down.
I would have ignored it, but that night I got a message from Hyatt
saying that N.H.C. had discovered we shared their secret and had
offered to pay us £5,000 each to preserve silence, and that as they
would probably alter the code I should be a fool not to accept. So I
got leave of absence and bought a suit of clothing, left Paris, and
arrived in London the following night. A dark young man met me at
the station, and invited me to come home with him.
"He had a motor-car at the entrance of the station, and after some
hesitation I accepted. We drove through the streets filled with
people, for the theatres were just emptying, and after an
interminable ride we reached the open country. I asked him where was
Hyatt, and where we were going, but he refused to speak. When I
pressed him, he informed me he was taking me to a rendezvous near the
sea.
"We had been driving for close on three hours, when we reached a
lonely lane. By the lights of the car I could see a steep hill
before us, and I could hear the roar of the waves somewhere ahead.
"Suddenly he threw a lever over, the car bounded forward, and he
sprang to the ground.
"Before I could realise what had happened, the machine was flying
down the steep gradient, rocking from side to side.
"I have sufficient knowledge of motor-car engineering to manipulate a
car, and I at once sprang to the wheel and felt for the brake. But
both foot and hand brake were useless. In some manner he had
contrived to disconnect them.
"It was pitch-dark, and all that I could hope to do was to keep the
car to the centre of the road. Instinctively I knew that I was
rushing to certain death, and, messieurs, I was! I was flying down a
steep gradient to inevitable destruction, for at the bottom of the
hill the road turned sharply, and confronting me, although I did not
know this, was a stone sea wall.
"I resolved on taking my life in my hands, and putting the car at one
of the steep banks which ran on either side, I turned the steering
wheel and shut my eyes. I expected instant death. Instead, the car
bounded up at an angle that almost threw me from my seat. I heard
the crash of wood, and flying splinters struck my neck, and the next
thing I remember was a series of bumps as the car jolted over a
ploughed field.
"I had achieved the impossible. At the point I had chosen to leave
the road was a gate leading to a field, and by an act of Providence I
had found the only way of escape.
"I found myself practically at the very edge of the sea, and in my
first terror I would have given every sou I had to escape to France.
All night long I waited by the broken car, and with the dawn some
peasants came and told me I was only five miles distant from Dover.
I embraced the man who told me this, and would have hired a
conveyance to drive me to Dover, _en route_ for France. I knew that
N.H.C. could trace me, and then I was anxious to get in touch with
Hyatt and Moss. Then it was that I saw in an English newspaper that
Moss was dead."
He stopped and moistened his lips.
"M'sieur!" he went on with a characteristic gesture, "I decided that
I would come to London and find Hyatt. I took train, but I was
watched. At a little junction called Sandgate, a man sauntered past
my carriage. I did not know him, he looked like an Italian. As the
train left the station something smashed the window and I heard a
thud. There was no report, but I knew that I had been fired at with
an air-gun, for the bullet I found embedded in the woodwork of the
carriage."
"Did nothing further happen?" asked T. B.
"Nothing till I reached Charing Cross, then when I stopped to ask a
policeman to direct me to the Central Police Bureau I saw a man pass
me in a motor-car, eyeing me closely. It was the man who had tried
to kill me."
"And then?"
"Then I saw my danger. I was afraid of the police. I saw a
newspaper sheet. It was a great newspaper--I wrote a letter--and
sought lodgings in a little hotel near the river. There was no
answer to my letter. I waited in hiding for two days before I
realised that I had given no address. I wrote again. All this time
I have been seeking Hyatt. I have telegraphed to Cornwall, but the
reply comes that he is not there. Then in the newspaper I learn of
his death. M'sieur, I am afraid."
He wiped the drops of sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand.
He was indeed in a pitiable condition of fright, and T. B., upon
whose nerves the mysterious "bears" were already beginning to work,
appreciated his fear without sharing it.
There came a knock at the outer door of the office, and the editor
moved to answer it.
There was a whispered conversation at the door, the door closed
again, and the editor returned with raised brows.
"T. B.," he said, "that wretched market has gone again."
"Gone?"
"Gone to blazes! Spanish Fours are so low that you'd get pain in your
back if you stooped to pick them up."
T. B. nodded.
"I'll use your telephone," he said, and stooped over the desk. He
called for a number, and after an interval--
"Yes--that you, Maitland? Go to 375 St. John Street, and take into
custody Count Ivan Poltavo on a charge of murder. Take with you
fifty men and surround the place. Detain every caller, and every
person you find in the house."
He hung up the receiver. "It is a bluff, as my gay American friend
says," he remarked to the editor, "because, of course, I have no real
evidence against him. But I want a chance to ransack that studio of
his, anyway.
"Now, my friend," he said in French, "what shall we do with you?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders listlessly.
"What does it matter?" he said. "They will have me--it is only a
matter of hours."
"I take a brighter view," said T. B. cheerily; "you shall walk with
us to Scotland Yard and there you shall be taken care of."
But the Frenchman shrank back.
"Come, there is no danger," smiled T. B.
Reluctantly the engineer accompanied the detective and the editor
from the building. A yellow fog lay like a damp cloth over London,
and the Thames Embankment was almost deserted.
"Do you think he followed you here?" asked T. B.
"I am sure." The Frenchman looked from left to right in an agony of
apprehension. "He killed Hyatt and he killed Moss--of that I am
certain--and now----"
A motor-car loomed suddenly through the fog, coming from the
direction of Northumberland Avenue, and overtook them. A man leant
out of the window as the car swept abreast. His face was masked and
his actions were deliberate.
"Look out!" cried the editor and clutched the Frenchman's arm.
The pistol that was levelled from the window of the car cracked twice
and T. B. felt the wind of the bullets as they passed his head.
Then the car disappeared into the mist, leaving behind three men, one
half fainting with terror, one immensely pleased with the novel
sensation--our editor, you may be sure--and one using language
unbecoming to an Assistant-Commissioner of Police.