The Looker-On
A Romance of Journalistic London
BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX
AUTHOR OF
"THE SECRET OF THE SQUARE," "WHATSOEVER A
MAN SOWETH," "SINS OF THE CITY,"
ETC. ETC.
LONDON
F. V. White & Co., Limited
14 Bedford Street, Strand, W.C.
1908
_Copyright in the United States of America by
William Le Queux, 1907_
CONTENTS
I. "OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT"
II. CONCERNS THE CURIOUS AFFAIR AT BARNES
III. IN THE GLARE OF PUBLICITY
IV. CONTAINS SOME SURPRISES
V. REPEATS A MESSAGE TO PLYMOUTH
VI. AROUSES SOME SUSPICIONS
VII. IS MAINLY ABOUT DAISY MARVIN
VIII. SHOWS THE PULSE OF THE WORLD
IX. BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE _HERALD_
X. SHOWS A TIGHT CORNER
XI. THE PRESS AND THE PUBLIC
XII. IS EVEN MORE MYSTERIOUS
XIII. IS A REVELATION
XIV. CONCERNS THE STRANGER
XV. THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS
XVI. WHAT THE TAPE REVEALED
XVII. CONTAINS MRS DAVIS'S STORY
XVIII. IN WHICH WE MAKE A DISCOVERY
XIX. IN WHICH ANOTHER DISCOVERY IS MADE
XX. THE PHOTOGRAPHER TELLS HIS STORY
XXI. REVEALS THE GULF
XXII. THE DOUBLE LIFE
XXIII. IN SEARCH OF THE TRUTH
XXIV. SOME DISCOVERIES IN SCARBOROUGH
XXV. ONE FACT IS MADE CLEAR
XXVI. THE MYSTERIOUS MR STONOR
XXVII. THE STEPS OF THE STRANGER
XXVIII. REVEALS A CROOKED CIRCUMSTANCE
XXIX. IS DISTINCTLY CURIOUS
XXX. A NIGHT AT THE SAVAGE
XXXI. A SERVANT OF THE PUBLIC
XXXII. THE MYSTERIOUS M'SIEUR SMITH
XXXIII. THOSE WHO KNEW
XXXIV. FACE TO FACE
XXXV. DESCRIBES AN EXCITING CHASE
XXXVI. MORE MYSTERY!
XXXVII. THE PALACE THEATRE, HAMMERSMITH
XXXVIII. MY LOVE'S CONFESSION
XXXIX. TO THE UNKNOWN
XL. CONTAINS A GRAVE CHARGE
XLI. WHICH REVEALS THE TRUTH
THE LOOKER-ON
CHAPTER I
"OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT"
"And what about the girl?"
"It's a most mysterious affair--a complete mystery!" I answered.
"And I suppose you'll keep it so for a couple of days longer, eh?"
"Of course. I've worked it up for all it's worth in to-night's
'special.' Seen it?"
"Yes. A first-class story. What's the real truth?"
"Mystery--with a capital M, my dear fellow. Even Whitlock, at Scotland
Yard, is utterly in the dark."
"He tells you so."
"He is. He and I are pals. He often tells me the truth first, and then
tells me the picturesque lie for the paper."
"You're frank, Keene, if nothing else."
"Frank! Well, it's the truth," I declared, lighting a fresh cigarette.
"You recollect the Pimlico mystery? Well, Whitlock told me the truth
from the first, but we kept up the sensation for four days--until the
arrest."
"And you will do the same in this case, I suppose?" remarked my friend
Julian Little, with a light laugh. "By Jove! you, the Murder-Monger,
have a much better chance of doing good work than I have."
"But you are special correspondent, travelling the world over, and
sending startling telegrams that are signed; while I'm a mere reporter,
whose special duty it is to work up any likely story of mystery or
crime," I protested.
"Your work is a lot more interesting than mine," replied the great
special correspondent, the man whose name was known the world over,
and who had been through every campaign of recent years, from the
bombardment of Alexandria to the fall of Port Arthur. "Wherever I
am--even when on a political inquiry--I have a hidden ogre in the shape
of a censor who strikes out all the best sentences from my telegrams
and turns the sense of a message to just the opposite to what I
intended. Very often I don't recognise my own stuff in the _Herald_.
You, however, are a freelance, living here in the civilisation and
luxury of London life and----"
"And at the beck and call of old Marvin day and night on that
confounded telephone," I interrupted. "He hawked me out of bed at
half-past three this morning, the snappy old fossil!"
Little laughed.
"You should just have a taste of my life for six months," he said.
"You fellows fancy it's a grand thing to be a 'special,' travelling
all over the world and hobnobbing with all sorts of well-known people.
That's the side of it which people know. But there's the reverse of
the picture, in long, tiresome journeys to out-of-the-way holes where
there are no hotels and no telegraphs, hostile authorities who hate
the Press, suppress every message, or mislead one by putting forward
official lies. Besides, there's always an element of personal danger in
wars, or even in revolts. Take the Russian rising, for instance. I had
a jolly narrow squeak one afternoon at a barricade in Warsaw. No, I'd
rather be the 'Murder-Monger,' as old Marvin calls you."
"Well," I said, "I'd be quite content to try your life for a year, old
chap. But that will never be. I can't do such vivid descriptive work as
you can. I'm a mere reporter, and shall, I suppose, always remain so."
"Why?" asked the rather thin man reclining in the armchair before the
fire. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven."
"And if I remember right, you were with Hogg up in Manchester and in
Glasgow, weren't you?"
I nodded.
"And you know as well as I do, Victor," he went on, "that at the office
the chief acknowledges you to be the smartest man on the staff. That's
why they put you on special work. Old Marvin was only talking of you
the other day."
"Blackguarding me, I suppose? All sub-editors jeer at their reporters.
And a sub-editor's sarcasm can be a very bitter one."
"Not at all. He was praising your work highly."
"H'm! That's funny," I said thoughtfully. "He probably wouldn't, if he
knew the truth."
"Of your love for his daughter Daisy, eh?" Little said. "Do you know,
Victor, I've been thinking about you a lot lately."
"Because you've been at home a whole fortnight at a stretch. The first
long stay you've done in London for quite a couple of years."
"True. I don't see much of town--or of this happy home of ours,"
he exclaimed, smiling, and glancing round the large, old-fashioned
sitting-room of the chambers in Gray's Inn which we jointly occupied.
"But it wasn't that. To tell you the truth, I've been thinking about
Daisy Marvin."
"Well--what about her! You've heard, I suppose, that she's getting
on in her profession famously? Last week she was at the Holborn, and
yesterday she signed an engagement at the Tivoli. Her new song, 'The
Motor Maid,' is really very catchy."
"Catchy! Yes, my dear boy; that's the very word. She'll catch you--if
she hasn't caught you already."
"Oh, I know!" I exclaimed, impatiently, for Little was for ever
warning me against the undesirability of marrying the daughter of
James Marvin--News Editor of the _Evening Herald_--who, having gone on
the variety stage, was already well on her way to becoming a "star."
"You're not fond of Daisy."
"She's very clever, I admit. I saw her at the Palace six weeks ago,
just before I went up to Norway. But you know my motto, Victor: 'Don't
marry.'"
"You're such a confirmed bachelor, my dear Little," I declared,
laughing. "Yet it isn't quite fair to the other sex, is it?"
"Well, look at me; What could I do with a wife?" he asked, stretching
out his long legs towards the fire. "I shouldn't see her half a dozen
times in a twelvemonth. And certainly she couldn't travel with me at
the pace I'm often compelled to move."
"But all men are not like you," I argued.
"Nor like you, Keene. You are young. You have your way to make in the
profession, therefore take the advice of an old hand--a man who has
seen more of the world than most men--and don't let the dainty Daisy
fascinate you, as she does her music-hall audiences."
"Oh, hang it, Julian!" I cried. "Let's talk of something else."
"We were talking of something else," he said. "Of this curious affair
over at Barnes that you've worked up so well that you've set all London
talking. It is, as you say, a first-class story."
And the renowned special correspondent of the great newspaper, the
London _Daily Herald_, carefully selected a fresh cigar, cut off the
end, and contemplated it with the eye of a connoisseur.
Julian Little was one of the world's famous men; famous on account
of his vivid descriptions of every sort of public function and of
every sort of fighting. Long years of travel, of hardship, and of
knocking about in odd remote corners of the earth had rendered him
a cosmopolitan to the very backbone. Besides being a newspaper
correspondent he had written a couple of novels which had achieved
success, while his pleasant personality had rendered him popular at the
British Embassies and Legations in the various capitals.
"Little of the _Herald_" was known to every Consul from Stockholm to
Constantinople, while he was an especial favourite with Ambassadors and
Ministers because it was known that, unlike so many correspondents, he
never betrayed a confidence, and he often wired a lie to London when
the exigencies of British diplomacy required it. Many an Ambassador had
"inspired" his messages, and with more than one crowned head he was
_persona grata_.
About forty-five, tall, rather thin, with fair hair, and moustache just
turning grey, his was a pleasant face, though hard and weather-beaten,
with wrinkled brow and lines which showed plainly the hard life he
so often led. His blue eyes betrayed the merry twinkle of genuine
_bonhomie_, his features were somewhat aquiline and shrewd, while in
his cravat he wore a pin in the form of a Royal crown and cipher--a
present from a reigning emperor. Merry and easy-going, he sat there
in dark-blue clothes--for he had been down to the office, and had
therefore not dressed for dinner--he was the picture of the perfect
cosmopolitan man of the world, whose range of acquaintances in various
countries was, perhaps, unequalled.
Yet, like most other men, he had his skeleton in his cupboard. From
his careless manner, his apparent recklessness, and his irresponsible
good-humour no one would even suspect that, though he had risen to the
very head of his profession and his income was an ambassadorial one, he
was world-weary and heartsick. In the days long ago, when he had been
a reporter like myself, there had been an unfortunate incident which
had ever since clouded his life. I knew his secret vaguely, but not the
exact facts. Like so many other men who are famous, he was embittered
against the world, and his popularity was but a hollow mockery.
Julian was exclusively on the staff of the morning edition of the
_Herald_, that newspaper of great power and enormous circulation, while
I was employed upon the evening edition. Both journals emanated from
the same palatial offices, just off Fleet Street, and both had been
founded by the same journalistic genius, who had built up an enormous
fortune out of his newspaper enterprises.
On the _Daily Herald_ expense was never considered where it became a
question of obtaining authentic and interesting news. Little often
travelled half round the world on an errand which proved quite
fruitless, and was his own master to go hither and thither in search of
intelligence to interest the British public at home.
Readers of the paper were often astonished at the rapidity with which
he seemed to move. One day a telegram, signed by him, would be dated
from St Petersburg, two days later from Budapest, and still two days
later from some outlandish place in Asia Minor or Greece. Or, again, he
would suddenly start a series of articles from Tokio or San Francisco,
or commence to describe doings on the Rand.
Because of this I envied him. Since I had left Cheltenham College--for
a University man is of but little use on the Press nowadays--I had
graduated, step by step, upon provincial papers, commencing by
reporting country benches and ending by a seat in the gallery of the
House of Commons. But I hated mere speech-taking, so I commenced to
specialise, and my position on the _Evening Herald_--at a very decent
salary, I might add--was to keep my eye upon and investigate the
various London mysteries that cropped up from time to time.
Thus, in the great office with its enormous staff of specialists and
its private barrister to advise upon legal points, and more especially
the law of libel, I had earned the nickname of "The Murder-Monger."
I had known Julian Little from childhood. He was the son of old Sir
Halliday Little, K.C.B., a retired Ambassador, who had served the
country at half a dozen European Courts, and whose family seat was
Winholt Hall, in Suffolk, my father being vicar of that parish.
It was, therefore, not surprising that when at last I had the good
fortune to receive an appointment on the _Herald_ by Julian's
influence, I should share his rooms in Gray's Inn. He was away so much,
he declared, that if I lived there I would prevent them from becoming
musty.
They were quaint, old-fashioned apartments overlooking the green
square and the long black trees where the rooks cawed, rooms that
he had modernised and furnished with taste combined with comfort.
The room in which we were sitting that chilly autumn night was
carpeted with moss-green and filled with Chippendale furniture well
in keeping with the old Adams ceiling and mantelpiece. Around were
well-filled bookcases--two of which were my own--and upon the side
table a number of Julian's souvenirs, big autographed portraits of
reigning Sovereigns, Cabinet Ministers, and men and women of note
in various parts of the world, who were his personal friends. Many
of those photographs bore inscriptions penned by Royal and Imperial
hands--inscriptions which showed in what esteem the great correspondent
was held.
On a nail beside the fireplace hung a well-worn leather revolver-belt,
with the weapon buttoned in its case, his constant companion on his
many campaigns, while in the big glass case on the wall opposite
were a quantity of odds and ends of old jewellery he had picked up
in his travels. The Pirot hearthrug of beautiful Oriental colouring
he had brought from Servia, the heavy curtains before the window he
had purchased in the bazaar in Bagdad, the pearl inlaid coffee-table
whereon stood our drinks had been given him by his friend Tewfik Pasha,
the Ottoman Minister of Foreign Affairs, and the fine diamond ring upon
his finger was a souvenir from an Imperial Princess.
Position such as this would have turned the head of many a man. But
he was good-natured, unassuming and modest to a degree, always ready
to lend a helping hand to a youngster in the same profession, while
his hand was constantly in his pocket to assist those elderly Pressmen
who, in these modern days when competition is so keen, find themselves
crowded out. Fleet Street, alas! contains many human wrecks and
pitiable tragedies--men who are still brilliant and active yet who,
merely because they are getting on in years, have been forced to resign
in favour of beardless youths.
Time was when experience was a necessary qualification, but to-day
smartness is required even at the risk of irresponsibility, and elderly
men are cast forth to become "liners," and to end their days in the
bars of the back alleys of Fleet Street. The people who run great
newspapers are not philanthropists; their motto is, "Get on, or get
out," and in some offices so precarious are men's positions that he who
is an editor to-day may find himself next week at the bottom rung of
the ladder.
Ah yes! the world of modern journalism is a queer and turbulent world
indeed--one that is a closed book to the public, but one that contains
much romance. The public buys its morning or evening paper, reads
it, and casts it aside without a thought of the strange and often
adventurous lives led by the men who have written what they read. They
know Julian Little because he is a great man and always signs what he
writes. But a man like myself, who whets their appetite for mystery,
and whom they only know as "an _Evening Herald_ representative," is
unknown and remains ever so, their faithful but anonymous servant.
And yet I suppose I have nothing to grumble at. In my own line I am
acknowledged to be a master. In more than one mysterious case my own
personal inquiries have resulted in information which I have, in
confidence, imparted to Scotland Yard, and in one celebrated affair
the culprit was arrested upon my information, tried, found guilty and
hanged at Gloucester Jail.
No man, however, is contented with his lot, and I was comparing his
life with my own as we smoked together, prior to turning in.
"Well, my dear Victor," my friend laughed, "there isn't much
difference, after all. You look after sensations at home, while I look
after them abroad."
"You deal with wars and political conspiracies while my sphere lies
among thieves or jealous husbands."
"But your work is surely much more interesting than mine!" he declared.
"This Barnes affair for instance. I didn't read all the facts. What is
the problem?"
"Well--in a few words it's this," I said. "Beyond Hammersmith Bridge,
going towards Barnes, is a wide main thoroughfare called Bridge Road.
The houses are all large, old-fashioned ones, each standing in its own
garden. Once, before the advent of the motor 'bus, the road was a very
pleasant suburban thoroughfare within easy distance of the City, but
during the past year or two, owing to the vibration caused by passing
motors, a great many of these houses have been untenanted.
"One of them, larger than most of the others, standing back some
distance from the road with a gravelled drive in front, has been empty
for about twelve months. It belongs, it appears, to an eccentric old
lady who, rather than accept a lower rent, preferred to allow the place
to remain empty. The day before yesterday, at four o'clock in the
morning, a police-constable named Horton, on the beat, saw that the
rusty padlock on the front gates had been unlocked, and that the latter
were slightly ajar.
"This aroused his curiosity, for he had noticed that the lock was
upon the gate when he had gone on duty a few hours previously. So he
entered and tried the doors front and back. Both were, however, locked.
All seemed secure and he was about to leave the neglected garden when
he thought he detected a faint glimmer of light through the closed
venetian blinds in one of the back rooms. This surprised him, for
he knew that the house had been empty for a full year. He tried the
door again, but without avail. The conservatory door was also locked.
He then tried the windows and discovered one on the ground floor
unlatched; so, opening it, he entered."
"And what did he find?" asked Little, much interested, as he knocked
the ash from his cigar.
"He found--well, something that forms one of the most complete and most
astonishing mysteries that ever puzzled the London police," I replied.
"Listen, and I'll explain the affair, which is certainly more peculiar
than any I've ever before investigated."