THE PRESS AND THE PUBLIC
Poor Bingham's portrait appeared in the _Evening Herald_ next day as a
copy of the photograph found under such curious circumstances in the
empty house at Barnes.
The "scoop" was an exclusive one, and readers of the _Herald_ in every
part of London cudgelled their brains in trying to recollect if they
had ever seen the original.
Beneath the picture were the words, "The portrait which the police are
endeavouring to identify."
All that morning I was busy writing in my chambers until, about one
o'clock, the telephone rang, and I found that it was Whitlock, who was
at the public call-office at Feltham, in Middlesex.
"I say, Keene," he said, "I've just bought the _Evening Herald_ at the
station here. I notice the most excellent portrait!"
I held my breath. What could I say?
"I--well--I thought----"
"Of course," he interrupted. "Quite right. It's just what we want. Its
publication will puzzle the people who are trying to puzzle us."
"I'm glad if you think so," I said. "Anything fresh?"
"Nothing particularly--or, at least, nothing tangible. But," he added,
"by the way, have you heard anything of Mr Little?"
Little! Always Little! He suspected him strongly.
"Nothing," I replied. "He ought to arrive in Belgrade to-morrow, or the
next day."
"When you hear from him, let me know at once, won't you?"
I promised.
"I may be in the Gambrinus, in Regent Street, to-night about nine.
If you're in the vicinity you might, perhaps, look in. It isn't an
appointment, you know."
"Very well," I said, and he then wished me good-bye and rang off. He
was evidently down at Feltham, in pursuance of his inquiries.
Hardly had I settled down to my writing when the 'phone rang again,
and a message came from Marvin that he wished to see me at the office
immediately. In obedience to the summons I presently entered the big
news editor's room of the _Evening Herald_, where the tapes were
whirring and clicking, and the five grave-faced "subs"--as they are
called in Press parlance--were busy reading and preparing the piles
of telegrams and flimsies arriving every moment from all parts of the
world. Two of them were so busy that they had their chops and glasses
of ale at their side, lunching and working at the same time. The most
busy time on the "Evening" was from one to four in the afternoon,
before the "special" went to press.
"Joyous Jimmy," as we called him, was seated in his shirt-sleeves in
the midst of all the noise and litter, a big briar-pipe in his mouth
and the remains of his lunch at his elbow.
At the moment when I entered he was uttering a string of unqualified
imprecations upon a small, trembling printer's imp who had delivered
a message wrongly to the foreman. Six tape instruments were clicking
in chorus, while two telephones were calling, and a boy was
repeating something about stocks and shares which was coming over
the 'phone from the City editor. To the unaccustomed, that room was
a perfect pandemonium. Indeed, how the sub-editors worked in those
nerve-shattering surroundings was always a marvel to the uninitiated.
"And where's Keene, I wonder?" Marvin was saying, in the same breath in
which he had abused the boy. "Gone on another of those vain, wild-goose
chases of his--or else still in bed, I suppose! Franks, just wake him
up again on the 'phone. Tell him I want him here--at once. When I say
at once, I don't mean in half an hour. Tell him that."
"You needn't," I laughed across to Franks, who was that day assisting
in the sub-editing; "I'm here."
The red-moustached, bald-headed Scot turned at sound of my voice,
bristling up in a moment.
"Well, young man?" he asked, looking me up and down. "And a fine
laughing-stock you've made of this precious rag to-day!"
"I don't follow you," I said.
"Follow me? Well, I should think your own common-sense--if you have
any--ought to tell you?" he snarled. "Look! What do you call that?" and
he pointed to the portrait in the front page of the paper.
"Well--it's a picture."
"Yes. And you've played a pretty neat game with us to-day. That
portrait which you've sent in as the one found down at Barnes is a
fraud--and you know it!"
In an instant it occurred to me how curiously anxious he had been to
publish the picture. How could he possibly know the truth?
"Well," I said, with rather offended dignity, "you're pretty outspoken."
"Outspoken!" he cried. "And who, pray, gets the blame if things go
wrong? Who has to go and face the Chief, and hear all his nasty
criticism? Why, only yesterday he declared that the whole staff of the
paper were only fit to run a weekly in the country. I'm sick of the
whole bag of tricks!"
"Well, you needn't blackguard me--I've done my best," I protested.
"I hope you'll do better as a special on the 'Morning' than you've
done with me. That's all I've got to say," was his sneering rejoinder.
"Boy, take this tray away, and say it's the worst chop I've ever had.
Yes," he said, replying to one of his assistants, who inquired how much
space they should give to a speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer
at the Mansion House. "There's a lot too much gas about the Colonies. A
'stick' is quite enough. Has any of that Bellamy divorce come in? When
it does, give it a column. It's worth that--and a few good cross-heads,
remember. We'll make it a feature, and put it on the bill."
Then, having delivered himself of these hasty instructions, a youth
appeared with a proof of the contents-bill, which he held up for
Marvin's inspection.
"Bah!" he cried, with withering sarcasm. "Does Beavan call that a bill?
I call it a tombstone--set like an epitaph! Take the thing back, and
tell him to set it again." The boy grinned and disappeared with the
message.
"And as for this portrait," he went on, turning again to me, "I've
taken the thing out."
He saw my look of surprise.
"Do you know that an hour ago it was recognised?" he went on.
"Recognised--identified!"
"Yes; by the man's brother, who came up here to complain."
"Of what?"
"That we were publishing the portrait of his dead brother, who was
a young Pressman. He came up from Birmingham, and was on some small
financial rag in the City, it seems."
This was a contretemps which I certainly had not expected. I never
knew, indeed, that poor Bingham had a brother. At least, he had never
told me of his existence.
"A Pressman!" I ejaculated, in pretence that I was still in ignorance.
"Yes. And you palmed it off upon us as the one which Whitlock found
over at Barnes," he said frankly, removing his pipe from his lips, and
looking straight into my face. "I hope you'll not play this kind of
game now you're on the 'Morning,' or Wakeley will soon shunt you, you
can rely on that."
"Well," I said, angry at his manner towards me before his assistants,
"if you don't believe me, just ask Whitlock. He's certain to be in at
Scotland Yard about seven to make his report."
"Then you actually declare that the portrait is the one which he found?"
"I make no statement; please ask Whitlock," I replied sharply. "Merely
because the portrait is identified by the man's brother, you charge me
with attempting to perpetrate an absolute fraud on the paper!"
And I turned upon my heel in anger.
"I do charge you, Keene!" he shouted. "You and Whitlock have, I
suppose, arranged it together. He doesn't wish the real photograph
published--eh?" he asked, in a curious tone, a tone which seemed to
imply that he was aware of much more than he would admit.
But I made no reply, and, leaving the room, banged the door after me.
As I did so I ran into the arms of old Macdonald, nearly knocking him
over.
"Hey, hey, mon!" he exclaimed, in his broad Highland accent. "You're
a wee bit angered-like, it seems. Remember what Publius Syrus says:
'MISERRIMA EST FORTUNA QUÆ INIMICO CARET.'"
"Oh, dry up, old chap!" I cried. "I'm in no mood for philosophy."
"Philosophy! Has not Cicero said: 'Oh, philosophy! guide of life,
explorer of virtue, expeller of vice,'" he exclaimed.
"You're a marvel at quotations--a perambulating dictionary!" I declared.
"Then, with Plautus, in his _Bacchides_, I would say, mon, 'Your
flattery is so much bird-lime.'" He laughed and passed on, chuckling at
his own aptness of quotation.
It was true, as the eccentric old reporter--one of the most dry-as-dust
fossils in the whole Press-world--had only remarked to me on the
previous day, that our short span of life forbids us to spin out hope
to any length. Soon enough night will be upon us, and the fabled Shades
and the shadowy Plutonian home. And then?
I strolled down the long corridor of the office, deep in thought.
Somehow, old Marvin's manner had struck me as distinctly suspicious.
Why, I could not tell. There was something peculiar in the manner in
which he looked at me which aroused my strong suspicion that he knew
the truth of my own picture having been found in that empty house at
Barnes. But how could he possibly know?
True, I had originally given the little trinket to Daisy as a
love-token, but I knew full well that she was extremely careful never
to let old Annie see it. Only a fortnight ago, while we were lunching
together at Dieudonne's, she had told me how very careful she always
was of it, in order that her old servant should not discover our secret.
I had queried whether it would not be wiser to take Annie into our
confidence, in order that I might meet my love more often and get a few
minutes with her each night when she left the halls. But she would not
hear of this. Annie would certainly tell her mother, and unpleasantness
would thus be caused.
A wild and entirely foolish theory occurred to me as I descended the
stairs to the editorial rooms of the _Daily Herald_. Was it possible
that old Marvin himself had got hold of the little miniature, and knew
of it being concealed with that bundle of telegraph-tape? If so, with
what motive had it been placed there? But such a suggestion was utterly
improbable, and I dismissed it. I did not like Marvin--I never liked
him. He was a nigger-driver of the very worst sort, and would dismiss
any member of the reporting staff at a moment's notice. It was because
of this dislike, I think, that I held him in suspicion.
Wakeley, who had just come on duty, was seated in his room looking
through his correspondence and dictating replies to the female typist.
His hours were from two in the afternoon till one in the morning, with
a couple of hours' interval at dinner-time. Full of discretion, clever,
up-to-date, and energetic, with a marvellous grasp of what the public
wanted, he was acknowledged to be among the first journalists in the
kingdom, if not the very first.
He controlled the great staff of correspondents, numbering hundreds,
scattered all over the world, gave orders for special articles, decided
upon what should appear in the paper, and held under his control the
most powerful journalistic organ in the world.
"Halloa, Keene!" exclaimed the merry-faced, middle-aged man as I
entered. "Want a job? You might cross to Lille to-night. There's
rioting among the miners there, and it might be worth a column of
descriptive. Ring up Paris, and Abbot will tell you all about it."
"Well, I'm doing the Barnes affair," I said. "Don't you think I'd
better finish it?"
"Oh, yes; I forgot. Of course, you'd better stay in town a few days
longer and finish that story. Whitlock is a friend of yours, and you
get exclusive facts from him," he said. "By the way, Marvin has made a
fool of the 'Evening,' it seems. Been and published the picture of a
young Pressman as a bit of police evidence! We've been rung up twice
about it this morning," and he laughed at the idea of immaculate Marvin
getting called down to hear some of the Chief's biting sarcasms. "I
only hope some of our rivals won't get hold of the truth. If they do
they're sure to start their old wheeze, and expose what they call the
methods of the _Evening Herald_. I wonder who sent in the photograph
and hoaxed old 'Joyous Jimmy'--eh?"
I was silent. What could I reply?