WHAT THE TAPE REVEALED
Walking to Hammersmith Broadway we found a cab and drove to the
_Herald_ building off Fleet Street, where I knew that one or other of
our telegraph clerks could read that tangle of tape.
By day Fleet Street and its vicinity lies in a lethargic state. True,
there is the bustle of business and the roar of traffic, but the great
newspaper offices are mostly deserted. The "case-rooms" are empty, the
editorial offices given over to junior clerks, and the only movement in
the machine rooms is the "taking-in" of those big reels of paper, each
about five miles in length, which about three o'clock in the morning
will be swallowed into those gigantic, roaring machines which print,
cut, paste, fold, count, and deliver automatically--marvels, indeed,
of man's inventive genius. By day the night-workers sleep soundly in
their suburban homes, and only when the business offices close, and
men rush home eastward to Ludgate Hill Station, or westward along
the Strand, arrive that great army of men who constitute the Press
of London--editors in their motor-broughams down to humble printers'
imps--to prepare the newspaper for to-morrow's breakfast-table.
It is then that Fleet Street, Bouverie Street, Whitefriars, and
Salisbury Square begin to palpitate with life. The white electric
lights shine brightly, the silent streets are wakened by the quick
tread of messengers from Reuter's, the "P.A.," the "C.N.," and
commissionaires from the Post Office. Telegraph tapes and telephones
are at work incessantly; "comps." in those big, well-lighted buildings
are hard at it setting "ads."; the linotype composing machines click
on, casting in lead each separate line for the paper; the machine-rooms
are oiling up, the stereo foundries are busy with the "early plates,"
and the newsrooms are agog with the mass of late intelligence which
crowds out the news accepted by the "subs" earlier in the day. The
feature decided upon an hour ago for to-morrow's paper is now rejected
for half a column of something far more sensational; while such is the
state of the public mind that the news editor knows that a motor 'bus
accident in the Strand is worth more space than an earthquake in Japan
or a revolution in South America.
A strange, fevered, hustling world indeed is our Press-world of London
at two o'clock in the morning.
Everyone, from editor to machinist, has his eye upon the clock--the
hands of which are every minute moved by electricity from Greenwich
Observatory, for there are trains to catch, and the paper must go "to
bed" at the exact moment. Otherwise there will be trouble.
Two o'clock at the _Daily Herald_ meant frantic haste in every
department, for an edition--for the West of England--went to press at
2.28. Upon that very second the levers of those enormous machines must
be pulled, and with a bound and a deafening roar those great presses,
almost human in their work, would belch forth the _Herald_ printed,
folded, counted, and packed up in bundles ready for the special train
awaiting them at Paddington.
Editor and leader-writer have done their work. The latter, sitting at
home in his study in North London, received at seven o'clock his order
by telephone as to what subject he should write upon. At half-past
nine a boy brought the "copy" down, and at eleven the leader-writer,
a youngish, clean-shaven man, came himself, read his proof, made some
dry remarks upon the political situation in general, and went back
home in a cab. He had finished his duty. But the news department was
still frantically busy. Telephones were going and tapes were clicking
as merrily as though it were mid-day, and above all Wakeley in his
shirt-sleeves, in charge of the whole of that gigantic organisation,
now and then opened the sluice-gates of a vocabulary unprintable in the
_Herald_.
There were assuredly no drones in that busy hive. The lift was running
as though it were noon, the long corridors of the huge building were
thronged by youths rushing hither and thither, and even the usually
quiet library--that big room filled to overflowing with books of
reference of all sorts, and in all languages--was now occupied by one
or two subordinates, busily looking up dates, or verifying facts.
Whitlock had never seen the _Herald_ going to press, and was astounded
when, on passing along one of the corridors, he was nearly knocked over
by a boy who dashed headlong out of a room, and sped downstairs with a
sheet of "copy" in his hand.
Together we passed to another and somewhat quieter part of the
building, where we entered a small room in which sat four telegraph
clerks at their ever-clicking instruments. One of them, Knight by name,
a young, fair-haired man, who sat in the corner receiving messages
over the Post Office wire, was, I knew, due to go off duty. Therefore,
approaching him, I introduced my companion, explaining that we wanted
the messages read.
Five minutes later he glanced at the clock, tapped his key for the
last time, and, placing the small wooden cover over the instrument to
protect it from dust or injury, rose and stretched himself.
"We'll go into the next room, Mr Keene," he said. "It's quieter there."
So all three of us entered a room which, by day, was one of the offices
of the circulation department, and Whitlock, undoing the bundle of
tape, placed the tangle before him.
"This is a Post Office wire," Knight remarked, as soon as he saw it.
"The London-Plymouth Trunk Line;" and seated at a table he began deftly
to unravel the mass of narrow paper.
At last he found the beginning, and read to us rapidly, one after
the other, messages sent by the public to Portsmouth, Bournemouth,
Exeter, Plymouth and other places. Most of them showed the strenuous
life the world leads to-day. The first struck a tragic note. It had
been handed in at Beccles, in Suffolk, at 4.18, and, directed to a man
at an hotel in Plymouth, read: "Your wife dying--asking to see you.
Come immediately." And the next was from a bookmaker to a noble lord,
saying: "Put you twenty on Lallie has won--8 to 1." Diverse, curious,
sometimes humorous, often tragic, the fair-haired young man read
message after message that had been flashed to the West between the
hours of four o'clock on the previous afternoon and one o'clock that
morning.
We stood listening, as, with monotonous voice, he read out the sharp,
decisive words that had been ticked over the wire. There was nothing
which gave us any insight into the reason for that woman's horrified
scream. And yet she must have either seen or heard something to cause
her alarm. From her manner towards him, as they left the house, it was
quite clear that he had not attacked her, as I had at first supposed.
The reading of all those messages occupied a long time. Of a sudden,
as we stood leaning against the table, there was a roar beneath the
building, and the whole place began to vibrate as though a miniature
earthquake were occurring. The Western edition of the _Daily Herald_
had started printing. Those huge and complicated machines in the big,
well-lit rooms in the basement one after another began their deafening
roar as they took mile after mile of paper into their insatiable maws,
and poured forth in a continuous stream bundles of papers ready for the
special express at Paddington waiting to receive and carry them to the
furthermost rural villages of Dorset, Devon, and Cornwall.
The telegraph clerk instinctively glanced at the electric clock upon
the wall. The time was 2.29. The edition was one minute late, which
would mean inquiry and censure in the morning.
Continuing, he repeated message after message on a variety of subjects.
Never until that moment did it occur to me how full of curiosity and
interest the work of a telegraph clerk must be. Abuse, endearment,
doubt, fear, courage, good advice and reassurance followed each other,
the senders being of all classes, from men and women of title to the
humble labourer.
Yards upon yards of the tape were occupied by a long Press message,
the condensed report of a speech by a Cabinet Minister that evening
at Glasgow sent by the P.A. (Press Association) to the most important
morning paper in the West, the _Western Morning News_, at Plymouth.
A glance at the beginning and the end was sufficient to show its
purport. Then followed a mass of Stock Exchange closing prices, the
premium on gold from South America, and the report of a fatal motor
car accident in the North of Ireland. Foreign intelligence of Reuter's
"special service," a Laffan or two, and several interesting items
from the Central News correspondent in St Petersburg followed each
other closely, for in the evening, between seven and midnight, when
the public messages are few, the Press practically monopolise the
telegraphs at their reduced rate of a hundred words for one shilling.
We were nearing the end of the tangled ribbon, when suddenly both
Whitlock and I pricked up our ears at Knight's monotonous words, which
were as follows--
"To _Western Morning News_, Plymouth, from P.A., London.--Barnes
Mystery. Though the police are naturally very reticent in regard
to their discoveries at the house in Barnes, where an unknown girl
was discovered murdered the other night, and where her companion,
after arrest, committed suicide in the police-cell, nevertheless a
representative of the Press Association has been able to gather certain
additional facts. It appears that Inspector Whitlock, of the Criminal
Investigation Department, who is assisted by Inspector Kennedy and
other officers, has to-day been making inquiries in the neighbourhood
of Feltham, Middlesex, the result being that a clue has been obtained
to the perpetrator of the deed, and in the course of a few hours his
arrest will undoubtedly take place.
"Facts now established by the police show the matter to contain
some very astounding and puzzling features. This morning the London
_Evening Herald_ published what purported to be the portrait discovered
by Inspector Whitlock in the empty house, but this picture was
recognised by a relative of the man in question, and was withdrawn from
publication immediately the editor discovered that he had been imposed
upon. The police are in active search of a man named Francis Douglas
Drayton, but information reaching the Press Association shows that the
person in question went to Lima in the early part of last year and died
there in May last. At the resumed inquest the evidence will no doubt
reveal a very remarkable and sensational story; for the identity of the
murdered girl was to-day established by the police, but it is believed
that they will endeavour to keep it a secret for some unknown, but
undoubtedly very good, reason. The Home Office have been communicated
with, and the secrecy is to be preserved at their instigation.
"The case will, in the course of a few days, be found to be full of
sensational developments. The police are in possession of the story of
the unfortunate girl, which is most romantic, tragic, and mysterious;
but it is doubtful whether public curiosity will be satisfied either
at the adjourned inquest or at the trial of the alleged assassin. The
actual reason of the suicide of the second woman is still a mystery,
but from certain papers discovered at a house in Woburn Square,
Bloomsbury, the truth has been surmised.
"We may add with all reserve that the person whose arrest is only a
matter of a few hours is a certain clever young London journalist,
well known in Fleet Street, who, it is alleged, was the lover of the
murdered girl."
"Great heavens!" I gasped breathlessly, turning to Whitlock. "Why, that
means myself!"
"Apparently so," he replied in a dry, mechanical tone.
"But this is scandalous--libellous!" I cried, furiously. "Wait a
moment; I'll see if Wakeley has it in the _Herald_." And I dashed along
to the news editor's room.
"No. Nothing has come in to-night from the P.A. about the Barnes
affair," was his reply, after he had asked his assistants, who were
still busy with further "copy" for the late edition of the paper, which
would go to press in an hour's time.
Then the telegram had not been sent round to the London Press! In a
few moments I was on the 'phone, speaking with the night editor of the
Press Association, who after a pause while he inquired, answered--
"No, we've sent out nothing for the last twelve hours about that case."
I met Whitlock in the corridor and told him.
"Then that message emanates from the same hand as the previous one to
Plymouth," he said. "But why Plymouth, and why connect you with the
affair?"
I made no reply; I was too dumbfounded.
I now recognised the reason of Daisy's scream. Her companion, who
evidently knew the telegraphic signs, had read to her the latter
portion of the message, in which I was not only charged with the crime,
but with being the lover of the murdered girl!
Whitlock stood before me, thoughtful and hesitating.
"There's some truth in those details," he remarked; "that's why the
affair is so mysterious. The statement that Drayton went to Lima, for
instance, is true, but that he is dead is not yet established. If there
is one grain of truth in the message there may be another. I must
search in Woburn Square. That fact is, no doubt, given in order to
place us upon the track of the identity of the woman who took her own
life. But with what motive are you denounced, Keene?" he added, looking
me straight in the face.
"How can I tell?" I asked. "The mystery becomes greater every hour!"