CHAPTER I
KNOCKING THE TOWN ENDWAYS
In the only comfortably furnished room in the offices of the _Record_,the telephone on Sir James Molloy's table buzzed. Sir James made amotion with his pen, and Mr. Silver, his secretary, left his work andcame over to the instrument.
"Who is that?" he said. "Who?... I can't hear you ... Oh, it's Mr.Bunner, is it? Yes, but ... I know, but he's fearfully busy thisafternoon. Can't you ... Oh, really? Well, in that case--just hold on,will you?"
He placed the receiver before Sir James. "It's Calvin Bunner, SigsbeeManderson's right hand man," he said concisely. "He insists on speakingto you personally. Says it is the gravest piece of news. He is talkingfrom the house down by Bishopsbridge, so it will be necessary to speakclearly."
Sir James looked at the telephone, not affectionately, and took up thereceiver. "Well?" he said in his strong voice; and listened. "Yes," hesaid. The next moment Mr. Silver, eagerly watching him, saw a look ofamazement and horror. "Good God," murmured Sir James. Clutching theinstrument, he slowly rose to his feet, still bending ear intently. Atintervals he repeated, "Yes." Presently, as he listened, he glanced atthe clock, and spoke quickly to Mr. Silver over the top of thetransmitter. "Go and hunt up Figgis and young Williams. Hurry!" Mr.Silver darted from the room.
The great journalist was a tall, strong, clever Irishman of fifty, swartand black-mustached, a man of untiring business energy, well known inthe world, which he understood very thoroughly, and played upon with thehalf-cynical competence of his race. Yet was he without a touch of thecharlatan: he made no mysteries, and no pretenses of knowledge, and hesaw instantly through these in others. In his handsome, well-bred,well-dressed appearance there was something a little sinister when angeror intense occupation put its imprint about his eyes and brow; but whenhis generous nature was under no restraint he was the most cordial ofmen. He was managing director of the company which owned that mostpowerful morning paper, the _Record_, and also that most indispensableevening paper, the _Sun_, which had its offices on the other side of thestreet. He was moreover editor-in-chief of the _Record_, to which he hadin the course of years attached the most variously capable personnel inthe country. It was a maxim of his that where you could not get gifts,you must do the best you could with solid merit; and he employed a greatdeal of both. He was respected by his staff as few are respected in aprofession not favorable to the growth of the sentiment of reverence.
"You're sure that's all?" asked Sir James, after a few minutes ofearnest listening and questioning. "And how long has this beenknown?... Yes, of course, the police are; but the servants? Surelyit's all over the place down there by now.... Well, we'll have atry.... Look here, Bunner, I'm infinitely obliged to you about this.I owe you a good turn. You know I mean what I say. Come and see me thefirst day you get to town.... All right, that's understood. Now I mustact on your news. Good-by."
Sir James hung up the receiver, and seized a railway time-table from therack before him. After a rapid consultation of this oracle, he flung itdown with a forcible word as Mr. Silver hurried into the room, followedby a hard-featured man with spectacles, and a youth with an alert eye.
"I want you to jot down some facts, Figgis," said Sir James, banishingall signs of agitation and speaking with a rapid calmness. "When youhave them, put them into shape just as quick you can for a specialedition of the _Sun_." The hard-featured man nodded and glanced at theclock, which pointed to a few minutes past three; he pulled out anotebook and drew a chair up to the big writing-table. "Silver," SirJames went on, "go and tell Jones to wire our local correspondent veryurgently, to drop everything and get down to Marlstone at once. He isnot to say why in the telegram. There must not be an unnecessary wordabout this news until the _Sun_ is on the streets with it--you allunderstand. Williams, cut across the way and tell Mr. Anthony to holdhimself ready for a two-column opening that will knock the town endways.Just tell him that he must take all measures and precautions for ascoop. Say that Figgis will be over in five minutes with the facts, andthat he had better let him write up the story in his private room. Asyou go, ask Miss Morgan to see me here at once and tell the telephonepeople to see if they can get Mr. Trent on the wire for me. After seeingMr. Anthony, return here and stand by." The alert-eyed young manvanished like a spirit.
Sir James turned instantly to Mr. Figgis, whose pencil was poised overthe paper. "Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered," he began quickly andclearly, pacing the floor with his hands behind him. Mr. Figgisscratched down a line of shorthand with as much emotion as if he hadbeen told that the day was fine--the pose of his craft. "He and his wifeand two secretaries have been for the past fortnight at the house calledWhite Gables, at Marlstone, near Bishopsbridge. He bought it four yearsago. He and Mrs. Manderson have since spent a part of each summer there.Last night he went to bed about half-past eleven, just as usual. No oneknows when he got up and left the house. He was not missed until thismorning. About ten o'clock his body was found by a gardener. It waslying by a shed in the grounds. He was shot in the head, through theleft eye. Death must have been instantaneous. The body was not robbed,but there were marks on the wrists which pointed to a struggle havingtaken place. Dr. Stock, of Marlstone, was at once sent for, and willconduct the post-mortem examination. The police from Bishopsbridge, whowere soon on the spot, are reticent, but it is believed that they arequite without a clue to the identity of the murderer. There you are,Figgis. Mr. Anthony is expecting you. Now I must telephone him andarrange things."
Mr. Figgis looked up. "One of the ablest detectives at Scotland Yard,"he suggested, "has been put in charge of the case. It's a safestatement."
"If you like," said Sir James.
"And Mrs. Manderson? Was she there?"
"Yes. What about her?"
"Prostrated by the shock," hinted the reporter, "and sees nobody. Humaninterest."
"I wouldn't put that in, Mr. Figgis," said a quiet voice. It belonged toMiss Morgan, a pale, graceful woman, who had silently made herappearance while the dictation was going on. "I have seen Mrs.Manderson," she proceeded, turning to Sir James. "She looks quitehealthy and intelligent. Has her husband been murdered? I don't thinkthe shock would prostrate her. She is more likely to be doing all shecan to help the police."
"Something in your own style, then, Miss Morgan," he said with amomentary smile. Her imperturbable efficiency was an office proverb."Cut it out, Figgis. Off you go! Now, madam, I expect you know what Iwant."
"Our Manderson biography happens to be well up-to-date," replied MissMorgan, drooping her dark eye-lashes as she considered the position. "Iwas looking over it only a few months ago. It is practically ready forto-morrow's paper. I should think the _Sun_ had better use the sketch ofhis life they had about two years ago, when he went to Berlin andsettled the potash difficulty. I remember it was a very good sketch, andthey won't be able to carry much more than that. As for our paper, ofcourse we have a great quantity of cuttings, mostly rubbish. Thesub-editors shall have them as soon as they come in. Then we have twovery good portraits that are our own property; the best is a drawing Mr.Trent made when they were both on the same ship somewhere. It is betterthan any of the photographs; but you say the public prefers a badphotograph to a good drawing. I will send them down to you at once, andyou can choose. As far as I can see, the _Record_ is well ahead of thesituation, except that you will not be able to get a special man downthere in time to be of any use for to-morrow's paper."
Sir James sighed deeply. "What are we good for, anyhow?" he inquireddejectedly of Mr. Silver, who had returned to his desk. "She even knowsBradshaw by heart."
Miss Morgan adjusted her cuffs with an air of patience. "Is thereanything else?" she asked, as the telephone bell rang.
"Yes, one thing," replied Sir James as he took up the receiver. "I wantyou to make a bad mistake some time, Miss Morgan; an everlastingbloomer--just to put us in countenance." She permitted herself thefraction of what would have been a charming smile as she went out.
; "Anthony?" asked Sir James; and was at once deep in consultation withthe editor on the other side of the road. He seldom entered the _Sun_building in person: the atmosphere of an evening paper, he would say,was all very well if you liked that kind of thing. Mr. Anthony, theMurat of Fleet Street, who delighted in riding the whirlwind andfighting a tumultuous battle against time, would say the same of amorning paper.
It was some five minutes later that a uniformed boy came in to say thatMr. Trent was on the wire. Sir James abruptly closed his talk with Mr.Anthony. "They can put him through at once," he said to the boy.
"Hullo!" he cried into the telephone after a few moments. A voice in theinstrument replied: "Hullo be blowed! What do you want?"
"This is Molloy," said Sir James.
"I know it is," the voice said. "This is Trent. He is in the middle ofpainting a picture, and he has been interrupted at a critical moment.Well, I hope it's something important, that's all!"
"Trent," said Sir James impressively, "it is important. I want you to dosome work for us."
"Some play, you mean," replied the voice. "Believe me, I don't want aholiday. The working fit is very strong. I am doing some really decentthings. Why can't you leave a man alone?"
"Something very serious has happened."
"What?"
"Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered--shot through the brain--and theydon't know who has done it. They found the body this morning. Ithappened at his place near Bishopsbridge." Sir James proceeded to tellhis hearer, briefly and clearly, the facts that he had communicated toMr. Figgis. "What do you think of it?" he ended.
A considering grunt was the only answer.
"Come now!" urged Sir James.
"Tempter!"
"You will go down?"
There was a brief pause. "Are you there?" said Sir James.
"Look here, Molloy," the voice broke out querulously, "the thing may bea case for me, or it may not. We can't possibly tell. It may be amystery: it may be as simple as bread and cheese. The body not beingrobbed looks interesting, but he may have been outed by some wretchedtramp whom he found sleeping in the grounds and tried to kick out. It'sthe sort of thing he would do. Such a murderer might easily have senseenough to know that to leave the money and valuables was the safestthing. I tell you frankly, I wouldn't have a hand in hanging a poordevil who had let daylight into a man like Sig Manderson as a measure ofsocial protest."
Sir James smiled at the telephone: a smile of success. "Come, my boy,you're getting feeble. Admit you want to go and have a look at the case.You know you do. If it's anything you don't want to handle, you're freeto drop it. By the bye, where are you?"
"I am blown along a wandering wind," replied the voice irresolutely,"and hollow, hollow, hollow all delight."
"Can you get here within an hour?" persisted Sir James.
"I suppose I can," the voice grumbled. "How much time have I?"
"Good man! Well, there's time enough--that's just the worst of it. I'vegot to depend on our local correspondent for to-night. The only goodtrain of the day went half an hour ago. The next is a slow one, leavingPaddington at midnight. You could have the Buster, if you like"--SirJames referred to a very fast motor-car of his--"but you wouldn't getdown in time to do anything to-night."
"And I'd miss my sleep. No, thanks. The train for me. I am quite fond ofrailway-traveling, you know; I have a gift for it. I am the stoker andthe stoked, I am the song the porter sings."
"What's that you say?"
"It doesn't matter," said the voice sadly. "I say," it continued, "willyour people look out a hotel near the scene of action, and telegraph fora room?"
"At once," said Sir James. "Come here as soon as you can!" He replacedthe receiver. As he turned to his papers again a shrill outcry burstforth in the street below. He walked to the open window. A band ofexcited boys was rushing down the steps of the Sun building and up thenarrow thoroughfare toward Fleet Street. Each carried a bundle ofnewspapers and a large broadsheet with the simple legend:
MURDER OF SIGSBEE MANDERSON
Sir James smiled and rattled the money in his pockets cheerfully.
"It makes a good bill," he observed to Mr. Silver, who stood at hiselbow.
Such was Manderson's epitaph.