Chapter 2

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 a
motion with his pen, and Mr. Silver, his secretary, left his work and
came 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 this
afternoon. 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, Sigsbee
Manderson’s right-hand man,” he said concisely. “He insists on speaking
to you personally. Says it is the gravest piece of news. He is talking
from the house down by Bishopsbridge, so it will be necessary to speak
clearly.”

Sir James looked at the telephone, not affectionately, and took up the
receiver. “Well?” he said in his strong voice, and listened. “Yes,” he
said. The next moment Mr. Silver, eagerly watching him, saw a look of
amazement and horror. “Good God!” murmured Sir James. Clutching the
instrument, he slowly rose to his feet, still bending ear intently. At
intervals he repeated “Yes.” Presently, as he listened, he glanced at
the clock, and spoke quickly to Mr. Silver over the top of the
transmitter. “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,
swart and black-moustached, a man of untiring business energy, well
known in the world, which he understood very thoroughly, and played
upon with the half-cynical competence of his race. Yet was he without a
touch of the charlatan: he made no mysteries, and no pretences of
knowledge, and he saw instantly through these in others. In his
handsome, well-bred, well-dressed appearance there was something a
little sinister when anger or intense occupation put its imprint about
his eyes and brow; but when his generous nature was under no restraint
he was the most cordial of men. He was managing director of the company
which owned that most powerful morning paper, the _Record,_ and also
that most indispensable evening paper, the _Sun,_ which had its offices
on the other side of the street. He was, moreover, editor-in-chief of
the _Record,_ to which he had in the course of years attached the most
variously capable personnel in the 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 great deal of both. He was respected by
his staff as few are respected in a profession not favourable to the
growth of the sentiment of reverence.

“You’re sure that’s all?” asked Sir James, after a few minutes of
earnest listening and questioning. “And how long has this been
known?... Yes, of course, the police are; but the servants? Surely it’s
all over the place down there by now.... Well, we’ll have a try....
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 the first day
you get to town.... All right, that’s understood. Now I must act on
your news. Goodbye.”

Sir James hung up the receiver, and seized a railway timetable from the
rack before him. After a rapid consultation of this oracle, he flung it
down with a forcible word as Mr. Silver hurried into the room, followed
by 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, banishing
all signs of agitation and speaking with a rapid calmness. “When you
have them, put them into shape just as quick as you can for a special
edition of the _Sun_.” The hard-featured man nodded and glanced at the
clock, which pointed to a few minutes past three; he pulled out a
notebook and drew a chair up to the big writing-table. “Silver,” Sir
James went on, “go and tell Jones to wire our local correspondent very
urgently, to drop everything and get down to Marlstone at once. He is
not to say why in the telegram. There must not be an unnecessary word
about this news until the _Sun_ is on the streets with it—you all
understand. Williams, cut across the way and tell Mr. Anthony to hold
himself ready for a two-column opening that will knock the town
endways. Just tell him that he must take all measures and precautions
for a scoop. Say that Figgis will be over in five minutes with the
facts, and that he had better let him write up the story in his private
room. As you go, ask Miss Morgan to see me here at once, and tell the
telephone people to see if they can get Mr. Trent on the wire for me.
After seeing Mr. Anthony, return here and stand by.” The alert-eyed
young man vanished like a spirit.

Sir James turned instantly to Mr. Figgis, whose pencil was poised over
the paper. “Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered,” he began quickly and
clearly, pacing the floor with his hands behind him. Mr. Figgis
scratched down a line of shorthand with as much emotion as if he had
been told that the day was fine—the pose of his craft. “He and his wife
and two secretaries have been for the past fortnight at the house
called White Gables, at Marlstone, near Bishopsbridge. He bought it
four years ago. 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 one knows when he got up and left the house. He was not
missed until this morning. About ten o’clock his body was found by a
gardener. It was lying by a shed in the grounds. He was shot in the
head, through the left eye. Death must have been instantaneous. The
body was not robbed, but there were marks on the wrists which pointed
to a struggle having taken place. Dr Stock, of Marlstone, was at once
sent for, and will conduct the post-mortem examination. The police from
Bishopsbridge, who were soon on the spot, are reticent, but it is
believed that they are quite without a clue to the identity of the
murderer. There you are, Figgis. Mr. Anthony is expecting you. Now I
must telephone him and arrange 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 safe
statement.”

“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. Human
interest.”

“I wouldn’t put that in, Mr. Figgis,” said a quiet voice. It belonged
to Miss Morgan, a pale, graceful woman, who had silently made her
appearance while the dictation was going on. “I have seen Mrs.
Manderson,” she proceeded, turning to Sir James. “She looks quite
healthy and intelligent. Has her husband been murdered? I don’t think
the shock would prostrate her. She is more likely to be doing all she
can to help the police.”

“Something in your own style, then, Miss Morgan,” he said with a
momentary smile. Her imperturbable efficiency was an office proverb.
“Cut it out, Figgis. Off you go! Now, madam, I expect you know what I
want.”

“Our Manderson biography happens to be well up to date,” replied Miss
Morgan, drooping her dark eyelashes as she considered the position. “I
was looking over it only a few months ago. It is practically ready for
tomorrow’s paper. I should think the _Sun_ had better use the sketch of
his life they had about two years ago, when he went to Berlin and
settled the potash difficulty. I remember it was a very good sketch,
and they won’t be able to carry much more than that. As for our paper,
of course we have a great quantity of cuttings, mostly rubbish. The
sub-editors shall have them as soon as they come in. Then we have two
very 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
better than any of the photographs; but you say the public prefers a
bad photograph to a good drawing. I will send them down to you at once,
and you can choose. As far as I can see, the Record is well ahead of
the situation, except that you will not be able to get a special man
down there in time to be of any use for tomorrow’s paper.”

Sir James sighed deeply. “What are we good for, anyhow?” he enquired
dejectedly of Mr. Silver, who had returned to his desk. “She even knows
Bradshaw by heart.”

Miss Morgan adjusted her cuffs with an air of patience. “Is there
anything else?” she asked, as the telephone bell rang.

“Yes, one thing,” replied Sir James, as he took up the receiver. “I
want you to make a bad mistake some time, Miss Morgan—an everlasting
bloomer—just to put us in countenance.” She permitted herself the
fraction of what would have been a charming smile as she went out.

“Anthony?” asked Sir James, and was at once deep in consultation with
the 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, the
Murat of Fleet Street, who delighted in riding the whirlwind and
fighting a tumultuous battle against time, would say the same of a
morning paper.

It was some five minutes later that a uniformed boy came in to say that
Mr. 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 the instrument 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 of
painting 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
do some work for us.”

“Some play, you mean,” replied the voice. “Believe me, I don’t want a
holiday. The working fit is very strong. I am doing some really decent
things. Why can’t you leave a man alone?”

“Something very serious has happened.”

“What?”

“Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered—shot through the brain—and they
don’t know who has done it. They found the body this morning. It
happened at his place near Bishopsbridge.” Sir James proceeded to tell
his hearer, briefly and clearly, the facts that he had communicated to
Mr. 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 be
a case for me, or it may not. We can’t possibly tell. It may be a
mystery; it may be as simple as bread and cheese. The body not being
robbed looks interesting, but he may have been outed by some wretched
tramp whom he found sleeping in the grounds and tried to kick out. It’s
the sort of thing he would do. Such a murderer might easily have sense
enough to know that to leave the money and valuables was the safest
thing. I tell you frankly, I wouldn’t have a hand in hanging a poor
devil who had let daylight into a man like Sig Manderson as a measure
of social 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 free to drop it. By the by, 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’ve
got to depend on our local correspondent for tonight. The only good
train of the day went half an hour ago. The next is a slow one, leaving
Paddington at midnight. You could have the Buster, if you like”—Sir
James referred to a very fast motor car of his—“but you wouldn’t get
down in time to do anything tonight.”

“And I’d miss my sleep. No, thanks. The train for me. I am quite fond
of railway travelling, you know; I have a gift for it. I am the stoker
and the 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, “will
your people look out a hotel near the scene of action, and telegraph
for a room?”

“At once,” said Sir James. “Come here as soon as you can.”

He replaced the receiver. As he turned to his papers again a shrill
outcry burst forth in the street below. He walked to the open window. A
band of excited boys was rushing down the steps of the _Sun_ building
and up the narrow thoroughfare toward Fleet Street. Each carried a
bundle of newspapers 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 his elbow.

Such was Manderson’s epitaph.