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

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."

CHAPTER II

CONCERNS THE CURIOUS AFFAIR AT BARNES

"Was it still dark?" asked Little, whose interest in the affair seemed rather unusual, for he always set his face against sensational journalism, and often raised his voice against my too lurid descriptions in the evening edition of the Herald.

"Day was just breaking," I went on. "The constable opened the window and, entering the empty house, walked along a short passage to where he saw a light shining beneath the door. He pushed it open, and a sight met his eyes which astonished him. The room, a small one, was comfortably furnished. The only illumination, however, was a child's night-light burning under a little yellow glass dome upon the table, and this was scarcely sufficient to reveal the farther corners of the room. Along one side was an old horsehair couch with a sheet, blanket, and eider-down quilt upon it, showing that the usurping occupant made it both living and sleeping room, while opposite was an easy-chair, and a small table upon which were a quantity of new books and the remains of some food. To first appearances it was the room of a caretaker, and the constable was about to retire, grumbling to himself that he had not been informed that the place was inhabited, when he was startled to hear, in a corner of the room, a sharp intermittent clicking. Opening

his bull's-eye he threw the light upon the dark corner, where there was revealed something that was certainly unusual—a small deal table with a telegraph instrument screwed down to it. And as he looked the instrument clicked away some message which he, of course, could not understand."

"A telegraph instrument!" cried Julian, in quick surprise. "That doesn't appear in to-night's 'special.'"

"No," I replied, smiling. "I'm keeping a few facts over till to-morrow. There were reasons why the presence of the instrument should not at present be mentioned. Whitlock asked me to say nothing about it. I got the whole story exclusive."

"A real first-class 'scoop,'" declared Little, in journalistic slang.

"Yes. Not bad, was it? Whitlock rang me up on the 'phone at nine yesterday morning, and I went at once to Barnes and saw the house."

"But the girl?"