Chapter IX: Behind the Scenes of the Herald

I was seated on the edge of a table in the reporters' room--a place wherein were rows of dusty old books and a number of ink-stained tables, whereat reporters deciphered their "notes" and wrote their "copy." Upon the begrimed, colour-washed walls were stuck quantities of newspaper cuttings, dirty and yellow with tobacco-smoke, caricatures from the illustrated Press, war-maps, and other pictorial memos which one or other of the reporting staff desired to preserve. Over the fireplace someone had pasted a religious text.

In that room men came and went. Some entered without a word, scribbled half a dozen lines, flung the slip of paper, with his name written at the top, into the basket--which would later on find its way to the sub-editors--and left. Others sat busily writing with stubby pencils, while still others, mostly clean-shaven youths, lit cigarettes, gossiped, and congratulated themselves that they were "marked" in the diary for some unimportant function, a society bazaar, a company meeting, or a foundation-stone, which would set them free before four in the afternoon.

With one of these, Boyd by name, a typical Pressman of the modern school, I was chatting, waiting to see Macdonald, the chief reporter. The latter came at last, a tall, thin-faced, black-haired, rather sallow Scotsman of forty-five, in silk hat, frock-coat, and seedy umbrella, without which he was never known to go forth even on the brightest day. Besides being chief reporter of the _Evening Herald_, he was chief of the staff in the "gallery" of the House of Commons. Then, after concluding his work for the _Herald_ at 6.30 in the evening, he remained in the "House," reporting its proceedings for the Exchange Telegraph Company, supplying that service of news which one reads in clubs and hotels. In the House he was known as the "tape-worm," because he supplied the "tape" with news.

His manner was deliberate, his peculiarities many. A keen politician and a clever journalist, he possessed a sense of dry humour and a fund of quotation which rendered him a character in modern journalism. His mind was a perfect dictionary of popular quotations in all sorts of languages, and no matter what the occasion or topic of conversation, "Mac," as we called him, always had a proverb or an apt quotation from some dead-and-gone writer ready at hand.

This fount of quotation constantly overflowed into his reports, and the sub-editors were constantly on the alert with blue pencil to cut out such portions of what they irreverently termed "old Mac's gas." Some went as far as to say that he had committed Bartlett's and Benham's collections of quotations to memory; while among the staff it was a well-known fact that one of old Mac's idiosyncrasies was to take a shorthand note of everything he witnessed. Indeed, somebody once found in the reporters' room a slip of paper on which he had noted in shorthand every movement and trick of a troupe of acrobats performing at the Empire.

"Well, Keene," he exclaimed, with his broad Scotch accent, as he entered and glanced around at the several tables occupied by the men under him, "what's the premium on murder this morning--eh?"

A laugh went round at this, for, as "The Murder-Monger," I was constantly the butt of Mac's ready wit.

"Oh, we're dealing in sudden deaths to-day," I retorted. "Three of 'em have just come up on the tape within ten minutes."

He had walked to his table, and was looking down the list of engagements for that day written in the diary.

"Well," he went on, "we want some good story or other to-day. Things are uncommonly quiet in London."

"Perhaps Marvin will get a decent Reuter or two later on--an earthquake in Japan or a scrap in Central America, with a few hundreds killed."

"Or a railway disaster in the States--train wrecked and burned--English passengers--and that sort of thing," I added. "Always good enough for the contents bill."

"Yes. There's nothing much in London to-day--not even a divorce case worth half a dozen lines," Mac said, with a sigh, hanging up his silk hat on the peg.

"There ought to be something fresh to be got out of that Barnes affair," a man remarked from the other corner of the room without looking up from his blotting-pad.

"Ah, yes!" said Mac. "You're doing that, Keene, of course. How's it going? Any arrest likely?"

"Not yet. Police entirely in the dark."

"But you'll do half a column of the latest details," Mac said. "Work the story up for all it's worth. Give a few of your first-class patent-leather theories as to the crime, or rub up an interview with somebody."

"But there's nothing further to say at present," I remarked.

"Nothing further?" he cried. "Why, my dear Keene, the thing's good enough for another week. It's a real sensation. You must get the photographs of the murdered girl and of the other woman. Committed suicide in the police-cell, didn't she! If it were me, I should work up a story that she committed suicide because her life was threatened--victim of a secret society. Anything about continental secret societies always goes down with the public. Hint that she's a princess, a duchess, or some foreign notability, and that the government are taking steps to suppress the real facts. Oh, my dear Keene, there's lots in that. If I were doing it I'd startle London for the next six days," he added.

"With lies!" I remarked, laughing.

"Well, the truth would not be nearly so interesting," old Mac said, for he was entirely unscrupulous when it came to telling a good "story." Many a good mystery had he worked up from nothing. A bogus mystery generally lasts about three days, because rival journals make inquiry and discredit the exaggerated report.

In all journalistic "stories" the exhumation report is undoubtedly the most telling. Unfortunately it cannot be often worked, but when it is it never fails to attract. Hint at foul play and the exhumation of a body, and you will have the world on the tenter-hooks of excitement. Never does a suspicion of poison crop up without its attendant journalistic prediction that the body of somebody else is to be exhumed.

I once worked this "wheeze" so entirely successfully that the Home Office, believing that there was something in my theory, actually ordered the body of a woman to be exhumed and the stomach analysed for poison. This was done, but no poison was discovered, and, in consequence, the _Herald_ very narrowly escaped paying heavy damages for libel. Indeed, the man whom I had alleged to be a murderer entered an action, but for some reason, to this day quite unaccountable, suddenly dropped it.

While talking with Mac, a boy in an Eton suit entered with a message from Sir Henry Neave, the founder and proprietor of the _Herald_, asking me to go at once to his room, an order which I immediately obeyed.

Sir Henry, known to all the staff as "the Chief," was as unapproachable as the Prime Minister himself.

Through the office of a smart and handsome lady secretary, thence through the apartment of the private secretary, admittance was gained to a large, long, luxurious room with cosy easy-chairs, couches and writing-tables, which had no semblance to a business office. Big silver bowls--presents from the staff--were filled with fresh flowers; upon the thick carpet one's footsteps fell noiselessly, and everywhere was displayed an artistic taste which was sufficient index to the character of the man who, above all others, was the most successful journalist the world had ever known.

About Sir Henry Neave there was nothing of the blatant millionaire. Though enormous wealth had come to him since the days, not so long ago, when he was a humble working journalist in Fleet Street; though he possessed a fine house in Park Lane, a big place in the country, one at the seaside, and a pretty villa on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, yet his great success had never spoilt him.

The whole staff loved him. To them he was as one of themselves. He would shout and condemn in unmeasured terms, and criticise the "get-up" of one or other of his many journals with unequalled sarcasm. Yet next moment he would say cheerily, "That's all--that's all I have to say. Go away, my boy, and do better."

And the culprit would smile and go away, and do his level best in the future.

As I opened the door I saw him lying back in his big saddle-bag chair near the fireplace, smoking a cigarette and reading some proofs. Fair-haired, clean-shaven and aged about thirty-five, his was a countenance full of strong character and determination, a face which once seen would never be forgotten--undeniably a face of genius.

In his dress he was nothing of a fop. Devoted to motoring, and one of its pioneers in England, he spent all his spare time on one or other of his fine cars, and invariably wore a tweed suit and a soft tennis collar.

"Ah, Keene!" he exclaimed, in his quick, impetuous way. "Let me see. Why did I send for you? Oh, I know!" he went on, looking up at me and dropping the proofs on the floor at his side. "Of late, Keene, I've been watching you. You've done a lot of real good work on the 'Evening,' and I've resolved to give you a better chance. Do you know French?"

"I was at school in Rouen for three years."

"Good. Well, I've decided to put you on the _Daily Herald_, and give you a chance abroad as special correspondent. I spoke to Wakeley last night, and he thinks you can begin by doing some of the smaller things on the Continent. Little will show you your way about at first. You can consult Wakeley about your salary. Remember, we only want first-class stories, and where those are concerned you need never spare expense. I look upon you, Keene, as a coming man. Don't disappoint me. Go, my boy, and do your best."

His words had caused my heart to leap. I was to become a special correspondent and sign my articles in the _Daily Herald_! The post was one of the plums of the journalistic profession.

"I can only promise you, Sir Henry, that I shall always have the interests of the paper at heart. On the 'Evening' I've always done my best, and shall certainly spare no effort to perform my duty in my new post."

"I know that--I know that! Go to Wakeley, tell him that you are in future on the staff of special correspondents. Tell him from me to send you out on the next short trip. That's all," and he ended abruptly with dismissal, as was his usual habit.

He was a man of remarkably quick decision. He never hesitated. Without a moment's reflection he would decide matters involving the expenditure of thousands, and would order a new paper to appear, or stop a non-paying one, at a moment's notice.

The staff within that great building, with its hundreds of different departments, was the best that had ever been gathered together to run newspapers and periodicals. The gigantic organisation was unique, while the huge printing-works, that swallowed up hundreds of miles of paper daily, were the most up-to-date in all the world. And all was due to his careful forethought and his knowledge of what the public really required.

So many newspapers throughout the country did he control that he could make or mar a Cabinet, while his political power was courted by the Prime Minister himself, and his influence was such that he often privately received "inspired" information from the highest quarters.

And yet with all this power and wealth Sir Henry Neave was just the same as when, as Harry Neave, he had been glad enough to report police-court cases and accept the princely sum of seven-and-sixpence. Though a bad enemy, he never forgot his friends of old days, and the life of many a broken-down Pressman was made happier and brighter by the secret charity that came from his pocket.

Sir Henry had always been my friend. I had done my best, and the reward he had given me was the greatest in his power. It would raise me from mere murder-mongering to the highest rank in journalism--that of special correspondent.

In future I was to become the cosmopolitan and constant traveller, and my signed telegrams would be read the world over.

And with these thoughts I ascended in the lift to tell old Marvin that I was no longer connected with the _Evening Herald_, and to send a line in secret to Daisy acquainting her with my sudden good fortune.

A new vista of life spread itself out before me.