Chapter XVI: 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!"