Chapter V: Repeats a Message to Plymouth

A journalist's life is full of surprises.

I stood staring at the clicking telegraph instrument, Whitlock at my side equally eager.

We both saw that each word ticked out caused the postal clerk increased surprise.

The mysterious message held him in amazement.

It was a long one, but at last ceased with two or three spasmodic clicks.

"Well," he remarked, turning to us with the paper whereon he had hurriedly scribbled the words, "this is curious, to say the least, Mr Whitlock."

"What is it? Read it," the inspector urged.

"It's a Press message--from somebody in London who apparently knows more than we do of this affair. Listen: 'To _Western Evening Express_, Plymouth.--The police, searching the house at Barnes this morning, where a woman was found mysteriously murdered, made several curious discoveries. In the room where the dead girl was found was a secret telegraph instrument, and it further appears that a second woman was discovered in the house, who, being placed under arrest on suspicion, shortly afterwards committed suicide in the police cell----'"

"Why, who's that from?" I exclaimed in amazement, interrupting. "Only Little and myself know those facts, and I haven't yet published them!"

Whitlock's ruddy face grew serious and thoughtful.

"Listen to the remainder of the message," the clerk said. "It runs: 'This morning Inspector Whitlock, on making further examination of the empty house, found a half-smoked cigarette of unusual brand, which may lead to a clue, while upstairs in a cupboard, the door of which was cleverly concealed in the wall, was found a suit-case, containing a quantity of telegraph tape and the small portrait of a gentleman----'"

"What can this mean?" gasped Whitlock. "Why, we haven't been outside the place! How could it be known in London, unless--unless you telegraphed it?" he added, looking at the telegraphist straight in the face.

"Well, I haven't sent a single word over the wire," the clerk replied. "Besides, the message came through before I knew that you had found this bunch of tape. Is it also true about the man's portrait?"

For a moment I hesitated.

"Yes," I replied. "Here it is. I found it at the bottom of the box."

Whitlock took it eagerly in his hand.

"Why, Mr Keene!" he gasped, staring at me. "It's you--you!"

"I know it is," I said blankly.

"But how came it here?" he asked. "What do you know about this?" and he indicated the little trinket.

"I only know that it's my photograph," I said.

"Why should it be found here?" he inquired. "You saw the bodies of the two women yesterday. Did you identify either of them?"

"I have never seen either of them before in my life."

"Is it not quite within the range of possibility that some friend--or enemy--of yours might have placed this little picture in the suit-case purposely?"

"And then telegraphed the fact of its discovery to an evening paper," I added. "Well, I don't know what to think."

"Mr Keene," he said very seriously, "this mystery is increasing hourly. It seems to me that somebody, who is your friend, knows a good deal about the truth."

Did he allude to Julian Little, I wondered, recollecting all that had occurred on the previous night.

"But that isn't all," the telegraph clerk went on. "The message proceeds as follows: 'On further investigation, the police were led to search in the old-fashioned garden at the rear of the house, and at the foot of a big yew tree they unearthed a tin box. This, on being opened, was found to contain several articles which, it is hoped, may serve as a clue by which the mystery can be elucidated. The police are very reticent regarding the affair, but we are in a position to state that among the objects found in the tin box were a string of child's beads of pale blue porcelain, a small gold watch, and several papers of curious character. The inquest upon the two girls will be held this afternoon.--Central News.'"

"The Central News!" I gasped. "How could they possibly know these facts?"

"That's just it, Mr Keene. There's a big mystery here somewhere," Whitlock declared. "What about the box at the foot of the yew tree? Is there a yew tree here?"

"Yes. Look yonder," replied the telegraph clerk, pointing out of the window to a big, spreading tree near the bottom of the great, old-fashioned, but neglected garden.

"By Jove, there is!" exclaimed the police officer. "But how the dickens can the Central News know more than we do? They've actually circulated a discovery before we've made it."

"An invention, perhaps?" I suggested.

"No, that can't be, because all the other facts are absolutely true," he pointed out. "They even reported the discovery of this little portrait, which you very naturally concealed."

"I wonder who sent the message to the C.N.?" I ventured, using the initials of the telegraph agency as every Pressman does. The P.A. means, in Press parlance, the Press Association; the C.N., the Central News, while the "Exchange" is brief for intelligence received through the medium of the Exchange Telegraph Company.

"Well, at anyrate, we must make a search at the spot they indicate," Whitlock said. "It's quite clear to me that somebody knows all about it, while we are completely in the dark. If it were not that two women have lost their lives, I should begin to think that the whole thing had been arranged as a journalistic 'scoop.'"

I laughed, recollecting many bogus "mysteries" that I had known. One had been cleverly "brought off" near Sheffield a couple of years before, when two journalists killed a dog on the railway-line, and, carrying away the body a long distance, buried it. The police, of course, believed that a foul murder had been committed, and it was not until after a week of all sorts of weird theories cleverly worked up by the enterprising Pressmen and telegraphed broadcast all over the country, that an analysis of the blood proved it to be of canine origin. Such journalistic "mysteries" are not at all uncommon.

"But this isn't a fake!" I cried. "It can't be. The girl was found here in this room--shot dead."

"Well, I can't for the life of me see, Mr Keene, how your friends of the Central News can possibly know facts about an affair of which we are in ignorance. Not a soul has been in the house to-day except our three selves. But," he added, "we'll go and see what we can find at the spot in the garden. I wonder if there's a spade about. Let's go and look."

"You go. I'll go across to the doctor's opposite, ring up the Central News, and ask them about their account."

"Yes, do," he said.

So I went out to where I saw that a telephone wire ran into a doctor's house, rang, presented my card, and asked permission to use the telephone, which was at once accorded to me.

In a few moments I was on to the news editor of the Central News in New Bridge Street, Blackfriars.

He was a man named Burton, whom I knew intimately, often meeting him at the Savage Club.

"Halloa! How are you, Keene, old chap?" he asked. "Anything you want?"

"Yes. I want to know about that account of yours of the Barnes mystery," I said. "Where did you get it from?"

"Barnes mystery?" he responded. "I haven't seen anything of it personally. Hold on a moment; I'll ask round."

For two or three minutes I held the receiver at my ear in expectation, until at last Burton asked--

"Halloa! Are you there, Keene?"

"Yes."

"We haven't sent anything out this morning about the Barnes mystery. Nothing fresh has come in. You must have made a mistake. It isn't from us, old chap."

"But the message addressed to the _Western Evening Express_ is signed by your agency," I said. "Are you quite certain?"

"Hold on again," he urged; "I'll make quite sure."

Then a few moments later he continued--

"I've asked the telegraph operator. Nothing whatever concerning the Barnes affair has gone out from us since 11.58 last night. We've got two men down at Barnes, but they can't get anything. They report that the police will not say a word. We shall get something from the inquest this afternoon. Are you lunching at the Savage?"

"No; I don't think so to-day," was my reply, and with a word of farewell I rang off and crossed the road to meet Whitlock in the garden. He had borrowed a spade and a pick from some men mending the main road a little distance away, and was half-way down the garden towards the spot indicated in the mysterious telegram.

"The message was a forged one," I said. "The Central News has sent out nothing to-day."

He halted and looked straight at me.

"Forged!" he echoed. "In that case let us ask over the wire where the message was handed in and by whom."

He turned on his heel, re-entered the house, and gave instructions to the telegraphist to make the inquiry of the Central Telegraph Office.

Within a few minutes the answer came back that it had been handed in at the office in Southampton Street, Strand, and that it was typed upon the usual forms for Press telegrams. The name of the sender was given as "Cooper--Central News"--a fictitious name, of course.

I saw that Whitlock's best energies in the near future were to be devoted to discovering the sender of the telegram.

"It's a very funny affair, Mr Keene," he declared. "Evidently the man who sent the telegram was a journalist."

I agreed, and my mind wandered at once to the suspicion upon Julian Little.

"But what I cannot see is why your portrait should be found here," he went on, as we walked together down the garden. "Perhaps this mysterious box which the passing message says we are to find will explain something."

The garden was larger than that of the other houses, secluded by high walls of time-mellowed brick, mostly covered by ivy. Such a garden, with big trees, level lawn, and quiet walks flanked by high box hedges, was difficult to find so near London nowadays. But when the house was built, in the days of George III., ground was not nearly so valuable as it now is, and the Malls at Hammersmith and Chiswick were fashionable residential centres.

Till fifty years ago the garden had been four or five times larger than it now was, but encroaching builders had purchased parts of it, until now it was a mere apology for its former self--weedy, overgrown, its gravelled walks full of rank nettles and grass, and its old stone fountain moss-grown and broken; yet one or two fine trees remained, among them the big yew, fully three centuries old, beneath which the mysterious message declared that we had discovered a tin box.

We approached it in wonder and excitement. All around the root of the tree was a tangle of weeds that had not been disturbed for years. Of late, previous tenants had done nothing to keep up the garden, nobody caring to spend money upon it. Here everything grew wild and untrained.

We both searched round the root of the tree, but saw nothing to indicate the spot where any box had been recently buried.

"The only way," I suggested, "is to dig a trench right round the root."

"Yes," my friend assented. "You take the pick and I'll take the shovel. But, by Jove! it looks as if it might be a long job. I'll get Sergeant Henson with another spade." And so saying Whitlock went to the front gate, where the detective was on duty with a colleague, and very soon he joined us. All three of us took off our coats, and quickly we were working away in search of the box which the mysterious message had declared that we had actually discovered.

While with my pick I dug up the thick layer of turf and weed-roots, the others dug down into the earth in search of the promised find. A full hour we worked on in a circle around the huge roots, but without result. All three of us became uncommonly thirsty over our efforts, therefore we sent Henson for three bottles of lager beer, and, having refreshed ourselves, resumed our work of excavation. The huge twisted roots of the yew puzzled us considerably, for we constantly struck them.

From eleven o'clock till nearly two we worked hard in eager expectancy, and had excavated a wide trench about two feet deep when of a sudden, as I struck my pick into the ground, I brought up a big piece of turf that had evidently been cut out square and carefully replaced.

I pointed this out to my companions, who at once worked with a will, and, digging to the depth of about two feet, Henson suddenly struck something with his spade.

"Hark!" he cried. "That's tin!" And he again struck down, producing a dull, metallic thud.

Quickly we all worked to clear away the earth, when at last there was brought to light what was prophesied we should find--a square tin biscuit-box. The paper covering was nearly all decayed and the whole thing was badly rusted, but, placing our treasure on the ground, we quickly prised open the lid, which had apparently been rendered air-tight by sealing-wax, now nearly wholly perished by the damp.

And then we eagerly peered within.