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 concisely1. "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 amazement2 and horror. "Good God," murmured Sir James. Clutching the instrument, he slowly rose to his feet, still bending ear intently. At intervals3 he repeated, "Yes." Presently, as he listened, he glanced at the clock, and spoke4 quickly to Mr. Silver over the top of the transmitter. "Go and hunt up Figgis and young Williams. Hurry!" Mr. Silver darted5 from the room.
The great journalist was a tall, strong, clever Irishman of fifty, swart and black-mustached, a man of untiring business energy, well known in the world, which he understood very thoroughly6, and played upon with the half-cynical competence7 of his race. Yet was he without a touch of the charlatan8: he made no mysteries, and no pretenses9 of knowledge, and he saw instantly through these in others. In his handsome, well-bred, well-dressed appearance there was something a little sinister10 when anger or intense occupation put its imprint11 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 maxim12 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 favorable to the growth of the sentiment of reverence13.
"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 infinitely14 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. Good-by."
Sir James hung up the receiver, and seized a railway time-table from the rack before him. After a rapid consultation15 of this oracle16, 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 jot17 down some facts, Figgis," said Sir James, banishing18 all signs of agitation19 and speaking with a rapid calmness. "When you have them, put them into shape just as quick you can for a special edition of the Sun." The hard-featured man nodded and glanced at the clock, which pointed20 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 scoop21. 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 poised22 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 reticent23, 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?"
"Prostrated24 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, graceful26 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 prostrate25 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 momentary27 smile. Her imperturbable28 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, drooping29 her dark eye-lashes as she considered the position. "I was looking over it only a few months ago. It is practically ready for to-morrow's paper. I should think the Sun had better use the sketch30 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 to-morrow's paper."
Sir James sighed deeply. "What are we good for, anyhow?" he inquired dejectedly of Mr. Silver, who had returned to his desk. "She even knows Bradshaw by heart."
Miss Morgan adjusted her cuffs31 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 everlasting32 bloomer—just to put us in countenance33." 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 abruptly34 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, briefly35 and clearly, the facts that he had communicated to Mr. Figgis. "What do you think of it?" he ended.
"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 frankly37, 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 bye, where are you?"
"I am blown along a wandering wind," replied the voice irresolutely38, "and hollow, hollow, hollow all delight."
"Can you get here within an hour?" persisted Sir James.
"Good man! Well, there's time enough—that's just the worst of it. I've got to depend on our local correspondent for to-night. 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 to-night."
"And I'd miss my sleep. No, thanks. The train for me. I am quite fond of railway-traveling, 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 shrill40 outcry burst forth41 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
"It makes a good bill," he observed to Mr. Silver, who stood at his elbow.
Such was Manderson's epitaph.
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1
concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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2
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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3
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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4
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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5
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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6
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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7
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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8
charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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pretenses
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| n.借口（pretense的复数形式） | |
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10
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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11
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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12
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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13
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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14
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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15
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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16
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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17
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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18
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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19
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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22
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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23
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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24
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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26
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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27
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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28
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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29
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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30
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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31
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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33
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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34
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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35
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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36
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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37
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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38
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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39
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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40
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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41
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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42
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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