The atmosphere in the Reporters’ Room late in the afternoon did not suggest any deep feeling of deprivation as a result of Hind’s death. Though the late News Editor had been held in professional respect by most of his staff, it was now evident that there had been little affection for him. Yesterday there had been a certain solemnity in the air, for even to reporters, who thrive on sensation, murder on the premises is disquieting. But discussion had soon become detached and even a shade callous, and the incident was now no more than an uneasy background to conversation. Sheila Brooks, to everyone’s relief, had absented herself for a few days.
Work was proceeding in a very desultory fashion, for with the approach of the August holiday, news had dried up. In any case, the fussy, conscientious Soames had not yet got into his stride as Hind’s successor, and the reporters were taking advantage of the lull. Haycock, a veteran with a bald and shiny scalp, was somnolently turning the pages of a copy of Life. Golightly, a lanky, restless man of thirty, was back from his treasure-hunt, which had proved a flop, and was inscribing what appeared to be a motto or legend in coloured inks on a piece of cardboard. Grant was winnowing an enormous stack of competition postcards on which readers of the Morning Call had been invited, for a prize of ten guineas, to state “How I proposed” or “How he proposed” in a hundred well-chosen words. Rogers, a smart, good-looking youth and one of Nature’s irrepressibles, had been out all morning, and was now preparing to transcribe an interview. Katharine Camden, who had been covering an archery contest, was bored at having to write it up and was ready to be diverted by anyone or anything.
Pringle, seated a little apart from the others, was consuming weak tea and charcoal biscuits and trying by the nonchalance of his manner to convey the impression that there was nothing remarkable about his presence in the office at an hour when he would normally have been coining expenses in absentia. He hadn’t quite decided yet whether to close down his racket and hope that Ede would forget about it in his preoccupation with Hind’s murder, or whether to go ahead and cash in as quickly as he could before he was sacked.
Besides Pringle, there were a couple of intruders. Bill Iredale, who was finding the Reporters’ Room increasingly congenial, had dropped in after lunch and was sitting next to Katharine at the desk of the absent Sheila. Jessop was there too, driven out of the Foreign Room by Cardew’s presence. All that day, hatred had been rising in him like a head of steam. The trouble was that this time he couldn’t leave the choice to Providence, and he had so many enemies that it was difficult to decide where to strike next. His anger was easily diverted to some new person by a chance remark or action—like Cardew occupying the desk that he should have had. He sat quietly, trying to focus his resentment, while the conversation flowed round him.
Rogers wound a sheet of paper into his typewriter with an air of disgust. “I’m told the Big White Chief is getting peeved about all the prying in the office,” he remarked to no one in particular. “Funny, isn’t it?”
“What’s funny about it?” asked Katharine.
“Well, he’s a fine one to object to prying. D’ you know what I’ve been doing all morning? I’ve been trying to persuade the broken-hearted family of a Miss Henrietta Peacock to tell me the full story of why she threw herself over a railway viaduct. Now whose idea was that, I’d like to know?”
The tone of grievance struck an answering chord in Jessop. “That was Jackson, as a matter of fact,” he said. He was the only one present who had been at morning conference. “Jackson can never forget that he was a contemporary of Northcliffe. I think he’s a hypocrite.” Jessop began to mimic the Assistant Editor’s rather precise manner of speaking. “‘It might be a good idea, Soames, to send one of your young men out on this story. A little human interest is what we need. No intrusion into private grief, of course—just tell him to get the facts!’”
“I agree it’s shocking,” said Haycock, who had once worked on the old Morning Post and remembered more dignified days. “Still, Jackson’s nothing like as bad as Hind was. He’d have sent you to interview a man on the gallows.”
Pringle, his voice crumby with charcoal biscuit, said, “There’s such a thing as respect for the dead, old man.”
Rogers, whose thoughts had been on Miss Peacock, suddenly seemed to become aware of Pringle’s presence. “There’s such a thing as the Crime Reporter doing crime stories,” he said. “I thought suicides were your pigeon, Arthur. Are you on holiday or something?”
“I’m collaborating on the case,” said Pringle with dignity. “I’ve been asked to stand by.”
Katharine glanced across at Iredale and they exchanged smiles. Rogers sat back. “What view have you and the inspector formed of the case, Sherlock?”
“I’m pledged to silence,” said Pringle.
Haycock looked up from his paper. “It’s an ill wind …” he said. He had never liked Pringle.
“It’s all very well to sneer, old man,” said Pringle. “If I wanted to, I could tell you things that would make your hair stand on end.”
Haycock stroked his shiny scalp. “Then you’re wasting your time in the newspaper business.”
Rogers cackled. “You’re an old twister, Pringle. You don’t know a thing.”
“I don’t pretend to have solved the case,” said Pringle modestly, “but I have my own convictions about it.”
“That’s nothing to the convictions you’ll have when the inspector finds out about you,” said Golightly from the sidelines.
Pringle looked startled. “What’s that?” he squeaked, spattering bits of charcoal biscuit over his teacup.
“You know, I believe Eric’s got something there,” said Rogers thoughtfully. “Murder for a scoop! Arthur Pringle, first with the news at last. Read all abaht it!”
Pringle looked round at the circle of amused faces. “I don’t think that’s very funny, old man.”
“You wouldn’t, if you did it,” said Golightly. “And after all, crime is your profession, Arthur. I dare say your place is bulging with cast-off cyanide if we only knew.”
“If he did do it,” said Rogers, still as though Pringle weren’t there, “we’ve got to hand it to him—it begins to look like the perfect crime. But with all his training he’d know the snags, of course, like leaving fingerprints on plates and doorhandles and all that stuff.”
“It’s no joking matter,” said Pringle solemnly. He cast a backward glance at the door and lowered his voice. “We think it’s possible there may be more foul play practically at any moment. One of us in this room may be the next on the list. The poison’s not been found yet, remember.” With gratification he saw that for the moment at any rate he had gained the attention of his audience. “I’m jolly careful what I eat and drink, I can tell you that.”
Katharine said, “I once knew a man who died from a surfeit of charcoal biscuits. It wasn’t a pretty death.”
Loud guffaws echoed round the room, and Pringle lapsed into a huffy silence. Golightly, who had not allowed the conversation to distract him from his creative efforts with the coloured inks, got up and hung his finished handiwork on a nail. “How‘s that?” he asked. The illuminated text read: “The hireling scribes of the newspaper press, who daily pawn the dirty linen of their souls for the price of a bottle of sour wine and a cigar.”
“Who wrote that tripe?” asked Grant from behind his embankment of postcards.
“Ruskin. Classy, isn’t it? What a prig!” Golightly surveyed the text with pleasure. “I wish someone would give me a cigar,” he said wistfully, walking back to his seat. “Anybody remember Havanas?” As he passed Grant, he picked up a block of about five hundred unexamined postcards and dropped them unemotionally into the waste-paper basket.
Suddenly the News Room door opened and Soames came in with a newspaper clipping in his hand. He was a great man for clippings—an ardent follower-up of other papers’ stories. He gazed round to see who of his staff was the least engaged and the cover of Life caught his eye. “Oh, Mortimer, the Standard says old Harcourt is resigning at last. You might give him a tinkle.” He grinned at Jessop and Iredale as he passed. “What’s all this—Foreign Room sending observers? It’s nice to be some people, I must say.” The News Room door closed behind him.
“When the wind’s in the north,” remarked Golightly, “they say you can hear old Soames’s scissors as far away as the Elephant and Castle.”
“He used to hate clippings when he and I were reporters together,” said Iredale.
“Ah, change and decay!” observed Rogers sententiously. “Now he’s drunk with power.” The description of the mild, painstaking Soames was so inapt that even Pringle smiled.
For a few moments there was comparative quiet. Then the restless Golightly walked over to the notice board and stood there studying the Duty List: “Why have they put you on late turn to-morrow, Mortimer? Something special happening?”
“I’ve got to cover a dinner for Ede,” said Haycock. “He’s the guest of honour at the International League of Editors.”
“Bad luck, you hireling scribe!”
“It is rather trying—I hate wearing a dinner jacket in hot weather. It’s a pity some of you young fellows don’t polish up your shorthand—I always get these jobs.” Haycock had been a fine descriptive writer in his day, but nowadays he rarely got a “break”. He went over to a telephone box, grumbling to himself.
Jessop sat frowning. He was thinking how pleasant it must be to be a guest of honour. Ede was always gadding about, always enjoying himself, always at the centre of things. Some people were born lucky.
Iredale leaned back, rocking gently on two legs of his chair and watching Katharine. She was sitting still with her fingers on the keyboard of her typewriter, and didn’t seem to be concentrating. “How’s the archery?” he asked her.
“I wish you’d go away,” said Katharine. “I shall never get this thing finished. I can’t even think of an ‘intro’.”
“Why not draw a bow at a venture?” said Iredale airily.
“Smarty! Why not give me a useful suggestion?”
“Nothing easier,” he said. “How about this? ‘Robin Hood and his Merry Men lived again to-day (Wednesday) when youths and maidens in Lincoln green filled the glades of Sherwood Forest …”’
“The contest was at Elmer’s End,” said Katharine coldly. “Now I see why they thought it better to send you abroad.”
“My mind wasn’t entirely on it,” he admitted. “How about a drink when the pubs open?”
“What, again?”
“It’s a nice habit to get into.” He prodded tobacco into his big pipe and flung the empty tin on to the desk.
“Somebody ought to buy you a tobacco pouch,” said Katharine. “Don’t you ever have a birthday?”
“I’ve lost three pouches in a year,” Iredale said. “Now I stick to tins.”
“You smoke rather a lot, don’t you?”
“Only an ounce a day. Wonderful stuff, tobacco.” He grinned. “It takes care of all the appetites.”
Katharine smiled, her eyes on the typewriter. From across the room Rogers called, “I can hear you two whispering. Watch that man, Katharine, he’s a beast with women. He’ll have you in a sarong before you know where you are.”
“I’d advise you to watch your drink if you’re going out with him,” said Pringle. “One small piece of cyanide …”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” cried Katharine. “Let’s forget cyanide for an hour or two.”
The News Room door opened again with a bang and Soames bustled in. “There’s a good story at Baldock, Pringle. George Teviot, the artist, has been found murdered. Better get up there right away.”
Pringle stuffed the charcoal biscuits into his pocket. Baldock, eh?—he ought to be able to make a bit out of a trip up there.
“That’s torn it,” said Rogers gloomily. “Now poor old Haines will be on his own.” Pringle left the room to the sound of more unseemly mirth.