The Rasp

I

The Owl shows its blue and gilt cover on the bookstalls every Saturday morning. Thursday nights are therefore nights of turmoil in the offices in Fleet Street. They are always wearing nights; more so, of course, in hot weather than in cold. They are nights of discomfort for the office-boy and of something worse for the editor.

Spencer Hastings edited The Owl, and owned a third of it; and the little paper’s success showed him to possess both brains and capacity for hard work. For a man of thirty-three he had achieved much; but that capacity for work was hard tested—especially on Thursday nights. As to the brains, there was really no doubt of their quality. Take, for instance, The Owl “specials.” After he had thought of them and given birth to the first, The Owl, really a weekly review, was enabled to reap harvests in the way of “scoops” without in any way degenerating into a mere purveyor of news.

The thing was worked like this: If, by the grace of God or through a member of the “special” staff or by any other channel, there came to Hastings’s ears a piece of Real News which might as yet be unknown to any of the big daily or evening papers, then within a few hours, whatever the day or night of the week, there appeared a special edition of The Owl. It bore, in place of the blue and gold, a cover of red and black. The letterpress was sparse. The price was two pence. The public bought the first two out of curiosity, and the subsequent issues because they had discovered that when the red and black jacket was seen Something had really Happened.

The public bought the real Owl as well. It was always original, written by men and women as yet little known and therefore unspoilt. It was witty, exciting, soothing, biting, laudatory, ironic, and sincere—all in one breath and irreproachable taste.

And Hastings loved it. But Thursday nights, press nights, were undoubtedly Hell. And this Thursday night, hotter almost than its stifling day, was the very hell of Hells.

He ruffled his straw-coloured hair, looking, as a woman once said of him, rather like a stalwart and handsome chicken. Midnight struck. He worked on, cursing at the heat, the paper, his material, and the fact that his confidential secretary, his right-hand woman, was making holiday.

He finished correcting the proofs of his leader, then reached for two over-long articles by new contributors. As he picked up a blue pencil, his door burst open.

“What in hell—” he began; then looked up. “Good God! Marga—Miss Warren!”

It was sufficiently surprising that his right-hand woman should erupt into his room at this hour in the night when he had supposed her many miles away in a holiday bed; but that she should be thus, gasping, white-faced, dust-covered, hair escaping in a shining cascade from beneath a wrecked hat, was incredible. Never before had he seen her other than calm, scrupulously dressed, exquisitely tidy and faintly severe in her beauty.

He rose to his feet slowly. The girl, her breath coming in great sobs, sank limply into a chair. Hastings rushed for the editorial bottle, glass, and siphon. He tugged at the door of the cupboard, remembered that he had locked it, and began to fumble for his keys. They eluded him. He swore beneath his breath, and then started as a hand was laid on his shoulder. He had not heard her approach.

“Please don’t worry about that.” Her words came short, jerkily, as she strove for breath. “Please, please, listen to me! I’ve got a Story—the biggest yet! Must have a special done now, tonight, this morning!”

Hastings forgot the whisky. The editor came to the top.

“What’s happened?” snapped the editor.

“Cabinet Minister dead. John Hoode’s been killed—murdered! Tonight. At his country house.”

“You know?”

The efficient Miss Margaret Warren was becoming herself again. “Of course. I heard all the fuss just after eleven. I was staying in Marling, you know. My landlady’s husband is the police-sergeant. So I hired a car and came straight here. I thought you’d like to know.” Miss Warren was unemotional.

“Hoode killed! Phew!” said Hastings, the man, wondering what would happen to the Party.

“What a story!” said Hastings, the editor. “Any other papers on to it yet?”

“I don’t think they can be—yet.”

“Right. Now nip down to Bealby, Miss Warren. Tell him he’s got to get ready for a two-page special now. He must threaten, bribe, shoot, do anything to keep the printers at the job. Then see Miss Halford and tell her she can’t go till she’s arranged for issue. Then please come back here; I shall want to dictate.”

“Certainly, Mr. Hastings,” said the girl, and walked quietly from the room.

Hastings looked after her, his forehead wrinkled. Sometimes he wished she were not so sufficient, so calmly adequate. Just now, for an instant, she had been trembling, white-faced, weak. Somehow the sight, even while he feared, had pleased him.

He shrugged his shoulders and turned to his desk.

“Lord!” he murmured. “Hoode murdered. Hoode!”

II

“That’s all the detail, then,” said Hastings half an hour later. Margaret Warren, neat, fresh, her golden hair smooth and shining, sat by his desk.

“Yes, Mr. Hastings.”

“Er—hm. Right. Take this down. ‘Cabinet Minister Assassinated. Murder at Abbotshall—’ ”

“ ‘Awful Atrocity at Abbotshall,’ ” suggested the girl softly.

“Yes, yes. You’re right as usual,” Hastings snapped. “But I always forget we have to use journalese in the specials. Right. ‘John Hoode Done to Death by Unknown Hand. The Owl most deeply regrets to announce that at eleven o’clock last night Mr. John Hoode, Minister of Imperial Finance, was found lying dead in the study of his country residence, Abbotshall, Marling. The circumstances were such’—pity we don’t know what they really were, Miss Warren—‘the circumstances were such as to show immediately that this chief among England’s greatest men had met his death at the hands of a murderer, though it is impossible at present to throw any light upon the identity of the criminal.’ New paragraph, please. ‘We understand, however, that no time was lost in communicating with Scotland Yard, who have assigned the task of tracking down the perpetrator of this terrible crime to their most able and experienced officers’—always a safe card that, Miss Warren—‘No time will be lost in commencing the work of investigation.’ Fresh paragraph, please. ‘All England, all the Empire, the whole world will join in offering their heartfelt sympathy to Miss Laura Hoode, who, we understand, is prostrated by the shock’—another safe bet—‘Miss Hoode, as all know, is the sister of the late minister and his only relative. It is known that there were two guests at Abbotshall, that brilliant leader of society, Mrs. Roland Mainwaring, and Sir Arthur Digby-Coates, the millionaire philanthropist and Parliamentary Secretary to the Board of Conciliation. Sir Arthur was an extremely close and lifelong friend of the deceased and would affirm that he had not an enemy in the world—’ ”

Miss Margaret Warren looked up, her eyebrows severely interrogative.

“Well?” said Hastings uneasily.

“Isn’t that last sentence rather dangerous, Mr. Hastings?”

“Hm—er—I don’t know—er—yes, you’re right, Miss Warren. Dammit, woman, are you ever wrong about anything?” barked Hastings; then recovered himself. “I beg your pardon. I—I—”

There came an aloof smile. “Please don’t apologise, Mr. Hastings. Shall I change the phrase?”

“Yes, yes,” muttered Hastings. “Say, say—put down—say—”

“ ‘—and are stricken aghast at the calamity which has befallen them,’ ” suggested the girl.

“Excellent,” said Hastings, composure recovered.

“By the way, did you tell Williams to get on with that padding? That sketch of Hoode’s life and work? We’ve got to fill up that opposite-centre page.”

“Yes, Mr. Williams started on it at once.”

“Good. Now take this down as a separate piece. It must be marked off with heavy black rules and be in Clarendon or some conspicuous type. Ready? ‘The Owl, aghast at this dreadful tragedy, yet arises from its sorrow and issues, on behalf of the public, a solemn exhortation and warning. Let the authorities see to it that the murderer is found, and found speedily. England demands it. The author of this foul deed must be brought swiftly to justice and punished with the utmost rigour of the law. No effort must be spared.’ Now a separate paragraph, please. It must be underlined and should go on the opposite page—under Williams’s article. ‘Aware of the tremendous interest and concern which this terrible crime will arouse, The Owl has made special arrangements to have bulletins (in the same form as this special edition) published at short intervals in order that the public may have full opportunity to know what progress is being made in the search for the criminal.

“ ‘These bulletins will be of extraordinary interest, since we are in a position to announce that a special correspondent will despatch to us (so far as is consistent with the wishes of the police, whom we wish to assist rather than compete with) at frequent intervals, from the actual locus of the crime a résumé of the latest developments.’ ” Hastings sighed relief and leant back in his chair. “That’s all, Miss Warren. And I hope—since the thing is done—that the murderer’ll remain a mystery for a bit. We’ll look rather prize idiots if the gardener’s boy or someone confesses tomorrow. Get that stuff typed and down to the printers as quick as you can, please.”

The girl rose and moved to the door, but paused on the threshold.

“Mr. Hastings,” she said, turning quickly, “what does that last bit mean? Are you sending one of the ordinary people down there—Mr. Sellars or Mr. Briggs?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so. What I said was all rot, but it’ll sound well. We just want reports that are a bit different from the others.”

She came nearer, her eyes wide. “Mr. Hastings, please excuse me, but you must listen. Why not let The Owl be really useful? Oh, don’t you see what it would mean if we helped to catch the murder? Our reputation—our sales. Why—”

“But I say, Miss Warren, look here, you know! We’ve not got an office full of Holmeses. They’re all perfectly ordinary fellers—”

“Colonel Gethryn,” said the girl quietly.

“Eh, what?” Hastings was startled. “He’d never—Miss Warren, you’re a wonder. But he wouldn’t take it on. He’s—”

“Ask him.” She pointed to the telephone at his side.

“What? Now?”

“Why not?”

“But—but it’s two o’clock,” stammered Hastings. He met the level gaze of his secretary’s blue eyes, lifted the receiver from its hook, and asked for a number.

“Hallo,” he said two minutes later, “is that Colonel Gethryn’s flat?”

“It is,” said the telephone. Its voice was sleepy.

“Is—is Colonel Gethryn in—out—up, I mean?”

“Colonel Gethryn,” said the voice, “who would infinitely prefer to be called Mr. Gethryn, is in his flat, out of bed, and upon his feet. Also he is beginning to become annoyed at—”

“Good Lord—Anthony!” said Hastings. “I didn’t recognise your voice.”

“Now that you have, O Hastings, perhaps you’ll explain why the hell you’re ringing me up at this hour. I may mention that I am in execrable temper. Proceed.”

Spencer Hastings proceeded. “Er—I—ah—that is—er—”

“If those are scales,” said the telephone, “permit me to congratulate you.”

Hastings tried again. “Something has happened,” he began.

“No!” said the telephone.

“D’you think you could—I know it’s an extraordinary thing to ask—er, but will you—er—”

Miss Margaret Warren rose to her feet, removed the instrument from her employer’s hands, put the receiver to her ear and spoke into the transmitter.

“Mr. Gethryn,” she said, “this is Margaret Warren speaking. What Mr. Hastings wished to do was to ask whether you could come down here—to the office—at once. Oh, I know it sounds mad, but we’ve received some amazing news, and Mr. Hastings wishes to consult you. I can’t tell you any more over the phone, but Mr. Hastings is sure that you’ll be willing to help. Please come; it might mean everything to the paper.”

“Miss Warren,” said the telephone sadly, “against my will you persuade me.”