Every door, window, and letter-box became an object of fearsome curiosity. People were half inclined to wonder how they could so many times have passed the “Record” office without recognising something of impending tragedy about the building—something of historic interest in the shape of the very window-panes and key-holes. One man among the crowd attained enviable celebrity by announcing that he “see the editor go up that passage and through that door—the very door where he’d gone through that morning afore he was murdered—scores of times, and didn’t think nothink of it,” which last admission seemed to impress the crowd with the fact that here at least was a fellow whose praiseworthy modesty deserved encouragement.
Meanwhile no sign of anything having transpired was to be seen within the building, and people were beginning to get impatient when, from somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Thames Embankment, came that sound so familiar to Cockney ears—a sound which no true Londoner can hear with indifference—the hoarse vociferation of the newsvendors proclaiming some sensational news. At first it was nothing but a distant babel, like the husky barking of dogs, but as it drew nearer the shouts became more distinguishable, and I caught the words, “’Ere yer are, sir! ‘Sun,’ sir! Murder of a heditor this mornin’! ’Ere yer are, sir!”
“That’s smart, that is!” said a fellow who was standing next to me in the crowd. “T. P. O’Connor don’t let no grass grow under his feet, ’e don’t. Why, the murdered man ain’t ’ardly cold, and ’ere it is all in the ‘Sun!’”
“Shut yer jaw,” said a woman near him. “’Tain’t this murder at all—can’t yer ’ear?” And then as the moving babel, like a slowly travelling storm-cloud, drew nearer and nearer and finally burst upon Fleet Street, we could make out what the newsvendors were hoarsely vociferating.
“’Ere yer are, sir! ‘Sun,’ sir! Murder o’ the heditor o’ the ‘Dublin News’ this mornin’. Capture o’ the hassassin, who turns hinformer. Captain Shannon’s name and hidentity disclosed. The ’ole ’ideous plot laid bare. ’Ere yer are, sir!”
Elbowing my way as best I could through the crowd, I succeeded at last in getting within a yard or two of a newsboy, and, by offering him a shilling and telling him not to mind the change, possessed myself of a “Sun.” This is what I read at the top of the centre page:—
“The editor of the ‘Dublin News’ was stabbed in the street at an early hour this morning. The murderer was captured and has now turned informer. The police refuse to give any information in regard to what has been divulged, but there is no doubt that Captain Shannon’s name and identity have at last been disclosed, and that the whole hideous conspiracy is now laid bare. Further particulars in our next edition.”
CHAPTER V
THE IDENTITY OF CAPTAIN SHANNON DISCLOSED AT LAST
The news that the captured conspirator had turned informer and divulged the name and identity of Captain Shannon created, as may be supposed, the wildest excitement. Contrary to general expectation, the authorities seemed willing to accord information instead of withholding it, though whether this was not as much due to gratification at finding themselves in the novel position of having any information to accord, as to their desire to allay public anxiety, may be questioned.
The editor of the “Dublin News” had, it seemed, been speaking at a public dinner and was returning between twelve and one o’clock from the gathering. As it was a close night and the room had been hot, he mentioned to a friend that he thought he should walk home instead of driving. This he had apparently done, for a police constable who was standing in the shadow of a doorway near the editor’s residence saw him turn the corner of the street closely followed by another man who was presumably begging. The editor stopped and put his hand in his pocket as if to search for a coin, and as he did so the supposed beggar struck at him, apparently with a knife. The unfortunate gentleman fell without a cry, and the assassin then stooped over him to repeat the blow, after which he started to run at full speed in the direction of the constable, who drew back within the doorway until the runner was almost upon him, when he promptly tripped his man up and held him down until assistance arrived. When taken to the station the prisoner at first denied, with much bluster, all knowledge of the crime; but when he learned, with evident dismay, that the murder had been witnessed, and saw the damning evidence of guilt in the shape of blood-spattering upon his right sleeve, his bluster gave place to the most grovelling terror, and though he refused to give any account of himself he was removed to a cell in a state of complete collapse.