The Yellow Face

by Fred M. White

It was not to be supposed that this had happened without attracting the Argus eye of the Press. The nightbirds of journalism had been hovering about, seeking their prey of sensational copy. They haunted the police station with a hope that something might turn up--the hope that every reporter has that sooner or later he may happen on a good thing that has in it the making of some columns of red-hot descriptive matter.

One of them, hungry and lynx-eyed, had seen the body of Nostalgo carried to Shannon Street station. There might have been a paragraph then; there might have been a column. At any rate, the chance was too good to be lost. The reporter was on the best of terms with the police for a square mile or so; indeed, his living more or less depended on the good fellowship of the local authorities. The sergeant had first of all set the ball rolling; the reporter had seen the body; he had no difficulty in recognizing the striking likeness between the dead man and the poster. Younger men would have rushed off at once and made a long paragraph of this, manifolded it, and sent it broadcast along Fleet Street.

But not so the old and cunning hand at the game; his instinct told him that there was more to come. There was more to come, probably in the shape of the shaken Gregory, who presently told the reporter his part of the story. This was a case when a cab was justified. Half-an-hour later the reporter was closeted with the chief sub-editor of the Daily Planet,a halfpenny morning paper dealing largely in sensations. The sub-editor's eye gleamed as he listened to the reporter's story. This was something after his own heart.

"Write two columns of it," he said. "You can use Daly's room. Serve it up as hot as you can with plenty of scare heads. We'll give it the first place on page five. You had better have a stenographer, as time is pressing." Therefore it came about that the half million or so of readers of the Planet had the shock at breakfast the following day. With its tally of many dazzling sensations, the Planet had never been more successful than in this. The thing was admirably done. The mystery was puzzling to a degree. Before ten o'clock the following morning London was talking of little else. It was discussed in the train, on the top of the omnibus, in City offices. The name of Nostalgo was on every lip.

The editor-in-chief and the chief shareholder in the Planet Company came down to the office very early in the forenoon, an action quite unusual with him. But his keen instinct scented a good thing for the Planet here. The thing was exclusively his own, and he meant to work it to the last ounce. The little man with the bald head and gold-rimmed monocle had created a pretty scheme by the time he had reached his office. Without loss of time he sent for Mr. Richard Rigby. Rigby came in response to the summons. He found journalism more remunerative than the Bar.

"This is the best thing we have ever had," Mr. Van Jens said in his staccato way. "I'm just going to show the British public what an American journalist can do with the thing. It's pretty clear to me that the police have blundered, as they always do, and that they have got right off the track of the truth. We're going to solve the mystery, Rigby, and you're the man I have picked out to do it. In the first place, you are a clever actor, and you have pluck. Go about it in your own way, and take your own time. Never mind the expense; spend £1,000 if necessary. Only get to the bottom of the thing, if it's merely to prove to the police that they can't do without the Press. By the way, isn't Masefield a friend of yours?"

Rigby admitted that such was the case. He did not pretend to follow the quick working of his chief's brain; few men were competent to do that. Van Jens was leaning over the Planet in order to read the report of the Nostalgo affair.

"I saw Masefield last night," Rigby said. He did not tell Van Jens that Jack had met him at Carrington's, for that was a matter concerning Masefield alone. "Do you think he is likely to be of any assistance to me?"

"It is just possible. You see it was Masefield who actually found the body of the man who we call Nostalgo. It is possible also that Masefield knows more than our reporter got to find out. You had better hint to Masefield that there is a chance of getting a commission from us to write a serial for one of our weekly journals--he is in the way of doing that kind of thing. Anyway, get him to regard it in a favorable light. If you handle the man properly, I feel quite sure that he will offer you valuable information."

Rigby nodded. He did not tell Van Jens that Jack Masefield was a close friend of his, for that point had nothing to do with Van Jens, who regarded Rigby as the typical smart unit of the smart paper, and none too scrupulous where men were concerned. As a matter of fact Rigby had his code of honor; possibly his chief would not have considered it. Come what might, Rigby was not likely to take any advantage of Masefield.