Old Scores--A Barker & Llewelyn Novel

by Will Thomas

  “Are you going to continue to repeat yourself?”

  “Two columns,” I said. “Half an hour. Go to it, sir. The topic?”

  “How the Japanese are purchasing British warships and munitions to foment war in the East, and how the British government is colluding with them.”

  “Ah! And who is going to publish this little story?”

  “Someone who owes me a favor.”

  It took me a moment to add two and two.

  “Stead,” I said.

  William T. Stead was editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. We had once stopped a mob from burning his offices after he purchased a child and delivered her to the coast, merely to prove how easily it could be done. The Gazette and its editor were innovators, using photographs in its pages, for example. They also had a reputation for daring journalism.

  “Do we have enough facts to glue it all together?” I asked.

  “Just enough. I pray just enough. No more questions. We have work to do.”

  We worked, but it took more than half an hour. Without speaking, we both were concerned that Stead might be done for the day, or out to dinner. It was near six when we finished and closer to half past when we arrived in Fleet Street, due to traffic. We could almost have arrived faster on a run.

  We were in luck. Stead was still there, his omnipresent cigar between his teeth. I’ve always wondered if there were any editors who didn’t smoke, or didn’t have a bottle of Scotch secreted in their desks.

  “Mr. Barker,” the grizzled veteran said to him as we entered his office. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I have some information which may be of interest to you and your readers.”

  “I’m always glad to help the British public. Come in and have a seat.”

  This was better treatment than I expected. Possibly better than we deserved. My story was a tissue of facts, inferences, and innuendos. It was also damning, not only to Mononobe, in particular, but also to the Foreign Office.

  “I have stated the facts such as they are, and Mr. Llewelyn has cast them in the form of what might appear in a newspaper. Of course, I am not implying that you should use it as is or give him a byline. We were merely attempting to give the facts some cohesion.”

  “Understood,” Stead said. “Let me read.”

  Stead was fiftyish, his beard shot with gray, and his stomach showing a habit of too many cutlets and not enough exercise. He was a liberal Democrat, bordering upon socialism, and always looking for a downtrodden group or government scandal to feature in the pages of his Gazette. His politics were exactly the opposite of Barker’s. I prefer not to discuss my own, which tended toward the former.

  He began to read aloud.

  “‘Sources within the British government have confirmed that the ministers of the newly arrived Japanese delegation have been purchasing goods at an alarming rate. Those include not only base materials such as wood and food, but battleships and artillery for the country’s military. General Mononobe, current head of the delegation after the recent death of the original ambassador, Toda Ichigo, has assured the government that any munitions purchased are strictly for defense of the small string of islands, and yet an original order for a single battleship has been augmented to several, which sources have suggested is too many for merely defensive purposes.

  “‘General Mononobe and Admiral Edami have proven war records and a desire to see Japan join their neighbors to the west in colonization, but where and how much is in question. Equally uncertain is why the delegation is here in England at this critical time, and what arrangements might be agreed upon by the two countries. Foreign Office liaison Trelawney Campbell-Ffinch has not been available for comment.

  “‘Should Japan wish to join the nations which are considered world powers, it would cause concern among Her Majesty’s allies in Europe, who have not been included in the negotiations. Whispers of a secret treaty have affected the stock exchange and raise questions in both Houses of Parliament. Whether the sources are correct has not been fully verified, but the possibility of an Asian armada armed with so many English weapons has caused concern in all quarters of government. Hong Kong, Canton, and Macao, with so many English residents, might be at risk from Japanese saber rattling, but so far no firm confirmation of precisely which countries or colonies the imperial government might consider necessary to acquire in the name of Japanese safety have been revealed.’”

  “Did you write this?” he asked me.

  “I did.”

  “It’s good.” He turned and looked at my employer. “How much of this is substantiated?”

  “Most of it,” Barker said. “Well, some of it.”

  “Would the army or navy admit to arms sales?”

  “Probably not, but the admiral and general were both seen attending demonstrations of this country’s latest weaponry. What purpose would it serve if not to promote sales of those very products?”

  “Is there any proof that the Japanese government would use these weapons against local countries with whom they are in contention?”

  “Not the government,” Barker corrected. “A coalition of powerful families who hope to force the government toward militarism.”

  “How do I know this information is reliable? On whose testimony have you built this theory?”

  “On that of the late ambassador’s bodyguard, who is a member of the Kempeitai, the Japanese secret service.”

  “I would need proof that he exists.”

  Barker reached into his pocket and retrieved a folded letter. He opened it and passed it to Stead. I saw a Japanese signature at the bottom, though the letter was written in English.

  “Damning enough,” Stead admitted. “But I would need to speak with him directly. What’s his name?”

  “Ohara,” I said.

  “And when would this article need to appear?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Stead tossed the letter with finality.

  “Impossible,” he said. “We’re going to press within an hour. We’re just finishing setting type. This article needs to be substantiated.”

  “You’ve gone to press with less.”

  “Indeed I have,” Stead said. “Many times. But not with an indictment against the government.”

  “Ah,” Barker said. “But I have not stated that the government is culpable. The army or navy can sell battleships to an ambassador with impunity. Rather, it is the ambassador, knowing they are meant for a third party and not the Meiji government, who bears the blame.”

  “You’re trying to stop him.”

  “Desperately.”

  “You can’t. Not with this, by tomorrow morning. The information must be vetted if I am going to face scrutiny by Her Majesty’s government. A bee can sting, but he can also be stepped on.”

  “Very well,” Barker said, folding the letter and putting it back in his pocket. “I would like to call in a favor.”

  “I knew it would come eventually. What is it?”

  “I’d like to make use of your press tonight for about half an hour.”

  “That’s hard. What do you need it for?”

  “To make a false newspaper front page with a limited run.”

  “How limited?” Stead asked, lighting a fresh cigar, and tossing the spent vesta in an ashtray full of them.

  “No more than thirty or so. Enough to catch the embassy and the Foreign Office unawares.”

  Stead shook his hand in the air, fanning himself. “That’s hot. I could get into a lot of trouble.”

  “Why? Suppose your hardworking staff stepped out at eleven P.M., before the pubs closed, leaving the equipment unattended, for half a pint of bitters.”

  Stead whistled.

  “That’s an awfully big favor. But then from you I would expect nothing less. Won’t you need typesetters and inkers?”

  “I’ve got a crew of my own.”

  “I just bet you do,” the newspaper editor said. “The Swell Mob.”

  “So what is your an
swer?”

  Stead closed his eyes and considered long and hard. If there was any way for him to get out of it.

  “Very well, but I want this done right. My boys will leave at eleven, shut and lock the door, and come back one hour later. You can print what you like within that hour, as long as it’s not about the royal family. Am I clear?”

  “As crystal.”

  “I may need an alienist. Or a solicitor. Or a one-way ticket to France by tomorrow morning. We’re square after this, Barker. No more favors.”

  “Done.”

  “It might have been better to let this place burn to the ground.”

  We let him have the last word on the subject.

  Outside in the street, we walked until we came to The Old Bell tavern and finally had dinner. However, that was not the only reason for our being there. After our meal, Barker got up and walked to the bar to speak to the publican.

  “Sir,” he said. “I should like to have this room for a private party.”

  “I believe we can accommodate you, sir. When would you like to borrow our rooms?”

  “Eleven o’clock will do.”

  “Eleven … You mean tonight?”

  “There is no time like the present. I believe that is the phrase.”

  “Will there be alcohol consumed?”

  “Well, I should say, or I would have rented a temperance society hall or a family hotel.”

  “That is after hours, sir. Drinking hours are until eleven, not a moment later.”

  “That is why I requested a private party, my good man.”

  “What am I to do with my customers?”

  Barker paused and nodded. “I suppose you could tell them to leave. After all, they are no longer bringing in custom.”

  The meaty-faced publican scowled at my employer. “And for what should I tell my best and most loyal customers to leave?”

  “For twenty-five pounds, I should imagine.”

  The man’s busy eyebrows came within an inch of his hairline. He was calculating. A glass of bitters was sixpence. Even illegally, he’d probably make no more than a pound that hour. This was twenty-five times that.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Barker added. “Any one of your regulars wishing to stay after eleven can have drinks on me, provided they only leave through the back way. I would make certain you have plenty of beverages on hand. My guests will be printers and newspapermen, a thirsty lot.”

  The publican’s demeanor changed as I set down the twenty-five pounds on his well-worn bar. He lifted the flap, came around the bar and shook Barker’s hand. He promised to have some nuts and sweetmeats on hand, and to go round everything with a rag. New sawdust would be lain down, and a piano player brought in. Would the gentleman have any other stipulations?

  “No. I shall not be attending. Expect the men to be here shortly after eleven.”

  We left the pub. The Guv rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

  “What next?” I asked.

  “I’ll go to the offices and call Mac. He’ll meet us there at ten-thirty. You go to the Rising Sun and tell Jeremy the same. Wait, on second thought, tell the barmaid. She’ll keep better time than he.”

  “I fear this will be a long night,” I said.

  “Aye,” he growled. “And a long morning shall follow it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  We arrived at the Rising Sun that evening shortly after eleven o’clock. We had hired a brougham, which would seat the four of us, Mac included. We used the back entrance to the courtyard in Great Scotland Yard Street, and pulled up to the old public house.

  Barker and I looked at each other, thinking the same thought: what if Jeremy Jenkins had not kept to his promise and was now unconscious on one of the tables? He loved his pint, not to mention four or five of its brethren. We tended to speak in low tones the first hour of the day, due to the fact that he was often the worse for the night before. It would have been wiser to have warned him off the Sun entirely for the night, but Barker did not have the heart. I opened the brougham door and stepped down while Barker and Mac waited. If I needed them I would return.

  Our clerk is a tall, thin fellow, with a hawkish nose and pomaded hair with a widow’s peak. He has a thick Cockney accent. He used to live with his father, but the senior Jenkins had passed away a couple of years before. The old man had been an infamous engraver and forger, who had passed on his skills to his son. I presumed Jenkins still lived in the same house on the Lambeth side, but we didn’t trade confidences. Our clerk is very self-contained.

  I walked in and looked about. Jenkins was nowhere to be found. Circling the tables, I finally found him in a corner with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. A mostly empty pint glass was on the well-worn table in front of him.

  “What number is that?” I asked, indicating the glass.

  “My second. And it wasn’t easy. I promise you, Mr. L. I had to order Liddy the barmaid not to give me a third, no matter how much I pleaded.”

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  “Willing and anxious. I need to see what sort of equipment they have at the Gazette.”

  “I’ll help you set the type, if you like, Jeremy.”

  “Set type? This isn’t the Middle Ages. They must have a linotype machine, if they expect to stay current with the other London newspapers. Set type, indeed.”

  “Sorry,” I said, shrugging. “I had no idea.”

  “It will take all four of us to work the rotary press, however. You’ll have to keep your wits about you, since you have to climb up onto the machine. There are very sharp blades to cut the paper.”

  “That’s good to know. I can hardly wait.”

  We climbed into the brougham and passed down Whitehall Street, headed north. Fleet Street was at the north end of Charing Cross, which begins almost exactly at Craig’s Court.

  “How are you, Jeremy?”

  “Never better, sir. Eager to get to work.” He paused and nodded at Mac, who had been sitting silently in the cab. “Mr. Maccabee.”

  “Mr. Jenkins.”

  Jenkins and Mac parsed Barker’s day between them. Jeremy had him for roughly eleven hours and Mac closer to thirteen. Each of them helped him as best they could. Mac made a good show of being serious, even earnest, but Jenkins was completely nonchalant. I didn’t believe either of them. It was a great responsibility to be a clerk in Whitehall Street and many wanted the position. He might show up hungover, and move slowly at first, but everything that needed to be done was done by five o’clock. Barker never need worry on that score.

  Mac desperately wanted to be an enquiry agent. He reveled in situations outside of Barker’s home where his services were needed. He thought he needed to impress the Guv with his pluck. Of the three of us, I was the only one whom Barker had not originally helped out of jail. I’d been out a few months when I was hired. I was about to take a long walk over Waterloo Bridge. Barker had rehabilitated all of us, and we were grateful for all he had done.

  We came to a stop near the entrance to the Gazette and waited. About five minutes later a number of men came out of the alleyway looking rather confused.

  “Gentlemen!” I called out. “It just so happens that there is a private party at The Old Bell. All of you are invited!”

  The men broke into grins and lifted their cloth caps. There is a certain warm glow which accompanies the words “the drinks are on the house.” I noticed no one dawdled. We had the place all to ourselves. I walked up to the back door and grasped the handle.

  “It’s locked,” I said, shocked.

  “Of course,” Barker purred. “They took every precaution. And yet somehow, we broke in.”

  He took the skeleton key from his pocket and jiggled it about in the lock for a moment. Like the rest of us, it soon gave up and let the Guv have his way.

  “Will Stead get in trouble for this?” I asked.

  “Probably, but I happen to know he is starting a new business venture with The Strand Magazine. This merely p
rovides him the opportunity to resign.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I read the newspapers. All of them.”

  The door opened and we stepped inside. Mac loitered in the alleyway a moment or two to make sure a constable was not wandering the area. Meanwhile, Jenkins hurried to the printing room.

  “Marvelous!” he said. “A new linotype and a rotary printer. We’ll be in and out in half an hour. Have you got the article to print?”

  I pulled it from my pocket and gave it to him. He perused it with a professional’s eye.

  “I see the rest of the articles are here. Ours should take two columns. The rest we’ll take from the planned first page, as well as the entire back of it.”

  “How does this linotype thing work?” I asked.

  “There is a keyboard here, similar to your typewriting machine. I press the key and it lays a letter down, and when it is all typeset, a thin slurry of hot lead goes down, making a solid sheet. After it’s done printing, the sheet can be broken up and used again.”

  “That’s ingenious,” I said.

  “Here, I’ll show you.”

  Despite being reformed, Jeremy seemed to have a strong grasp on the latest inventions in the printing world. He stood at the linotype and began pressing letters into the machine. I am not a mechanical person. If given a watch in pieces I couldn’t put it back together if given the whole of time. I had written the letter and Barker liked it. So far as I was concerned, I had already contributed and that was good enough for me.

  Within fifteen minutes the front page had been finished, and to be sure, he recopied the back of the page as well.

  “They misspelled two words,” he said, scandalized.

  Once the printing plate had been completed, we carried it over and set it on the machine. He inspected the ink volume and primed the paper, and at his word, the three of us removed our jackets and climbed aboard the huge printer.

  “You’re to see that the paper doesn’t jam, and that the cutter is working properly. It should not take long,” he said. “We are only printing fifty copies.”

  Had it been run on steam I’d have known what I was about, but these modern dynamos flabbergasted me. With a touch of a switch, paper spun by my face and was sliced neatly in two by the cutter, which was inches away. Were I to reach in and touch something, I’d find myself missing a hand.