The City in the Clouds

by Guy Thorne

  CHAPTER TWO

  About a fortnight after the memorable scene in my flat when the leaguecame into being, I was sitting in my editorial room at the offices ofthe _Evening Special_.

  I had met Juanita once at a large dinner party and exchanged half adozen words with her--that was all. My head was full of plans, I wastrying to map out a social campaign that would give me the opportunity Ilonged for, but as yet everything was tentative and incomplete. Theexciting business of journalism, the keeping of one's thumb upon thepublic pulse, the directing of public thought into this or that channel,was most welcome at a time like this, and I threw myself into it withavidity.

  I had just returned from lunch, and the first editions of the paper weresuccessfully afloat, when Williams, my acting editor, and Miss Dewsbury,my private secretary, came into my room.

  "Things are very quiet indeed," said Williams.

  "But the circulation is all right?"

  "Never better. Still, I am thinking of our reputation, Sir Thomas."

  I knew what he meant. We had never allowed the _Evening Special_--highlysuccessful as it was--to go on in a jog-trot fashion. We had atremendous reputation for great "stunts," genuine, exclusive pieces ofnews, and now for weeks nothing particular had come our way.

  "That's all very well, Williams, but we cannot make bricks withoutstraw, and if everything is as stagnant as a duck pond, that's not ourfault."

  Miss Dewsbury broke in. She was a little woman of thirty with a largehead, fair hair drawn tightly from a rather prominent brow, and woretortoise-shell spectacles. She looked as if her clothes had been flungat her and had stuck, but for all that Julia Dewsbury was the bestprivate secretary in London, true as steel, with an inordinate capacityfor work and an immense love for the paper. I think she liked me alittle too, and she was well worth the four hundred a year I paid her.

  "I," said Miss Dewsbury, "live at Richmond."

  Both Williams and I cocked our ears. Julia never wasted words, but sheliked to tell her story her own way, and it was best to let her do so.

  "Ah!" said Williams appreciatively.

  "And I believe," she went on, "that one of the biggest newspaperstories, ever, is going to come from Richmond. It is something that willgo round the world, if I am not very much mistaken, and we've got tohave it first, Sir Thomas."

  Williams gave a low whistle, and I strained at the leash, so to speak.

  "I refer," Miss Dewsbury went on, "to the great wireless erections onRichmond Hill."

  For a moment I felt disappointed. I didn't see how interest could berevived in that matter and I said so.

  "Nearly a year ago," I remarked, "every paper in England was boomingwith it. We did our share, I'm sure. No one could have protested morevigorously, and it was the _Special_ that got all those questions askedin Parliament. But surely, Miss Dewsbury, it's dead as mutton now. It'san accepted fact and the public have got used to it."

  "There's nothing," said Williams, "more impossible than to reanimate adead bit of news. It's been tried over and over again and it's neverbeen a real success."

  Miss Dewsbury smiled, the smile that means "When you poor dear, sillymen have done talking, then you shall hear something." I saw that smileand took courage again.

  "Suppose," said Miss Dewsbury, "that we just look up the facts as apreliminary to what I have to say."

  She went to a side table on which was a dial with little ivory tablets,each bearing a name--Sub-editor's room, Composing room, Mr. Williams,Library, etc., and she pulled a little handle over the last disk,immediately speaking into a telephone receiver above.

  "Facts relating to great wireless installment on Richmond Hill."

  A bell whirred and she came back to the table where we were sitting. Intwenty seconds--so perfect was our organization at the _Special_office--a youth entered with a portfolio containing a number of Presscuttings, photographs, etc.

  Miss Dewsbury opened it.

  "A year ago," she said, "the real estate market was greatly interestedto learn that Flight, Jones & Rutley, the well-known agents, had securedseveral acres of property on the top of Richmond Hill. The buyer's namewas not discovered, but an enormously wealthy syndicate was suggested.At that time, opportunely chosen, many leases had fallen in. Others thathad some time still to run were bought at a greatly enhanced value,while several portions of freehold property were also purchased at tentimes their worth. Houses immediately began to be demolished, immensecompensation was paid to those who hung out and refused to quit thenewly purchased area. Pressure, it is hinted, of a somewhatunwarrantable kind, was also applied. The sum involved was enormous, butevery claim was cheerfully settled, with the result that this area ofseveral acres was entirely denuded of buildings and surrounded by a highwall, in an incredibly short space of time."

  "The most beautiful view in England spoiled forever!" said Williams witha sigh.

  Miss Dewsbury turned over a few leaves.

  "Of course you will both remember the agitation that went on, theopposition of the local and County Councils, the rage of Societies forpreserving the ancient monuments and historic places of interest, etc.,etc. The newspapers, including ours, took up the matter vigorously.Then, with a curious unanimity, all opposition began to die away. It isquite certain that huge sums were spent in buying over the objectors,though no actual proof was ever discovered. The matter was altogethertoo delicate a thing and was far too skillfully worked.

  "Then the unknown purchaser began to build the three great towers nowapproaching completion. An army of workmen was gathered together in anew industrial city between Brentford and Hounslow. Fleets of shipsbearing steel girders and so forth arrived from America, together with ahundred highly trained engineers, all of them Americans. It was givenout that the most powerful wireless station in the whole world was to beconstructed. Again much opposition, appeals to the Government, questionsto the Board of Trade and so forth. I remember that very much the samesort of thing happened in Paris, when the Eiffel Tower was firstconstructed. England's agitation was opposed by the scientific bodies ofthe day, and there were other forces behind which brought pressure tobear on the Government. That also is certain, though nothing hasactually transpired as yet in this regard. Now we've three monstroustowers, _each of nearly two thousand feet in height_--twice the heightof the Eiffel--dominating London. Every day almost we, who live inRichmond and the surrounding towns, see these monsters shooting uphigher into the air. Often half of them is veiled by clouds. The mosttremendous engineering feat in the history of the world is nearlyaccomplished."

  Now all this was quite familiar to me and in common with many LondonersI had begun to take a sort of lazy pride in the gaunt lattice-work ofsteel which seemed climbing to heaven itself. All the same I saw nogreat journalistic opportunity and I said so.

  "Let us consider a little," continued the imperturbable Julia. "Thesetowers are _not_ Government owned. They are the property of someprivate syndicate. The secret has been kept with extraordinary success.All the Marconi shareholders of the City, all the big financialcorporations, even foreign Governments, have been trying to get at theroot of the matter. Each and all have utterly failed. Yet our ownGovernment knows, and sooner or later a pronouncement will have to bemade. If we could anticipate this, then the interest of the public wouldrise to fever heat again, and we should have a scoop of the firstmagnitude."

  I saw that immediately, and so did Williams, but as it was obvious MissDewsbury hadn't quite finished we just nodded and let her go on.

  "Now I have reason for thinking," she said, "and I am not speakinglightly, Sir Thomas, that there's something behind this affair of atotally unexpected and startling nature. Some day, no doubt, the towerswill be used for scientific purposes, but there's a deep mysterysurrounding everything, and one very different from what we mightsuppose. I think we can penetrate it."

  "Splendid!" I cried, for I knew very well that Julia Dewsbury would notsay as much as she had unless there was certainty behind her words. "Andhow do you
propose to start work?"

  As I was looking at her she flushed, and I nearly fell off my chair. Ithad never occurred to me that Miss Dewsbury could blush, in fact, thatshe was human at all, I am afraid, and I wondered what on earth was thematter.

  "May I make a little personal explanation, Sir Thomas?" she said. "Ilive in a quiet street at the foot of Richmond Hill, where I occupy alarge and comfortable bed-sitting room in 'Balmoral,' Number 102, AcaciaRoad. The house is kept by an excellent woman, who only takes in oneother lodger. You pay me a very handsome salary, Sir Thomas, and I mightbe expected to live in a more commodious way--a flat in Kensington orsomething like that. But I have other claims upon me. There are twoyoung sisters and a brother to be educated, and I am their sole support.That's why I live in a small lodging house at Richmond, which, again, isthe reason that I have recently come into contact with some one who maybe of inestimable value to the paper."

  She blushed again, upon my soul she did, and I heard Williams gasp inastonishment. I kicked him, under the table.

  "The other bed-sitting room at 'Balmoral' has recently been occupied bya young man, perhaps I should rather say a youth, Mr. William Rolston.He seemed very lonely and quite poor, and on discussing him with Mrs.O'Hagan, my landlady, she informed me that she more than suspected thathe had at times to economize grievously in the matter of food. I myselfused to hear the click of a typewriter across the passage, sometimescontinuing till late at night, and from the frequency with which bulkyenvelopes arrived for him by post, it was easy to deduce that he was anunsuccessful author or journalist. This naturally excited my interest.Mrs. O'Hagan has no idea that I am connected with the _Evening Special_,she thinks I am typist in a city firm of hardware merchants. And when Imade my acquaintance with Mr. Rolston, as I did some time ago owing tohis back number Remington going wrong, I told him nothing but that Imyself was a typist and stenographer. I was enabled to put his machineright and we became friends. Am I boring you, Sir Thomas, and Mr.Williams?" she said suddenly, with a quick look at both of us.

  "On the contrary," I replied, "you are paying us a great compliment,Miss Dewsbury, in allowing us to know something of your own privateaffairs in order that you may explain how you propose to do the paper asignal service."

  I can swear that the little woman's eyes grew bright behind hertortoise-shell spectacles and she went on with renewed confidence ofmanner.

  "I have been associated with journalism for eight years now," she said."During that time innumerable journalists have passed before me. In myown way I have studied them all, and I believe I can detect the realjournalist almost as well as Mr. Williams can."

  "A good deal better, I should think," said the acting editor,"considering the people I have trusted and the mistakes I have sometimesmade."

  "At any rate, I can say, with my whole heart, that Bill--I mean Mr.Rolston--though he is only twenty-one and has never had a chance in hislife yet, has the makings in him of the most successful journalist ofthe day. He will rise to the very top of the tree. But as we all know,though great merit will come to the surface in time, chance is a greatelement in retarding or accelerating the process. I think that Mr.Rolston's chance has come now."

  "You mean?" I asked.

  "That this boy, utterly unknown, with hardly a left foot in Fleet Streetas yet, has had the acumen to see, right to his hand, one of thegreatest journalistic sensations of modern times. I refer to the threetowers on Richmond Hill. We have been for evening strolls together andthe boy has poured out his whole heart to me--as he might to a mother orany older woman"--and here poor Julia blushed again, and I thought I sawher lips quiver for a moment.

  "The day before yesterday he said to me: 'Miss Dewsbury, of course youdon't understand anything about journalism, but I'm on the track of thevery biggest thing you could possibly imagine. I have been lying low andsaying nothing. I'm hot on the scent.' He hinted at what it was, withoutgiving me very many details, though these were quite sufficient to showme that he was making no idle boast. Then he said: 'But what use is it?If I went with what I've got already to any of the papers, I might ormight not get to see some unimaginative news-editor who'd squash me intoa cocked hat in five minutes. That's the worst of being absolutelyunknown and without any pull. If only I could get to see a real editorof one of the big papers, a man who would give me a patient hearing, aman with imagination, I would engage to convince him in ten minutes andmy fortune would be made.'"

  She stopped, leant back in her chair and looked at me inquiringly.

  "Good heavens!" I cried. "Have him up _at once_. I am quite certain thatyou could never have been deceived, Miss Dewsbury. You have not beenwith me for four years without my knowing how valuable your intuitionis. Send him to me at once."

  Miss Dewsbury gave a dry, gratified chuckle.

  "I may have stretched things a little far in having too much confidencein my position here," she said, "but I was determined to gamble on it,and I've won. This morning, before I left for the office, I gave Mrs.O'Hagan a little note for Bill--he has an unfortunate habit of lying inbed in the morning. The note told him that by an odd coincidence, Ithought I might put him in the way of writing an article for the_Evening Special_ and that he was to be in the cafe at the corner bythree o'clock, precisely."

  She looked at her wrist-watch.

  "It's five minutes to now. I will send for him at once."

  "Rolston, did you say the name was, Miss Dewsbury?" said Williams.

  "Yes,--Rolston. But the messenger can't mistake him. He's about fivefeet two high, very slim, with an innocent, baby face, and very dark redhair. Oh, and his ears stick out at the sides of his head almost atright angles. Please say nothing about my part in the matter, as yet atany rate," Miss Dewsbury asked as she went away, and some minutesafterwards a page boy ushered in one of the most curious little figuresI have ever seen.

  Mr. Rolston was short, slim and well proportioned. He looked active as amonkey and tough as whipcord. He was rather shabbily dressed in an oldblue suit. His face was childish only in contour and complexion, and forthe rest he could have sat as a model for Puck to any painter. There wassomething impish and merry in his rather slanting eyes, and his buttonof a mouth was capable of some very surprising contortions. Hisround-shaped ears, like the ears of a mouse, stood out on each side ofhis head and completed the elfish, sprite-like impression.

  "Sit down, Mr. Rolston," I said, pointing to a chair on the other sideof the table.

  The little man bowed very low and slid into the chair. I had an oddimpression that he would shortly produce a nut and begin to crack itwith his teeth. I could see that he was in a whirl of amazement and atthe same time horribly nervous, and I tried to put him at his ease.

  "I understand," I said, "that you are a journalist, Mr. Rolston."

  "Yes, Sir Thomas," he replied, in a cultivated voice, though with acurious guttural note in it, and I marked that he knew my name.

  "I also understand--never mind how--that for some time past you havebeen wishing to see the editor of a large London daily, to penetrateright to the fountain head, so to speak. Well, here you are, I am theeditor of the _Evening Special_. What have you to propose to me?"

  I passed a box of cigarettes over the table towards him, but he shookhis head.

  "It's about the three great towers now approaching completion atRichmond."

  "You have some special information?"

  "Some very startling information, indeed, Sir Thomas. An idea came to mesome months ago. I thought it worth while testing, and it's provedtrumps."

  "If you have anything in the nature of a scoop, Mr. Rolston, I needhardly say that it will be very well worth your while. If, when I haveheard what you have to say, I cannot use your information, I will giveyou my personal word that all you tell me shall be kept an entiresecret."

  "That's good enough for any one," he answered with a sudden grin. "Well,sir, these towers will eventually lapse to the British Government as agift from the private individual who has erected them, but
they willremain his property and be used for his own purposes until his death.And these purposes are not wireless telegraphy, or even scientific inany shape or form. Indeed, wireless telegraphy is expressly forbidden."

  Well, at that I sat upright in my chair. Here was news indeed--if itwere true.

  "That's big stuff," I replied at once, "if you can substantiate it."

  "I think you will believe me when I have finished," he replied quietly."I have risked my life more than once to get at the facts. My father,Sir Thomas, was a missionary in China. I was brought up to speak theChinese language as well as English. I am one of the very few Europeanswho do so fluently. Moreover, I kept it up till I was sixteen and cameto England, and I have never forgotten it. You have heard, I suppose,that there's a gang of Chinese coolies at work on the towers, and someof the Trade Unions have been making themselves nasty about it, and theAmerican labor?"

  "Yes, there was some agitation."

  "In addition to these coolies, there are many Chinese officials of amuch higher class, people who will remain when the towers are finished,as they will be in an incredibly short space of time, for the work isbeing carried on both by day and night. Speed, speed, speed! is theorder, and nothing in the world is allowed to stand in the way of it."

  "You interest me very much. Please continue."

  "Speaking Chinese as I do, being perfectly familiar with Chinese dressand customs, it has not been difficult for me to disguisemyself--blacken my hair, assume a yellow complexion and so forth.

  "By this means I have penetrated to the very heart of the workings atnight, and," he blushed faintly, "I have listened to conversations of anextraordinary character, lying on the roof of a certain office buildingfor hours. Details you shall have, and in plenty, but here is the sum ofmy discoveries. There is no syndicate. There never was. The work, uponwhich millions have been spent, has been, from the very first, designedand originated by one individual, with the specialized help of the mostfamous engineers of America."

  "And his motive?" I asked, and I don't mind saying that I was almosttrembling with excitement.

  "The dream of a genius, or the whim of a madman," Rolston answered in agrave voice. "The world will call it one or the other without a doubt.At any rate it's the product of a colossal imagination. For myself, I amdead certain that there's some deeper and stranger motive beneath itall, but that can rest for the present. Sir Thomas, between those threegreat towers, two thousand feet up in the air, will very shortly comeinto being a fantastic pleasure city like a dream of the Arabian Nights!It will be unique in the history of the world, and already thepreparations are so far advanced that it will be completed withextraordinary rapidity."

  "A pleasure city!" I gasped. "A Pleasure City in the Clouds!"

  "On two stages right up at the very summit, suspended by a system ofcantilevers of the most intricate modern construction and of toughenedsteel. I understand that a triangle measuring in all four acres willsupport a marvelous series of palaces, a Lhassa of the air!"

  "Why Lhassa, Mr. Rolston?"

  "Because," he replied, "it's to be a Forbidden City, which no one willbe allowed to penetrate or see. It is a marvelous conception onlypossible to enormous wealth and the vision of a superman."

  I left my chair and began pacing up and down the room as the freakishgrandeur of the conception burst fully upon me. Towering over London,dwarfing Saint Paul's to a child's toy, a City in the Clouds!

  I stopped suddenly, wheeled round and shouted: "But who, Mr. Rolston, isthe madman, genius or superman who has imagined this and actuallycarried it out in sober twentieth-century England?"

  "That's the greatest secret of all," he said, looking round the room asif frightened.

  Then he slid from his chair and was at my side in a moment.

  "It's a Mr. Gideon Mendoza Morse from Brazil," he whispered.