Talking to the Times
The next morning, before Shirley makes his round to the remaining embassies, he stops in at the offices of the London Times and inquires how he may reach Basil Cartwright, special reporter for the Grand Ellipse. He sends Cartwright a telegram:
THWARTED ATTACK LAST NIGHT STOP IRISHMAN NICHOLAS FINN RESPONSIBLE STOP WARN OTHERS STOP INVESTIGATE STOP SHIRLEY ADDAM
The Times is happy to send the telegram to Mr. Cartwright, and wishes to know if Shirley will kindly consent to a brief interview with another one of their reporters, as Mr. Cartwright is unavailable. “Very well, if you can produce one quickly,” says Shirley. After his busy night, his eyes are reddened and he looks rumpled and harassed.
“Of course, Mr. Addam,” says the receptionist. “I’ll go fetch Mr. Harris immediately.” The receptionistushers Shirley into a small office overflowing with books, newspapers, magazines, stacks of paper, bits of old sandwiches, half a dozen dirty teacups, and an agitated canary in a cage hanging from the ceiling. The receptionist explains to you that Mr. Harris will be with you in a moment, and to ignore Bertie (he gestures at the canary) as the bird has a nervous condition.
The canary makes threatening noises at Shirley, and throws itself against the bars of the cage once or twice, before settling down to glare balefully at the intruder. A moment later, the door bangs open and a short, extremely overweight man walks into the office carrying two teacups and a half-eaten pastry. He somehow manages to hand Shirley the top teacup without dropping anything. In the keeping with the tradition of newsrooms everywhere, the tea is vile.
“Sorry ta keep ya waitin’,” says the man, apparently Mr. Harris. “Momentarily indisposed, don’t ya know?” He sounds American, although Shirley can’t place the region. He deftly weaves his way past the various obstacles in his office and settles down behind the desk in manner reminiscent of a large iceberg calving off a glacier and settling into the sea.
“So, I understand there was a bit of an incident with Nicky Finn?”
“Ah. You have encountered the gentleman in question before, I take it?”
“He is… hmmm… well known to certain confidential sources of mine, shall we say?” Shirley makes silent note of that, raising his eyebrows a moment, while Harris pulls a notepad and pencil from a drawer and poises himself to write.
Shirley settles into his barrister’s precise court diction. “Last night as I was making ready to retire, an individual whom I am not prepared to identify knocked at my door. When I opened it he recognized me, as he is a former client of mine. He expressed gratitude for my previous assistance, and willingly explained to me that he had been paid to warn me away from the Grand Ellipse and knock me on the head, ‘to help my memory.’ I inquired who had hired him; he claimed it had been one Nicky Finn.
“I followed him when he left, without his being aware of my pursuit. He met a man slightly taller than I and considerably thicker, with a ridged scar between the outer edge of his left eyebrow and the outer corner of his left eye. This man spoke with an Irish brogue and answered to the name of Nicky Finn. He asked whether my former client had completed the task assigned him. Upon receiving an affirmative answer, he pressed the point of whether I had been warned away from the Grand Ellipse, claiming that the entire effort was wasted if I had not. When my former client protested that he had indeed so warned me, Mr. Finn handed him a number of coins; the exact amount I did not clearly see.
“My former client then departed. Mr. Finn made his way to a telegraph office, and demanded ingress loudly and profanely. I pursued my inquiry no further, and returned to my lodging without incident.”
“A close shave indeed, Mr. Addam,” says Harris, putting down the notepad on a rather precarious stack of papers. “Nicky Finn—Nicholas Finnegan, to Her Majesty’s Record Office—is a dangerous character with a reputation for accomplishing unsavory tasks on the cheap.” Harris drains his teacup, and doesn’t appear to taste it any more than Shirley did. He sets it down on top of a cabinet near the canary, which causes the bird to shriek and cower in the opposite side of the cage. Harris ignores it.
“Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Addam. I shan’t detain you any further, as you’ve got an Ellipse to run. Oh, and by-the-by, there’s a rail strike brewing in France; I should think you might wish to go to Gibraltar by sea.”
“That was my plan in any case — though you will of course keep that confidential. I would be most obliged, Mr. Harris, if you could do all in your power to get this story into the very next edition of the Times, and if you can, get it over the wire to the French and Spanish papers as well. I should not like the other entrants to be as unprepared as I was. Whoever hired Mr. Finnegan may not stop at assault next time.”
Harris guides Shirley back to the front door of the Times office, and shakes his hand. “Thanks again, and Godspeed, good sir!”
Shirley smiles for the first time that day. “Thank you, Mr. Harris. I am obliged to you. Good day!”
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