The Cub Reporter Page #5

"The Cub Reporter" by Rex Ellingwood Beach is a compelling novel that explores the challenges and adventures faced by a young aspiring journalist. The story follows the protagonist’s journey as he navigates the competitive world of newspaper reporting, uncovering stories that delve into both the mundane and the extraordinary aspects of society. Through his experiences, the reader gains insight into the ethics of journalism, the pursuit of truth, and the impact of media on public perception. With a blend of action, drama, and character development, Beach captures the excitement and trials of pursuing a career in journalism during a dynamic time in history.

• Short story

								

second time that evening he left the office with his jaws set
stubbornly.

Paul Anderson walked straight to his boarding-house and bearded his
landlady. "I've got a job," said he.

"I'm very glad," the lady told him, honestly enough. "I feared you
were going to move out."

"Yes!" he repeated. "I've got a job that carries the highest salary
on the paper. You remember the yellow-haired girl who killed herself
awhile ago?" he asked.

"Indeed I do. Everybody knows about that case."

"Well, it got too tough for the police and the other reporters, so
they turned it over to me. It's a bully assignment, and my pay starts
when I solve the mystery. Now I'm starved; I wish you'd rustle me some
grub."

"But, Mr. Anderson, you're bill for this week? You know I get paid
in--"

"Tut, tut! You know how newspapers are. They don't pay in advance, and
I can't pay you until they pay me. You'll probably have to wait until
Saturday, for I'm a little out of practice on detective stuff. But
I'll have this thing cleared up by then. You don't appreciate--you
can't appreciate--what a corking assignment it is."

Anderson had a peculiarly engaging smile, and five minutes later he
was wrecking the pantry of all the edibles his fellow-boarders had
overlooked, the while his landlady told him her life's history, wept
over the memory of her departed husband, and confessed that she hoped
to get out of the boarding-house business some time.

A good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast put the young man in fine
fettle, and about ten o'clock he repaired to a certain rooming-house
on Main Street, the number of which he obtained from the clipping in
his pocket.

A girl answered his ring, but at sight of him she shut the door
hurriedly, explaining through the crack:

"Mrs. MacDougal is out and you can't come in."

"But I want to talk to you."

"I'm not allowed to talk to reporters," she declared. "Mrs. MacDougal
won't let me."

A slight Scotch accent gave Anderson his cue. "MacDougal is a good
Scotch name. I'm Scotch myself, and so are you." He smiled his
boarding-house smile, and the girl's eyes twinkled back at him.
"Didn't she tell you I was coming?"

"Why, no, sir. Aren't you a reporter?"

"I've been told that I'm not. I came to look at a room."

"What room?" the girl asked, quickly. "We haven't any vacant rooms."

"That's queer," Anderson frowned. "I can't be mistaken. I'm sure Mrs.
MacDougal said there was one."

The door opened slowly. "Maybe she meant the one on the second floor."

"Precisely." An instant later he was following his guide up-stairs.

Anderson recognized the room at a glance, from its description, but
the girl did not mention the tragedy which had occurred therein, so
he proceeded to talk terms with her, prolonging his stay as long as
possible, meanwhile using his eyes to the best advantage. He invented
an elaborate ancestry which he traced backward through the pages of
Scottish Chiefs, the only book of the sort he had ever read, and by
the time he was ready to leave the girl had thawed out considerably.

"I'll take the room," he told her, "and I'm well pleased to get it. I
don't see how such a good one stands vacant in this location."

There was an instant's pause, then his companion confessed: "There's a
reason. You'll find it out sooner or later, so I may as well tell you.
That's where the yellow-haired girl you hear so much about killed
herself. I hope it won't make any difference to you, Mr.--"

"Gregor. Certainly not. I read about the case. Canadian, wasn't she?"

"Oh yes! There's no doubt of it. She paid her rent with a Canadian
bill, and, besides, I noticed her accent. I didn't tell the reporters,
however, they're such a fresh lot."

Paul's visit, it appeared, had served to establish one thing, at
least, a thing which the trained investigators had not discovered.
Canadian money in Buffalo was too common to excite comment, therefore
none of them had seen fit to follow out that clue of the two-dollar
bill.

"The papers had it that she was some wealthy girl," the former speaker
ran on, "but I know better."

"Indeed? How do you know?"

"Her hands! They were good hands, and she used them as if she knew
what they were made for."

"Anything else?"

"No. She seemed very sad and didn't say much. Of course I only saw her
once."

Anderson questioned the girl at some further length, but discovered
nothing of moment, so he left, declaring that he would probably move
into the room on the following day.

Prom the rooming-house he went directly to the Morgue, and for a
second time examined the body, confining his attention particularly to
the hands. The right one showed nothing upon which to found a theory,
save that it was, indeed, a capable hand with smooth skin and
well-tended nails; but on examining the left Paul noted a marked
peculiarity. Near the ends of the thumb and the first finger the skin
was roughened, abrased; there were numerous tiny black spots
beneath the skin, which, upon careful scrutiny, he discovered to be
microscopic blood-blisters.

For a long time he puzzled over this phenomenon which had escaped all
previous observers, but to save him he could invent no explanation for
it. He repaired finally to the office of the attendant and asked for
the girl's clothes, receiving permission to examine a small bundle.

"Where's the rest?" he demanded.

"That's all she had," said the man.

"No baggage at all?"

"Not a thing but what she stood up in. The coroner has her jewelry and
things of that sort."

Anderson searched the contents of the bundle with the utmost care, but
found no mark of any sort. The garments, although inexpensive, were
beautifully neat and clean, and they displayed the most marvelous
examples of needlework he had ever seen. Among the effects was a plush
muff, out of which, as he picked it up, fell a pair of little knitted
mittens--or was there a pair? Finding but the one, he shook the muff
again, then looked through the other things.

"Where's the other mitten?" he inquired.

"There 'ain't been but the one," the attendant told him.

"Are you sure?"

"See here, do you think I'm trying to hold out a yarn mitten on you?
I say there 'ain't been but the one. I was here when she came, and I
know."

Discouraged by the paucity of clues which this place offered, Anderson
went next to the coroner's office.

The City Hall newspaper squad had desks in this place, but Paul paid
no attention to them or to their occupants. He went straight to the
wicket and asked for the effects of the dead girl.

It appeared that Burns had told his practical joke broadcast, for
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