CHAPTER I

The Good Story

Spike Holland scrawled the last word on the last sheet of his copy,
slashed two horizontal lines to notify all concerned that it was the
last page, and threw his pen at the window-frame. The nib struck home,
and for a second the discoloured handle quivered.

“No unworthy hand shall inscribe baser literature with the instrument of
my fancy,” he said.

The only other reporter in the room looked up.

“What have you been writing up, Spike?”

“Yesterday’s dog show,” said Spike calmly. “I know nothing about dogs,
except that one end barks and the other end wags, but Syme put me on to
it. Said that a crime reporter ought to get acquainted with bloodhounds.
That man is collaterally minded. Nothing ever appears to him as it is;
he lives on suggestion. Take him hot news of a bank robbery and he’ll
jump at you for a story about what bank presidents eat for lunch.”

The other pushed back his chair.

“You meet that kind of mentality most anywhere,” he said. “I dare say
our people seem dull and thick-headed to an American by comparison.”

“You bet they don’t,” said Spike promptly. “The men on the desk are a
race apart. They’re just naturally incapable of seeing life through the
eyes of a reporter. Which means that there is something subnormal about
them. Yes, sir. You call ’em city editors in the States and news editors
in England. That’s the only difference. They’re all collaterally
minded.”

He sighed and put up his feet on the desk. He was young and freckled and
had untidy red hair.

“Dog shows are certainly interesting—-” he began, when the door opened
violently and a shirt-sleeved man glared in through spectacles of
enormous size.

“Spike . . . want you. Have you got a job?”

“I’m seeing that man Wood about the children’s home–lunching with him.”

“He can wait.”

He beckoned, and Spike followed him to the tiny room he occupied.

“Do you know Abel Bellamy–a Chicago man . . . millionaire?”

“Abe? Yeah. . . . Is he dead?” asked Spike hopefully. “That fellow’s
only a good story when he is beyond the operation of the law of libel.”

“Do you know him well?” asked the editor.

“I know he’s a Chicago man–made millions in building, and that he’s a
roughneck. He’s been living in England eight or nine years, I guess
. . . got a regular castle . . . and a dumb Chink chauffeur—-“

“I know all that ‘Who’s Who’ stuff,” said the editor impatiently. “What
I want to know is this: Is he the kind of man who is out for publicity?
In other words, is the Green Archer a ghost or a stunt?”

“Ghost!”

Syme reached for a sheet of note paper and passed it across to the
puzzled American. It was a message evidently written by one to whom the
rules of English were hidden mysteries:

“_Dear Sir_,

“The Green Archer has appeared in Garre Castel. Mr. Wilks the
buttler saw him. Dear sir, the Green Archer went into Mr.
Belamy’s room and left the door open. Also he was seen in the
park. All the servants is leaving. Mr. Belamy says he’ll fire
anybody who talks about it, but all the servants is leaving.”

“And who in thunder is the Green Archer?” asked Spike wonderingly.

Mr. Syme adjusted his glasses and smiled. Spike was shocked to see him
do anything so human.

“The Green Archer of Garre Castle,” he said, “was at one time the most
famous ghost in England. Don’t laugh, because this isn’t a funny story.
The original archer was hanged by one of the de Curcy’s, the owners of
Garre Castle, in 1487.”

“Gee! Fancy your remembering that!” said the admiring Spike.

“And don’t get comic. He was hanged for stealing deer, and even today
you can, I believe, see the oaken beam from which he swung. For hundreds
of years he haunted Garre, and as late as 1799 he made an appearance. In
Berkshire he is part of the legendry. Now, if you can believe this
letter, evidently written by one of the servants who has either been
fired or has left voluntarily because she’s scared, our green friend has
appeared again.”

Spike frowned and thrust out his under lip.

“Any ghost who’d go fooling round Abe Bellamy deserves all that is
coming to him,” he said. “I guess he’s half legend and half hysteria.
You want me to see Abe?”

“See him and persuade him to let you stay in the castle for a week.”

Spike shook his head emphatically.

“You don’t know him. If I made such a suggestion he’d throw me out. I’ll
see his secretary–a fellow named Savini; he’s a Eurasian or something.
Maybe he can fix me. The Green Archer doesn’t seem to have done anything
more than leave Abe’s door open.”

“Try Bellamy–invent some reason for getting into the castle. By the
way, he bought it for one hundred thousand pounds seven or eight years
ago. And in the meantime get the story. We haven’t had a good ghost
story for years. There’s nothing to stop you lunching with Wood. I want
that story too. Where are you lunching?”

“At the Carlton. Wood is only in London for a couple of days. He is
going back home to Belgium tonight.”

The editor nodded.

“That makes it easy. Bellamy is staying at the Carlton. You can cover
both engagements.”

Spike strolled to the door.

“Ghost stories and children’s institutions!” he said bitterly. “And I’m
just aching for a murder with complications. This journal doesn’t want
a crime reporter; it’s a writer of fairy tales you need.”

“That’s a fair description of you,” said Syme, addressing himself to his
work.