1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Chapter 137 A Top-Secret File from London

Just as Michelle finished this wonderful night.

The Atlantic monsoon blew for half a month and finally brought Fletcher Harper back to New York.

In fact, in this day and age, Britain and the United States in the New World only had one route: sea transport.

Furthermore, steamships were not yet commercially viable; people could only travel by sailboat.

Historically, the first steamship to cross the Atlantic Ocean was the Great Western in April.

This trip usually takes more than half a month.

If there are headwinds or storms, the time could be extended to forty days.

As for freedom of communication in Britain and the United States, that will have to wait until the Atlantic undersea cable is completed thirty years from now.

Therefore, the only way to bring Michelle's manuscript back to New York is to carry it back in person.

Harper was on the verge of collapse, and he visibly lost a lot of weight.

But as long as he could bring back Michelle's manuscript and the authorization, he felt it was all worth it.

The moment the ship docked, he no longer smelled the London smell, a mixture of coal smoke and fog.

Rather, it's a wild, sea-smelling scent that belongs to the New World.

The taste of America is still the sweetest...

Harper did not return to his office in Manhattan.

He didn't even go home; he simply had his servants take his luggage back.

He carried the leather folder he had tightly wrapped in oilcloth and boarded a carriage that was already waiting there.

"To Nassau Street," Harper instructed the coachman.

His voice carried a hint of weariness from the long journey, but even more so, an irrepressible excitement.

The carriage bumped along the muddy, cobblestone streets.

Harper leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

The scene in that London apartment kept replaying in his mind.

Harper still remembers the look on Michelle's face when he agreed to that notoriously demanding profit-sharing agreement.

It wasn't the joy of victory, but a calm composure that should naturally follow.

Before leaving, Harper couldn't help but ask, "Mr. Michel, you're completely unknown in America. What makes you think you can sell a first print run of 100,000 copies?"

Michelle simply handed him a manuscript and a note covered in messy handwriting.

"Mr. Harper, do as instructed on this paper."

"I guarantee that your problem will no longer be that your books won't sell, but that the printing press's machines won't be fast enough."

Harper looked at the note and thought it was utterly absurd.

But for some reason, it also seems quite feasible.

When he met Michelle's confident eyes, he inexplicably slipped the note into his pocket.

Michelle, this young man, has a devilish charm.

His words made it impossible not to believe them.

The carriage headed toward Nassau Street.

Like Fleet Street in London, Nassau Street is now the heart of publishing and printing in New York, home to more than a dozen newspapers, printing plants, and bookstores.

The roar of the printing press never ceased, horse-drawn carriages carrying newspapers lurched about, and the air was always filled with the smell of cheap ink and paper.

Harper got out of the car in front of an unremarkable three-story building.

A crooked sign hangs upstairs.

The New York Herald.

His destination was the owner of this newspaper.

The newspaper tycoon who was despised by the entire New York high society, yet adored by countless ordinary citizens.

James Gordon Bennett.

The man who said "the function of newspapers is not to instruct, but to awaken" was also the founder of modern journalism in the United States.

However, Harper did not go to the small building, but instead went to a basement downstairs.

That's right, the New York Herald, with a circulation of tens of thousands in New York, is currently operating from a basement...

This is quite in line with Bennett's stingy personality...

But don't be fooled by the simple office environment here.

The Helen Jewell murder case that shocked the entire United States last year was fabricated by the Herald in its basement office on Nassau Street.

Jewell was a famous and beautiful high-class prostitute in New York. At 23, she often strolled along Broadway and Wall Street in a green silk dress and was an open lover of high society and literary circles.

On April 9 last year, she was found dead in a brothel, having been hacked to the head with an axe.

The murderer even set fire to the bed in an attempt to destroy the evidence.

The prime suspect was Richard P. Robinson, 19, a regular customer and lover of Jewell.

On the night of the incident, Robinson spent the night in Jewell's room. Around 11 p.m., when the madam brought champagne, she saw the two of them in bed together and Robinson reading the newspaper.

Robinson's cloak was left at the crime scene, there were signs of climbing over the wall, and there was a similar white ash on Robinson's pants.

Police arrested him the following day.

This seems to be irrefutable evidence.

But then Benedict’s Herald stepped in.

Bennett personally performed the autopsy and investigated the scene, publishing a news report titled "The Most Brutal Murder!" on the front page of the Herald.

The report not only revealed Jewett's real name, background, lover, and luxurious lifestyle, but also disclosed Robinson's family, profession, and financial situation.

With a price as low as 1 cent, it sold over 10,000 units on the first day, far exceeding its competitors such as The Sun.

Bennett insisted that Robinson was innocent, claiming that the police and the brothel conspired to frame the young man, and portrayed the victim, Jewell, as a promiscuous, greedy, and threatening femme fatale.

The Herald then went on to publish a series of exclusive insider reports.

Using emotional and fictional writing to portray the case, even fabricating details and amplifying conflicts, is practically turning case reporting into a serialized novel.

But Americans actually fall for it...

After Benedict’s maneuvering, the jury acquitted Robinson in just 10 minutes.

The news caused an uproar.

Meanwhile, the Herald's sales surged again, making it one of the largest-circulation newspapers in New York.

This case also became the first instance in US history of public opinion manipulating the judiciary.

As for why the Herald helped him...

It's actually quite simple. He just writes whatever makes the case newsworthy; the truth doesn't matter.

Bennett just started his newspaper and needs traffic and sales.

Writing "The innocent young man was tricked by the bad prostitute" best reflected the prejudices of the time.

They've really gone too far in profiting from human suffering.

In short, Harper looked down on Benedict.

The basement was small and dark, appearing to be only a dozen square meters.

It was crammed full of manuscripts and miscellaneous items.

A wooden plank placed over two barrels served as the founder Bennett's "worktable".

Bennett was barefoot, with his legs propped up on his messy desk, reviewing a draft of a publication full of crime news.

"Bennett, I have something here that can double your newspaper's sales."

Harper got straight to the point, without uttering a single unnecessary word.

To be honest, if it weren't for Michelle's arrangement, he wouldn't want to stay with Bennett for even a second longer.

Bennett raised his eyelids, glanced at him, and then looked down at his newspaper.

"Harper? What wind blew you, such a noble god, into my stinking ditch?"

"I thought you only dealt with those old-fashioned British writers who wrote Bible stories and moral essays."

That's just how Benedict is; he was even beaten up for doing that interview years ago.

Harper ignored his sarcasm and walked straight to his desk.

He untied the oilcloth and slammed the manuscript from London heavily onto the table, making the ink bottle on the table jump.

"What is this? A novel?"

Bennett wore a disdainful expression.

"I don't publish that boring literary garbage here; my readers only care about murders, fires, and sex scandals."

"No."

Harper leaned down, placed her hands on the table, and a sly look appeared on her face.

He learned that expression from that twenty-year-old in London.

He lowered his voice and spoke slowly, word by word.

This is not a novel.

"This is a top-secret murder case file that has just been sealed by Scotland Yard in London."

Upon hearing this, Bennett's lips froze.

"Because the case was too bizarre, and even involved aristocratic scandals, it was forcibly suppressed by the British authorities."

Harper's voice has a captivating power.

"I spent a lot of money to buy the original manuscript from a drunk retired detective."

"So? Interested?"

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