finds the body, not to the police or the papers.”
Mulvaney and I exchanged guilty looks.
“Actually,” Mulvaney said as he drew in a deep breath, “the man
is
writing to the papers now. I got word this morning that
The Times
received a letter. I’ve no idea if the other papers received one as well. If they did,” his voice was grim, “they may not be so considerate as to check with us before printing it for the masses.”
“We’re headed to the
Times
offices now. Maybe you’d like to join us?” I asked.
Alistair’s expertise would be useful, and I expected him tobe interested enough to agree. But he accepted with so much exuberance that I almost began to second-guess my decision to involve him in the matter. I had not forgotten how, during our last case together, he had withheld significant information from me because it jeopardized his own ambitions. The last thing I needed was for him to allow his own interests once again to interfere with the investigation. He would be helpful only so long as our concerns were aligned.
“Isabella?” Alistair glanced toward her, and it was plain he wanted her to accompany us.
I busied myself replacing the letters in my leather bag, and I did not look up until I heard her response.
“No, thanks, I prefer to stay home.”
Her refusal had been crisp, but she came over to us and shook hands politely with Mulvaney, then me.
“It was good to see you again, Simon.” She was pleasant but distant.
To think it could be otherwise would be presumptive. But once, just a few months ago, it might have been different— and that realization itself was bittersweet.
We exited the apartment into the hallway and caught the elevator waiting on Alistair’s floor.
If I hadn’t chanced to look back, just before I stepped into it, I wouldn’t have seen the peculiar expression with which Isabella watched us leave.
But once she caught my gaze, she bit her lip, retreated into her apartment, and closed the door firmly between us.
CHAPTER 6
The City Room, Times Building, West Forty-second Street
“Those hot off the press? Bring ’em over here.”
The front-desk editor, a balding man seated at the head of multiple rows of desks, barked the directions to a copyboy who was struggling to balance a stack of papers on each shoulder as he walked into the City Room of
The New York Times
. The papers the young man carried were newly printed, and their ink had marked his skin and clothing with giant black stains. He wobbled under their weight but did not drop them until he reached the editor’s desk. Each pile then landed with a loud thud as the copyboy’s careful efforts to ease his papers onto the desk failed, sending pencils, scissors, and notes flying.
Alistair, Mulvaney, and I surveyed this scene from the sole enclosed office on the fourteenth floor. We had been asked to wait here for the managing editor, whose office overlooked theentire room— a maze of wooden desks occupied by reporters and editors who worked amid a tremendous din, breathing air that was heavy with a mix of cigarette and cigar smoke. With the door to the office open wide, we were free to observe reporters furiously punching out their stories on new Hammond typewriters; editors working with scissors and paste pots to make corrections; and even a small group of five men, their work presumably done, engaged in a raucous poker game in the back corner. Their game was punctuated only by the frequent spitting of tobacco into shiny brass spittoons that lined the room. Somehow, amid this chaos, tomorrow’s paper was being produced.
“Let’s check out the competition.” The front-desk editor ground his cigar butt into a saucer and grabbed a copy of
The Tribune
off the top of the stack. After thumbing through it in what seemed a matter of seconds, he moved on to
The Post
. He grunted in displeasure. “We got scooped on the Tyler embezzlement story.”
All the reporters in the room began to study what ever was on
Mulvaney and I exchanged guilty looks.
“Actually,” Mulvaney said as he drew in a deep breath, “the man
is
writing to the papers now. I got word this morning that
The Times
received a letter. I’ve no idea if the other papers received one as well. If they did,” his voice was grim, “they may not be so considerate as to check with us before printing it for the masses.”
“We’re headed to the
Times
offices now. Maybe you’d like to join us?” I asked.
Alistair’s expertise would be useful, and I expected him tobe interested enough to agree. But he accepted with so much exuberance that I almost began to second-guess my decision to involve him in the matter. I had not forgotten how, during our last case together, he had withheld significant information from me because it jeopardized his own ambitions. The last thing I needed was for him to allow his own interests once again to interfere with the investigation. He would be helpful only so long as our concerns were aligned.
“Isabella?” Alistair glanced toward her, and it was plain he wanted her to accompany us.
I busied myself replacing the letters in my leather bag, and I did not look up until I heard her response.
“No, thanks, I prefer to stay home.”
Her refusal had been crisp, but she came over to us and shook hands politely with Mulvaney, then me.
“It was good to see you again, Simon.” She was pleasant but distant.
To think it could be otherwise would be presumptive. But once, just a few months ago, it might have been different— and that realization itself was bittersweet.
We exited the apartment into the hallway and caught the elevator waiting on Alistair’s floor.
If I hadn’t chanced to look back, just before I stepped into it, I wouldn’t have seen the peculiar expression with which Isabella watched us leave.
But once she caught my gaze, she bit her lip, retreated into her apartment, and closed the door firmly between us.
CHAPTER 6
The City Room, Times Building, West Forty-second Street
“Those hot off the press? Bring ’em over here.”
The front-desk editor, a balding man seated at the head of multiple rows of desks, barked the directions to a copyboy who was struggling to balance a stack of papers on each shoulder as he walked into the City Room of
The New York Times
. The papers the young man carried were newly printed, and their ink had marked his skin and clothing with giant black stains. He wobbled under their weight but did not drop them until he reached the editor’s desk. Each pile then landed with a loud thud as the copyboy’s careful efforts to ease his papers onto the desk failed, sending pencils, scissors, and notes flying.
Alistair, Mulvaney, and I surveyed this scene from the sole enclosed office on the fourteenth floor. We had been asked to wait here for the managing editor, whose office overlooked theentire room— a maze of wooden desks occupied by reporters and editors who worked amid a tremendous din, breathing air that was heavy with a mix of cigarette and cigar smoke. With the door to the office open wide, we were free to observe reporters furiously punching out their stories on new Hammond typewriters; editors working with scissors and paste pots to make corrections; and even a small group of five men, their work presumably done, engaged in a raucous poker game in the back corner. Their game was punctuated only by the frequent spitting of tobacco into shiny brass spittoons that lined the room. Somehow, amid this chaos, tomorrow’s paper was being produced.
“Let’s check out the competition.” The front-desk editor ground his cigar butt into a saucer and grabbed a copy of
The Tribune
off the top of the stack. After thumbing through it in what seemed a matter of seconds, he moved on to
The Post
. He grunted in displeasure. “We got scooped on the Tyler embezzlement story.”
All the reporters in the room began to study what ever was on
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