Deadlier Than the Pen (2 page)

*Chapter Two*
"Did you get the Bathory interview?" Horatio Foxe demanded the moment Diana entered his office.
"No, I did not." She dearly wished she'd never heard of the wretched man. She'd proven herself a good journalist in the last year and a half, but so far her successes had not convinced her editor to listen to even one of her ideas.
With a sound that was almost a growl, Foxe chomped down so hard on the end of his cigar that he bit clean through it. He tossed the pieces aside in disgust, heedless of where they landed.
Diana chose not to respond to his display of temper. With studied calm, she seated herself opposite him and met his glare head-on across the piles of paper and newsprint that littered the top of an oak double desk. At the same female seminary where she'd met Foxe's younger sister Rowena, Diana had been taught a lady must always conceal her emotions. The previous evening's encounter with Damon Bathory had been all the more irritating because she'd failed so miserably to hide her reactions to him. Determined to hold onto her temper this morning, she kept her hands demurely folded in her lap and studied her employer, trying to discern his mood. Although he was a small, wiry man, when he was in a temper he displayed the fierceness of a bantam rooster.
"Well?" Foxe demanded. "What happened?"
"I talked to Mr. Bathory briefly and he declined my invitation to discuss either his writing or his life. In fact, he seemed to prefer that he not be mentioned in my column at all."
Foxe reached for a fresh cigar and gnawed one end of it as it drooped, unlit, from the corner of his mouth. "Odd attitude for a writer. Most go out of their way to get their names into print. I can think of only one reason why Damon Bathory would refuse to be interviewed. He must have something to hide."
He drummed thin, ink-stained fingers on the only bare spot on the scarred wooden surface in front of him. A moment later he lifted them to tunnel through his sand-colored hair, leaving an unkempt topknot behind.
Diana fought a smile at the familiar gesture. Her acquaintance with Foxe went back eight years, to a time when she'd still been in school and he'd been no more than her friend Rowena's older brother. Without Rowena's help, Diana doubted she'd have been able to persuade Foxe to hire her after Evan's sudden death, let alone allow her to come to the office every day to work. The other female columnists employed by New York's _Independent Intelligencer_ sent their stories in from home.
Why, then, was she so nervous about talking to him? She'd won that skirmish. Moreover, she suspected Horatio Foxe was the one who'd ordered old newspapers put down on the floor of the city room and changed every morning before she arrived. This considerate gesture saved her from soiling the hems of her skirts in stray puddles of tobacco juice. Several of her male co-workers were notorious for their poor aim. No matter how many brass cuspidors were set out, the surface underfoot tended to be pockmarked with stinking, standing pools.
"I see no point in badgering the man," she ventured. "Mr. Bathory has a right to his privacy."
"Balderdash! He's famous. That makes him fair game." An avaricious gleam came into Foxe's narrowed eyes. "I want you to follow up on this, Diana."
Diana felt a frisson of alarm. She tried to ignore it, telling herself she wasn't afraid to face Bathory again. She simply did not wish to pursue this particular story. "I have enough copy for my column without the addition of Mr. Bathory's comments or opinions."
"Who cares about his opinions? I want scandal. What about women in his life? I suppose it's too much to hope that he'll turn out to be another Bluebeard, but that's the sort of thing that pulls in readers."
Diana was glad of the reprieve when a knock sounded at Foxe's door, sparing her the necessity of an immediate reply. The last thing she wanted was to spend more time with Damon Bathory. A strong instinct for self-preservation warned her to stay away from any man who could leave her feeling so unsettled.
Women in his life? She had seen the mesmerizing effect he had on the opposite sex. And she had already wasted far too much time remembering the way he'd swept her off her feet in that dream. Throughout her marriage, Diana had experienced quite enough excitement and danger, sufficient emotional highs and lows to last a lifetime. She wanted nothing more to do with creative, driven men like her late husband or Damon Bathory. And she wished to avoid, in particular, men who kept secrets.
By the time Foxe had dealt with the interruption, Diana was braced for another round. "The readers of my column want and expect only my review, which I will most assuredly give them. If, however, you feel I must also conduct interviews, then I can think of several people more interesting than Damon Bathory."
His expression skeptical, Foxe resumed his seat. "Who do you have in mind? Some leader of the Woman Suffrage Alliance?"
Annoyed by his snide tone, Diana made her own voice sugar sweet. "You're the one who always says that controversy improves circulation. Think of all the publicity you'd generate by having the _Independent Intelligencer_ come out in favor of votes for women."
"That, my dear, would be as suicidal as backing those blasted anarchists who preach free love on street corners and advocate abolishing all forms of government."
"What if I do an entire series of interviews and promise that none of their subjects will be suffragettes or anarchists?" Or horror writers, she added silently. She shifted position in a futile attempt to avoid the acrid cloud steadily enveloping everything in the room.
Worrying both the cigar and his pet project with the dedication of a hound with a bone, Foxe made a counter-proposal. "Talk to Damon Bathory first. Then I might be more inclined to consider your suggestions."
"Anyone but Bathory." She put as much firmness as she could manage into the words. "I've already told you -- "
"What you've already done is promise your readers a profile of Damon Bathory, including never-before-published facts about his personal life. It's to run next week."
Diana felt her eyes widen. "I never made any such promise!"
Even as she spoke, she knew what had happened. Again. Anger replaced disbelief as Foxe confirmed her suspicion.
"Indeed you did, in your column in this afternoon's paper, which is even now being printed." His voice oozed self-congratulation. "Your assignment is simple enough. You contact Bathory and this time you find out all you can about his past. You won't have to lie. All you need do is write up everything you learn in a way that will titillate our readers."
In her lap, Diana's hands clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Foxe had neatly boxed her in. Now not only her job was at stake, but also her reputation as a journalist.
When she finally spoke, she did not sound upset, but just beneath the surface her temper was simmering close to the boiling point. "You have no notion, do you, of how much trouble you caused for me with your additions to Monday's column?"
"I am the editor of this newspaper." A meaningful look accompanied the haughty words. "That gives me the authority to make any changes I deem necessary to any part of it."
"Necessary?" Surely he could not mean that. "I shared certain details in confidence. I never intended to include them in my column. And don't try to tell me you misunderstood. Or that using initials instead of names made the item any less hurtful to those concerned."
Diana had been appalled to open the newspaper on Monday afternoon and discover that the review she'd written of a play had been followed by sordid hints that the company's ingenue had won her part in a bedroom audition and stolen the affection of the troupe's manager away from the leading lady. That the tale was true in no way lessened her dismay.
"That story, my dear, increased this newspaper's circulation for two days afterward. Your readers obviously approve and hope for more like it. From now on that is exactly what you are going to give them." Foxe's grin showed a row of small, straight, tobacco-stained teeth.
"No." The word came out in a whisper as Diana stared at him in disbelief. The idea of deliberately exploiting someone's personal life for the benefit of the newspaper made her skin crawl.
Bad enough, she thought, that she'd already gone beyond what she was comfortable with to write unflattering comments about the acting abilities of the newest members of Todd's Touring Thespians. It did not matter that their performances had been lackluster, the delivery of Mr. Charles Underly all bombast when simple enthusiasm would have served him better. Until six months ago, she had not been in the habit of voicing negative comments at all. Why pan a production when she could find some redeeming grace to write about instead? She'd tried to live by the rule that when one could not say something nice, one should not say anything at all.
Foxe had changed all that. He'd taken her aside to explain that she would mislead readers if she had nothing but praise for every subject. It was her duty, he'd said, to express her honest opinion, even if it was wholly negative. Diana had reluctantly accepted this edict, had even seen the logic of his argument, but she hoped she would never reach the point when it became easy to say hurtful things.
"I have told you before that scandal sells newspapers," Foxe said now. "We're in a war, Diana."
He swiveled in his chair to gesture at the bank of windows behind his desk. They overlooked New York's Newspaper Row. Foxe's panoramic view encompassed the headquarters of the _Independent Intelligencer's_ greatest rivals, the _Times_, the _Sun_, the _Tribune_, and Joseph Pulitzer's _World_.
"Whichever publisher captures the greatest number of readers wins. The one with the lowest distribution faces almost certain bankruptcy. Make no mistake, Diana, the more scandalous the revelations, the more secure our future will be. That is why I want an interview with Damon Bathory. Find out why he writes the sort of thing he does. Does he have personal experience with murder and mayhem? What ghoulish habits does he practice in private?"
Involuntarily, Diana's hands tightened in her lap. Reading his stories in the safety of her own home had been bad enough before she'd come face to face with him and heard the words in his unforgettably compelling baritone. Damon Bathory's powerful prose left her uneasy, looking over her shoulder at the smallest sound and checking under the bed at night when she knew perfectly well that nothing evil lurked there. The man himself had a presence that disturbed her deeply on a very personal level. She was quite certain she did not want to investigate what might have inspired him.
"I have already reviewed his _Tales of Terror_." She'd assigned to it, in print, a status lower than the worst penny dreadful, a sincere opinion, if unflattering. "Why give further publicity to Mr. Bathory or the sort of literature he creates?"
"Why? Because this newspaper will reap the benefits of a first-hand encounter." Foxe looked smug. "Those stories of his are clearly the outpourings of a tortured soul, full of torment, but no one knows anything about their author, not even if Bathory is his real name. Go after the scandal, m'dear. Find out who he is and where he's from and what secrets he's keeping. That is your assignment."
"If he wants his personal life kept private, he's hardly likely to share its details with me."
"I have confidence in you, Diana. You will worm information out of him. People talk to you. They trust you."
"They will soon cease to if you have your way."
She was already being shunned by some of her oldest friends. It did not matter that her column was unsigned. New York's theater community was small and close-knit. Actors and managers alike knew that Evan Spaulding's widow wrote "Today's Tidbits." Until Monday, they had accepted her occasional reviews of dramatic productions with good grace, certain she would avoid unnecessary vitriol even if she did give her honest opinion of performances and staging. On a number of occasions, they had provided her with advance information on new ventures.
Foxe occupied himself with relighting his cigar and allowed an uncomfortable silence to lengthen. Diana drew in a deep, steadying breath. She must reason with him, make him see she simply could not do as he asked.
"Isn't it possible that Mr. Bathory has no deep, dark secrets? Perhaps he merely desires privacy."
"If you can discover nothing scandalous, then you will have to rely on innuendo." Foxe blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling and stared up at it as it dissipated. "There is, of course, one other choice. You could invent something. Make up a juicy scandal out of whole cloth. Who's going to know the difference?"
"I will." Outraged, Diana surged to her feet, her hands fisted at her sides.
"Sit down, Diana."
She obeyed only because he rose from his chair and circled the desk so swiftly that she had nowhere else to go. The moment she was down, he placed one hand on each arm of her chair and leaned in until the tip of his glowing cigar threatened the end of her nose.
By a supreme effort of will, Diana managed not to cringe. In her lap, hidden by her tightly clasped hands, her fingernails bit into the soft pads of her palms until they broke the skin. She was not physically afraid of Horatio Foxe, but even a small man could be daunting at such close quarters.
"Those are your only options, Diana. Choose."

"I will not lie to my readers." Although the additions to Monday's column had upset her, they had, at least, been true.
"Then you must be diligent in your pursuit of Bathory's past. There's scandal in it somewhere. There has to be." The cigar glowed brighter as he sucked on it.
Diana's nose wrinkled when she was forced to breathe in the noxious smoke he exhaled. Her eyes teared. Grinning at her discomfort, Foxe finally straightened, setting her free.
"Make no mistake, Diana. I gave you your job and I can take it away. If you want to keep your column, and your position on this newspaper, you will do all you can to uncover Damon Bathory's secrets."
He was serious. His attempt to dominate her by hovering and breathing fire had not unnerved Diana half so much as the prospect of unemployment. Scruples were all very well, but she had painful personal experience with what it meant to be without work, without money, even without food. The details of those difficult days were etched in her memory. She had no desire to repeat the experience.
The consequences of fighting for her principles loomed before her, daunting and more than a little frightening. There were no jobs at other newspapers. All of them already had their quota of female journalists. Even if they had not, she knew that Foxe's rivals were no more liberal than he was when it came to giving out assignments. Men were sent after news stories. Women wrote society gossip or household hints columns, or risked their necks as "stunt girls" like the _World's_ Nellie Bly.
A pity she had no talent for the stage. "Respectable occupations for females were limited. Most businesses preferred to hire men. Domestic service paid poorly, as did factory work, and conditions in factories were so deplorable that employment there meant risking one's health.
With a sigh, Diana capitulated. As much as she wanted to take a stand in the face of Horatio Foxe's ultimatum, she could not afford the luxury. If she intended to go on eating and have a roof over her head, she had no choice but to do whatever she had to in order to keep her job.
"How am I supposed to discover where Bathory has hidden himself? He has no more readings scheduled. For all we know, he may already have left the city."
Foxe's wide grin dashed the faint hope that this might prove to be the case. "This is your lucky day, Diana. The messenger who interrupted us a little while ago brought word from one of the newsboys. On my orders all the street arabs have been on the look-out for Damon Bathory. They report that he has a suite at the Palace Hotel."
* * * *
Damon Bathory answered her knock so quickly that she could only assume he'd been on his way out, though he wore neither topcoat nor hat. "What did you do?" he demanded irritably. "Bribe a desk clerk for my room number?"
The quick rise of heat in her cheeks betrayed the accuracy of his guess, but she slipped into the parlor of his three-room suite before he realized her intent. "It was either that or skulk behind the pillars in the lobby, waiting for you to appear."
"This is not a convenient time for a visit," he said to her back. "I was just leaving."
"I would be happy to wait here until you return."
"No doubt you would love a chance to search my possessions, but I've no intention of leaving you in my rooms. Exactly what do you want, Mrs. Spaulding?"
"To interview you, Mr. Bathory." She favored him with an insincere smile as she faced him. He was no less formidable in a dark gray worsted suit than he had been all in black.
"In spite of the fact that I've already declined to be interrogated?" His answering smile had a wolfish quality as he closed the door to the corridor and stalked towards her. "Tell me, _Mrs_. Spaulding, does your husband know the lengths to which you'll go for a story?"
Recoiling from the lash of his words, she retreated a few steps. "My husband is dead, Mr. Bathory."
Turning her back to him once more, she tried to focus on her surroundings. The Palace's much publicized luxury accommodations struck her as pretentious. A marble fireplace provided heat. Velvet and brocade upholstery cushioned the furniture. The wallpaper was flocked. In the adjoining bedroom, just visible through the open door, sun shining through a velvet-hung bay window picked out the muted blues, reds, and greens of the room's flowered carpet and highlighted the gilded grooves in the footboard of a heavily carved walnut bed.
The sight of that decadent piece of furniture unnerved Diana. In a flurry of skirts, she changed direction, appropriating the chair drawn up to the writing desk in the parlor. She forced another smile. "All I want are the answers to a few simple questions. And I needed to see you in daylight," she added candidly, "when you haven't the advantage of darkness to enhance your appearance of menace and evil."
His eyes on her, he removed an ornate gold watch from his pocket. "I think you want much more than that, Mrs. Spaulding." He glanced at the time. "You have five minutes."
"Scarcely long enough for you to tell me your life story."
"You don't want to write biography, Mrs. Spaulding. You are only after scandal."
Diana lowered her gaze to her hands, which were primly folded in her lap, and did not reply.
"Can you promise me an account free of speculation and innuendo?" he taunted her.
"Scandal sells newspapers." She heard the hint of desperation in her own whispered words and didn't dare meet his eyes.
"Yes, it does. People read your column for the same reason they read Damon Bathory's books, for the little thrill they get from a vicarious glimpse at things that shock and horrify. There is one difference, though. Fiction doesn't ruin anyone's life by making private matters public."
Her head shot up, followed by the rest of her. Indignant, she opened her mouth to deny his charges, but before she could speak he got close enough to place one finger on her lips. She pursed them tight.
"You know it's true."
His fingertip traced the line of her jaw and flowed over the curve of one cheek to caress a strand of hair that had tumbled out from beneath her hat. When he bent his head, she backed away so rapidly that she came up against a wall.
"You could try to seduce my secrets out of me." Cool and appraising, his gaze raked over her from head to toe, sweeping back up again to stop at her mouth.
"You are misnamed." She glared at him but her voice was thick and none-too-steady. "It should be Demon, not Damon."
"I am told that fear is a potent aphrodisiac. You are not the first reporter who's wanted to ... interview me. There was a particularly annoying one near the start of this tour." He sent a chilling smile in her direction. "I dealt with her in a most satisfactory manner. Some women hanker after the thrill of going to bed with a man who frightens them. Did you come here, Widow Spaulding, in the hope of being seduced by Damon Bathory? It seems a pity to disappoint you, especially when a part of me clamors for just such an encounter." He moved forward, closing the minuscule distance between them.
Diana kicked him in the shin and darted out of reach, but she stopped halfway to the door to face him with shoulders squared. She could feel her cheeks flaming, but temper renewed her resolve and steadied her nerves.
"You have reached an entirely erroneous conclusion."
"Indeed?" With a rueful grimace, he rubbed the spot where the toe of her boot had connected with his leg.
"Indeed. I want an interview. Nothing more."
"Odd. You gave the impression you'd be willing to do almost anything to get your story." It seemed to amuse him to see how flustered she'd become. "Are you such an innocent then, in spite of having been married?"
"I would do _almost_ anything for a story, Mr. Bathory. You have no call to insult me."
"My apologies."
Her eyes narrowed. She doubted he meant it, but she was not yet ready to abandon her quest for an interview. "What harm in giving me a few crumbs, Mr. Bathory? As no one knows anything about you, everything is news. For example, is Bathory your real name or a pseudonym?"
With a shrug, he answered her. "Bathory is a real name."
She rewarded him with a tentative smile and felt her tension ease. "You see how easy it is to please me? A few minutes is all I ask."
"To please you properly would be the work of hours, not minutes. A pity I cannot afford to spend any more time with you." He consulted his watch again and clicked it closed with an air of finality.
"Wait! You said Bathory is a real name, but is it _your_ real name?"
Abruptly, he lost patience. "No more crumbs, Mrs. Spaulding."
Over her protests and a barrage of new questions, none of which he answered, he ushered her through the door, down the corridor, and into one of the hotel's mirror-lined elevators.
"Take this woman to the lobby," he instructed the operator, "and see that she's escorted out of the building."