Chapter Fifteen
After leaving the Hudson Hotel on Forty-Fourth Street, Nellie decided to return to the paper. She was too sad to go home. Her mother would immediately see something was wrong and press her, and she wouldn’t know what to say. Or her mother would be disoriented and notice nothing at all, which in some ways was even worse. She was still crying when she got off the streetcar in front of the World offices a half hour later.
Perhaps that was why she didn’t notice the onrushing hansom that nearly ran her down and splattered her skirts and bodice with slush when she stepped into the street. The traffic laws of the day required all hansoms to stop when passengers alighted on the right side, but this one seemed to speed up when Nellie reached the road. If the conductor hadn’t pulled her back, she would have been trampled and probably killed.
The near-accident jolted Nellie back to reality and the tasks at hand. She carefully crossed the street and headed up the steps. She was so busy composing herself, she walked past sentry Flaherty with neither an insult nor a word of greeting.
She wiped off her dress as best she could and walked into the newsroom. As she lifted her skirts above the spit and tobacco juice and made her way gingerly along the floor, the place grew quiet. That happened every time Nellie walked in. The reporters still didn’t know what to make of a woman reporter, and an attractive one at that.
“Miss Bly!”
She turned and saw Cockerill heading toward her.
“We sent a messenger to your house,” he said impatiently. “Where were you?”
“It doesn’t matter. You have me now. What is the problem?”
“The letter you gave me. Mr. Pulitzer wants to speak to you about it.”
“I told you all I know, Mr. Cockerill. I want no credit for the story. I simply agreed to bring you the letter in exchange for Hilton giving me certain information. Do with it what you want.”
“Mr. Pulitzer does not want to leave it at that. He insists on seeing you.”
“I need to speak with Mr. Dale first.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Dale will have to wait,” he said sharply.
He turned on his heel and headed out of the newsroom, expecting her to follow. She knew she had no choice, but time was suddenly important in the Emma story. She needed to meet with Emma’s sisters, retrieve some of her clothes or blankets, and get them to Ingram before he left for Europe. She wished she could avoid seeing him altogether, but there was no one else she trusted as both a scientist and confidant.
When she walked into Pulitzer’s office, his mood was markedly different from what it had been three weeks before. Then he’d been effusive and charming, but now he acted like a tyrannical father dealing with an incorrigible child.
“What were you doing talking to Henry Hilton?” he demanded in his thick accent.
“I was pursuing a lead on the Emma Lazarus story.”
That surprised him, but he was so worked up it barely blunted his impatience. “And what lead would that be?”
She glanced at Cockerill, who averted his eyes.
“I became convinced that a former male companion of Miss Lazarus had something to do with her death. Then I learned that he was acting at the possible behest of Judge Hilton. I wanted to ask him about that.”
The repeated mention of Emma Lazarus, and the fact that Nellie had been pursuing the story and actually getting somewhere, finally calmed Pulitzer.
“Why was I not told about this?”
She knew she could get Cockerill in serious trouble if she answered that question honestly.
“I wanted to develop more substantial information before I shared anything with you. What I had before were simply theories. I am much further along now.”
Pulitzer did not notice the softening on Cockerill’s face. “So this election story … that is not why you saw Hilton?”
“No. Not at all. It took me completely by surprise. I’d gone there to talk about Miss Lazarus.”
Pulitzer eyed her closely, saw she was telling the truth. He sat down and motioned for Cockerill and Nellie to do the same. He was back in the role of supportive publisher.
“Did Hilton give you what you wanted?”
“Yes. I had to agree to deliver the letter, but he convinced me I am on the right track. I need to find more, but I know what the story will be.”
Pulitzer allowed himself a smile. He liked what he was hearing, and he liked Nellie’s determination. The shift in his moods was dizzying.
“You know that Henry Hilton is an enemy of this paper?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You need to be careful. He would like nothing more than to embarrass us.”
“I realize that, Mr. Pulitzer—”
“And that is why I will not be publishing this letter.” Both Nellie and Cockerill reacted in surprise.
“But it appears authentic,” she said.
“It is authentic,” said Cockerill. “The British embassy said it was.”
“I am still not publishing it.”
Nellie could not help herself.
“I’m not a political reporter, Mr. Pulitzer, but wouldn’t this be an enormous story for the paper?”
“Yes, Miss Bly, it would,” said Pulitzer, chuckling. “It must have frustrated Hilton no end to give it to a reporter from the World.”
“Actually, he enjoyed the idea of you helping his candidate win the presidency.”
“I am sure he did. And he is right about the impact of the story. The Irish might hear about it in other papers, but in our paper they would read it for themselves and know it was genuine. But now they must read it elsewhere.”
She looked at Cockerill. He was confused as well.
“I will not be publishing this,” Pulitzer went on, “for two reasons. One, I do not trust what Hilton is up to, no matter what the British embassy says. And two, I do not want the World to help him in any way, no matter what it costs us.”
“You hate him that much?”
“Even more so, now that I learn he may have been involved in Miss Lazarus’s death.”
There was something about Pulitzer’s loyalty to his friend, so powerful that it transcended even his business or political interests, that resonated with Nellie. It inspired her, motivated her, made her all the more determined to give him what he wanted.
“That is your final decision, sir?” asked Cockerill.
“Yes.”
“May I be excused now?” Nellie asked. “I have a story to work on.”
“Of course. And keep me informed. I want to know everything.”
“I will, Mr. Pulitzer.” She stood up. “One more thing, sir.”
“Certainly.”
“Will I be reimbursed for expenses related to this story? It will affect the way I go about it.”
“What types of expenses?” asked Cockerill warily. But the notoriously cheap Pulitzer dismissed the concerns with a wave of his hand.
“Miss Bly will not be reckless, Cockerill.” He regarded Nellie earnestly. “But you must be careful. If someone did kill Emma Lazarus, they will not hesitate to harm you in order to protect themselves.”
She suddenly remembered the hansom that had almost run her down and realized the strong possibility that it had not been happenstance. She thought about DeKay’s cold arrogance, both at the theater and in lying to her so brazenly at the Times the following day, about Barker blithely destroying the vials of blood in the laboratory, about the fear among the workers at Woodlawn Park. Pulitzer was right to be worried. And if she hadn’t despised DeKay and Hilton so much, she would have been more worried, too.
“I will be careful, Mr. Pulitzer. But I intend to get to the bottom of this.”
“I know you will, young lady. I have no doubt of that.”