| |
The Willard Hotel
Senator William Alden Smith
Myra Grunwald appeared to be at ease as she sat in one of the Willard’s satin-covered armchairs with her briefcase on her lap and her legs neatly crossed at the ankles.
“Well,” she asked. “What are you prepared to offer me for what I have in here?”
Her German roots revealed themselves in her slight mispronunciation of the words “well” and “what,” but Bill guessed that she had been in the United States for a number of years and her written words would not reveal any limitations.
“Why should I offer you anything?” Bill asked.
“Because I witnessed a very interesting exchange between you and Sheriff Bayliss in the lobby,” Myra said. “I also have very sharp ears. I believe you have some dispute about Miss Royston, and it is possible you could have come to blows. I did not actually see you fighting, but my readers do not need to know that. I can describe your attitude, your raised voices, the way that you, Senator, poked—one could even say punched—the sheriff. I do not lie in my reporting, but words can be made to mean many things.”
She opened the lock on the briefcase with a decisive, audible snap. “What am I offered for this information?”
Eva came perilously close to falling from her wheelchair in her eagerness to be heard. “Listen to me, woman—”
“You will not call me ‘woman,’” the reporter commanded. “I am Myra Grunwald, and you will call me Myra because I do not wish to be identified as either a married woman or a single woman. These things are immaterial. I am a reporter.”
“And I am—”
“I know who you are,” Myra said. “What are you prepared to offer me for my information and my silence?”
“Name your price,” Eva said. “I have plenty of money. I’m not interested in your silence—if these two men want to fight, that’s their own foolishness. I want that girl returned and arrested.”
Myra spread her hands. “I don’t want money. Money is of no interest to me. I want information.”
“Very well,” said Eva. “Here is the information. Kate Royston stole from me. Report that.”
“Details of petty thefts by unimportant young women are of no interest to my newspaper,” Myra said. “I did not come for such a story.”
Bill was surprised when Nana rose from her seat and walked across to stare down at Myra. “What did you come for? What did Miss Royston promise to give you?”
“A firsthand story about the Salvation Army’s humiliating treatment of young Irish girls coming from the Titanic. Such a story would sell newspapers. We rarely can find any scandal involving the Salvationists.”
“And did she give you that story?” Nana asked.
Bill sat back. If he had been on better terms with Joe, he would have winked at him conspiratorially, but Joe was currently a glowering fortress of offended pride. Bill had to be satisfied with knowing that Nana, with all the stubbornness of her Dutch forebears, was on the warpath. It would only be a matter of time before Myra produced the papers she was guarding.
“Miss Royston did not give me the story she promised,” Myra said. “She owes me.”
“I am surprised she made a promise that she did not keep,” Nana said.
“I’m not,” Eva growled.
Bridie stepped out from behind the wheelchair. “She offered to tell the story,” Bridie said. “I heard her myself. But this woman wanted something else. She thought she could find a scandalous story about Kate herself. She said it was only a question of remembering where she had heard Kate’s name.”
“And did you remember?” Nana asked.
Bill had trouble reading Myra’s expression and concluded that the reporter was somewhat ashamed of her actions.
“Yes, I remembered, and I found the story,” Myra said. “It’s old news and no longer interesting. There was no need for the girl to run away again.”
Eva waved a dismissive hand. “She’s always running away. It’s what she does best.”
“I did not intend to publish it,” Myra insisted. “The public are no longer interested in the Royston disaster.”
Joe was suddenly alert, his tone aggressive. “What Royston disaster?”
Nana waved him into silence, her gaze focused on Myra. “You believe that the public want to hear a story that discredits the Salvation Army?” she asked.
“Of course they do. Bad news sells newspapers. Miss Royston’s descent from the child of a successful businessman to a paid companion to the notoriously unpleasant Eva Trentham is not sufficiently bad news, and so no one would be interested. But the Salvation Army, well, that’s a different story. A well-born young woman falls into their hands and is subjected to humiliation and—”
“You can hear that story from someone else,” Nana said, keeping her eyes fixed on Myra.
Myra lifted her eyebrows. “How can that be, Mrs. Smith?”
“I have two young Irish girls in my house who were with Miss Royston at the Salvation Army hostel. They were witnesses to her escape and what led up to her escape.” Bill frowned at his wife’s statement and then remembered the two girls, relatives of the kitchen maid, who McKinstry had directed to Nana’s kitchen. He had found them at the hostel where Kate had been held prisoner. Apparently, they were still at the house. He could not resist a grin. Nana had found a way out of their dilemma.
“What,” Joe said between gritted teeth, “is the Royston disaster?”
Myra ignored him and extended her hand to Nana. Nana took it. Bill had never seen two women shake hands before. It struck him as unnatural, but Nana seemed perfectly happy with the gesture.
“We have an agreement,” Nana said, turning to Bill.
“So where is she?” Eva asked. “Now that you two ladies have worked things out between you, you can tell me where Kate is. I want my brooch back.”
Bridie leaned over the back of the wheelchair. “She didn’t steal it and you know it.”
“I still want to know where she is,” Eva said sullenly.
“I do not know where she is now,” Myra said, “but I know where she will go.”
Eva leaned forward in her wheelchair. “Just go ahead and arrest her, Sheriff. A few hours in jail will have her talking.”
Myra spread her hands. “Oh, yes, please feel free to arrest me, Sheriff, and I will feel free to write of the experience. ‘German immigrant mistreated by Wild West sheriff.’ That should make a good headline.”
“I am not from the Wild West,” Joe barked, “and I don’t plan to mistreat you.”
“No one ever plans to mistreat another person,” Myra argued. “It usually happens when someone becomes unreasonably angry, and the cause of the anger is rarely mentioned in the argument. I watched you in the lobby, Sheriff. You are angry, but not with your friend Senator Smith. As for the senator, I wonder if perhaps Kate Royston has information that will help you, and that is why you also appear to be angry.”
Bill grimaced. The reporter seemed to have an instinct for knowing words that had not actually been spoken. No doubt she was very successful at her job. “Miss Royston has no information that would assist my inquiries,” he said stiffly.
“What a pity,” Myra said. “I think you could use some new information before even the largest newspapers lose interest. This afternoon, I sat in the lobby and observed several interesting scenes. I saw Kate Royston enter the smoking room for a tête-à-tête with the Countess of Rothes, and later in the afternoon, I saw another tête-à-tête, this time with Sir Bruce Ismay. Would you care to comment on this?”
“No, I would not,” Bill said. His mind was turning somersaults, and he was beginning to think of the girl from the Carpathia as an infernal nuisance. “My wife has promised to give you what you want, so just get on with telling us what is in those papers.”
“It is nothing that will help with your inquiries,” Myra warned.
“Will it help me find Kate?” Joe asked.
“Do you wish to find her?”
“Of course he does,” Eva snapped. “I want her back.”
Myra leaned back in her chair, and the expression on her face grew soft. “It is possible that I could continue to bargain with you and extract a higher price for this information, but I will not.” She looked at Bill. “I will not do what you do, Senator. I will not use the death of so many for my own gain.”
Bill found that he could not meet her accusing eyes. He knew that he could legally justify holding the Titanic inquiry. He had the voters behind him—people wanted to know what had happened—but was finding the truth his only motivation? As for Eva, what did she want from this inquiry except the perverse pleasure of making politicians dance to the jingling tune of her money? He stared down at the floor, unwilling even to look at Nana. Did this hard-bitten German newswoman have a better sense of right and wrong than any of the senators on his committee?
“Mrs. Smith, would you please read this?”
Bill looked up to see that Myra had handed a sheet of paper to Nana.
“You want me to read aloud?” Nana asked.
“Yes, if you would be so kind. I have read it too many times. My voice will not reveal the shock I found on my first reading.”
Nana held out her hand. “Very well.” She sat in an armchair, reached into her purse, and pulled out her reading glasses. She looked down at the paper and then back at Myra. “Is this a report from your newspaper?” she asked.
“No. This first report comes from the newspaper of Knox, a small town in northern Pennsylvania. It is dated March second, 1911, a little over a year ago. Please read, Mrs. Smith.”
Nana settled her glasses on her nose and began to read. “‘Royston, Pennsylvania, March first, 1911.’” She looked up at Myra. “The town is named for Kate’s family?” she asked.
“In a way, it is,” Myra said. “It is named for the Royston Pulp Mill, owned by Kate’s family. Keep reading, Mrs. Smith.”
“‘Possibly five hundred persons, most of them women and children, are dead tonight,’” Nana read. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and continued reading. “‘Their bodies were scattered through the valley by the two million gallons of water that, dashing faster than a mile a minute and foaming in a wall fifty feet high, swept down Loggers Run this afternoon from the broken dam of the Royston Pulp Mill and snuffed out this little town. The deluge was followed by fire.’”
Bill sensed movement, saw Bridie Conley crossing herself, and heard her whisper, “Holy Mother of God.”
“‘Royston is a wreck,’” Nana read. “‘The living are hardly able to seek the dead.’”
Bill extended his hand. “Perhaps you should let me read. This is upsetting my wife.”
Nana gripped the paper. “No, Bill. I’ll read it.” She returned her attention to the paper. “‘The flood swept through Royston, crushing nearly every one of its five hundred houses. There was no warning. There came a roar and then the shock of the flood, the crash of the timbers, the screams of fear. On the crest of the wave rode a thousand cords of pulp mill timber. These hit houses and stores like a succession of battering rams. They riddled the flimsy frame homes of the mill workers and left great gaps in their sides. They struck unto unconsciousness the terror-stricken people seeking to swim the flood to safety. The water passed the town in a solid wall two miles in length. The course from the dam was down the valley of Loggers Run, along whose banks there are hundreds of houses this evening covered by the swollen river or wrecked.’”
Nana set the paper down on her lap and pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve. She lifted her glasses and wiped her eyes. “Another Johnstown flood,” she said, “and yet we never heard of it in Washington.” She flicked a finger at the paper. “Is this only reported in the smallest of papers? Does no one else care?”
“Over two thousand people died in Johnstown,” Bill said carefully. “This, it seems, was only five hundred.”
“Only,” Nana repeated. “Only five hundred. How many will it take to make us care? Does it have to be more than the two thousand who died in Johnstown before the New York Times will report on it?”
What about the next shipwreck? Bill wondered. This time, we cared because fifteen hundred people, many of them wealthy, died. How many people will it take next time? Will we only care if more than fifteen hundred people die?
Nana wiped her eyes again and resumed her reading. “‘Many bodies are being recovered along the banks of the river. Some had been swept five miles below the town. Rescuing parties are busy fighting the flames tonight, seeking to save the bodies buried there from incineration. Many were imprisoned in houses washed onto high ground by the flood, but soon licked up within the fire zone. The Royston mansion, home of mill owner Philip Royston, stands on a hill above the flood and was undamaged.’”
Bill turned his head as he heard the clink of a glass behind him. Joe Bayliss was pouring whiskey into tumblers. “Poor little Kate,” he said. “No wonder she was running.”
“I could accuse that newspaper of yellow journalism,” Myra said. “The writing is florid and unprofessional, but it is a true report, and I am afraid that it becomes worse for your friend Kate, much worse.”
“How much worse could it be?” Joe asked.
“As reporters,” Myra said, “we are trained to ask questions and report what we see. We are not to give opinions. Of course, when emotions run high and hundreds of people are dead, it is not possible to remain neutral. It is only to be expected that reporters will look for the most sensational stories, and there were many stories to tell in Royston, just as there are now with the Titanic.” She shrugged slightly, as if trying to lift a burden from her shoulders. “We report what we hear, and people repeat what they see reported, and so one man’s story becomes the story of many men. When one man points a finger, he is joined by many others.”
“Are you apologizing?” Bill asked.
Myra shook her head. “No, Senator. I do not apologize; I simply report a fact to you. When one man points a finger, many follow where he points. You know this, Senator, because you have pointed your finger at Bruce Ismay and you see for yourself what has happened to that man.”
“Nothing has happened to him,” Bill blustered.
“He is ruined,” Myra said, “just as Kate’s father was ruined.” She selected another sheet of paper. “This was reported less than twenty-four hours later in the newspaper of the town of Clarion, just a few miles away but with a far greater circulation. You will read, please, Senator.”
Bill took the paper from her hand, cleared a lump from his throat, and began to read. “‘The Royston dam, which collapsed on March first with great loss of life, was completed in December 1909 at a cost of eighty-six thousand dollars and was built to the specific design of Mr. Philip Royston to provide water to his pulp mill. It stood fifty feet tall and spanned a length of five hundred and thirty feet and was designed to impound two hundred and fifty million gallons of water.
“‘Mr. Gregory Petrov, who was engaged by Mr. Royston to oversee the project, states that Mr. Royston rejected many of the safety features that Mr. Petrov wished to include in the final design. Mr. Royston stated that such features would prove too costly and that Mr. Petrov should find ways to save construction costs, specifically in the thickness of cement to be used and by avoiding the use of a cut-off wall that would prevent water from flowing beneath the dam and creating erosion. It is Mr. Petrov’s opinion that these two cost-cutting measures led directly to the collapse of the dam with resulting loss of life.’”
Bill looked up from the paper. “Why should I believe this?” he asked. “It looks as if Mr. Petrov did a good job of diverting blame from himself.”
“Yes, he did,” Myra agreed. “He spoke to reporters when Mr. Royston would not. Mr. Royston shut himself away in his mansion with only his daughter for company and would not speak, not even to defend himself. The remaining citizens of Royston heard what Mr. Petrov had to say and marched up the hill to the Royston mansion. When Kate’s father would not come out and talk to them, they set the building on fire, and so Mr. Royston died.”
“You mean they burned him to death?” Nana gasped.
Myra shook her head. “No. He and his daughter fled from the townspeople and hid in the forest. It was several days later that Philip Royston took his own life, leaving his daughter alone in a hostile town.”
“And that is why she began to run,” Eva said.
Bridie crossed herself again, and Bill was not even surprised to see Eva mimic the action. He set down the paper. The air in the room was thick and heavy with guilt. He clenched his fists, pressing his fingers into his palms so that they could not move—so that they could not point even at himself.