CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

The late afternoon sun streaming through the windows of Grand Central Station made little impression on the throng of people bent on embarking on the passenger trains. Locomotives whistling, brakes hissing, the clatter of voices and rushing feet all combined to make an overpowering din. In such an atmosphere of confusion, Zeke and Rory attracted little attention as they descended off the morning train from Jersey.

Her hair bound up in a kerchief, Rory wore a faded cotton dress, one of Annie's that had shrunk but still fit Rory like sackcloth. In appearance, Rory knew that she was unremarkable, just another weary traveler from coach class. Zeke too was dressed with simplicity—a plain white shirt, denim trousers, his face shielded by a much-battered felt hat that Annie had once fished from the sea.

Why then did Rory feel as if everyone were staring at them? Nervously, she ducked her head when a policeman strolled toward them. The blue-coated officer veered aside at the last moment, lingering to trade some joke with one of the clerks at the ticket window. Rory exhaled her breath in a tremulous sigh

"Stop looking so guilty." Zeke's voice rumbled close to her ear. "It's me the coppers are after, not you."

Linking his arm through hers, he guided her away from the platform, laughing aloud at the furtive way she made her way through the crowded station. Rory tossed him a glance simmering with resentment. How could he be so nonchalant about all this? Her tension had been mounting ever since they left the security of Annie's cottage, growing stronger as they drew closer and closer to New York.

In Zeke's broad grin, she could see the traces of the street urchin he had once been, enjoying playing cat and mouse games with the police. But she was on tenterhooks, afraid that Zeke risked being shot on sight if they encountered any more policemen of O'Connell's ilk. When she and Zeke emerged from the station onto the busy street, her heart gave an anxious thud. But it was the same as on the train platform. Pedestrians shoved past them, more concerned with tending to their own affairs than looking too close into the face of any stranger.

The day was warm, and Rory felt circles of perspiration forming beneath her arms. Her throat felt dry, and when a drugstore across the street caught her eye, she thought wistfully of a cherry phosphate.

"I don't suppose you have any money left of what Anchor Annie loaned us?" she asked Zeke.

"Just enough for fare for the horsecar. And what do you mean 'loaned'? While you lay abed this morning, my lady, I was up earning that money, cleaning fish for that old sea hag. I'll never be able to face a plate of mackerel again."

Rory laughed in spite of herself and felt better for it, some of her tension easing.

"I'm glad you think it's so funny. I probably even smell like fish."

Zeke raised his arm, taking a cautious sniff at his sleeve. But he smelled just fine, Rory thought, redolent with the clean tang of Annie's soap and his own more elusive musky, masculine scent. He looked just fine too. That weathered hat didn't quite shadow his clean-shaven jaw, or the dark eyes, which sparkled bright and alert. The denims, a fraction too small, hugged the taut lines of his muscular thighs. The warmth of the day had caused him to open his shirt at the neck, revealing a healthy expanse of tanned flesh. He seemed to possess amazing powers of recuperation. If he still felt any discomfort from his wound or the beating he'd taken, he didn't show it. His shoulders squared in that familiar pugnacious manner, he appeared ready to take on the world.

She wished she felt the same, but she was weary from that long trip on the train. She had spent most of the journey arguing with Zeke about their plan of action. He had finally agreed to abandon his notion of confronting Charles Decker, at least long enough to see what information could be obtained from the reporter, Bill Duffy.

Zeke must have noticed the droop to her shoulders, for he chucked her under the chin with a tender smile. "Maybe you should just go home, get some rest and wait until you hear from me."

"No, you're not getting rid of me that easily," Rory said. Despite all his assurances, she was not sure how far she trusted Zeke to behave with due caution.

She had an awful image of him bursting into some newspaper office and causing a dreadful uproar. At the very least, he ran the risk of being recognized in a place that published his photograph so often.

"Maybe it would be better if you let me find this Duffy and talk to him," she said.

Zeke's scowl told her what he thought of that proposal, but she continued to insist, putting forth all her arguments. In the end, they reached a compromise. Rory would go into the building, find Duffy and bring him to Zeke. If the exchange became heated, if Duffy were to whistle for the police, Zeke would have a far better chance escaping if they were outside.

They had to run to catch the horse drawn trolley that would take them toward Newspaper Row, and they mounted the steps at the last possible second. As Zeke paid the conductor the fare, Rory collapsed on the first seat. Usually as many as twenty people crammed into the cars during peak hours. But at this time of day, they were relatively empty. There was no need to crowd close to the potbellied stove in the center as she did on chillier days, so Rory remained where she was, Zeke edging beside her.

They got down again at Chambers Street and cut across City Hall Park, heading toward Newspaper Row. The park provided a peaceful oasis in the midst of the bustling city, the grass sprouting tender shoots of a spring green, the elms and poplars just starting to bud.

"You can wait on one of the benches," she told Zeke, "and try to look inconspicuous."

"All right," he said grudgingly. “I'll give you half an hour to get that jackanapes of a reporter back here."

She nodded, preparing to rush off before Zeke could change his mind. But he seized her by the wrist.

"Wait. I forgot one thing."

The devil's glint in his eye should have warned her. Before she could protest, he yanked her hard into his arms.

"For luck," he grinned and then proceeded to kiss her, so thoroughly her kerchief became dislodged, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.

She swayed against him, her senses reeling. By the time he had done, she was glad of the support of his strong arms keeping her upright. Her face flushed, her breath coming hard.

A nursemaid wheeling a perambulator past on the walkway cast them a shocked glance.

Rory wriggled out of Zeke's embrace. "This is not exactly what I call being inconspicuous, Mr. Morrison."

"No, but it's a helluva lot more fun." His eyes were warm with the memories of all they had shared the previous night. They had spoken little of it this morning, but always it seemed to be there between them, the remembrance of those passionate hours before dawn when she had been lost in his loving, Zeke's request that she marry him.

She could tell that he was thinking of that too. He traced the curve of her lips with his finger, murmuring, "Mrs. Morrison- the sound of that is beginning to appeal to me more and more."

The trouble was it appealed to her too, and she had yet to rid herself of the doubts plaguing her. She couldn't give him an answer last night and she wasn't ready to do so now. She took a step back, putting more distance between herself and the seductive circle of those strong arms.

"I better be going. You stay put and behave yourself until I return."

Whirling on her heel, she turned and fled, sensing the heat of his gaze following her. She should have been relieved to discover he had something on his mind besides vengeance, but it didn't help to have him befuddling her when she needed her wits clear for the meeting with the reporter.

Coming out of the park, she crossed Park Row, narrowly missing being run down by a smart tilbury, the footman perched on the back so far forgetting his dignity as to shake his fist at her.

But she didn't check her pace. The World was not conveniently located on the same block as the other dailies. Rory was obliged to traverse several blocks, heading back toward the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge. The building that housed Mr. Pulitzer's prized newspaper, some twenty-seven stories of it, loomed above Rory in majestic splendor, crowned with the famous gilded cupola at the top.

Slipping inside, Rory found the place every bit as busy as Grand Central Station, reporters and copyboys rushing past, editors bellowing. From the basement below she could hear the thunder of the printing presses, so loud they seemed to make the floor vibrate beneath her feet.

It was hard to get anyone to stand still long enough to listen to her query after the whereabouts of one William Duffy, let alone give her an answer. Finally a cigar-chomping individual barking into the speaking piece of a telephone paused long enough to snap that she should go to the fifth floor.

Daunted at the prospect of climbing so many flights, Rory was relieved to discover the World equipped with an elevator. The youthful operator whisked her upward at a speed that caused a fluttering in her stomach.

Stepping out, she peered through an open door into an office full of desks and men in their shirtsleeves. Most of them were crowded round some fast-talking salesman demonstrating the latest in typewriter machines. She eyed the cluster of male faces dubiously, wondering which one it was she sought. But when she mentioned Duffy's name, she was directed to a desk in the far corner.

Behind it sat a young man sporting a startling shock of red hair and a blot of ink on his nose. Oblivious to the salesman's chatter, he scribbled away with an intense concentration. William Duffy's desk was a disaster of scattered papers and partially clipped newsprint. If he did have any evidence useful to Zeke, Rory wondered how they would ever unearth it from the chaos.

She hovered, waiting for Duffy to look up, but it occurred to her that she might drop dead on the floor beside him without his noticing.

She cleared her throat. "Mr. Duffy?"

He glanced up, obviously impatient of any interruption. His annoyance faded to surprise, his gaze raking over her. A puzzled frown settled on his brow. Rory had a sudden notion of how odd she must look in the faded sack of a dress, her hair a wild tangle.

She smoothed it self-consciously. "I realize you don't know me, Mr. Duffy. But I need a moment of your time. My name is Aurora Kavanaugh. I have something of vital importance to discuss with you, about a story you wrote two days ago—"

She got no further for she realized he wasn't listening to her. He stroked his chin, musing, "Kavanaugh? Now where have I heard that name before?"

His face lighting with recognition, he came up out of his chair. "Say, I remember now. You are that girl with the runaway balloon from the circus, aren't you? I did the piece about you crashing onto Morrison's lawn."

Rory tried to begin again. "That's why I am here, to talk to you about-."

"Look, Miss Kavanaugh, if you are here to complain about the article, if your name got spelled wrong or anything, I'm sorry. I'm always careful. It's the copy editors that mess everything up."

"Will you please just listen to me?" Rory exclaimed. "This has nothing to do with the article you wrote about me. I am here to discuss the more recent story you did on Mr. Morrison."

Duffy perched on the edge of his desk, heedless of the stack of papers that cascaded to the floor, He scowled. "Yeah, poor Morrison. He's in the deuce of a fix. I wish it had been anyone but him. A little mule-headed, but I rather like the fellow."

Rory was unable to restrain her indignation. "Then why did you write such terrible lies about him?"

Duffy looked taken aback. "Why, it was all true, though I wish it wasn't." He puffed out his chest a little. "I assure you William Michael Duffy always makes sure of his facts. My information came from an unimpeachable source."

"Indeed? Someone straightforward and honest like Sergeant O'Connell from the warehouse precinct?"

"That grafter? Lord no, it was-.” He hesitated, wariness coming into his eyes. "What's your interest in all this?"

"I am interested because I know the truth. Even as your story appeared on the streets, Zeke Morrison was waking up to find himself a prisoner in a brothel and Mr. Addison dead by someone else's hand. And that night when Zeke was supposed to be off, committing the murder, he couldn't have been. He was with me."

That was stretching the truth a bit perhaps, but Zeke's case was urgent. Duffy let out a long, low whistle.

"So the wind sits in that quarter, does it?" He subjected her to another appraising stare which caused the heat to flare into her cheeks. "Morrison must have been quick to take the advantage when you dropped out of the skies into his lap. Can't say as I blame him."

"My relationship with Mr. Morrison is not important. What matters is that someone fed you that story on purpose to help implicate Mr. Morrison in a crime he didn't commit. You have been made a fool of, Mr. Duffy."

Duffy folded his arms over his chest. "How can I believe you? You'll excuse me for saying so, but my other source is a little more respectable."

"Perhaps it would help if I told you I know who your other source is—an alderman named Charles Decker."

Duffy was too cautious to confirm or deny her guess. "You seem to know an awful lot, lady." His eyes narrowed. "Maybe you also know where Morrison is hiding."

It was Rory's turn to be uneasy. She had come here for the express purpose of leading Duffy back to Zeke, but now she wasn't so sure it was a good idea. The man claimed he liked Zeke, but he was a reporter for all that. Zeke's capture would make excellent front-page copy.

Duffy regarded Rory more hungrily than Tony when he was half-starving and presented with a bowl of his mother's pasta. She was thinking of retreating when he came off the desk, pressing closer. "What did you really come up here for, Miss Kavanaugh? I don't think it was just to yell at me because you didn't like the piece I wrote about Morrison."

"No. I hoped that you could help him somehow, that if you knew the story wasn't true, you would want to make it right."

"So I would. I don't like making mistakes on my facts. A thing like that could ruin a fellow's reputation. But I need a little more convincing, perhaps to talk to Morrison himself. It was him who sent you, wasn't it? Why don't you take me to him?"

That was exactly what Zeke desired, but Rory hesitated. "I am not sure I should trust you, Mr. Duffy."

Duffy reached for his jacket, pulling it on. "With Morrison in this much trouble, you haven't got much choice. Besides, whether I believe you or not, I'm a reporter, not a policeman. I write stories. I don't try to apprehend desperate men, especially not ones with knuckles the size of Morrison's."

Rory gave a reluctant laugh. She found something likable about Bill Duffy, even if he was the author of that dreadful article on Zeke. She had only her instinct to go on, telling her to trust him, but it had to be enough, for Duffy was right in one respect. She didn't have much choice. Even if she had changed her mind about taking Duffy to Zeke, she sensed the man would trail her like a bloodhound all over New York.

Returning to the park, Rory noted anxiously that she had been gone longer than she had promised. The sun had dipped lower behind the trees. As it drew closer to the dinner hour, the walkways were nearly deserted. She saw no sign of Zeke. With a thud of her heart, Rory feared that he had gone off to do something rash.

She sighed with relief when she spied him sitting on a park bench, his legs sprawled across the path, a section of newspaper covering his face as though to shield his eyes.

It occurred to Rory he might be asleep, and her relief changed to indignation, appalled that he could be quite that careless when every policeman in New York must be on the lookout for him.

Yet she supposed that she had not exactly given the man the most restful repose the night before. Rory approached Zeke cautiously, Duffy hard on her heels.

Despite how low she called Zeke's name, it was impossible not to startle him. He jerked awake, springing to his feet, fists drawn back. When he realized it was Rory, he expelled his breath in a long sigh. He lowered his arm, adjusting the brim of the battered felt hat, which had nearly flown off.

He smiled even as he complained, "About time you got back here. I was ready to—" His smile vanished when he saw Duffy at her shoulder.

"Hello, Morrison," Duffy said. "I like the hat."

Zeke's hands balled into fists. To Rory's dismay, he took a menacing step forward. Luckily, Duffy understood the better part of valor. He ducked behind Rory, using her skirts as a shield.

"Take it easy, Morrison. You wouldn't want to be arrested for two murders."

"Why not? They can only hang me once."

"Zeke!" Rory positioned herself firmly in his path, splaying her hands against his chest. "Mr. Duffy seems to have been as much a victim as you. He believed that story was true."

"Maybe I should teach him to check his facts."

Duffy peered round her. "I haven't seen anything in your behavior yet to convince me I made a mistake."

With such a beginning, it was all she could do to get the two men to sit back down on the bench and talk. When they did, she positioned herself as a buffer between them.

Although still glaring at Duffy, Zeke was persuaded to tell his entire story, from Decker's threats to O'Connell's attempt to shoot him in cold blood to the escape in the balloon.

"The balloon. That's the first I heard of that." Duffy gave an ecstatic sigh. "What a story! I hope it's all true. With a tale like that the editor would give me the whole front page. Those smart-mouthed reporters from the Times would be green." As another thought appeared to strike him, Duffy looked more subdued. "That is if I still have a job. Lord, Morrison, you wouldn't sue the paper, would you, over one little mistake?"

"No, I'd be more likely to bust up your printing press."

Duffy brightened. "Oh, that'd be all right, but my editor hates lawsuits."

Rory tapped her foot, growing impatient with the pair of them. "Before we worry about breaking presses or writing new stories, we need to deal with the problem that Mr. Morrison is still wanted for murder. Mr. Duffy, in a court of law, would you be willing to reveal the name of the man who gave you the false information?"

"Court of law, hell," Zeke said. "All Duffy needs to do is assure me it was Decker, and I'll take care of the rest."

Rory exchanged a glance with Duffy. He apparently understood her unspoken plea, for he hedged. "Well, the matter seems more complicated than that. There could be someone else besides Decker involved. That friend of yours, Addison, was doing extensive investigating, wasn't he? He implied he had uncovered more than one villain. It might be better, Morrison, if you kept a low profile and let me do a little nosing around."

Rory's heart sank as she saw that Zeke was not about to agree to that. Being inactive for this long had chafed him raw. Another argument ensued, but this time she had Duffy on her side.

"At least let me drop by police headquarters," Duffy said. "I have a few contacts there. I can see how their investigation is going, find out whether your place is guarded, if it's safe for you to return home."

When Zeke shook his head, Duffy continued to plead. "Aw, what's a few more hours? Look, I'll lend you a few dollars and—" He paused to grin. "I never thought the day would come that I would lend money to anyone, let alone the richest man in New York. Anyhow, you could nip off to some quiet restaurant and feed your girl here."

Zeke stiffened. "She's not my girl. She's my fiancée."

Rory nearly choked at that. As usual Zeke was rushing over her with the force of a gale wind. But she had no chance to protest in the face of Duffy's delighted exclamations.

"Another story! I can see the headlines. Tycoon Weds Balloon Girl. They'll have to give me a special edition." He looked as though he were about to die and cross the threshold of heaven. "Just remember, Morrison, when this is all over, you owe me. The entire tale of your life, starting with day one, where you were born, who your parents were—"

"I don't owe you anything except a punch in the nose." Zeke felt ready to deliver it. But his gaze went to Rory's face, her eyes clouded with an anxiety that hadn't been there when Zeke had first met her. She shouldn't have been that pale. Maybe there was some wisdom in letting Duffy pursue a few inquiries.

“All right. Give me the money and get the hell out of here."

Duffy turned out his pockets and managed to come up with a dollar. Folding it into his fist, Zeke was filled with a wry amusement, remembering the night he had taken Rory out to dine at Delmonico's. He had tipped the waiter more than that.

While Duffy disappeared on his mission, Zeke discovered the dollar was enough to purchase ham sandwiches and coffee from a little deli. Afterward, he and Rory returned to the park and lingered on one of the benches, watching the sun set over the rotunda at City Hall.

There was little talk between them. Rory was too tired. Zeke draped his arm about her, nestling her head against his shoulder. Perhaps it was foolish to hang about out in the open so much, but he didn't see much sign of an extensive police search for him. The city was a big place, the locale of many crimes. Maybe the murder of Addison had already passed into insignificance.

Zeke couldn't let that happen. He owed the man more than that. Maybe even the punishment of Decker would not be enough. So what could he do? Erect a statue to Addison's memory? The park was already full of them, just more places for pigeons to roost.

Yet until he settled this matter, there would be no future with Rory. He could tell he had startled her earlier, maybe even displeased her, when he had told Duffy she was his fiancee.

Although she didn't contradict him, he knew she hadn't really said yes. He was trying not to rush her, but it had been hard to hear Duffy refer to her in that disrespectful way.

He supposed it was odd, even inconsistent of him, considering that at one time he had proposed to make her his mistress. But he hadn't known he was in love with her then.

Love- the word itself was enough to scare the hell out of Zeke. Yet he could put no other name to the feeling in his heart as he gazed down at her.

He desired her, yes, an undercurrent of that was ever present. But another emotion settled deeper inside him in what he guessed must be his soul. He had never been sure he had one until he met Rory.

And how did she feel about him? The same. He was fairly sure of it, could read it in her eyes and taste it in her kiss. Why then did she hesitate to accept his offer of marriage? He didn't think it had anything to do with the warning Tessa had given. Rory had never paid much attention to that, even when Zeke had urged her to do so.

What then? She had never said so, but it was likely something to do with his attitude over her damned balloons. He wished he could understand, but he couldn't and it was owing to more than his own fear of heights. He had seen her come through two hair's-breadth escapes flying those blasted contraptions. He was damned if he would risk losing her that way again.

Almost unconsciously, his arms tightened about her. The movement roused her from the half-drowsy state into which she had drifted. She looked up, surprised, noting the moonlight spilling over the pathway.

"It's getting late," she said. "I wonder what happened to Duffy."

"I don't know, but we can't sit here on the bench all night. That's one sure way to attract the notice of the coppers."

They had agreed to take the chance of slipping back to Rory's flat, when Zeke saw a hackney coach drawing to a halt at the edge of the park. Duffy leaped out, barely taking time to pay off the driver. He raced through the trees as if the police were after him.

He drew up so short of breath, he could hardly talk, sinking down on the bench. Zeke and Rory barraged him with questions. "Where have you been? What did you find out?"

Duffy held up one hand, imploring them to stop. "Over- all over," he gasped.

Zeke frowned, finding no sense in the words. "What do you mean?"

"It's safe, Morrison. To go home. No more police. Decker confessed to everything."

"What!" Zeke and Rory exclaimed in one breath. Rory was swifter to accept the glad tidings than he.

She flung her arms about him. Zeke patted her back in distracted fashion. After all these harrowing events, this seemed all too easy.

"I don't understand any of this," he said. "I still want to see Decker."

"Impossible." Duffy managed to straighten, fanning his flushed face with his derby.

"Why not?" Zeke demanded. "Even if he's in jail—"

Duffy shook his head. "Not jail, the morgue. Decker's dead. He shot himself through the head last night."