The idea came to me as I read yet another newspaper article, this one in the New York Tribune, about Pierre Cartier’s Hope Diamond and the terrible curse that might affect its sale price. Since arriving in Manhattan, the gem had rarely been out of the news.
Blue Stone Credited with Bringing Ill Luck to Its Owners, the headline read.
I thought about the diamond I’d seen, about Mr. Cartier’s showmanship and his rarefied shop above Fifth Avenue. I remembered the mysterious jeweler who’d placed the necklace around my sister’s neck. He’d seemed not at all concerned about any potential bad luck that might have tainted him when the stone touched his skin.
What if… what if…
I had no trouble getting an appointment with Thelonious Oxley, the editor and owner of the Gotham Gazette. Among the fourth estate, my pseudonym was well known. After eight years, Vee Swann had established a solid reputation as an intrepid reporter. But it was the mystery surrounding her leave after Charlotte Danzinger’s death that, as Martha and Fanny had relayed, made her a curiosity and something of a legend.
For decades, the publishing industry had its offices near City Hall so the reporters could be near the politicians. The New York World had remained on Park Row with the New York Sun and the New York Tribune. But in 1900, the New York Herald had moved to Herald Square, and in 1903, the New York Times had moved to Times Square, while the Gotham Gazette moved into the Decker Building at 33 Union Square West, facing a Frederick Law Olmsted open glade park.
When I arrived, I couldn’t help marveling at the highly decorated building with Venetian arcades, cast-iron filigree, and Victorian Gothic detailing. A colorful Islamic minaret rose from the roof. Multicolored terra-cotta tiles covered the facade and continued inside to an equally ornate lobby.
Upon entering, I was confused. Decker was a popular piano manufacturer, and it appeared I’d wandered into its showroom. A salesclerk explained that the Gotham Gazette was on the sixth floor and showed me to the elevator.
The magazine’s noisy offices were crowded with reporters—all male, from what I could see through the haze of smoke. A young man at the front desk asked for my name. Checking his calendar and seeing my appointment listed, he rose and ushered me into “the Bear’s” office—that was what they all called him. I’d never met Thelonious Oxley before but had glimpsed him at various social gatherings. He was, indeed, a large, barrel-chested bear of a man, with thick black hair and a heavy black beard.
He watched me as I walked across his office, and as I approached, he stood and held out what I could only think of as a paw. His hand was easily three times as large as mine. I had a hard time looking at him and shaking his hand at that first meeting. Touching his flesh made me want to recoil. This was the monster who had blackmailed my uncle and caused him so much grief that he’d taken his own life. An act that had, in turn, broken my father’s heart and I believed hastened his death. I was shaking the hand of the monster who had taken my father from me. I was staring into the eyes of the greedy bastard who bullied people into paying untold sums to keep their human frailties secret. I wanted to spit in his face for what he had done to my family, but instead, I allowed Oxley to hold my hand longer than was proper for a business handshake, smile at me somewhat seductively, and, with a soft Southern drawl that dripped like syrup, welcome me to his office.
I wasn’t surprised by the flirtatiousness. I had come prepared. Mr. Oxley’s reputation was well known among my circle of female reporters, who always uttered his name with loathing. He rarely took meetings with women writers, but when he did, he usually offered everything from dinners to dalliances, though rarely assignments. For those freelancers whom he did hire, he always paid late and rarely ran the stories. I now knew that was because he was collecting blackmail material.
At one of our press club meetings, Alice Little had told a story of traveling with a dozen other newspaper and magazine reporters accompanying President-elect William Howard Taft on a whistle-stop tour back in ’08. Oxley had cornered Alice in one of the cars and tried to forcibly take advantage of her, but her trusty hatpin stood her in good stead. She stabbed him in the thigh as he lurched for her. He uttered a curse, backed away, and never went near her again. After that, hatpins became all the rage in the female reporting crowd. One could buy them for pennies in any New York emporium, but they were practically lethal if you knew how to use them.
“Well, well, well. It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you, Miss Swann,” Mr. Oxley said.
“And you, Mr. Oxley.” My voice did not betray me. I had steeled myself for this moment, practicing at my vanity in front of the mirror to make sure I could say his name with a smile, not the expression of utter repulsion that I felt.
“Come, come. Have a seat. Can I get you some refreshment?”
“A glass of water, please.”
I had planned on this, too, telling myself to take advantage of any pause, using it to take a moment to settle myself. Over the past days, whenever I had thought about my plan and become nervous, I’d removed my father’s copy of Imre off the bookshelf, withdrawn the letter, and reread my uncle’s suicide note. Though Stephen had suggested I store it in his law firm’s safe, I had not been able to part with it. It had become my mission.
My anger and resolve had grown with all those readings, and I realized as I sat in Oxley’s office that I was no longer nervous. This was the devil who had brought my family to its knees. He couldn’t harm us anymore. It was my turn to harm him. And I was impatient to get started.
He went to the door and shouted out the order to his assistant—water for me, and he’d take another coffee. And then he returned to his desk and sat opposite me.
“So, to what do I owe this visit, Miss Swann?”
“I heard that you are open to pitches, and I think I have a lead on a story.”
“Yes, quite true, but I had heard through the grapevine that you were no longer working.”
“I haven’t been, that’s true. But I’m ready to start again. Just not full-time, and that’s all that is open to me at the World.”
“Quite a messy business with your tenement accident,” he said.
“You know about that?” I asked.
“I doubt there was a newspaperman, editor, or publisher who didn’t follow the story. When one of our own is struck down in the line of duty, all of us are struck down. And you aren’t just one of our own. You were—ahem—you are a force, Miss Swann.”
“You were right the first time. Past tense. It’s taken longer for my back to heal than I or my doctor anticipated. But that’s all behind me, and I’m whole again and with a doctor’s letter to prove it.”
I reached into my bag. I did, in fact, have such a letter. I had thought it wise in case the subject of my condition arose as it had.
“Not in the slightest bit necessary. I can see that a strong and wholly competent reporter is sitting opposite me. I’m excited to hear your pitch.”
At that moment, Oxley’s assistant entered with a tray. He placed my glass of water in front of me and handed his boss a cup of steaming coffee. I distinctly smelled brandy mixed in with the brew.
“Then I’ll just jump right in,” I said, and proceeded to tell Mr. Oxley about the Hope Diamond and how Mr. Cartier was merchandising it.
“I believe he’s making up half of what he’s saying about the curse and exaggerating the rest in order to trick someone into buying it just to defy the bad luck. I’d like to go undercover and see if I can expose the ruse before he sells it to some unsuspecting client.”
“My, my, my…” Mr. Oxley was intrigued. He did everything but rub his hands together.
I had hoped the idea of a target as wealthy as Cartier would whet his appetite, and it looked as if it had. He leaned forward. His eyes sparkled.
“How do you plan on going undercover?”
“I will present myself as an heiress interested in buying the stone.”
Oxley looked doubtful. And for good reason. I was wearing Vee Swann’s modest and inexpensive clothes, thick eyeglasses, and dark wig. Scuffed shoes and an old handbag completed the disguise.
“You think you can convince Mr. Cartier of that?”
“I have a disguise or two I’ve used over the years. As well as a connected friend I can count on to present me to Mr. Cartier to ensure that he believes I am a woman of means.”
“Disguises?” Mr. Oxley still looked doubtful.
“Yes, I had no trouble being a seamstress for two weeks in a shirtwaist factory, and I lived in a tenement as a widow and—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Your reputation precedes you. You have managed to be many things, Miss Swann, but all of them downtrodden and needy. Have you ever pretended to be one of the upper crust? That’s a much tighter circle, where you are scrutinized and questioned in a way that no poor foreman just trying to keep his own job would question you.”
“I have, yes. But sadly, the exposé I was working on didn’t come to fruition. I wouldn’t be here presenting this idea if I didn’t feel confident. Besides, what do you have to lose? You don’t pay up front, do you?”
“No, do you need the money?” He suddenly looked at me suspiciously. “It’s been how long since your last article for the World?”
“Fourteen months. But no, I don’t need the money the way you mean. I moved back home, and my parents took care of me through my convalescence.”
“What do your folks do?” he asked. “Where are you from?”
“They live in Middleton, Rhode Island. My father is a doctor there. It’s the town next to Newport and—”
“Yes, I know it.”
“That’s how I came to know some society people, including those I expect to help me with this story. My father is often called upon to treat them during the summer when they fall ill.”
Mr. Oxley eyed me as if I were a filly he was considering buying. “How long do you think you need to do your research, write it up, and have this article ready?”
“Six to eight weeks.”
“Well, I have to admit I’m intrigued. A story like that would fit right in with what I like to publish and our readers expect to find in our pages. But I do have certain requirements for my freelancers.”
“Yes?”
“You have to agree in writing that you won’t tell anyone what you are working on until it is published.”
“Of course.” That was par for the course with any magazine or newspaper.
“We will settle on payment now, which I will guarantee, but you have to agree that after you turn the story in, if I decide not to publish it, you won’t try to shop another version of it to other papers or magazines, as some writers do, and you won’t discuss it at all.”
“I’m not a neophyte. There will not be any question about the quality. You’ll want to publish it.”
“I trust that will be true, Miss Swann, but I have my reasons sometimes to hold a story back. So, I will need you to agree.”
I had my own idea about why he was insisting on me not shopping the story if he didn’t buy it. Once he read my Cartier story, he’d decide if it would be better as blackmail or as fodder for the magazine. Since I didn’t want to give Mr. Oxley any reason to be suspicious, I reacted the way I assumed any reporter would, given the situation.
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you publish it if it meets the criteria we set up? I’m an established reporter. I’m not used to having my stories squashed.”
“I don’t explain myself, Miss Swann. Do you accept my terms or not?”
I had set a very difficult goal for myself. I needed to discover enough about Mr. Cartier’s overblown sales techniques to write an article exposing his showmanship—even exaggerating if necessary—so that Mr. Oxley believed Cartier would pay to keep those methods secret. If, in fact, I succeeded and Oxley paid me but told me he wasn’t going to run the story, I would need to go to Mr. Cartier and reveal all. I would hope he’d agree that suing Oxley would fit into his plans for generating yet more excitement around the Hope Diamond, and he’d happily go to court to expose Mr. Oxley’s nefarious dealings. There were a lot of pieces that had to fall into place. And exactly how I was going to make sure they did promised to be difficult. But right now, I needed to take the first step and get the assignment. So I told Mr. Oxley that yes, I agreed to his stipulations.
“Well, well, I think we have a deal, then. Welcome back to the fourth estate, Miss Swann. I’m delighted you are reentering the arena with the Gotham Gazette.”