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 pot bellied 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 demand 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.
