Page 22 of The English Wife

What was it the man downstairs had said? “I’ve come about the reward,” said Janie hastily.

It was the wrong thing to have said. A dozen ears pricked up. Even the shrilling of the phones didn’t seem to distract the reporters, who had all turned to her like sharks scenting blood.

“What did you see?”

“Was it intact?”

“Have you got pictures?”

Mr. Burke cupped Janie’s elbow with exaggerated gentility, but Janie could feel the warning pinch of his fingers as he steered her towards the elevator. “Now, now, gentlemen. You know the rules. This is my story.” Mr. Burke paused only to snatch up a coat and hat, talking all the while. “And it’s probably nothing more than an old boot. What was it last time? Two sticks and a head of cabbage?”

The elevator doors jerked closed on the sound of laughter and retorts.

Mr. Burke shrugged into his coat, wrapping a muffler around his neck. “If we want to speak in private, we’ll have to go outside.” Dropping his voice, he added, “Don’t tell me you’re really here for the reward?”

The contempt in his voice was bracing. Janie straightened. Her height might be a disadvantage in a ballroom, but she was grateful for every inch of it here. “I might be if I knew what it was,” she said coolly.

Mr. Burke gave a bark of laughter. “That’s rich. But then I suppose your sort never miss the chance of adding to your coffers, do you?”

“My sort?” Janie had to keep her voice to a whisper, for the sake of the elevator man. “You mean human beings? Your paper wouldn’t offer rewards if they didn’t believe them an incentive.”

“Touché, Miss … er, miss,” drawled Mr. Burke, but Janie didn’t feel as though she had won anything. The elevator decanted them into the crowded lobby. “If not the chance of lucre, what brings you to my humble place of business?”

“The pursuit of truth.” The words came out sounding impossibly priggish. Janie ducked her head as they exited the building into the full force of the wind. Breathlessly, she said, “That is what you claim to seek, isn’t it?”

“You sound as though you doubt it.”

Janie gestured helplessly towards the newsies marching up and down the street. WIFE’S AFFAIR TURNS TO DOUBLE MURDER! VAN DUYVIL DRIVEN TO IT, SAY FRIENDS.

“Can you blame me?”

Mr. Burke’s hand tightened on her elbow as a streetcar went clanging past. “That’s The Journal, not The World.”

“Is there any difference?”

“Yes. Their circulation is higher.” His dry tone almost surprised Janie into a laugh. “If you think so poorly of my profession, why are you here?”

Now was the time for her pretty speech, the one she had practiced before her mirror last night. Instead, Janie heard herself saying, “Because I need information, and you claim to purvey it.”

“There it is again. That word claim.” Mr. Burke waved to the policeman regulating traffic. It was rather miraculous, the way the traffic parted at his call. Mr. Burke took her elbow and led her past the pawing horses and impatient drivers, nodding his thanks to the policeman. “Is it our inability to know the world that you doubt, or simply my morals?”

She hadn’t expected this sort of resistance, or, if she were being honest, that he would be so well spoken. “You can’t expect me to think highly of a man who obtains entry into my kitchen under false pretenses,” she said apologetically.

“Would you have admitted me under my real ones?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it just? If you want the fruits of my labor, you can’t be squeamish about the means.”

“That depends on the ends, doesn’t it?” At Mr. Burke’s raised brow, Janie hurried on, “I don’t mean to sound Machiavellian about it—but if there were an injustice being committed and one might use one’s skills to stop it…”

“Ah,” said Mr. Burke, his steps slowing as they reached the plaza in front of the pale bulk of City Hall. “So if it’s for the purpose of selling papers, it’s immoral, but if it’s to prevent injustice, all’s fair.”

He’d twisted her words, pushed them out of all meaning. But … “In essence, yes,” said Janie.

They slowed to a stop by the entrance to City Hall Park. Mr. Burke’s voice dropped, his eyes fastened intimately on hers. “Do you know something that makes you believe an injustice is being committed, Miss Van Duyvil?”

For a moment, Janie teetered on the edge of telling him what she knew. But what was it, really? A name, half-heard, that might not even be a name.