Deadlier Than the Pen Part 5

They'd run the gamut from sympathetic to outraged to foul obscenity. No one had mentioned the victim's name, but several of the Hungaria's patrons had speculated that she must be a prost.i.tute. What other sort of female, someone had asked, went out unescorted at night?

Ben suddenly knew the answer to that question.

A woman like Mrs. Spaulding.

As if compelled, he hurried back to the alley and ventured in. He did not expect to discover anything to tell him what had happened or to whom, but when his foot struck an object lying on the ground, he didn't hesitate to scoop it up and carry it back to the street to examine under better light.

The item was small and would have been easily overlooked. Perhaps the woman who'd been attacked had not even realized she'd dropped it during the struggle. Obviously the police had not found it afterward.

Ben stared at the green cloth cover. It was badly stained where it had fallen into a pile of refuse but he could not fail to recognize it. Standing under a lamppost, jaw clenched, he flipped it open to read the name and address neatly inscribed on the flyleaf.

A telegram from Horatio Foxe awaited Diana when she awoke on Sunday morning. This fact did not surprise her. She'd expected Bruno Webb to go directly to their boss after escorting her home. The content of Foxe's wire, however, did take her aback.

"STAY ON BATHORY TRAIL," it read. "DO NOT WRITE ACCOUNT OF ATTACK."

Crumpling the cable in her hand, Diana bit back a curse. Of her three explanations, the one in which Foxe had been behind the entire business suddenly seemed by far the most plausible. It even provided a reason why Bruno had taken so long to show up when he was supposed to be right behind her.

She dragged a weary hand over her face, wincing when it came in contact with the bruise on her jaw. She'd have to use powder to cover it.

Diana sighed. She had not slept well. After the attack, she'd been calm on the surface, but as soon as her head hit the pillow, all her doubts and fears had been set free. In troubled dreams, she'd revisited last night's events in the alley, and unhappy incidents from her past, as well.

Evan had struck her once in a fit of frustration over his failure to do justice to a role. That was one of the dangers inherent in loving a man with a creative temperament.

She'd felt powerless then. Now she was just angry, and too exhausted to do more than d.a.m.n Horatio Foxe for getting her into such an impossible situation. She had to go on. If she did not, her editor was desperate enough to create a sensational story that bore no resemblance to the truth. That was why he wanted to delay printing a first-person account of an attack on one of his own reporters. He had a bigger story in mind. A completely untrue story.

The corollary to her logic was that Damon Bathory was entirely innocent of any crime. That being the case, how could she be a party to a plot to defame his character? She had no choice but to go to Bathory, not to demand an interview, but to warn him what Foxe had planned.

In the light of a new day, even one that was a bit overcast, Diana managed to convince herself that Foxe's threat to fire her for insubordination was all bl.u.s.ter. She could always appeal to his sister. Under threat of Rowena's nagging, he'd surely relent, forgive Diana, and take her back into the fold.

With luck that might even happen before she became dest.i.tute.

No effort of will could quite shut out the memory of near starvation after Evan had left Toddy's company to strike out on his own -- and made a hash of it. They'd been down to their last two bits when he'd gotten into the poker game that had ended up costing him his life. Diana never had learned if he'd really been cheating. It had hardly mattered after he was shot by the disgruntled gambler who claimed he was.

Diana closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Evan had not survived, but she had. If worse came to worst, she supposed she could always go on the stage. The fact that she had not an ounce of theatrical talent shouldn't hold her back. The lack of acting ability certainly had not stopped Lavinia Ross from pursuing her career.

Diana's vision of a future in which she successfully played miscellaneous maids and waiting women, the female equivalent of spear carriers, amused her enough to allow her to consume her usual hearty breakfast with good appet.i.te. After she'd eaten, she set out for the Palace Hotel at a brisk pace, determined to get this meeting over with. She did not realize that she'd just pa.s.sed Bathory, on the other side of the street and heading in the opposite direction, until he was a good distance beyond her. Apparently lost in thought, he'd taken no note of her, either.

Doubling back, Diana had almost caught up with him when he joined the cl.u.s.ter of paris.h.i.+oners entering Grace Church for morning wors.h.i.+p. Diana followed the crowd, momentarily bemused by the notion that the man who wrote such demonic stories should attend Sunday services. Once inside, she spotted him easily, but there was no room for her in his pew. She settled into one near the back of the church, prepared to wait for the end of services to speak with him.

More than an hour later, Diana stepped out of Grace Church into an afternoon that was still overcast but not yet stormy. She positioned herself near the wrought iron fence to wait for Bathory to emerge.

He was easy to spot -- he was the only man not wearing a hat. Diana was about to call out to him when she saw him reach into the pocket of his coat and extract a small object. She had to bite back a gasp when she recognized her notebook, the one she'd lost in the alley.

Stunned, Diana ducked out of sight behind a large gentleman and his wife. Had she been wrong? Had Bathory been her attacker, after all? Had he stolen the notebook? Or gone back for it later?

Nonsense! She told herself she was imagining things. Hadn't she just reasoned everything out and decided she had nothing to fear from this man? He was not her attacker. He was the wrong shape. The man in the alley had been broader in the shoulders and much shorter than Bathory.

She hesitated too long. He left the churchyard heading away from his hotel. Her expression grim, Diana set out in his wake. She was no longer sure what she would do when she caught up with him, but following Damon Bathory seemed to have become a habit.

Chapter Five.

When Diana finally ran her quarry to ground, Damon Bathory was standing on the roof of the Equitable Building with his back to her, apparently contemplating the panoramic view of the Narrows, Staten Island, the North and East Rivers, and most of Manhattan and Brooklyn. This observation area at the weather station, run by the War Department's U.S. Army Signal Service to gain up-to-date information on storms and temperature, welcomed visitors at any time, but no one else seemed to be in evidence today.

Diana debated giving up and going home. Her jaw was throbbing, as were other a.s.sorted aches and pains she'd acquired by landing so hard on the ground in that alley. Moreover, the blister on her heel had opened again. She was having second thoughts about warning Damon Bathory of Foxe's suspicions, now that she knew he had possession of her notebook. But most of all, she'd begun to be afraid. When she'd followed him up here, she hadn't antic.i.p.ated finding herself alone with him.

An instant before she could turn and flee, he swung around to face her, fixing her with his steady, compelling stare. His smile contained neither warmth nor humor, but his deep, resonant voice and hypnotic gaze held her still for his approach.

"You've been following me, Mrs. Spaulding."

Denial came automatically. "I haven't -- "

"Shall I enumerate all the places you've turned up since you failed to get what you wanted from me in my hotel room? Later that day, you lurked outside an art gallery while I was inside. Yesterday, you dogged my footsteps to a candy store, the barber shop, and other places too numerous to mention. Last night you all but pressed your nose to the window while I supped at the Everett House. I could see you, only half-concealed by the shadows, peering in at me like a starving waif. I thought about asking you to join me," he added in dulcet tones, "but I decided you deserved to suffer for your impertinence. Then we both attended the same play."

"It is my job to review plays," she protested, but the game was up. At least he did not seem to know that she'd also followed him to Bellevue. For some reason that eased her mind. She did not think he'd be happy to hear she knew of his visit there.

"Your job," he repeated. "Yes. I see. And I am just another of your a.s.signments."

Diana could rationalize that her need for an interview required her to stay, but she knew there was more to what she was feeling than that. More than she wanted to think about just now. Reminding herself she was not powerless, that she could run if she had to, she stood her ground.

Why did this man affect her so strongly? Whenever she encountered him, she felt she should beware of him; yet she did not seem to be able to heed the warnings flas.h.i.+ng through her mind and simply walk away.

"Let's start again." The hard glitter in his eyes belied his reasonable tone of voice. "You followed me all day and evening yesterday, and the afternoon before that, and trailed downtown after me again this morning."

Reluctantly, she nodded.

He said nothing about Poke. She dared hope that meant he had not noticed the watch she'd posted. That presented her with another problem, however. How could she get him to talk about the man he'd accosted in the park, the man he'd given money to?

"You meant to follow me after the play, but I slipped away from you."

Again she nodded. Remembering the notebook, she knew she should be frightened. She should run, but a strange lethargy had crept over her, sapping her of any desire to escape.

He came closer, his tantalizing mouth at eye level. She'd not noticed before how perfectly formed his lips were. They parted, revealing strong, white teeth, and a delicious warmth stole over her like a down coverlet. Without thinking, she took a step in his direction.

"I hid from you, Diana."

Her gaze flew upward to meet the consuming sensuality of his expression, but the use of her first name startled her enough to bring her to her senses.

She did not have to ask him how he knew it. She always wrote both her name and her address in her little cloth-covered notebooks.

"I thought about confronting you outside the theater," Bathory said. "I changed my mind."

In spite of all the unknowns, she believed him. The s.h.i.+vers running through her body did not come from fear. They had another origin entirely.

"Do you think I attacked you?" he asked. One gloved finger caught her chin and lifted her face until she was forced to meet his intense gaze once more. "Is that why you tremble?"

The unexpected touch, so close to being a caress, sent sensations rocketing along every nerve ending. Her mouth felt dry as dust, but she managed to choke out a question of her own. "How do you know about that? There's been nothing in the newspapers."

"There was talk in the neighborhood. I heard of the incident, though not who'd been involved, in the barroom of the Hotel Hungaria. That's where I went to hide, Diana. In a dark corner with a whiskey."

His free hand lifted to touch the bruise on her cheek, his sharp eyes discerning it through her face powder. Diana flinched but did not retreat.

"Do you think I attacked you?" he repeated.

"I do not know what to think."

"Then you were either very brave or very foolish to have followed me here."

When he released her, she licked parched lips, then wished she hadn't. The innocent gesture provoked a new flare of heat in his eyes. It was gone again in an instant, but not before she'd recognized it for what it was. An answering awareness bubbled in her veins. Damon Bathory reached into the inner pocket of his coat. When he withdrew his hand, it held her notebook. "Yours, I believe."

Although she'd known he had it, and had believed herself prepared to stay calm, the reality of the stained and dirty green cover brought back all the horror of what had happened to her in that alley. She felt her face blanch and when he extended the notebook towards her, expecting her to take it, a sudden panic made her retreat a few steps.

"I found your notebook well after midnight," he said in a gruff voice, pressing it into her hands but stepping away immediately. "On my way back to my hotel."

If he'd not retreated, Diana might have bolted. Somehow, putting even that little distance between them caused her nervousness to abate. She was able to think clearly again.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Your story makes no sense," she said to his back. He stood by the railing that closed in the weather observatory, staring down at the city below. "The way from the Hotel Hungaria to the Palace Hotel does not pa.s.s anywhere near the ruins of the Union Square Theater."

"I took a walk around the park. Mild exercise before bed can be a good inducement to sleep."

Diana said nothing. He sounded sincere. He might even be telling the truth. An iron fence surrounded the three acre park. She thought it was locked at night, but she supposed Bathory could have circled it on the outside. That did not explain, however, why he'd venture across the Rialto or why he'd decided to explore the pitiful remains of the Union Square Theater.

As if he heard her silent question, Bathory answered it. "There was talk in the bar of a woman accosted in the alley next to the ruins."

"And you thought of me?" Asperity tinged Diana's question. With his back to her she was no longer swamped by his powerful personality. She had regained her composure. He became just an ordinary man again. And her a.s.signment.

"I was curious enough to take a look." He turned. "I found that in a pile of refuse."

"I want to believe you."

He leaned back against the railing. "Why?"

"I ... I don't know."

But she did, and so, she sensed, did he.

For a moment, the look in his eyes made her think he meant to kiss her. She could all but see him closing the distance between them, taking her into his arms, and bending his head to touch his lips to hers. He would not let go, even if she struggled. And when he angled his mouth to give him better access, her resistance would slip away.

Lost in that imagined embrace, she was startled when a gust of wind buffeted her, lifting the hem of her dark blue coat and causing the wool to flutter at the top of her low boots. She blinked rapidly, coming to her senses.

"I ... this ... Mr. Bathory, I..."

His smile devastated her senses. Had he mesmerized her?

"Come," he suggested. "Share the view with me while we discuss how matters stand between us. From this height, the cable cars crossing the Great Bridge to Brooklyn look like ants."

She stepped away from him instead.

He laughed. "Do you think I mean to pick you up and throw you off the building?"

"Certainly not. It is simply too cold up here." She hoped he would accept that explanation for her shaking hands and uneven voice.

"Let us go indoors, then. To the Savarin? We can dine there, too."

That cafe, Diana knew, was on a lower level of the Equitable Building. "Yes. Fine."

Remember the interview, she lectured herself as he took her arm to lead her to one of the hydraulic elevators. She was not looking for a lover, only for copy for a newspaper column. She must ignore the frisson of awareness emanating from the point of contact between her arm and his hand.

Ten minutes later, Diana was seated across from him at a small table in a restaurant where white mahogany, onyx, and bronze dominated the decor, and expensive marble covered the floor. She had brought her wayward imagination under control and prevented her hands from trembling by keeping them tightly clasped in her lap.

"I had already reached the conclusion that you were not one to give up," Bathory said, after they'd ordered. "I tried to frighten you off with my ring at Heritage Hall. I attempted to use insults to drive you away when you came to my hotel room. Then I made a futile effort the next day, after I noticed you following me again, to bore you into abandoning the chase. Nothing has worked and I am left with only one course of action."

"And that is?" Her voice did not shake. Diana took that as a good sign.

"Why, to agree to your interview, of course. But only if you will tell me something about yourself first."

Cautious to begin with, Diana slowly relaxed. In the course of the next hour, she avoided revealing anything personal, but she did regale her dinner companion with a lively account of how the relatively new Savarin had lured its steward away from a more venerable restaurant, Delmonico's. By the time they'd finished the appetizers, she'd related a favorite anecdote about a runaway camel on Broadway. Over the entree, she told him the story of Jim, the big trick cat who, until the fire, had made his home in the Union Square Theater.

"He was rescued unscathed, although he did get sopping wet in the process." The memory made her smile. "As soon as he had been thoroughly dried out, the Union Square's manager hosted a reception in his honor at the Criterion."

"The cat was given a party?"

She started to confirm this but he waved her off.

"I don't know why I'm surprised. My mother has a cat she dotes upon."

Her smile broadened into a grin. "I'm sure she would approve of Jim's present whereabouts then. He has a suite at the Hotel Hungaria."

"Had I but known," he said with a surprisingly boyish laugh, "I could have bought him a drink."

Reminded that he'd been hiding from her there less than twenty-four hours earlier, Diana put down her fork. She'd been so caught up in conversation that she'd scarcely tasted the pheasant or the asparagus spears or the French bread. She had all but lost sight of her purpose in being with this man in the first place. And she had completely forgotten to be wary of him.

"Enough about me," she said. "You promised me an interview."

"There is a condition."

The lightheartedness vanished with startling speed. He was once again the dark, brooding man whose goal in life was to strike terror into the hearts of others. The transformation made Diana uneasy. Which was the real Damon Bathory? Or was he, like Dr. Jekyll, possessed of two separate and distinct personalities?

"Name it." The quiver in her voice was back and Diana despised herself for it, but it did not seem to be anything she could control.