Drake looked nonplussed. “So it seems.”
Izzy frowned. “But why?”
“That’s my question, too,” Drake said. “I’m not sure what that would accomplish, other than being a dashed inconvenience for a short time.”
“I know very little about cabling and so on,” Gray said, “but surely they would simply lay it in again—connect it up again?”
“So one would think,” Drake replied.
The bell over the door jangled; it had fallen silent with the passing hours, so even muted by the closed door, the sound drew everyone’s attention.
Izzy again came out from behind her desk to peer through the glass panel in the office door and saw a burly man in an overcoat step into the foyer.
At a guess, he was in his early forties. He paused, taking in the three workmen at the counter, talking with Mary and Littlejohn. The newcomer scanned the area, saw the office, and before any of the staff appeared to question him, walked toward the office door with the stride of a man who knew where he was going.
Curious, Izzy went to the door and opened it. She halted in the doorway, fixed the man with a commanding look, and inquired, “Can I help you?”
The man stopped a yard away, briefly glanced past her—no doubt taking in Drake, Gray, Baines, and the others visible inside—then refocused on her. “I’m looking for I. Molyneaux. I’ve information about the dead photographer’s photographs.”
She arched her brows. “And you are?”
“Neil Hennessy, ma’am.” He fished out a card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it over. “I’m senior reporter withThe London Courier.”
Izzy went on full alert.The London Courierwas a major daily paper, not a competitor but a far larger enterprise. More, she knew of Hennessy’s work; he was an experienced ace reporter, known for exposing the secrets of powerful men. She verified the information he’d given was what the professionally printed card declared, then cast a questioning glance at Drake.
At his nod, she returned her gaze to Hennessy, met his eyes—he wasn’t much taller than she was—then with a swish of her skirts, stepped back, turned, and beckoned him to follow. “Come in, Mr. Hennessy. Please have a seat.”
She reclaimed her chair behind the desk and indicated Hennessy should avail himself of one of the armchairs before it. From the corner of her eye, she saw Littlejohn slip into the room in Hennessy’s wake and quietly shut the door.
After taking in the small crowd gathered in the room, his gaze lingering for a moment on Drake, Hennessy walked to the central armchair and sat.
The instant he looked at her, she said, “I presume you’re here because you’ve recognized someone in the photographs.”
“I have.”
Rather than ask whom, she unpinned and gathered the seven photographs and, across the desk, offered them to Hennessy. “Show us, if you would.”
He leaned forward, took the stack, then sat back and sorted through them. “This one.” He flashed the photograph of the coffeehouse. “And”—setting aside the other photographs, he pointed to Duvall—“that man.”
When he fell silent, she prompted, “And your information?”
Hennessy glanced at Drake and Gray, then looked at her and said, “I know his full name and occupation, the name of the man he’s speaking with, and I have some insight into what they might be planning. But before I divulge anything”—his gaze shifted briefly to Lipson and Donaldson before returning to her face—“I want an agreement. I want in on this story, whatever it is.”
Drake shifted menacingly, but she held up a staying hand, and he stilled—something Hennessy didn’t miss.
Eyes narrowing, she studied the reporter. “You’ve been in this business long enough to know how it works. Given how much trouble these villains have brought toThe Crierand how much effort we’ve put into our hue and cry edition, it’s only fair that if there is any story to be broken, we break it first.”
“You publish on a Friday,” Hennessy replied. “I’ll agree not to publish my piece until Friday as well.”
“Saturday,” she shot back.
Drake was fast losing patience; he stirred, but it was Gray who stepped to the side of the desk and asked Hennessy, “Is your contract withThe Courierexclusive?”
The question made Hennessy blink, then think. Eventually, he admitted, “It’s not.”
“In that case”—Gray glanced at Izzy in question—“why not write your story, under your byline, and publish it on the front page ofThe Crier?”
That was a viable suggestion—very viable. She immediately offered, “Usual rates with a ten percent bonus.”
