Murder at the Mayfair Hotel (Cleopatra Fox Mysteries #1)- C.J. Archer Page 0,47

Duffield hurried out of the office, his head bowed.

I lifted the map higher and didn’t lower it until he’d passed me. Instead of following, I entered the newspaper office.

It wasn’t difficult to draw a conclusion for Mr. Duffield’s visit—he was the one passing on nasty gossip about the hotel and Uncle Ronald’s desperate attempt to secure guests for the ball. I wasn’t sure what else I could learn, but I’d regret not making inquiries.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully to the young man on the front desk.

The clerk had been slouching against the counter but straightened upon my smile. He smiled back, revealing crooked teeth. “Can I help you, miss?”

“May I speak with the editor?”

The clerk’s smile stretched further. “Which one? We have an editor in chief, managing editor, news editor, features editor, political editor—"

“The one who was talking to Mr. Duffield a moment ago.”

His brows arched. “You know Mr. Duffield?”

“We’re acquaintances and I want to warn your editor about using him as a source for gossip.”

The clerk’s smile vanished. He sent the same errand boy off to fetch a man named Collier. “He’s the features editor,” the clerk explained. “What do you mean you want to warn him about Mr. Duffield?”

I wasn’t going to answer but changed my mind. There was as good a chance of learning information from him as from the features editor. “His information is malicious.”

The clerk shrugged. “Most of what comes through our doors is told to us by someone with an axe to grind. It doesn’t mean the information is worthless.”

Mr. Collier shoved open the adjoining door, making it swing wide. “Yes?” he barked as the errand boy slipped past him into the foyer. He arched bushy brows at me.

I abandoned my usual tactic of being cheerful and charming. Most men fell for that manner in a young woman, but I could see this man would not.

“My name is Miss Smith,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I was walking past when I saw you speaking to Mr. Duffield. I know him, you see, and I wanted to warn you about using his information without verifying it first.”

Mr. Collier grunted. “I always check my sources.”

Despite the glare he gave me, I felt a sense of triumph at having my suspicion confirmed by his lack of denial. It must have shown on my face because Mr. Collier’s eyebrows moved apart from where they’d drawn together to form a hedge above his eyes.

“Do you have something for me, Miss Smith?” he asked, making sure I knew that he knew the name I’d given was false.

“I don’t trade in gossip about my friends,” I shot back.

“Perhaps not your friends, but what about acquaintances?”

I supposed Sir Ronald was not Mr. Duffield’s friend. The extent of their acquaintance was limited to Mr. Duffield’s stays at the hotel.

Mr. Collier grunted again when he realized I understood his point. “If you have something of interest to me, you know where to find me. I pay better than some of the other papers.” He disappeared through the door, leaving me staring after him.

I blew out a shuddery breath. It was unnerving confronting such a gruff man. I was more familiar with meek academics.

“You all right, miss?” the clerk asked.

“Yes, thank you. Mr. Collier is very…direct.”

The clerk glanced at the door through which the editor had left then leaned his elbows on the desk. “You don’t have to come here in person.”

I gave him a blank look.

“If you have some information you want to sell to Mr. Collier, you can send it. Mr. Collier will see that you get paid. No one need know what you’re doing. I don’t know why Mr. Duffield came. He usually sends a letter. I work in the mail room sometimes, and I see them.”

“How often does Mr. Duffield send a letter containing gossip to Mr. Collier?”

“I couldn’t say, miss.”

Couldn’t or wouldn’t? “And is he paid well?”

“That’s between him and Mr. Collier. If you write to him, he’ll negotiate a fee that suits you both, so don’t fret about that.”

I wanted to tell him that I’d never betray a confidence, even for someone who was a mere acquaintance. My own financial circumstances had never been good. Indeed, I’d barely managed to keep a roof over our heads after Grandpapa died. It had never occurred to me to sell information about the people I knew. Not that a newspaper editor would be interested in the gossip I gathered. I wasn’t acquainted with high society like Mr. Duffield. As the grandson of