Even if Alfred had been kept unaware, as the housekeeper indicated to Lily, wouldn’t he have suspected something? Did he just not want to know?
At the Tribune, Ellis set the possibilities aside. It was nearly three on Wednesday. He needed to focus long enough to finish his piece about a stamp trader’s fraudulent scheme. More than anything, it diverted him from any doubt over defying Sylvia’s deal.
In an hour, he’d head out to meet Lily in Clover. Over at the Examiner, the instant the chief left for the day—right around four, she’d said—she would jump on the very next bus.
For Ellis, ditching another day of work wasn’t all that dim-witted. It was just a matter of time before his career fully unraveled, either by Sylvia’s doing or on its own. One way or another, Mr. Walker, now off meeting with Governor Roosevelt, would learn of the arrest. A permanent blot on a résumé for a reporter barely getting by.
Until then, Ellis would savor this moment, hunched over his typewriter, making calls and asking questions, surrounded by story hunters and truth seekers. Ink slingers trying to make a difference, as Ellis had wanted to do from the start.
“Got a big tip here.” Dutch tossed a paper onto Ellis’s desk. “Involves a cop.”
Ellis bristled. He half expected the page to be a receipt for his bail from striking an officer. But it was just notes in Dutch’s usual chicken scratches.
“Four cops to be exact. Dry agent says they helped twenty gangsters escape with trucks loaded with beer.”
“You’re right. That is a big one.”
“It’s yours.”
Ellis was puzzled until he figured it out. A mercy scoop. His downward spiral had become that pathetically obvious.
“I appreciate it, Dutch. But really, I can’t take that from you.”
“Already have. When you missed yesterday’s meeting—off back-alley sparring, from the looks of you—I said you were out working on the piece. Walker said he wants it by day’s end. So, you sure as hell better get busy, or it’ll mean my hide. These notes’ll give you a good start.”
Reminded of the scrape on his face, now bruised, Ellis also recalled why he couldn’t make that deadline. “I wish I could, believe me. There’s some personal stuff I gotta see about today. Can’t guarantee when I’ll be back.”
Dutch had every right to think he’d lost his marbles and to say so outright. Instead, he appeared uncertain about commenting before leaning forward with a furtive look. “Reed, if you’re in trouble—from playing the track, taking a loan, whatever—you can tell me. I had a brother-in-law who got in deep with a group like the Black Hand. So, if there’s something going on with you, and I can help in some way…”
It was a reasonable deduction. What with Ellis’s inquiry on the topic, his erratic behavior, not to mention the scuffed-up face, it definitely added up.
“It’s nothing like that. Honest.” Ellis wanted to divulge more, but he’d burdened enough people already.
Dutch blew out a sigh before retrieving his notes. Wisely, he walked away.
• • •
An hour later, Ellis quietly gathered up to leave. He’d submitted his piece on the stamp trader’s racket, a half-decent article at best, and boarded the elevator. As the door closed, he caught the stink eye from Mr. Tate, a warning. Likely Ellis’s last. But with Lily already en route, he couldn’t turn back.
A block down from the paper, Ellis cranked the engine of his Model T. The motor barely sputtered.
“Christ. Not today.” Sweat beading along his hairline, he pitched his hat into the car. He blew out a breath, then clutched the fender for leverage and tried again. The clunker coughed to life, dying a few seconds later, but it was coming around.
“Need some help, pal?” The offer came from a suited man with a hefty build. He dangled a cigarette low at his side.
“Nah, thanks. Motor’s just stubborn sometimes.”
“How’s about we give you a ride?”
Ellis was about to decline when he caught the “we” in the question, raising his head.
“C’mon. Chariot’s right over there.” The man gestured to a black Packard parked two spaces back. The driver’s eyes were indistinct, partially shadowed by the brim of his hat, but his face struck as familiar. Specifically the pockmarked cheeks. He was the driver who’d trailed Ellis to the school.
Ellis hadn’t been paranoid after all. He tightened his hold on the crank, preparing to pull it free.
“As I was saying,” the stocky one pressed, “how’s about that ride?” He opened his jacket, exposing a holstered pistol. The smirk