There was only one huge, glaring flaw in the AP’s business model. There was no undersea cable across the Pacific Ocean. Stories from Russia and the Far East had to travel through a network of overland cables through British colonies in order to reach the United States. And who did they pay to transmit those stories?
Reuters.
Any time a journalist working for the AP wanted to send a wire from China or Japan, it had to be sent over a Reuters cable and across British colonies. The AP paid plenty for the privilege, and it had been working well until recently. Lucy could pinpoint the day, even the very hour, their stories from the Far East started slowing down.
It was the day Sir Colin Beckwith took over the administration of Reuters’ New York office. Everything changed the moment he entered the building, even though her boss refused to believe it.
“I suspect the problem may originate with Mr. Beckwith,” she said. She refused to use his stuffy British title. They were in America, and she had no obligation to bow and scrape before Reuters’ golden boy.
“Sir Beckwith is far too much of a gentleman to tamper with our stories,” Mr. Tolland said.
Never in her life had Lucy seen a man so high in the instep as Colin Beckwith. He’d actually been humming “God Save the King” the one and only time they met in person. It was on New Year’s Eve in Central Park, and Lucy had done her best to block the mortifying night from her memory. She doubted he even remembered it, for every subsequent time she encountered him at a streetcar stop or in the elevator, his gaze slid past her with no sign of recognition. A mercy, really.
“The delayed messages started shortly after Mr. Beckwith arrived in the New York office. I’m certain—”
Mr. Tolland cut her off. He was the one who had negotiated the deal with Reuters, so he had a vested interest in believing the plan was proceeding like clockwork, despite all evidence to the contrary.
“Our contract with Reuters is explicit,” he groused. “Stories arriving at the New York office are to be delivered to us within two hours of receipt. Reuters would be in breach of contract if they deliberately slowed our stories. I want you to check the pneumatic tubes to see if they’re malfunctioning.”
Lucy had inherited her family’s technical know-how, and that skill had helped her rise quickly through the ranks at the AP. In addition to sending and receiving messages, she was responsible for ensuring the pneumatic tubes were in working order. The tubes used vacuum pressure to shoot small canisters carrying mail or other documents from floor to floor.
“I’ll look into it immediately,” she said.
Thousands of magnetic clicks filled the air as she stepped onto the main floor of the office and headed to the sending stations at the end of each aisle. She examined the pneumatic tubes’ conduit pipes, air vents, and flex hoses, all of which were properly connected. She would need to inspect the central power station in the basement and the access station in the Reuters office to confirm all was in order. It was a fool’s errand, but she needed to do it to pacify Mr. Tolland and safeguard her job.
But first she was going to head straight to the source of the trouble: the office of Sir Colin Beckwith. Next week was another court hearing against the Saratoga Drakes, which meant another lawyer bill needed to be paid. She was not going to let her job be endangered because of Colin Beckwith’s loose definition of fair play.
Reuters and the AP occupied different floors of the same office building at 195 Broadway. The Western Union Telegraph building was a spectacular ten-story edifice built specifically to send and receive telegraph and telephone messages from all over the world. The awesome network of wires and cables coming from the building made it the natural place for both Reuters and the AP to set up operations. Their presence made 195 Broadway the heart of the news industry for the entire North American continent.
Lucy climbed the two stories to the floor occupied by Reuters. The differences between the AP and Reuters offices were stark. Whereas the AP’s lobby was full of office supplies laid out in military precision, the foyer of Reuters displayed flags from dozens of colonies and territories of the United Kingdom, a portrait of the king, and a life-sized statue of a rearing lion. A large silver urn provided hot tea alongside platters of shortbread and wedges of Cheshire cheese, all served on real china. The AP had a public drinking fountain.
The secretary at the front desk spoke in an elegant British accent. Reuters was entitled to hire whoever they wished, but couldn’t they staff the clerical jobs with New York residents? The AP always hired local people from the area for clerical positions at their foreign offices.
“Is Mr. Beckwith available?” Lucy asked.
“Do you mean Sir Beckwith?” the secretary asked pointedly, managing to look down her nose at Lucy even though she was seated.
“That’s the one.” She’d choke before using his title. She didn’t wait for the secretary’s response, instead heading back through the corridor to the corner office belonging to the director.
Lucy had seen Colin Beckwith many times in the four months since he’d arrived from London. He wasn’t terribly tall but still cut a dashing figure with high cheekbones, flawless attire, and the smooth, cultured accent that sounded as if it came straight from Buckingham Palace. With sky-blue eyes and perfectly groomed golden-blond hair, all he needed was a laurel wreath crowning his head to make him look like he’d just stepped down from Mount Olympus to mingle with the peons.
She needed to root out the cause for their delayed messages from Asia, and that meant she was going to have to swallow her pride and speak with him again. She just hoped he didn’t remember their first meeting.
The door to his office was open, revealing a palatial desk and an open window overlooking downtown Manhattan, but no sign of Mr. Beckwith. A familiar rattle caught her attention, and she took a step inside the office. Once across the threshold, she could see him hunched over a corner table with his ear cocked to a miniature telegraph sounder, almost as though he was receiving an actual message.
“Mr. Beckwith?”
He shot her an annoyed glance. “Hush!”
He immediately turned his attention back to the rapid-fire transmission of clicks coming from the magnetic sounder. Colin Beckwith understood Morse code? That was impressive. No one in the AP’s top management could send or receive messages, and only the very best operators could translate in their head without jotting down the letters as they went. He was decoding as he listened. Her respect for him inched up a notch. He couldn’t be a completely inept blue blood if he could translate Morse code on the fly.
His face looked spellbound as he concentrated on the message coming off the sounder. Enraptured. He was actually holding his breath as he listened to the taps coming off the telegraph machine. Something about a man that passionate about life was intrinsically appealing.
Stop! The last thing she wanted was to let this unwieldy attraction get the better of her again. Besides, what sort of news provoked such rapt attention from Mr. Beckwith? Did Reuters know something the AP didn’t? It wouldn’t do to let them scoop her employer on another story, so she cocked her head to listen. Even from across the room, she was able to make sense of the clicks coming from the sounder.
Gentlemen of India, 118 dash 10. Oxford 146 dash 5.
Lucy blinked, not sure what to make of the strange message that enthralled Mr. Beckwith. His hand clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, and emotions flitted across his face as he digested the news. She turned her focus back to decoding the message as it came over the wire.
Williams took five wickets. Barnes caught at cover point off Grigson from a no-ball. Fielding all around very smart.
Cricket scores! He was listening to cricket scores! They hadn’t yet received today’s update from the Philippines, where three thousand American troops were stationed, but it was good to know Reuters was on top of the latest cricket news. She folded her arms and waited for the end of the transmission, forcing her breathing to remain calm. She had stood
up to bigger opponents than Colin Beckwith, but it was dangerous to let a rival see any hint of agitation. Her father had taught her that long ago.
At last Mr. Beckwith closed the circuit, adjusted his collar, and rose to his feet. He dressed very formally for the office. Few men wore high-stand collars anymore, but it gave him a refined appearance that was hard not to admire.
“Miss Drake, correct?”
She startled. “How did you know my name?”
“You told me,” he said with a teasing glint in his eye. “New Year’s Eve, eleven o’clock, standing in front of the vendors near 86th Street. You wore a scarlet knit cap, and your brother was ready to strangle me.”
Heat gathered in her face. So he did remember. She squared her shoulders, determined not to revisit the event. “Mr. Tolland is frustrated with the lack of timeliness of AP stories from the Far East,” she said. “I’ve been sent to investigate the possibility of a problem with the pneumatic tubes, but I suspect the slowdown may originate elsewhere.” She glanced pointedly at the telegraph station. “Perhaps on a cricket field in Oxford.”
He scrutinized her with a curious light in his gaze. “Did I hear a hint of reproach in that comment? Why, yes, I think I did. Come inside and tell me what egregious sin I’ve committed. I have so many failings and am probably guilty as charged.”
He held a chair for her, then rounded his desk and took a seat, fixing her with a pleasant smile that probably thrilled the peasants in Europe. She didn’t care how thick he laid on the charm, she needed Reuters to live up to their contractual obligations, and until he arrived in New York, they had.
“The AP has been experiencing delays with our messages from India, Russia, and all of the Asian nations.”
There was no waver in his composure. “And?”
“And I think you know something about it.”
“About a delay? Nonsense. Our contract with the AP would not permit it.” He smiled with the innocence of a freshly bloomed rose.
“The slowdown did not happen until you were appointed director of the New York office.”
“Are you suggesting I have something to do with it? The cheek.”
“I am not a big believer in coincidences.”
He tutted. “Whatever happened to American get-up-and-go? Whatever happened to a sense of competition? I thought you took pride in being faster, better, and cheaper. That you worked around the clock to deliver and never whined about being second best.”
Her chin lifted at that second best jab, but she kept her voice calm. “The AP doesn’t mind paying for a service. If you’d care to peruse your contract, you will find that’s what we bargained for until our cable is ready.”
The Americans were on the verge of completing an undersea Pacific cable that would render this contract with Reuters irrelevant. As soon as the Pacific cable went into operation, the AP would no longer need this cumbersome workaround. In a few months, the final link of the undersea cable would connect Hawaii to the Philippines, and Reuters was still bitter over the deal. They’d tried to negotiate landing rights for a cable in Hawaii, but the Americans now controlled the island and refused to permit it.
“I suspect the time is near when you’ll be asking to lease our Pacific cable,” she said. “I can’t imagine we’ll extend the courtesy if you don’t honor your existing contract with us.”
“Sour grapes are so unattractive,” he purred.
“Then you admit you’ve been slowing our cables?”
“Why would I admit to something that would put us in violation of a contract? You seem to have an irrational sense of urgency. The AP is still getting their bulletins, every word of them. Why the rush?”
Because the AP was hanging on by a thread, barely able to operate on the razor-thin profits from their subscribing newspapers, while Reuters was so heavily subsidized by the Crown that they fitted out their office with lavish furniture and relaxed for a catered tea each afternoon. Reuters had been a thriving company since its founding in 1851 and was in no danger of folding if they lost a few subscribers. Reuters could afford to be fat and lazy; the AP could not.
“As you noted, it is important for us to be faster, better, and cheaper than the competition.”
Her train of thought was interrupted as a bird flew through the open window and circled through the center of the office.
“Oh my heavens!” She darted to the far side of the room as the flapping bird careened toward the desk. Rather than appear startled at the invasion, Mr. Beckwith stood and extended his arm. The bird settled onto his hand and twitched a little as it straightened its ruffled feathers.
“Good girl,” Mr. Beckwith murmured to the ugly bird, passing it onto a perch beside his desk. He unfastened a tiny canister attached to the bird’s leathery claw. “Have you any experience with homing pigeons?” he asked as he extracted a tiny strip of paper from the tube.
“I didn’t realize anyone still used them.”
“Not many people do, but it was how Reuters made a name for itself during its early years, and I believe in keeping tradition alive.”
The pigeon pecked at a lump of seed-covered suet, scattering kernels and bits of fat onto the floor. It was a plump, dull gray bird that looked dirty to Lucy’s eyes, but she was intrigued as Mr. Beckwith passed her the strip of paper to inspect. Miniscule dots and dashes crammed a surprising amount of information onto the six-inch strip. She decoded quickly. Dinner tonight was a formal affair, and he must wear tails and a top hat.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to pick up a telephone?” she asked.
Mr. Beckwith tossed the piece of paper onto his desk. “Telephones are unreliable, and we all know that telegraph operators are notorious eavesdroppers. Not that you would ever commit such a gross error in etiquette, I’m sure.”
She declined to comment. Telegraph operators were infamous for listening in on the wires. During overnight shifts when the wires were slow, they chatted with one another for hours. As many as twenty stations could be connected through a single line, and any telegraph operator along the line could listen in without anyone noticing. Sheer boredom often prompted operators to send messages on everything from office gossip to sporting scores to politics. Those who didn’t chat sometimes simply lurked and listened.
She glanced at the strip of paper. “And tonight’s dress code warrants top-secret delivery by homing pigeon?”
“My butler thought so.”
“You have a butler?” She thought butlers had gone the way of homing pigeons.
“Just because I’m stationed in the hinterlands doesn’t mean I ought to surrender all the comforts of civilization. Of course I have a butler. A footman, a valet, and a housekeeper, too.”
He flashed that smile again, a man on top of the world, as though the angels themselves had set him there.
“With all that help, I’d expect you’d be a little quicker getting things done here at the office. I’d like to see if Reuters can step up to the plate and fulfill their obligations regarding the Pacific cables.”
“And I’d like a raspberry torte with chocolate drizzle for afternoon tea. That doesn’t mean I’m going to get it. If the Americans don’t like the way we handle their business, they can go get their own colonies.” He beamed that insufferable smile at her again. “Now, if you have no further accusations or insults, it’s time for me to get back to the telegraph. News from the Cambridge cricket match is due shortly.”
Lucy knew a dismissal when she heard it and left without saying good-bye.
Colin remained motionless for a full minute after the door slammed. Lucy Drake was as attractive as he remembered. He wished she wasn’t.
It had been four months since he first caught sight of her on a snowy New Year’s Eve in Central Park. Thousands of people crowded the park for the fireworks at midnight. The pond was open for ice skaters, strands of electric lightbulbs illuminated the area with a festive glow, and vendors did brisk business selling warm eggnog, hot chocolate, and toasted chestnuts.
He had only been in America for three days, and it was his first time to witness the amazing cross section of people enjoying the park. Millionaires in chinchilla furs mingled alongside immigrants wrapped only in woolen blankets, but it seemed perfectly normal to everyone at the celebration.
It would have been fascinating had he not been frozen to his core. Why hadn’t someone warned him how viciously cold New York could be? It was freezing! The cold penetrated straight through his thin topcoat, and he would have returned to his townhouse if he hadn’t been so enchanted by the spectacle before him.
He stood in line at a vendor’s cart for a mug of hot chocolate, blowing into his cupped hands and humming “God Save the King” while stomping his feet as he waited for the girl in front of him to finish haggling over the price of toasted chestnuts. Why couldn’t she pay the extra nickel and move on? Although he had to admire the way her red cap perched at a jaunty angle over her glossy black hair. Any girl who had the courage to wear such a saucy cap was probably a lot of fun. He only wished she wasn’t such a penny pincher.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he finally interrupted. “I’ll pay for the blasted chestnuts. Just fetch me a mug of hot chocolate, please. Hopefully before I catch my death of frostbite.” He covered his mouth and blew on his hands again, and the girl turned around to gape at him.
He was gobsmacked. She had a pretty face with a narrow chin, but it was her dark eyes that captured his attention. They were full of laughter and sparkled in the light from the streetlamp.
“I don’t think you can actually die of frostbite, can you?” she asked.
A young man with wild hair and the same dark coloring stood beside her. “You could if it catches gangrene. I think it develops seepage in the worst cases.”
The girl turned back to Colin. “Well? Do you have seepage?”
“What I have is an urgent need to buy something hot. I’m serious about paying for your meal, although a simple sign posting the prices could help us avoid all this pointless haggling. The queues in London move much quicker because we simply post the price.”
A Dangerous Legacy Page 2