The Other Side - J. D. Robb [92]
Oh God, thought Angie. Another wild man.
“And he’s not a ghost detective, he’s a newspaper reporter. Or he used to be—he worked for the Baltimore Sun until a year and a half ago, when they fired him for stealing another man’s work!”
Angie sat down hard.
“Born in Yonkers, father a railway conductor, mother deceased, one sibling, so on, so on . . . ” Lucien turned a page of his report. “First job, copy boy for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, then a junior reporter for the New York Journal, followed by two years at the Boston Globe—that’s where he acquired his nickname. Hired at the Sun in 1891 as assistant city editor; worked there for three years, where it’s well known he was often drunk, disrespectful of authority, and of a low moral caliber. In fact, numerous people swore he carried on a sordid ‘love’ affair with the fiancée—the fiancée—of a fellow journalist.”
Gasps all around.
“And then, the coup de grâce. In ’94, an investigation revealed that he plagiarized significant portions of a national news story on the Pullman strike, whereupon he was summarily dismissed!”
Into the deafening silence Henry said, “I was framed.”
Lucien continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Not long after that, Harry Wilde turned into Henry Cleland. For the last year and a half, he’s made his dubious living as a confidence artist, preying on the hopes of innocent people and bilking money out of the credulous and unwary.”
Mrs. Grimmett drew herself up. “Mr. Cle—” She faltered. “Mr. Cleland? You deny these claims, I’m sure?”
Angie wanted him to shout, swear, stamp his feet, excoriate Lucien—challenge him to a duel! But he did none of those things. He swallowed several times. He looked glassy-eyed, as if he’d been concussed but was inexplicably still standing. “Not all. I wish I could deny them all. I can’t.”
“No, he can’t,” Lucien gloated, “because they’re true. The man’s no better than a thief. He took advantage of all of us—I assume,” he added nastily. “I can’t speak for my cousin.”
Henry seemed to wake up. “Angie knew nothing of this. I won’t let you insinuate otherwise.”
“How gallant,” Lucien said with a sneer. “The fact that you lied to her as callously as you lied to the rest of us doesn’t improve your case, though, does it?”
“It was you, Lucien,” Angie realized, “you and your agent—you broke into Henry’s room, didn’t you? That’s—illegal!” It was all she could think of to defend him.
“My man may have gotten a little too eager, but I never authorized him to do any such thing. Anyway, nothing was stolen, was it?”
Henry shook his head slowly.
“I can’t believe this. It’s outrageous.” Mrs. Grimmett had sucked in so much air, she looked like a pigeon. “If what you say is true, Mr. Darlington, then we’ve all been duped.”
“Has he taken money from you?” Lucien asked her hopefully.
“Certainly not.”
“What about you?” He turned to Angie. “How much did you give him?”
“That’s personal. And irrelevant,” she thought to add, like a lawyer.
Mrs. Grimmett whirled on Henry. “Well? What have you to say for yourself? We’re waiting.” She was furious, but she was hurt, too, or at least embarrassed. She kept blinking, as if tears might form if she didn’t. Angie knew exactly how she felt.
She’d never seen Henry like this before. He looked ill. He reminded her of someone . . . who was it? Oh, she remembered. One of the plays in her father’s road show repertoire had been The Tragic End of John Brown. Henry looked like the John Brown character just before they hanged him.
“There’s nothing I can say,” he said, and on the first words his voice cracked. “Except that I’m sorry. Yes, I took advantage of you, and you didn’t deserve it.”
He turned from Mrs. Grimmett and faced Angie, who felt Norah’s hand tighten on her shoulder as if to say, Brace yourself . “There are things in my past I’m not proud of. It’s not an excuse, but I was young, just eighteen when I got into the newspaper business, and it’s ...” He reached out a pleading hand to Walker.