Inspector Fraser’s nephew. He will listen to these ideas coming from you.”
I shook my head. “My opinions are not necessarily shared by my uncle in particular, the Metropolitan Police in general, or any other living creature around here.”
Genie took a deep breath, her shoulders tensed, her smile tight. “Surely—”
“I’ll do what I can but I make no promises.” I sipped the tea. “There might be a way to convince Ian and the others to take you more seriously.”
Genie put down her teacup and leaned forward across the small wooden table. “And that would be?”
“I told you no one would talk to the police and how that makes it nearly impossible for them to do their jobs. But with your contacts, the women you know, maybe you can get them to talk to you.” I saw real possibilities in this idea and warmed to it. “You could be the link between the streets and the police. If you can help Ian do his job…”
“He would owe me a favor and might help me?”
“Exactly.”
Mrs. O’Connell, who’d been discreetly eavesdropping in between customers, approached the table. “Well, boy, if you’re as gifted with a pen as you are with your tongue, I’d say that new newspaper might be interested in paying for what you have to say.”
I turned to face her. “Newspaper?” I’d never considered writing anything that wasn’t required for school even though Mom encouraged me to after proofing some of my essays. Of course, I did need a job ASAP. “I wonder how much they’d pay?”
Mrs. O’Connell shrugged. “Oh, I wouldn’t know. The Russian chap who runs it sends over for a pot of tea and Cornish pasty every afternoon. He pays me a week in advance. The office is around the corner, up a flight. You tell him Maddie O’Connell sent you.”
“I’ll do that, thank you.” I finished my scone and washed it down with the last of the tea. “I really appreciate the tip.”
“And as for lodgings,” Mrs. O’Connell added, “I might know of some if you really are Inspector Fraser’s nephew.”
Genie nodded. “Oh, that he is. Don’t you recognize the firm jaw, that stubborn, opinionated attitude?”
Mrs. O’Connell laughed. “Sure and it’s a mile wide and plain as day. I’ve a room upstairs. Entry’s on the side street if you want to take a look. I’m particular about my tenants, is all,” she added. She looked suddenly doubtful for a moment. “You don’t have the weakness for drink, do you?”
I smiled. “No, I got that out of my system.”
She nodded with a knowing smile. “I’ll fetch the key for ya if you’d be wanting to take a look.”
“Let me see about getting a job first,” I said. “Then I’ll be back.”
Mrs. O’Connell’s eyes grew wide and she looked at Genie. “Imagine that. Someone who wants some chink in his pocket before taking the room.” She dipped down to whisper but spoke loud enough for me to hear. “I think I like him. Even if he is American.”
Genie smiled at her then me. “He does seem to have his moments, but we shall see.”
I winked at her as I stood and grabbed my hat. “Wish me luck, ladies.”
“Good luck, Mr. Stewart,” they said in unison.
Genie Trambley’s words were accented by a blush to her cheeks that made me grin.
Chapter Eleven
Mark
The office of the Star Reformer was a small, cluttered space in a building that housed a commercial printer on the first floor. The owner of both enterprises introduced himself as Yuri Gurov. He gestured me inside his office then sat at his desk in his shirtsleeves, his ink-stained arms crossed over his chest as he looked doubtfully at me, a lot like the way the school counselor did when I blew off classes.
Though accented, the older man’s English was impeccable. “Since you have never written professionally, what makes you think I should hire you?”
I wondered that myself. “Mrs. O’Connell from the tea shop said you might be interested in my ideas.”
Gurov leaned forward
I shook my head. “My opinions are not necessarily shared by my uncle in particular, the Metropolitan Police in general, or any other living creature around here.”
Genie took a deep breath, her shoulders tensed, her smile tight. “Surely—”
“I’ll do what I can but I make no promises.” I sipped the tea. “There might be a way to convince Ian and the others to take you more seriously.”
Genie put down her teacup and leaned forward across the small wooden table. “And that would be?”
“I told you no one would talk to the police and how that makes it nearly impossible for them to do their jobs. But with your contacts, the women you know, maybe you can get them to talk to you.” I saw real possibilities in this idea and warmed to it. “You could be the link between the streets and the police. If you can help Ian do his job…”
“He would owe me a favor and might help me?”
“Exactly.”
Mrs. O’Connell, who’d been discreetly eavesdropping in between customers, approached the table. “Well, boy, if you’re as gifted with a pen as you are with your tongue, I’d say that new newspaper might be interested in paying for what you have to say.”
I turned to face her. “Newspaper?” I’d never considered writing anything that wasn’t required for school even though Mom encouraged me to after proofing some of my essays. Of course, I did need a job ASAP. “I wonder how much they’d pay?”
Mrs. O’Connell shrugged. “Oh, I wouldn’t know. The Russian chap who runs it sends over for a pot of tea and Cornish pasty every afternoon. He pays me a week in advance. The office is around the corner, up a flight. You tell him Maddie O’Connell sent you.”
“I’ll do that, thank you.” I finished my scone and washed it down with the last of the tea. “I really appreciate the tip.”
“And as for lodgings,” Mrs. O’Connell added, “I might know of some if you really are Inspector Fraser’s nephew.”
Genie nodded. “Oh, that he is. Don’t you recognize the firm jaw, that stubborn, opinionated attitude?”
Mrs. O’Connell laughed. “Sure and it’s a mile wide and plain as day. I’ve a room upstairs. Entry’s on the side street if you want to take a look. I’m particular about my tenants, is all,” she added. She looked suddenly doubtful for a moment. “You don’t have the weakness for drink, do you?”
I smiled. “No, I got that out of my system.”
She nodded with a knowing smile. “I’ll fetch the key for ya if you’d be wanting to take a look.”
“Let me see about getting a job first,” I said. “Then I’ll be back.”
Mrs. O’Connell’s eyes grew wide and she looked at Genie. “Imagine that. Someone who wants some chink in his pocket before taking the room.” She dipped down to whisper but spoke loud enough for me to hear. “I think I like him. Even if he is American.”
Genie smiled at her then me. “He does seem to have his moments, but we shall see.”
I winked at her as I stood and grabbed my hat. “Wish me luck, ladies.”
“Good luck, Mr. Stewart,” they said in unison.
Genie Trambley’s words were accented by a blush to her cheeks that made me grin.
Chapter Eleven
Mark
The office of the Star Reformer was a small, cluttered space in a building that housed a commercial printer on the first floor. The owner of both enterprises introduced himself as Yuri Gurov. He gestured me inside his office then sat at his desk in his shirtsleeves, his ink-stained arms crossed over his chest as he looked doubtfully at me, a lot like the way the school counselor did when I blew off classes.
Though accented, the older man’s English was impeccable. “Since you have never written professionally, what makes you think I should hire you?”
I wondered that myself. “Mrs. O’Connell from the tea shop said you might be interested in my ideas.”
Gurov leaned forward
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