Part 6 (1/2)
”You must henceforth stop trailing after me like a bloodhound.”
Offended as well as embarra.s.sed, she forced herself to apologize. ”I am not usually so bold.”
”No. Just h.e.l.l-bent on writing scandal. You'd do better to try humor. If those stories you just told me are anything to judge by, you have a flair for it.”
Surprised by the comment, she took refuge in b.u.t.tering a slice of bread she did not really want. She needed time to compose her response. By the time she looked up, he was staring at her with disconcerting intensity.
”I must earn a living, Mr. Bathory,” she said in a quiet and blessedly level voice. ”At the moment, in order to keep my job, it is necessary for the Intelligencer to entice readers away from rival newspapers. My editor, Horatio Foxe, believes you are the key. People will buy one paper over another if doing so enables them to learn things about you that they cannot find out any other way. In spite of what you may think, I have never invented an anecdote for my column. I may have speculated in the past about the inspiration for your writing and indulged in a bit of innuendo, but I do not make things up out of whole cloth.”
”How rea.s.suring.”
Hearing skepticism in his voice, she sighed. ”I cannot guarantee what my editor may insert into one of my columns. If I offer him some tidbits juicy enough, however, he will be inclined to print only my words. The content of the story will thus be my choice, not his. Your choice, in fact.”
”Some might argue that is but a trifling distinction.”
”I endeavor to write only what is true.”
”As you see it.”
”I am ent.i.tled to my opinions on plays and books.”
”Is that why you were attacked, Diana? Did your column offend someone?”
Should she tell him or not? She did not pretend to understand this complex, compelling man, but after the last hour with him, she found it impossible to believe he could be a murderer.
”The entire incident may have been staged,” she said bluntly.
In concise sentences, she gave him the gist of Horatio Foxe's theory and what few details she had about the two women murdered along the route of Damon Bathory's tour.
”Why are you so certain I'm not the one who attacked you?” he asked. There was no expression at all in his eyes.
Omitting any mention of the doubts she'd entertained because she knew he'd given money to a man in the park, she explained her reasoning.
”Your editor has composed a remarkable piece of fiction,” he said when she completed her tale.
Diana frowned. Somehow, she'd expected more reaction from him. After all, she'd just accused him of killing two women, maybe more.
”If Foxe speculates about this in print, the story could well cause people to stop buying your books. You might be taken in for questioning by the police.”
”He's not likely to go ahead with the story once you tell him you know I wasn't the one who dragged you into that alley.”
”He could say you hired someone. To stop me from following you.”
One sardonic brow lifted, but he said nothing.
Fl.u.s.tered, she began to fumble in her leather bag for a fresh notebook. Only when she'd opened it to the first pristine page did she look at Bathory again.
”Ask your questions.” He sounded amused. ”Let us see what minor scandals you can unearth to replace the one your Mr. Foxe is so intent upon inventing.”
Diana had to clear her throat before she could begin. ”Where is your home?”
”Buffalo.”
The answer came too pat, just as on that earlier occasion when he'd a.s.sured her that Bathory was a real name. Real, she thought again, but not necessarily his. As for Buffalo, she had her doubts about that, too. His speech pattern was all wrong. And earlier he'd accused her of following him ”downtown.” People from upstate New York tended to say ”downstreet.”
She declined to challenge him. After all, he might live in Buffalo now but not be a native.
”Where do you get your ideas?” she asked.
”Everywhere.”
”From family stories?”
”You are thinking of the Blood Countess.” He fingered his jade ring. ”The Bathorys have an ... interesting history.”
”I knew you deliberately tried to frighten me that night. I realized it as soon as you disappeared behind the curtain.”
The wickedness of his smile disconcerted her. ”No nightmares?”
The sudden memory of her dreams and their content brought a flush to Diana's face. Ducking her head, she quickly changed the subject.
”Where were you going in such a rush on the day I came to your hotel room?”
”I went to Bellevue,” he admitted after a moment's hesitation, surprising her with his candor. ”A brief visit, but an illuminating one.”
”Research for a new story?”
”I suppose you'd prefer to hear I was once confined there as a lunatic and visited the place for old time's sake?” He took a sip of post-prandial coffee.
”Were you?” Her heart had begun to pound so loudly that she was afraid he would hear it.
”No, but I do visit madhouses every chance I get.”
The peach cobbler the waiter had brought for their dessert forgotten, Diana stared at him. ”Why?”
”In the hope that doctors in one of them will someday develop a better way to deal with the insane.” Strong emotion banished the earlier blankness from Bathory's face. ”I saw one man at Bellevue who had been living on the street. He suffered from delusions of persecution. Heard voices. From the look of him, he'd once been a strapping brute. He probably had a family ... a life he enjoyed ... before he was reduced to an emaciated sh.e.l.l. Because one of the voices he heard told him to strike a man who'd only wanted to help him, the doctors considered him dangerous, a threat to himself and others.”
”Why would he obey ... a voice?” She did not know very much about madmen and wasn't sure she wished to.
”Some patients think the orders come from G.o.d. More likely from Satan.” Bitterness tinged his words.
”Is there no treatment?” She'd stopped taking notes, affected by his pa.s.sionate intensity.
”Most such patients are simply given ma.s.sive injections of morphine and chloral. This calms the hysteria but produces intolerable side effects. Thirst is the least of them.”
”Horrible.” Diana shuddered in sympathy.