Her mouth went dry. Aunt Stella had been banished from the family for consorting with an unsuitable man. She didn’tthinkit could happen to her, but she couldn’t risk her entire world over a flirtation, no matter how charming the man.
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“I’ve been very lenient with you,” Clyde continued. “You traipse around town at all hours, and I’ve permitted it because I have faith that you are a sensible young lady. If my trust falters, you could be on the next train to Baltimore to live with Andrew and Delia.”
“Come live with us!” Sam said, still completely oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. Marianne would rather live in the North Pole before subjecting herself to life in Andrew and Delia’s household.
In the end, it turned out Marianne didn’t need to ask her supervisor to be taken off the Poison Squad assignment. That night as she brushed her hair, preparing to braid it before going to bed, a soft tapping came at her door.
“Come in.”
Her father opened the door, his face ice cold. “I’ve called Mr. Schmidt and told him you will be unable to take any more photographs of the Poison Squad.”
“Yes, sir.” She wasn’t usually so formal, but Clyde was still fuming.
“And if you ever see that man again, you are to report it to me.”
The door closed behind him with a gentle click, which somehow frightened her more than if he’d slammed it.
Eleven
A sense of elation still lingered as Luke awoke the following morning. The blazing kiss he’d shared with Marianne was probably enough to keep him fueled for weeks, and he set off for the office the moment he finished breakfast.
He hadn’t gotten two steps out the front door when he noticed a cluster of onlookers gathered outside the boardinghouse.
“Are you one of the volunteers?” a young man in a postal uniform asked. He looked barely old enough to shave and had a hopeful, eager expression.
“I am,” Luke acknowledged.
The young man thrust a section of the newspaper toward him. “Will you sign the photograph? I already got the autographs of the two brothers and a little Italian guy. I want to get all twelve autographs.”
Luke glanced at the newspaper folded to the article about the Poison Squad. He took the pencil and signed his name beside his picture, and then two more people rose off a nearby bench to approach him. One lady also wanted his autograph on her newspaper, while a man with a thick mustache had a Brownie camera and wanted to take his picture.
Princeton and St. Louis must have heard the commotion, because they were soon on the landing too, signing autographs and posing for pictures.
“What’s it like?” the postal worker asked. “Are you sick all the time? Or only when you eat?”
“Say, can I sign up?” the mustached man asked. “I think it sounds like a cracking-good adventure.”
A man with a notebook pushed through the crowd. “Brian Musgrove from theNew York Times,” he introduced himself. “Can we arrange an interview?”
Luke glanced around the crowd of people in amazement. This sort of publicity hadn’t been his intention when he spoke with Dickie. The story was supposed to influence legislation, not make celebrities of the volunteers, but it looked like that was happening. Princeton smiled broadly as he posed for a picture before the front door of the boardinghouse, and St. Louis was setting up a meeting with the journalist for an interview.
Luke shrugged and slipped away. It couldn’t do any harm, and if it drew the public’s attention to adulterated food, so much the better. He saw no need to linger and indulge the public’s curiosity. He was due to meet Dickie this morning to make headway on getting those five men knocked out of Congress.
He walked faster, but it made his knees and ankles hurt. All his joints hurt these days, but he wouldn’t let it slow him down. Clyde Magruder was cementing his power in Washington by the day, and Luke couldn’t afford the luxury of waiting until the illness passed before beginning his campaign to undermine Clyde’s reelection.
His office building was old, but it had excellent gas heating, and the warmth felt good on his achy joints as he stepped inside and climbed the three flights to his top-floor office.
Something was wrong. The door was ajar, and he was certain he had locked it last night. He approached cautiously. Could the janitor have forgotten to close the door?
He pushed the door open and gasped.
The bookshelves had been tipped over and the binders strewn across the floor. His desk had been overturned and every drawerfrom the file cabinet pulled out and its contents dumped. Scattered papers littered the floor, and it looked like someone had taken a hammer to the typewriter. The cover plate had been pried off and the keys bashed to pieces.
He laid his hand over the mangled keyboard and closed his eyes against the pain blooming in his chest. This hurt more than anything else. Over the years he had typed a lot of good work on this trusty old typewriter. Seeing it abused like this hurt. It was silly to get sentimental over a piece of metal, but this typewriter was almost like a partner. It had been with him from the beginning of his career and whenever he poured out his heart onto a piece of paper.
TheDon Quixotemanuscript!
