The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (22 page)

             
There was a knock at the door. Barnett looked up. More applications, no doubt. He put his pencil down. "Come in."

             
The office door opened, and a young lady entered. Barnett watched her come in, then stood up politely. And then he fell in love. This was not unusual, although it was the first time since he had reached London. Barnett had fallen in love every other day in Paris, and at least once a week in New York. But each time it was a new and unique emotion, and not at all to be compared with any of the times before. Still, it had happened enough that he was able to control the emotion and not allow it to interfere with his conduct. If his heart was beating a little faster than a moment before, if he was breathing a little deeper, well, it was a hot day.

             
"Excuse me," she said, "are you Mr. Barnett?"

             
"Indeed I am, Madam," he said. "How may I assist you?" It wasn't what he wanted to say, he told himself, wishing for poetic words and romantic images to come springing to his lips. But none sprang, and even if one had, there were conventions that would prevent him from uttering, one-tenth-part of one syllable. So he merely smiled foolishly at the young lady and waited for her to speak.

             
"I have brought your mail," she said, holding forth a packet of letters in her daintily gloved hand, "from the
Daily Telegraph."

             
"Oh," Barnett said. He took the letters and dropped them on top of the others. "Thank you."

             
The girl set herself firmly before the desk, took a deep breath, and said, "I should like to apply for the position myself. Of secretary. In this office."

             
"Oh," Barnett said. "I mean, ah, I see. Here, take a seat, why don't you? How interesting. Ah ..." He plopped back down into his chair as she sat herself in the straightback wooden chair by the side of the desk. "I'm sorry if I seem surprised," he said, "but I'm not really prepared to interview anyone yet. I mean, I hadn't expected to see anyone until tomorrow. At the earliest. How did you get here, by the way? And what is your name?"

             
"I am sorry if I surprised you," the girl said. "My name is Perrine, Miss Cecily Perrine. I was quite determined, when I saw your advertisement, to apply for the position before anyone else had a chance to. To get the jump on them, as they say. So I took the liberty of ascertaining who had placed the advertisement. And then I came here under the pretext of bringing you your mail."

             
Barnett looked at the girl, trying to pierce the depths of the clear blue eyes that met his gaze without coyness or shyness. Her oval face was framed with light-brown curls under her straw bonnet. And she seemed totally without artifice. Which, Barnett reflected, was probably the highest form of artifice of all.

             
"Why?" he asked.

             
"Why did I come? Why do I want the position?"

             
"That's right, Miss Perrine," he said. "Why are you here?"

             
"I want to be a journalist," she said. "I want to work for a newspaper. But none of them will take me seriously. So when I saw the advertisement for a position in a small news-office, I decided to try for it.
I
thought that if I could get a start—even as a secretary—I might get a chance
...
I might be able to make a chance
...
I suppose it was silly
..."
Her voice trailed off and she looked away. Barnett could see that her hands were clenched and white, although her face was flushed. She was in the grip of some strong emotion, and she was not acting.

             
"There are lady journalists," Barnett said.

             
She looked back up at him, the scorn evident in the glare in her eyes and the set of her jaw. "Journalists!" she scoffed. "There are ladies, sir, who write dainty little pieces about social teas, and soirees, and whether the Dowager Duchess of Titipu wore mauve or lavender to the last garden party at Balmoral. That, sir, is not journalism, and you know it!" Then she put her gloved hand to her mouth and looked suddenly stricken. "Oh," she said. "I'm sorry. I
am
sorry. I can't help it. But none of the daily papers will hire a woman even as a secretary. If you knew how many times I've heard that a newsroom is no place for a lady."

             
"You will have to learn to control your emotions," Barnett said gently.

             
"You're right, of course," Miss Perrine said, taking a deep breath and standing up. "Thank you for your time."

             
"I have three more questions for you, Miss Perrine, if you don't mind," Barnett said.

             
It was a second before she realized what he had said and then she sat slowly back down. "Yes?"

             
"Why do you want to be a reporter?"

             
She thought about it for a moment. "I don't exactly know," she said. "No one's ever asked me that before. Not in years. When I was twelve—I think it was twelve—I told my father I wanted to be a journalist and he laughed and asked me why. And I said something like, 'Because they find out the truth and then they tell people.' I had just read one of Mr. Dickens's novels, I don't even remember which one, and one of the characters was a journalist and I was impressed. It was a man, of course, but at the time that barrier didn't seem insurmountable."

             
"That's as good a reason as I've heard," Barnett said. "The only one better was advanced by a man named McSorley who covered the police beat for the New York
Daily American."

             
"And what did Mr. McSorley say?" the girl asked.

             
"He said they were paying him twelve dollars a week," Barnett told her, "and that was more than he could make shoveling coal."

             
Miss Perrine thought about that for a minute, possibly trying to decide whether or not Barnett was making fun of her. "This man McSorley," she said, "didn't have to fight for his job."

             
Barnett smiled.

             
"What is your second question?" Miss Perrine asked.

             
"How did you manage to get here to apply for the position. The address, after all, is a box number, and the
Telegraph
is not supposed to give out the name or address of the box holder."

             
"I suppose technically it was wrong, Mr. Barnett," she said. "I've tried to explain to you why—"

             
"Not why, Miss Perrine," Barnett said. "How. Tell me how."

             
"It was simple enough," she told him. "I went to the window and told the clerk I was picking up the mail for Box Two-Three-Two. He said he understood it was to be sent on. I told him that that was the problem. I said we had expected far more replies than we had received and I wanted to make sure they were going to the right address. So he pulled the card and read me the name and address printed thereon. I assured him that it was right, took the few letters that had come since the last messenger, and here I am."

             
"I see," Barnett said. "Very effective. And my third question is: Can you spell?"

             
"Quite precisely," she said.

             
"Very good. Now tell me, do you still want the job?"

             
"Well," Miss Perrine looked around the office. "Quite frankly, Mr. Barnett, this is not how I pictured my introduction to journalism. This office, at the moment, seems quite innocent
of any connection with any newspaper. Would you mind telling me, Mr. Barnett, exactly what the American News Service does, and what my duties would be?"

             
"We are a brand new company, Miss Perrine," Barnett said. "So new, in fact, that I use the editorial 'we,' as I am, at present, the sole proprietor and only employee of the American News Service. But from such humble beginnings, Miss Perrine, may come a great news organization.

             
"We gather news for our clients, which are American newspapers. Therefore, we try to anticipate what sort of news would appeal to the American reader. Once a day we will cable a query sheet with a
précis
of each story to our clients. They then specify which stories they are willing to pay for, and we send them."

             
"It sounds interesting," Miss Perrine said. "Although I'm afraid to imagine what sort of stories the American newspapers are interested in. Where do you get your stories, Mr. Barnett? You don't just cull the London dailies, do you?"

             
"I'm developing connections with the city editors of several of the larger papers," Barnett replied. "They will supply the basic facts—for a fee, of course. If the story seems to warrant it, there are several free-lance reporters I can hire to develop additional facts. I also do reporting work myself, but at present I have a private client who will take up much of my time away from the office."

             
"A private client, Mr. Barnett?"

             
The incredulous question made Barnett realize how strange the idea of a news bureau having a private client sounded to anyone with even a rudimentary notion of how such a business worked. "I am engaged in, ah, research, Miss Perrine, among the indigent and criminal classes in London. A private charitable foundation is supplying the financing."

             
"How fascinating!" Miss Perrine said. "You will have to tell me all about it!"

             
"I certainly shall," Barnett agreed. "Now as to your duties. At first they will be mainly secretarial, but as the service expands there will be an increasing amount of in-house journalistic writing to be done. If you can handle the work, it's yours."

             
"There's the matter of remuneration, Mr. Barnett," Miss Perrine reminded him.

             
"True," Barnett said. "I have no idea
..
. What is the standard rate for secretarial help around here?"

             
"I believe that a capable secretary would command fifteen to twenty pounds a quarter. That is, a woman would. A man, of course, would get more. Say twenty-five or thirty pounds."

             
"Well, why don't we flout custom, Miss Perrine, and start you at twenty-five pounds a quarter. I have a feeling that your initiative and intelligence will prove invaluable to this organization. Perhaps even more than if you had been a man."

             
Miss Perrine gave Barnett a searching look, but his answering gaze was innocence itself. "Very well," she said, "when do you want me to begin?"

             
"You do use a typewriter, don't you?" Barnett asked.

             
Miss Perrine looked disapprovingly at his machine. "The Grandall is a good typewriter," she said, "but I prefer the Remington."

             
"As I shall need my own machine at any rate, I was planning to get a second. It shall be a Remington, as you say."

             
"Thank you, Mr. Barnett."

             
"As for starting, right now would seem a suitable time.
"

             
"
Very good. What would you have me do?"

             
Barnett indicated the pile of letters on his desk. "Answer these," he said.