Chapter 10

The silent, frozen cityscape outside the bedroom window could not have been more different than what Rue felt within herself. Cooped up in her father's house on Park Avenue where she and Mytho had stayed the night, Rue turned sharply away from the window and reached for the silver cigarette box next to the settee. Restless and burning with agitation, the raven-haired actress lit a cigarette—without even bothering to get out her ivory cigarette holder—and began puffing on it to calm her nerves.

After arriving at her father's residence, she and Mytho were instructed by the butler to go directly to her father's study. There within the dark room sat the head of the Corvo family, his aged face partially concealed behind the shadow cast by the lone table lamp on his massive oak desk.

"Why have you called us back in such a hurry, Daddy? What's happened?" Rue asked, hurrying over to the senior patriarch while Mytho closed the door behind them.

"This," the old man said tersely and flung towards her a photograph he had been grasping in his hand.

Rue picked up the photo from his desk, studied it, and turned back to her father. "Who is this?"

"This," Don Corvo said in a rasping voice, as Rue handed the picture to Mytho, "is the man who is out to ruin us."

Mytho looked dispassionately at the picture of Fakir in his hand. It was a snapshot of Fakir on an unidentified street, looking down at his wristwatch as he stood, apparently waiting for a streetcar.

"What do you mean, 'ruin us'?" Rue asked her father quietly, trying to suppress the quiver in her voice.

Taking the picture back from Mytho, Don Corvo explained, "His name is Fakir Romeiras, a detective with the New York City Police Department who's been snooping around our business for the past year. Our sources within the police force tell me he doesn't have much evidence against us, even if he is an adamant young fool. Still, I have been keeping tabs on his work nonetheless, to ensure that he stays on his side of the line. It wasn't much of a surprise to me therefore when the investigation into Alphonse's case was assigned to him. But then, recently, I discovered this."

Don Corvo slapped a pamphlet down in front of them. Rue's eyes drifted across its cover page, and her eyes widened sharply when she recognized it as the guest list for The Bartered Bride. Prominent members of the Metropolitan Opera and its board members were sent copies of the guest list before any major event, and Rue had never paid it much attention. This time though she picked it up and scrutinized the list from top to bottom, and lo and behold, she found the name "Fakir Romeiras" listed in the fifth column.

"I had been getting dressed for the opera when I glanced through this and noticed his name," Don Corvo said in his low, hoarse voice, now growling with an undertone of suspicion. "Why else would an uncultured junior detective suddenly be interested in going to an opera that his primary suspects happen to be attending?"

As Rue placed the booklet carefully back onto his desk, Don Corvo continued. "At last minute's notice I skipped the performance and had Tony fetch you two, in case the detective was there looking for Mytho as well."

Rue bit her lip, her bare arms folded in front of her chest. "Do you think we should get rid of him? What if he already knows about Mytho's involvement?" The normally composed actress suggested nervously while Mytho looked on with an inscrutable expression on his face.

"Not yet," Don Corvo said firmly, "we need to discern just how much he really knows before we risk taking major actions. Alphonse's case is causing enough trouble as it is."

He sat back in his chair, stroking his chin pensively, his unseen eyes ostensibly gazing askance. "However, it troubles me that our 'friends' in Tammany Hall* aren't doing a very good job on keeping a tight leash on their dogs. I'll need to have a word with them soon; with elections coming up next year, I think they will be keen on listening," he said with a bare hint of a smirk on his lips. "In the meantime I've ordered Orecchie* to start following this fellow closely and see what exactly he's up to, and if he's onto something that we don't know about yet.

"As for the two of you," Don Corvo turned to Rue and Mytho, "keep a low profile for a while—especially you, Mytho. Have Tommy take over for you for now, though do check on him to make certain that it remains running smoothly." Don Corvo paused, before he added emphatically, "We must make sure that everything goes as planned."

And so, as per her father's orders, the next day Rue had cancelled all of her appointments for the coming week. Her agent had been aghast at her decision and begged to at least know the reason for her sudden absence, but she had only given him a vague answer that she was not feeling well and wanted some time to rest, before hanging up on him and returning to her cigarettes. The explanation she had given her agent was not a complete lie: her constant anxiety was taking its toll on her and she had barely been able to get any sleep the night before.

Mytho on the other hand did not seem to share her unease, or for that matter, take much notice of her at all from that time they had arrived at the Corvo's main house the previous night. She had woken up early this morning and had found his half of the bed empty. Her father was gone as well, and while both men had returned a few hours later, neither of them gave any explanation as to their prior whereabouts.

When Rue had asked Mytho about it, he did not answer, aloof and cold like the winter air that abraded the residents of this city—a sharp contrast to the dark, teasing attitude he had taken to her the night before. Rue wondered what had caused the sudden shift in his behavior, but before Rue could inquire further, Mytho retreated to the study, telling her he had to make some calls to discuss important business matters.

Rue knew better than to ask her father about the family business. If there had ever been anything necessary for her to know, she would have already been informed of it. To go out of her way to inquire into matters would be to invite a harsh reprimand of her self-indulgent prying—a consequence that, knowing her father's temperament, she didn't care to chance.

Nonetheless, it still frustrated Rue that she should be left out of the loop when her family—her entire world—was under serious threat. And Mytho, the Mytho who had always been so open and honest with her, was now as shuttered as everyone else.

Glancing at the clock, Rue realized it had been more than two hours since Mytho had shut himself up in the study, and she wondered what was taking him so long. Snuffing out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the windowsill, she turned her heels towards the study.

In front of the closed double doors, she listened for a conversation but heard none. She twisted the doorknob, pushing open the door quietly, and saw her beau sitting in the leather chair with his back toward her, his face facing the same gray cityscape she had been looking out across moments earlier. His eyes were downcast at something in his hand.

Rue walked into the room, and at the click of her heels on the smooth Italian marble floor Mytho's eyes looked up. Closing his fingers over the object in his hand, he tucked it away inside the inner pocket of his coat.

"I thought you were on the phone," Rue accosted him.

"The business I had is settled. I was thinking it over, that's all," Mytho said, standing up. "We've always had to maintain a cautious dance with the police, a pas de deux, you might say," the corners of Mytho's lips curved faintly at the metaphor, his back still to Rue, "but we've always been the ones to lead. I wonder, about this detective Father mentioned…" he paused, "…if he has the potential to change the rules of this game of cat and mouse."

"That won't happen," Rue said staunchly, her crimson eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms, facing the wall defiantly. "I won't allow anyone, much less a stupid two-bit gumshoe, to destroy what Daddy worked so hard to create."

Mytho chuckled and Rue looked at him askance. "Yes, but what could you do about it, Rue?" He finally turned to gaze at her with those eyes that were frozen over like the gray Manhattan winter, and asked with a cruel innocence, "What can you do on your own without Father?"

Rue stood motionlessly as Mytho strolled past her, leaving the young woman behind with only the sensation of a passing breeze. She was vaguely aware of familiar voices in the hallway, but at that moment she could only brood over the tattered remains of the thin veneer of her confidence, ripped asunder by the blow of Mytho's words.

She had wealth, fame, and status, but how many of her achievements were her own and how many were thanks to the connections and strings of her father? Rue had never seriously considered it; or rather, she had ignored it and focused single-mindedly on getting whatever it was she desired. To have that question so brusquely thrown at her shook Rue to her core—and for the first time in her life, Rue questioned who, and what, she really was.

Was she the daughter of Don Corvo, or was she just the daughter of Don Corvo? Who was she without her family's name? She was Rue, an ordinary girl with a talent for ballet. Without that money, without those connections, she would be nothing more than a lowly ballerina in red shoes who always dreamed of a place in the spotlight, forever out of her reach.

"What are you doing here, Rue?"

The rasping voice of Dominico Corvo startled Rue out of her wits. She gasped, whipping her head around, and found her father standing behind her; there was no sign of Mytho.

"Ah, I'm sorry, Daddy! I was just…I was just distracted."

"Evidently." Don Corvo took a note from his pocket and handed it to Rue. "This is no time to have your head up in the clouds, my daughter. An opportunity to tip the scales in our favor has just presented itself."

Perplexed, Rue held up the stationary in her hand. Written in the immaculate cursive of their senior butler, it read:

Interview request with Miss Legnani.

Autor Brahms, New York World.

Tel. Manhattan 5361(*)

The New York World made its name reporting on the spectacles and commotions of the city, and the same buzz of activity was mirrored in the editorial floor of its Manhattan-based office. The constant footsteps, loud voices, ceaseless clickety-clack of typewriters and chorus of ringing telephones made it difficult to even have a conversation, much less think coherently.

Tucked in a corner of the cacophonous office was a small desk, at which sat Autor. With his elbow resting on his diminutive and altogether inadequate desk, the young reporter rested his chin on his palm, staring contemptuously at the typed manuscripts spread out in front of him. "Rudolf Valentino's marriage on the rocks," read one headline. "Forbidden Paradise: Pola Negri Brings Czarina to Life," advertised another.

Autor sighed in disgust, tossing aside the pen that had been sitting idly in his hand for the past hour. With the popularity of film and celebrity-culture increasing, seemingly exponentially, news agencies knew entertainment news equaled wider readership, and that equaled more profit. There were a dozen reporters like himself on this floor, whose job it was to cover the latest and most "sensational" stories coming out of Broadway and Hollywood. But if there was anything Autor detested most, it was writing about the day-to-day gossip concerning the idle habits of morally ambiguous starlets.

His job was made tolerable only by the occasional classical opera or orchestral concert premier he was asked to attend by his editor, as he was the only reporter in the department with advanced musical training and thus the authority and expertise to report on such performances. But those assignments were few and far between as traditional performing arts had in these days fallen out of popularity with the public, so that even these reports had degenerated into nothing more than lists of the latest fashion trends and celebrity blather.

Looking away from the manuscript on his desk and out the window at the city skyline, the overcast clouds like a dull blank canvas draped above the skyscrapers, Autor could only dream of publishing the kinds of stories he truly wished to report on. Stories that revealed the secrets of this oblivious metropolis, exposés that awakened people to the city's moral weaknesses. That was the reason he had joined this newspaper in the first place: its reputation of exposing the dark underbelly of the city for the world to see with their own eyes.

But as a junior reporter with no major headline under his belt, Autor had little choice in his work and had to accept whatever story the editors assigned for him. In fact, Autor recalled he had once been on the verge of quitting out of sheer frustration, when he had stumbled onto the Corvo story after overhearing a conversation between two co-workers. Both were senior reporters with the newspaper, and Autor had at the time happened to be transcribing a report near one of the men's desks. Then, another man walked up to the desk.

"How come you're back early, Charlie? I thought you were on that story down by the river."

The man at the desk shook his head. "Was, but the police wouldn't toss us so much as a bone. Even the longshoremen's lips were sealed tight as clams, though honestly I can't blame 'em."

"Why's that?" the other man asked, leaning towards Charlie with interest.

Here Charlie sighed and confided to his friend, "You know that I've seen a lot of nasty stuff, Allen, what with the war, and some of the stories I've covered before. But what I saw today ranks among some o' the most gruesome stuff I've seen yet."

Neither of the men had taken notice of Autor, and Autor had not been particularly interested in their conversation anyway. However that last sentence had caught Autor's attention, and out of curiosity and boredom, Autor listened more closely while keeping his eyes and his hands on his work.

"Geez, how bad was it, if it can make a seasoned veteran like you green in the face?" Allen joked.

"Lemme tell you, Allen," Charlie said, lowering his voice, "this Corvo racket, they're really not to be fooled around with." He looked up at Allen grimly. "That chap they brought up today from the river had been tied to a chair with its legs set in blocks of concrete before being tossed into the river."

"Sure, but uh, that doesn't sound all that…bad," Allen said after a pause to consider the right word choice.

"Oh, that's not all. It gets worse." Here Charlie leaned in and spoke in a voice so soft that Autor had to take his hands off his typewriter to keep the two men in earshot. He pretended to be examining his notes as he continued to listen.

"I hung around the dock after the body was pulled outta the water, hoping to get some interesting tid-bits, or maybe get the I.D. of the deceased, or something useful like that, you know? And it paid off when I heard one of the coppers shout that there was a wad of paper inside the dead man's mouth. Everybody came rushin' up to see what it said, but his jaw was shut so tight they had to pry the damn thing loose."

Charlie paused to take a breath, and then went on, "The police tried pushing the spectators back, but that's when they finally got the guy's mouth open and the paper dropped out. I saw then that the poor man's tongue had been cut clean off. And you know what was printed on that paper?"

By then Allen was starting to look unnerved. "Wha…what did it say?"

"It just said, 'snoop'," Charlie said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The dead man must've been sticking his nose too far into Corvo's business to end up like this. I reckon it was a warning, to the rest of us."

Allen pursed his lips nervously. "You keep saying it's the Corvo's, but how'd you know it's not some other gang that did this?"

Charlie shook his head. "Oh trust me, it's them alright. The dock where they found the guy's in their territory. No one would admit it openly, but it's a common secret that they're the ones runnin' the show down there." He looked contemplative. "That's gotta be the reason none of the longshoremen wanted to talk to me, even after I offered them some incentives. They're probably scared stiff."

"So…are you gonna publish all that?" Allen asked incredulously.

"Me?" Charlie scoffed. "No way in hell! I sure don't wanna end up like that guy, a wet scarecrow with its tongue cut out." He shook his head slowly. "Nah, I'll still write up something for the editor to read, just for the record and all, but there's some parts of this story better left unwritten."

"That's the smart thing to do," Allen agreed. "It's wiser not to be messin' about with dicey business like that."

As the two reporters shifted topics to something more trivial, Autor couldn't stop pondering their conversation, even after the two reporters had left for the day. He just could not get that story out of his head. A story that was too dangerous even to tell other people? That was a story worth telling, indeed!

The morning following the conversation, first thing he had done was snap up a copy of the newspaper, still warm off the press, and quickly found Charlie's story. Sure enough, there was the lurid description of the body and the condition it was found, but only a vague reference that the man's death was gang related. Autor remembered sitting by his desk until late that night, the office having finally fallen silent as he mulled over the story and the shocking details that were cut from it.

What he believed in more than anything else was that the journalist's mission was to report the truth, no matter how horrifying or perilous it might be—because if none of them did, then who else would have the audacity to shine a light on the hidden ugliness of this troubled city? Yet he had just seen men, who were his seniors in position and experience, shy away from reporting the truth, letting the precious facts fall away into oblivion, discarded like refuse.

Autor had realized this was precisely the kind of story he had always wanted to work on, an earth-shattering piece of news that would surely stir up society, and it was just sitting there, begging to be told. At that moment, he decided to take it upon himself to research and tell the story of the criminal history of the Corvo family, even if he had to do it all on his own.

He knew he had to carry out his investigations clandestinely. Despite its absence in the papers, the name of Corvo kept sneaking into conversations both within the news office and on the streets, usually in whispers. Using the leads from these scattered discourses, Autor began documenting their earlier cases and accounts of similar crimes. Before long he had compiled a sizable folder of materials, and as the picture of the Corvo family developed, Autor's eagerness grew with it.

But his zealous giddiness had been short-lived as he realized the limitations of what he could learn without attracting unwanted attention on himself. Fakir's recent dismissal of Autor's work had only made things worse, reinforcing his belief that people were hopelessly blind to the truth, even if it was staring them right in the face. What was worse, without additional key bits of information, Autor feared his story might never see the light of day. The notion that all his hard work might be for nothing in the end was unbearable.

Desperate and resentful after his failed attempts to obtain Fakir's aid, Autor had decided to try one last resort to earn the cooperation of the police detective: blackmail.

Granted, Autor had immediate doubts about the idea when he first came across the news clipping about the murdered family. What if it was merely a coincidence and Fakir was unrelated to the victims? He would be making a grand fool of himself and that would only make the situation worse.

Fortunately, that concern had been readily placated by a visit to the New York City Department of Records. However, that still left Autor with a far greater problem, which was his own sense of justice. He had considerable qualms about coercing another man, even one whom he disdained, by using the death of his own family against him. Wouldn't doing so reduce him to the level of the very criminal he was trying to expose? But, if he left Fakir alone, his one link into the investigation would be lost, leaving him cold on the case without any other leads in sight.

Autor had contemplated this moral dilemma for many days as the date of the opera drew near. Even if he did not personally bring up the relationship between Fakir's family and the prosecution of the Corvos, Autor rationalized, surely when the case went to court the Corvos' lawyers would have dredged up this little fact and used it against the prosecution all the same? Autor knew the Corvos hired some of the best defense attorneys in the state, and so far they had been able to shoot down every case ever brought up against the Corvos. It was not inconceivable that when Fakir brought his case to court, the Corvo lawyers would have meticulously examined Fakir's background and consequently use the death of his parents to challenge the validity of his evidence due to conflict of interest.

If such a revelation was inevitable, then it was all the more imperative for Autor to publish his expose as soon as possible, before the Corvos could have time to dispute it in some fashion or another. The only question that had remained then was how Fakir would respond. Autor had imagined that if the detective's desire for revenge was strong enough, he would not jeopardize the Corvo case for the world, and Autor would be able to persuade him to work together for a common cause.

The easy part of the plan had been convincing his editor to let him attend the opera, as it was the first performance of the season, an occasion known to draw a large spectrum of the rich and influential crowd. Unfortunately for Autor, that had been the only part of his plan that had played out as he'd hoped.

His plan having backfired completely, Autor had left the gala soon after his encounter with Fakir, lest he run into the dark haired man again and the belligerent detective decided to make good on his threat. In his sullen state Autor had not paid enough attention to his surroundings and had bumped into another guest on his way out of the ballroom.

"Sorry—" Autor said absentmindedly when he looked up and saw a pair of wine red eyes.

"It's fine. Excuse me," Rue said with a harried but courteous smile and strode past him.

Autor had stared after the young lady as she disappeared into the crowd. Being a reporter, he had seen pictures and photos of Rue on many past occasions. Between that and the research he'd done on her family, Autor already knew quite a bit about the burgeoning actress. However, he had never met her in person before and something about her completely arrested his attention.

Having finally left the opera house, Autor sat sleeplessly in front of the desk in his study. He wasn't able to shake off the image of her vivid, garnet-colored eyes from his mind. What was so appealing to him about her, he wondered? Was it her beauty? Autor acknowledged that the actress had a sense of class that was missing from many of the frivolous starlets of his day, but this was not the first time he had seen her. Could it be her mannerisms, then? She seemed to have been in a hurry, her footsteps brisk as she entered the ballroom—and it was this recollection that got the gears in Autor's head turning.

He had realized during the performance that Don Corvo was absent, which was surprising as the Don liked to advertise himself as a patron of the arts. Perhaps Rue had been expecting her father, but when he still hadn't shown up for the gala she had grown worried.

Autor touched the tips of his fingers together and considered this idea. Something big must've happened for Don Corvo to miss a performance at the Met. The possible reasons for his absence were endless, and it was not impossible that the Don had suffered a stroke or something of that nature, given his advanced age.

But Autor had a gut feeling—a reporter's intuition, perhaps—that it had something to do with the crime family's dealings rather than any health issues the Don might have experienced. The image of Rue surfaced once again in Autor's mind, and he frowned at its intrusion. Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? It was true that Rue was Don Corvo's only child, and it was well-known that she was very close to her father, but what would that…

Autor suddenly sat up in his chair. "Of course!" The exclamation reverberated slightly in his otherwise silent house.

If anyone would know what was concerning Don Corvo, it would be Rue. How much of his personal dealings the Don would divulge to his daughter, Autor could not be sure of, but he was convinced that the actress must have some intimate knowledge of the workings and goings of her father's organization.

It had to be a stroke of luck that he had ran into her at the gala. He could get closer than ever before to the source if he could secure an opportunity to talk with Rue, and with his assignment to write the review for The Bartered Bride, that wouldn't be a problem. Editors always liked it when celebrities were quoted in a story. If he could use the review article for the opera as an excuse to interview Rue, then he might be able to probe for the reason of Don Corvo's absence from the opera.

The more Autor thought about the idea, the more excited he grew. He hardly slept at all that night and marched into the office early in the morning to put his new plan into action. When he finally managed to track down Rue's phone number, he was told by Rue's housekeeper that Miss Legnani had spent the prior night at her father's residence and that she would remain away from her house for a few days. When Autor asked for the phone number at the Corvo main residence, the housekeeper regretfully informed him that she was not allowed to give away such information, but that she would take a message from him and convey it to Miss Legnani. With no other choice, Autor gave her his name and number before hanging the receiver glumly on its hook.

Half a day later Autor found himself staring vacantly at drafts of articles, still waiting for a response, the likelihood of which was growing dimmer and dimmer with each passing minute. Could the Don's absence last night really be due to a medical reason after all? Autor grimaced. If that were the case, there was no chance Rue would agree to the interview…

The ringing of his telephone made Autor's head shoot back up. He blinked with disbelief at the instrument for a few seconds, filling up with a rush of nervous anticipation, before snatching the receiver off its hook.

"Hello?" he said quickly.

"Mr. Brahms? I have a call for you from Manhattan, from a Miss Odile Legnani," said the switchboard operator. "Could you wait a moment while I connect your call?"

At this Autor's heart began to beat even faster. He had hoped that he would get a response from her within the next few days, but Autor had not expected Rue Corvo herself to call him back! Sitting up straight in his chair, Autor spoke into the receiver, his voice trembling a bit, "Y-yes, certainly. I'll wait."

In the few seconds it took for the call to come through, Autor took a deep breath to calm himself and brought the transmitter closer—until he could almost kiss it—in order to prevent others from over hearing, when suddenly the line cracked back to life.

"Hello, is this Mr. Autor Brahms?" replied the velvety feminine voice on the other end.

"Yes, yes, this is he! I am honored that you would find the time in your busy schedule to call me back, Miss Legnani."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Brahms. I received the message you left earlier this morning. I subscribe to your paper and I'd be happy to discuss my thoughts about the performance with you. But I must say I find telephone interviews to be so dreary; the connection can be horrid sometimes, so I would much more prefer to meet in person. Would that be all right with you?"

This was so much more than Autor could have hoped for that he was unable to conceal his excitement, and so he answered somewhat loudly, "Yes, of course! Certainly!"

With one hand still clutching the receiver and using his other free hand, Autor managed to dig out the notebook in his suit pocket and retrieve a pen off his desk. "Would tonight work for you, Miss Corvo? Let us say, eight-o'-clock, at the Hôtel Élysée. Would that suit you?"

"It suits. I will see you then," was her pithy reply before the line went dead.

Autor slowly placed the receiver back on its hook, then glanced down at the appointment he'd jotted down. Sitting back in his chair, Autor was seized with a giddiness that rivaled that of his first discovery of the Corvo case. Bumping into Rue Corvo must have been a stroke of great fortune, he thought to himself. The logical part of him reminded him that this was a dangerous maneuver on his part, meeting the spider in its parlor so to speak. But what great deeds were ever accomplished without taking some risks?

A/N Sorry it's taken me nearly six months to update this story. The good news is I passed my advancement exam and don't have to worry about that any more. The bad news is my work load at school hasn't let up even though the test is over, and I still have very little time to write. Still, I hope with one less thing to worry about at least it will make writing easier. Now, off to some notes!

*Tammany Hall was a political organization that once controlled much of the political machinery in New York City from the 18th century until the mid-20th century. It was famous (or rather, infamous) for being highly corrupt as well as being highly efficient.

* Orecchie is Italian for "ears".

*The New York World was a highly circulated newspaper founded by Joseph Pulitzer, who also founded the Pulitzer Prize, an award for achievements in journalism, literature, and music composition. The newspaper was famous for being a pioneer in what is known as "yellow journalism": news that was sensational, hyperbole, and scandalous. It also published important exposés including the deploring conditions of tenements in the early 20th century which led to reform. It's dual reputation for being gritty and a muckraker is what makes me think this newspaper would be a natural fit for the crusading reporter that is Autor in this universe.

*Back in the 1920's telephone numbers consisted of three letters followed by four numbers. The letters were usually the first three letters of the neighborhood or city the caller was in, for example "TRE" for a number in Tremont, New York City. It wasn't until the 1960's that telephone numbers in the US became all numbers.

Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-proofing!