"No one is allowed to speak with the press. Not the mill managers, not the factory workers, not even sanitation. I want memos posted and announcements made before every shift. Make it clear that Hockley Steel will incentivize their silence, a… loyalty bonus will be included in next month's pay so long as internal interviews stay out of the papers." Cal stamped out the remains of his cigarette then immediately drew another.
George Anderson, the Head of Personnel, nervously ran his fingers over his black mustache. "That's a lot of bonuses, Mr. Hockley. Given the losses from the accident, are you sure we can-"
"Yes." Cal cut in, exhaling a channel of smoke. "We need to regain control of the narrative. 10,000 tons of Hockley Steel went into that damn ship and now it's rusting at the bottom of the Atlantic. North Star has already started pointing fingers, trying to divert the blame. I won't have some chatty foreman making remarks that could be used to incriminate us. Write the memo, Anderson. I want them posted in every mill before first shift tomorrow morning."
"Yes, Sir."
"Go." Cal dismissed him, instantly turning his attention to the next impending need. His secretary hurried in, side stepping Mr. Anderson and quickly making her way to Cal's desk. He held out his hand expectantly, taking from her grasp a large envelope stamped with the U.S Cost Guard's official seal.
"Thank you, Winnie. Any word yet from Colville?"
"No, Sir. Should I send another telegram?"
"No. Get Harold on the phone. Tell him to go to their office and speak with them in-person. Give him our official statement and emphasize that we need Motherwell and Hockley on the same page."
"Understood. Oh, Mrs. Dewitt Bukater called again. She was inquiring about funeral arrangements. She seemed very concerned about the price of flowers."
Cal gave a flippant wave, his eyes glued to the ice report now in front of him. "Whatever it is, I'll cover it. And tell her not to call my office again. With everything that's going on, I can't stand her ringing every five minutes."
Winnie nodded and exited the room, leaving Cal to pour over the pile of reports, newspapers and financial statements that had been steadily climbing throughout the morning. Hockley Steel needed a public relations strategy that would save the company from ruin. Cal had already set several plans into motion, of the offensive and defensive variety, but they were far from safe. Recovering from this disaster would take months of work and as he lit his next cigarette, Cal lamented the number of sleepless nights that lay ahead of him.
"Winnie, where did I put the telegraph from Captain Smith's physician?!" Cal shouted, flipping through the mess of paper on his desk.
"It's on the bulletin board, Sir. Left corner."
Cal crossed the office, his long fingers fluttering over the scale-like mass of notecards and parchment until he found what he was looking for. Pulling the small piece of paper from its pin, Cal quickly re-read the doctor's statement, his calculating mind making plans for a defamation campaign they could use as a means of misdirection. Tarnishing the memory of a dead captain was by no means a first resort, but if worse came to worse, Cal wanted to have everything prepared.
"We'll need more experts to corroborate this assessment." Cal said, thinking aloud. "Winnie, see who you can find from the medical board who'd be willing to make a statement."
"Yes, Sir. Pardon me, but Mr. Chase just arrived."
Cal looked up from his notes, the endless train of strategic thought pausing for the first time that morning. "Thank you, Winnie. Send him in."
In a continuous motion, Cal crushed his cigarette in a crystal ash tray, pivoted and extended his arm to the approaching Mr. Chase, shaking the man's hand in greeting.
"Chase." He said simply.
"Good to see you again, Mr. Hockley."
"Close the door please, Winnie." Cal instructed, waiting for it to shut before making his way to the bar. "Can I offer you a drink?"
Mr. Chase removed his hat, running a hand over his blond hair. "Much obliged."
Cal poured them each a bourbon, handed one to Chase and took a sip of his own. Leaning back against his desk, Cal leveled his gaze on the unassuming man who stood before him. With an average build and height, and a fairly forgettable face, Mr. Chase looked like any other Joe. That's partially what made him such a good detective. The other part was his fifteen years on the force and his impeccable record for uncovering information no one else could.
"What did you find?" Cal asked.
Mr. Chase took a sip before setting his glass down and pulling a packet from his briefcase. He handed it to Cal, saying, "The girl's name is Evelyn Beecham. She's four years old and was traveling with her aunt, Sarah Townsend. Miss Townsend recently became the girl's legal guardian after her parents contracted scarlet fever last February. Unfortunately, as she wasn't counted among the survivors, it's safe to presume the young woman is dead."
Cal looked over the report that Chase had put together, glancing at the woman's photograph before flipping to the next page. "Did they have family here?" He asked.
"No. The Townsends were English farmers though most of them have passed and the Beechams reside in Australia. From what I could discern, her father and his family were estranged. Miss Townsend had accepted a scullery maid position here in the city and was bringing the child with her. It's likely she was attempting to start fresh in America."
"Have you attempted to contact any of the girl's distant relatives?"
"I have, but none expressed interest to claim her. Few even knew she had been born." Mr. Chase studied his client as he looked over the findings. Observing people was in his nature and he found it was something he couldn't turn off. Caledon Hockley, the formidable son of a Steel Tycoon, looked far less imposing with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, his tall frame hunched with blatant fatigue. The dark circles under his eyes implied a severe lack of sleep. The ash on his fingers and the trays filled with cigarette butts pointed to hours of chain smoking. This was a man who had enough problems to deal with, let alone what to do with an orphaned child.
"I… took the liberty of including a few charitable institutions here in New York where you could send the child." Chase cautiously offered. "St. Mary's is regarded by most-"
"No." Cal said, cutting him off. "That won't be necessary." He stared at a blurry photograph of the little girl…Evelyn… her round eyes the only point still in focus. Snapping the folder shut, Cal met Mr. Chase's inquisitive gaze.
"Thank you for your work on this, Chase. As usual, the details of your findings are impeccably thorough. I knew I could count on you." Cal offered him his hand, which Chase readily accepted.
"Always glad to be of assistance to you and your family."
With that remark, Cal paused. Pulling out his billfold, he withdrew a hundred-dollar note and passed it to Mr. Chase, commanding his gaze as he said, "If he should ask, don't mention this investigation to my father. I'll let him know in my own time."
"Understood, Mr. Hockley." Chase replied and after a shared glance he pocketed the money, finished his drink and collected his briefcase. "If you need anything else, you know how to find me."
"Thank you. I'm sure we'll be in touch soon." Cal escorted him to the door, holding it open as he nodded his farewell. After Mr. Chase left, Cal called Winnie back inside.
"I want you to look into the adoption process for me, find out what steps I'll need to take and how quickly it can be done. And make an appointment with my lawyer, for this evening if possible. Tell him to start drawing up the necessary documents."
Winnie, who rarely ever hesitated when taking notes, looked up at her employer with visible surprise. One pointed glance from Caledon and she quickly resumed her shorthand. "Of c-course, Mr. Hockley. I'll call his office straight away."
"I want this kept quiet, Winifred." Cal said, his gaze serious, his voice tired. "No one can know until the adoption is finalized. The child's gone through enough already, I want to keep her from the press for as long as I can."
A small smile spread across Winnie's face and she nodded fondly. "I'll be discreet, Mr. Hockley."
"You always are." He replied, the ghost of a smile briefly gracing his hard features. With a deep breath, Cal pushed off from the edge of his desk and rolled his shoulders, fighting the ache acquired from hours spent hunched over paperwork.
"Put on a fresh pot of coffee, will you? And bring me the latest from Wall Street." This long day of problem solving and fire-fighting had only just begun.