When I finish my speech, I can tell I nearly have him by the expression on his face. After all, Pulitzer has made his fortune in the newspaper business. This is his life. Who else would better understand the passion I feel for this profession?
“Why did you come to me, Miss Harrington? Why the World and not one of my competitors? Why not the Journal?”
I’m hardly surprised that he invokes the New York Journal when he speaks of his competitors. The Journal’s owner and publisher, William Randolph Hearst, and Pulitzer have been locked in a fierce battle since Hearst came to New York a year ago. Hearst made a name for himself as the publisher of the successful San Francisco Examiner—a newspaper that was floundering when he originally took it over, rebuilding it from scratch—and now he’s set his sights on the New York newspaper scene. With his late father’s immense wealth behind him, he’s a formidable opponent.
“Because the World reports on the news,” I reply smoothly. “The Journal reports on the World. It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re often the first to break a story only for Hearst to take your work, sensationalize it, and publish the same story in his paper, which he sells at a loss.”
Pulitzer’s expression darkens. “Hearst has no scruples in the way he runs his newspaper or the manner in which he reports on the news. It is one thing to use dramatics to highlight important causes or to draw readers’ attention. But for Hearst, the dramatics aren’t a means to the end; they are the end. Months ago, he stole my entire Sunday edition staff. Editor included. When I paid them more money than he did and hired them back, he just stole them again the very next day with the promise of even higher salaries.
“He has spies in my newsroom, Miss Harrington. I doubt his paper can put out an edition without using ours for inspiration. You want to do what the stunt girl reporters do to get the story? You want to be like Nellie Bly? Go undercover and work for Hearst and report back to me on the news the Journal is covering. If he has a lead on something, I want to know about it. Let’s see how he likes being beaten at his own game, how he enjoys someone else scooping his stories. If you do a good job of it, say after a year or so, then I’ll give you a position as one of my investigative reporters. It’s a better offer than you’ll get anywhere else with your inexperience.”
Of all the possible outcomes I imagined from this interview, this wasn’t one of them.
“Why me?”
“Because Hearst isn’t likely to suspect someone like you. And since you haven’t worked for me before, there’s no reason he would link us together. No one knows you.”
I came in here all bluster and confidence, hoping I could sway a man who’d built his fortune through his own ingenuity, but the truth is, I’m more than a little desperate. Ever since I moved out of my mother and stepfather’s house, and into my aunt Emma’s brownstone, money has been tight. I have a small inheritance from my father, but it will only go so far, and I hopefully have many years of fending for myself ahead of me. Scruples are a luxury I can hardly afford if I am to be truly independent, and more than anything in the world, I want to be one of Pulitzer’s famed reporters. Spying isn’t that different from other stunt reporting schemes, and if Hearst is doing the same to Pulitzer by placing spies in his newsroom . . .
“You want to be an investigative reporter—prove it. Everyone gets their hands dirty from time to time. Do you have what it takes to be a reporter in New York City, Miss Harrington?” Pulitzer makes an impatient noise as if I’ve squandered too much of his time. “Do we have a deal?”
It’s right there in front of me—everything I’ve been working for, dreaming of, just within my grasp. And if I could do good work, then surely the ends justify the means?
“We have a deal.”
* * *
—
What was I thinking?
An hour later, I stand in the newsroom of the New York Journal waiting to see if Hearst will meet with me, half hoping he won’t. Hearst reportedly runs a more relaxed newspaper than Pulitzer, and while the World’s security is notoriously tight, Hearst is said to bring all manner of people into his office, rubbing elbows with his staff as though he is one of them. While I hoped to impress Pulitzer with hard work and gumption, Hearst is drawn to the novel and unusual. Hopefully, a young woman without an appointment showing up at his newspaper in search of employment qualifies enough to catch his attention.
The gamble works, because not a minute later, a man escorts me into Hearst’s office, announcing my name as I walk through the door, before closing it behind him.
Two men lounge in the room, cigars dangling from their idle hands. One is big and handsome, his suit dashing and expensive, his angular face punctuated by dark, slashing brows and a nose that looks like it’s been broken a time or two. There’s a girl standing so close to his hip she might as well be seated on his lap, her stunning features accentuated by her daring dress.
The other man is William Randolph Hearst.
Hearst is younger than I expected him to be; he doesn’t look that much older than I am. His light brown hair is parted down the middle, his appearance pleasing, his clothes impeccably tailored, but for the garish color of his suit and tie. Where Pulitzer had a somber look about him, Hearst is the complete opposite. He doesn’t have a showgirl at his side, he has two, the similarities in their features leading me to the conclusion that they must be related—sisters, perhaps.
Both of the men in Hearst’s office have the look of a hard night of drinking stamped all over them, their clothes disheveled, the cuts of their suits not quite as pristine as their tailors likely intended. The pot of coffee sitting on the desk between them and the faint hint of alcohol in the air suggests they’re winding down the day rather than starting it.
The big one smiles, sprawled in his chair, his necktie loosened past the point of respectability.
“Can we help you?” he asks.
Most men of my acquaintance would take umbrage at another commandeering their office in such a manner, but Hearst appears unruffled as his friend directs the conversation.
I ignore the dark-haired man, offering a small smile for the women who look more amused by the tableau before them than anything else.
I turn my attention to Hearst. Despite the general sense of debauchery around the room, he’s hunched over a stack of papers, a pen in hand. He barely spared me a glance when I walked into the room, but now that the other man has spoken, he lifts his head and his gaze runs over me quickly.
Hearst’s reputation precedes him, and considering we once operated in somewhat adjacent circles, I’ve been privy to the whispers: that he had a pet alligator in his rooms at Harvard, trotting it out at parties on a leash while keeping it drunk on champagne before he was finally kicked out of the school his junior year. Despite his notorious antics, he’s known for a desire to eschew most of New York society that’s at odds with the flashy showmanship that surrounds him.