The air in the pressroom of the Philadelphia Chronicle was Alistair Finch’s preferred incense: a heady mix of hot lead, cheap coffee, and the cloying scent of fresh newsprint. It was the smell of truth, hammered into existence by the percussive sermon of the great Hoe rotary press in the basement.
From his desk, Alistair could feel its rhythmic thunder vibrate up through the floorboards, a pulse he had come to associate with victory.
Spread before him was the morning edition, still warm. His byline sat proudly beneath a sensational headline: “SPIRITS SILENCED: MADAME ZORA’S GHOSTLY CONSPIRACY EXPOSED.”
His piece, a meticulous deconstruction of the city’s most celebrated spiritualist, was a symphony of cold, hard facts. He had documented the hidden wires, the confederate in the back room who rapped on the walls, the subtle trick of light that produced the so-called ectoplasmic apparitions.
He hadn’t just reported a story; he had slain a dragon of deceit.
“Finch! My office.”
Alistair looked up. Marcus Davies, the Chronicle’s editor-in-chief, stood in his doorway, a bulldog of a man whose suspenders seemed the only thing preventing his ambition from spilling over his belt.
He didn’t beckon so much as command presence. Alistair folded his paper, savoring the crispness of the fold, and followed him in.
The office was a chaotic shrine to the printed word. Galleys and proofs lay in teetering stacks, and the air was thick with the smoke from Davies’s cigar.
He gestured to the worn leather chair opposite his desk.
“Damned fine work, Alistair,” Davies grunted, tapping a thick finger on the Madame Zora article.
“Sales are up twelve percent.You’ve got half the city praising you as a champion of reason and the other half burning you in effigy. That’s how I know you’ve hit the mark.”
Alistair allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile.
“People are eager to be fooled, Marcus. I just provide the service of showing them the strings.”
“Precisely. You have a talent for it. A nose for humbuggery and a pen sharp enough to lance the boil.”
Davies leaned forward, the smoke from his cigar swirling around his head like a profane halo.
“Which is why I have a new assignment for you. Something bigger. A real career-maker.”