Stranger Than Truth

by Vera Caspary

  “You son-of-a-bitch! I wrote the book and Barclay stole it.”

  “Careful, Mr. Peck. Blackmail is a penal offense.”

  Peck paced the screened porch. “Barclay wrote it? Why, Barclay was so sodden drunk he couldn’t write his name. Sometimes he couldn’t even remember it. Ask him who cured him of the drink habit. Ask him how he discovered why he had to get soused all the time. Ask him who told him about the birds and the bees…”

  “You’ll find it all in the Introduction. Let me refer you to the section entitled Rebirth…”

  “You mean where he sits out all night in the desert, considering his sins, digging down into the roots of shame, and finally in desperation, whips himself into a frenzy and forces himself to talk about it…”

  “The greatest document ever written on human despair.”

  “I was the one who whipped him. I used my knouts, my kurbashes, my rawhide on his spirit until he quivered with unendurable pain. He begged me to quit, but I was inexorable,” Peck declaimed as though word and memory were unquestionable proof of his claims.

  “He is willing to pay you two thousand five hundred dollars.”

  Peck’s temperature rose. “Trying to bribe me, huh? Twenty-five hundred dollars. Think I’m crazy? I’ll drag this through every court in America…”

  “I’ve been empowered to offer you a more generous sum,” Munn said cautiously, “to keep you from doing yourself injury. Blackmail is a serious offense. The Post Office Department…”

  Munn paused. The juxtaposition of the words blackmail and Post Office Department had dramatic value. Through the screened wall of his porch, Peck appeared to be studying the coral and aquamarine of the desert sunset, but he saw what Munn intended him to see, the stone walls of Atlanta and Leavenworth.

  Because he had nothing better to say he repeated, “I wrote the book.”

  “Have you any proof, Mr. Peck?”

  “I wrote it, do you understand? The idea was mine.” Peck’s voice trembled and his words were run together.

  “Have you a copyright? Or a manuscript which two or more reputable people saw you write?”

  “Writing isn’t a spectator sport, Mr. Munn. Although there were people in the sanitarium, if I could find them…”

  “Have you the manuscript?”

  “There were nurses, patients, orderlies. I’m sure I could find two people who saw me writing.”

  “And the manuscript?” Munn’s eyebrows rose in polite skepticism. His voice remained level. “I’m sorry, Mr. Peck. If you insist upon making this claim, tangible proof is necessary.”

  Peck stuck to his guns. The evening chill descended. Peck’s temperature climbed and he began to cough.

  “Proof,” Munn kept saying. “Have you any proof that would be acceptable in a court of law?” He had not studied law but he had memorized the glossary at the back of a book on Business English, and his phrases had a grim, legal sound. “Better to settle out of court, Mr. Peck. If you had proof to substantiate your claim, I should offer advice of an opposite nature. But in your position, let me assure you, the wisest course would be to accept Mr. Barclay’s offer.”

  Chills alternated with Peck’s fever. Like most consumptives he was of an extremely volatile disposition. Golden elation and black depression alternately possessed him. As the cold shadows fell across the desert, as he shivered and coughed, as the images in his mind grew grimmer and his imagination became peopled with a ruthless lot of Post Office inspectors, judges and jailers, his will weakened and he listened as though Munn were his friend.

  “How high will Barclay go if I promise not to pursue my claims?”

  “Five thousand. That’s maximum, Mr. Peck. Otherwise we shall be obliged to bring this case into court ourselves. Blackmail is not a light offense. And unless you can show adequate proof…”

  Proof, proof, proof. The reiteration of that word was like the dripping of water that drives the lonely prisoner insane. Peck agreed to settle. “Come around in the morning,” he said, thinking of his comfortable bed and warm blankets.

  “I’d like to leave tonight. I can get the Limited out of Albuquerque if I get there by eleven.” He looked at his watch. “What is there to wait for?”

  Outside a Ford waited. The driver was not only a notary public but one of the Sheriff’s deputies. Munn had only to open the screen door and say, “Come in and witness a signature for us, will you?” and there was the law itself, ready to pounce if the word blackmail was spoken aloud. There was a typed document, too. It began, “I, Homer Peck…”and continued in legal-sounding phrases to state that the claims made in his letter of the 28th ult. were without foundation. Moreover, Homer Peck promised not to pursue said claim inasmuch as he was fully aware of the status of such action.

  Peck asked for several changes but Munn was firm. Once he had got the upper hand, the smoothness was gone from his voice and manner. With the deputy sheriff as his ally, he had become a second-class tyrant. And Peck was a sick man. He felt that he had not long to live, and above all, he wanted peace. Munn handed him a gold-banded fountain pen and he signed.

  When his visitors had left, he looked at his hands as though they had been soiled by the five crisp thousand-dollar bills.

  5.

  Homer Peck did not die. Perhaps it was his own (or Barclay’s) system working backwards. Certainly Peck was not the sort of invalid who could be cured by holding the good thought. He could not accept any philosophical or religious attitude which separated man’s immortal spirit from his material body; and after much study and observation, he decided that those who were most contemptuous of it were, also, most enamored of their living flesh.

  At any rate he began slowly to improve. His will to survive was strengthened by a firm belief that he would someday find proof of Barclay’s deceit and be vindicated. Faith prevailed.

  One day, while looking for something else in an old trunk, he came upon a dusty copy of his forgotten works, the Warren G. Wilson course in Business Dynamics. He glanced over it, amused by the pompous dishonesty. From those dusty sheets a fact emerged and smote him full upon the forehead. He groaned aloud and grew furious at the lameness of his memory. On the night Munn had come to pay his visit and demand proof of Peck’s claim, Peck had forgotten Lessons XXIII to XXX. He had forgotten Self-Mastery; Freedom from Inhibition; Ego; the You in You; Fundamental Meaning of Truth; Looking at Yourself Frankly; and Purging the Mind, Heart and Soul. In Lesson XXV he had suggested confession as tonic to the sick spirit. This entire chapter, word for word, had been included in Confession and Suggestion. In other words Barclay had plagiarized a plagiarism. But Peck’s plagiarism had been legal; he held the copyright.

  Better evidence he could not have possessed. The law does not admit the theft of an idea, for an idea is too unsubstantial to be claimed wholly by any writer. But sentences, phrases, paragraphs, all in print, all protected by copyright, are tangible property.

  This time Peck wrote no letters. Nor did he file suit for plagiarism. During lonely nights in the desert he had enjoyed visions of revenge as lush and tasteless as De Mille spectacles, but he was far too sensible to seek such garish satisfaction. To destroy Barclay would have been as impractical as killing the goose without receiving his share of the golden egg.

  At this time Barclay, the publisher, had started to flourish. On every newsstand in the country his new magazines flaunted their crude colors. He had become a public figure; he was interviewed when he returned from European voyages, photographed with Congressmen and comedians on Florida sands, received in the White House by President Hoover. His name was used in cross-word puzzles and its synonym was Truth. Nothing could so effectively destroy Noble Barclay as proof of dishonesty.

  For Homer Peck, Lessons XXIII to XXX were the infusion that gave him blood to carry on. No one was more aware than Peck himself of the irony in the fact that Barclay’s five thousand dollars, untouched until now, financed the journey designed to unearth additional evidence of fraud. From Treasure Ch
est, which its publishers called A Book of Testimony by the Followers of Noble Barclay but which was actually a pamphlet used in mail-order campaigns, Peck learned of Miss Hannah Maierdorf and of the Beaches who, on the eastbound train, had heard Barclay’s first lectures. Unfortunately for Peck, Miss Maierdorf had gone to live in Majorca (her brother, the Shriner, had died and left her a pleasant income); Mrs. Beach was dead and Rosetta married to a cotton broker in New Orleans. She was loath to have her name used and consented to give evidence only after Peck promised that the affair would never be mentioned to newspapermen. She signed an affidavit, telling the circumstances of her meeting with Barclay on the train, of his treatment of her mother, of the cure, and of his subsequent stay at their home. She remembered clearly that Barclay had begun by giving Peck entire credit for his credo, but had later skimped on his gratitude to such extent that in mockery she had suggested that he take entire credit for himself.

  From New Orleans Peck traveled west again, this time to California where he found one of the doctors who had owned the seedy sanitarium. Dr. Fillmore Macrae was not well-disposed toward Peck. He still cherished the old grudge against the patient whose cures had been more effective than his fake palliatives. But cash had always been Dr. Macrae’s favorite medicine and a thousand dollars cured his resentment. He, too, signed a deposition.

  To Butte, Montana, Peck traced the good-natured nurse who had assisted so practically in Barclay’s education. She recalled the adventure with such gusty detail that Peck was obliged to edit her memories. But he was grateful to her descriptions of those tortured sessions in Peck’s darkened room, for her indignation at the fraud, her refusal to accept money for her affidavit, and the home-cooked meal she had insisted upon preparing for him.

  His final witness was his old sweetheart, the girl who had failed to find a publisher for the original manuscript. She was no longer slim, and her dark hair had been dyed an alarming shade of pink. Peck had found her name signed to a bit of light verse in a popular magazine, had written in care of the magazine and had received, ten days later, a telegram expressing surprise at his being alive.

  One evening her doorbell rang. “Homer!” She flung her arms about the neck of the gaunt, sunburned visitor.

  He pulled away gently, for he was still zealous in avoiding any contact that might give the tubercle bacilli a new home. “I’m not Homer Peck,” he told her. “I’m Warren G. Wilson.”

  “Have you gone crazy?”

  “I’ve changed my name,” he confessed. Knowing the woman would laugh at the tale of his quixotic decision, he told the story humorously. Homer Peck had signed a letter acknowledging that his claim against Barclay was fraudulent. He had accepted five thousand dollars as the price of silence. But Warren G. Wilson was free to prosecute Barclay; Warren G. Wilson’s name had been signed to the paragraphs that Barclay had plagiarized.

  The next morning he called at Barclay’s office. Strangers were not readily admitted. The alleged creator of Truth-Sharing had to be protected from the gratitude of his followers. But Wilson had planned his entrance. He offered a card bearing the name of Dr. Fillmore Macrae, Macrae Institute of Chiropractic, Los Angeles. Barclay could not have forgotten the doctor who had cared for him solicitously in the old days. Barclay supposed that Dr. Macrae wanted an interview in Truth and Health and his Institute of Chiropractic endorsed by the so-called medical board of that magazine.

  “Dr. Macrae” was admitted to the private office. Barclay went white when he recognized the visitor.

  “My name,” the visitor said with dramatic emphasis, “is Warren G. Wilson. You may have heard of my course in Business Dynamics. Chapters Four, Five, Seven and Thirteen of My Life Is Truth are identical with my Lessons Twenty-three to Thirty.”

  Barclay spoke into a box on his desk. As though he had sprung out of the oak paneling of the walls, Edward Everett Munn appeared. He was no longer Barclay’s secretary. By virtue of his dirty work he had acquired the titles, Supervising Editor, General Manager and Assistant to Noble Barclay. He was cozily established in a private office and he knew that his job was insured for life.

  The drama appealed to Wilson and he spun it out in florid fashion. “You need no longer sympathize with me because I lack proof that my work was stolen and published under another author’s name. Gentlemen, I now have such proof that, were I to introduce it in court, I could not only recover millions in damages but I could also ruin your career, wreck the very foundations of your lucrative business and have you sent to the penitentiary, but also make you, the symbol of truth, the very image of deceit and falsehood.”

  “If you’ve got such good proof,” sneered Munn, “why don’t you take it to a lawyer instead of coming here with these implausible threats?” Turning to Barclay, he commented, “It’s extortion. He’s trying to hold you up for more money.”

  Wilson turned his back on Munn. The snub was tactical. Only Barclay merited Wilson’s attention. “I’m no fool, although you’ve played me for one for a long time now. My evidence could easily wreck you, but it would also destroy your business and lose a lot of money which rightfully belongs to me. After killing the truth it could not easily be resurrected. I propose a settlement.”

  Munn tried to speak.

  Wilson cut him short. “I don’t propose to negotiate with anyone but Noble Barclay. This time I’m in a position to make terms. I want a million dollars.”

  “Don’t listen, Barclay. He’s trying to bluff you,” Munn advised.

  Barclay said nothing. He sat as though his ornate desk were a barricade protecting him from the reality of Wilson’s attack.

  “I consider this most reasonable,” Wilson continued. “You’ve already made several millions out of my idea, and while you might have wasted some of the money on bad investments or magazines that have failed, the fact remains that you made the money and that I have the right to demand my share of your profits. In addition…”

  “It’s all a bluff,” Munn interrupted.

  Barclay raised his hand for silence. The movement was uncertain, like the first movement of a hand that has recovered life after paralysis.

  Wilson saw that Barclay was frightened. “In addition,” he said with growing assurance, “I demand my share of the credit. I’m not going to ask you to confess that you stole my idea, Barclay. The price would be too high. All I ask is that you acknowledge your debt to me as your teacher, and state that my instructions were the source of your philosophy. In all further editions of the book, in all advertising and exploitation, I demand credit as founder of the system which has made you famous. That’s my proposition. We can discuss the details later.”

  “Should I call the police?” Munn moved hopefully toward the telephone.

  Barclay made another pained gesture.

  For the first time Munn spoke courteously to Wilson. “Would you mind giving Mr. Barclay time to consider your proposition?”

  “You gave me no time,” Wilson reminded him.

  “A million dollars is a lot of money. Even Mr. Barclay isn’t rich enough just to write a check.”

  Barclay nodded weakly. Wilson was reminded of the old days, the mornings of hangover, the look of defeat in Barclay’s sick spaniel eyes, the insane mumblings of remorse, the wild vows of abstinence. It was absurd for Wilson to feel pity for a man who had so ruthlessly defrauded him, but Wilson was the victor now and felt that he could afford compassion. He let them know that a suitcase in his hotel room was filled with affidavits and documents which could ruin Barclay, and with characteristic magnanimity, offered to defer action.

  He thought he was being firm and severe. “Tomorrow morning at eleven promptly, I’ll visit you again. If you do not then accede to my terms I’ll take the documents to my attorney and have him file suit. This, I know, will prove costly to us all but I may find compensation by selling the story of the fraud to one of your competitors. Several publishers, I am sure, would jump at the privilege of financing my suit.” He rose. “Until tomorrow at eleven.” />
  Munn purred like a cat. Barclay looked as if the Governor had signed a last-minute reprieve.

  That evening Wilson and his old sweetheart drank prohibition champagne and decided that they would live on the income from Barclay’s million in Capri or Mentone or St. Tropez. The woman had married a second time and her husband refused to divorce her, but they did not think this would matter much in Mentone or Capri. Wilson saw a life of luxury and culture, of poetry and champagne, imagined himself and the woman stretched in long chairs on a green terrace that overlooked the Mediterranean.

  All in a glow he returned to his hotel room. At the first glance he thought its disorder an illusion born of prohibition champagne. Someone had opened the dresser drawers, gone through the closets, examined the desk and rifled his luggage. His documents had been stolen along with his copy of the Wilson course and the affidavits he had so expensively gathered. He called the hotel manager who summoned the house detective. They sent for the police. A thorough investigation was promised, but its first steps revealed nothing. No elevator man, no chambermaid had seen a stranger enter Wilson’s room, nor had the desk clerk given out his key.

  It was a severe blow. Wilson was short of money. The Depression had cut his income to a sum that would barely keep a cat in tinned mackerel, and most of the five thousand had been used in the search for evidence against Barclay. The theft of his papers deprived poor Wilson of everything, the million dollars, the Riviera, the dream, the champagne and the poetry.

  The next morning, promptly at eleven, a reception clerk announced that Mr. Warren G. Wilson had called to see Mr. Barclay. Swinging his stick and carrying his Stetson as though he were as ready as ever to embark on his voyage to the Riviera, Wilson entered the private office and seated himself in a high-backed chair opposite Barclay’s desk.