I put her in the front room and showed her the door to the bathroom, and then, instead of using the connecting door to the office, went around by the hall. Wolfe, at his desk with a French magazine, looked up. “You got her?”
I nodded. “I thought I’d better report first. Her reaction seemed a little peculiar.”
“How peculiar?”
I gave it to him verbatim. He took ten seconds to digest it and said, “Bring her.” I went and opened the connecting door and said, “In here, Miss Porter.” She had taken off her jacket, and either she didn’t wear a bra or she needed a new one. Wolfe was on his feet; I have never understood why, considering how he feels about women, he bothers to stand when one enters the room. He waited until she was in the red leather chair, with her jacket draped over title arm, to resume his seat.
He eyed her. “Mr. Goodwin tells me,” he said civilly, “that you and your home are well guarded.”
She was forward in the chair, her elbows resting on the arms. “I don’t need any guard,” she said. “He got me to come here by trying to scare me about being suspected of murder. I don’t scare easy. I’m not scared.”
“But you came.”
She nodded. “I’m here. I wanted to see what kind of a game this is. He talked about an offer, but I don’t believe you’ve got an offer. What have you got?”
“You’re wrong, Miss Porter.” Wolfe leaned back, comfortable. “I do have an offer. I’m prepared to offer you easement from the threat of prosecution for an offense you have committeed. Naturally I want something in return.”
“Nobody’s going to prosecute me. I haven’t committed any offense.”
“But you have.” Wolfe stayed affable, not accusing, just stating a fact. “A serious one. A felony. Before I describe the offense I’m referring to, the one for which you will pay no penalty if you accept my offer, I must fill in some background. Four years ago, in nineteen fifty-five, you entered into a conspiracy with some person, to me unknown, to extort money from Ellen Sturdevant by making a false claim of plagiarism. It—”
“That’s a lie.”
“If so it’s defamatory and you have me. The next year, nineteen fifty-six, that same person, call him X, entered into a similar conspiracy with a man named Simon Jacobs to defraud Richard Echols; and in ninety fifty-seven he repeated the performance with a woman named Jane Ogilvy, to defraud Marjorie Lippin. All three of the conspiracies were successful; large sums were paid. Last year, nineteen fifty-eight, X tried it again, with a man named Kenneth Rennert; that time the target was a playwright, Mortimer Oshin. No settlement had been made at the time Rennert died, five days ago.”
“It’s probably all lies. The one about me is.”
Wolfe ignored it. “I’m making this as brief as possible, including only what is essential for you to understand my offer. I learned of the existence of X by a textual study of the three stories that were the basis of the claims made by you, Simon Jacobs, and Jane Ogilvy. They were all written by the same person. That is demonstrable and beyond question. I communicated my discovery to seven people, perforce, and they passed it on. A plan was made to entice Simon Jacobs into revealing the identity of X, and it became known to some fifty persons. X learned of it, and he killed Simon Jacobs before we got to him; and, fearing that we would try some similar plan with Jane Ogilvy or Kenneth Rennert, he killed them also. I don’t know why he hasn’t killed you too. He or she.”
“Why should he? I don’t know any X. I wrote that story myself. ‘There Is Only Love.’ ”
“If so you are X, and I have reason to believe that you are not.” Wolfe shook his head. “No. Did you write that book that was published under your name? The Moth That Ate Peanuts?”
“Certainly I wrote it!”
“Then you didn’t write that story. That too is demonstrable. And that is the background.” Wolfe straightened up and flattened a palm on the desk. “Now. Here is the point. I have also studied the text of ‘Opportunity Knocks,” the story on which you have based your claim against Amy Wynn. Did you write that?”
“Certainly I did!”
“I believe you. It was written by the person who wrote The Moth That Ate Peanuts. But in that case you did not write ‘There Is Only Love.’ I will undertake to establish that fact beyond a reasonable doubt to the satisfaction of both a learned judge and a motley jury; and if it can be demonstrated that your claim against Ellen Sturdevant was a fraud, that it was based on a story you did not write, how much credence will be given to your good faith in your claim against Amy Wynn? I am prepared to advise Miss Wynn to reject your claim out of hand.”
“Go ahead.” Evidently she had meant it when she said she didn’t scare easy.
“You are not impressed?” Wolfe was still affable.
“I certainly am not. You’re lying and you’re bluffing—if I get what you’re driving at. You think you can prove I didn’t write that story, ‘There Is Only Love,’ by showing that its style is different from my book, The Moth That Ate Peanuts. Is that it?”
“Yes. If you include all the elements of style—vocabularly, syntax, paragraphing. Yes.”
“I’d like to see you try.” She was scornful. “Any writer that’s any good can imitate a style. They do it all the time. Look at all the parodies.”
Wolfe nodded. “Of course. There have been many masters of parody in the world’s literature. But you’re overlooking a vital point. As I said, the three stories that were the basis of the first three claims were all written by the same person. Or, if you prefer, put it that a comparison of their texts would convince any qualified student of writing, an experienced editor or writer, that they were written by the same person. You will either have to concede that or you will have to contend that when you wrote ‘There Is Only Love’ you either invented a style quite different from your normal style as in your book, or you parodied the style of someone else, call him Y; that when Simon Jacobs wrote ‘What’s Mine Is Yours’ he parodied either Y or your story; and that when Jane Ogilvy wrote ‘On Earth but Not in Heaven’ she parodied either Y, or your story, which had not been published, or Simon Jacobs’ story, also unpublished. That is patently preposterous. If you offered that fantasy in a courtroom the jury wouldn’t even leave the box. Do you still maintain that you wrote There Is Only Love?”
“Yes.” But her tone was different and so were her eyes. “I have never seen those stories by Simon Jacobs and Jane Ogilvy. I still say you’re bluffing.”
“I have them here. Archie. Get them. Including Miss Porter’s.”
I went and got them from the safe and handed them to her, and stood there.
“Take your time,” Wolfe told her. “We have all night.”
Hers was on top. She only glanced at it, the first page, and put it on the stand beside the chair. The next one was “What’s Mine Is Yours,” by Simon Jacobs. She read the first page and part of the second, and put it on top of hers on the stand. With “On Earth but Not in Heaven,” by Jane Ogilvy, she finished the first page but didn’t even glance at the second. As she put it down I circled around her chair to get them, but Wolfe told me to leave them, saying that she might want to inspect them further.
He regarded her. “So you know I’m not bluffing.”
“I haven’t said so.”
“You have indicated it by your cursory examination of those manuscripts. Either study them as they deserve or yield the point.”
“I’m not yielding anything. You said you have an offer. What is it?”
His tone sharpened. “First the threat. A double threat. There is good ground, I think, for Ellen Sturdevant to bring an action against you for libel and for recovery of the money she paid you. Legal points on the rules of evidence would be involved, and I am not a lawyer. But I am certain that Amy Wynn can successfully sue you for libel and can also have you charged with attempted extortion, a criminal offense.”
“Let her try. She wouldn’t dare.”
“I think she would. Also I have read your letter
to the Victory Press, in which you demanded payment from them as well as Amy Wynn. When I explain the situation to Mr. Imhof as I have explained it to you, I shall suggest that he take steps to have you charged with attempted extortion, either jointly with Miss Wynn or independently. I’m sure he won’t hesitate. He resents the planting of the manuscript in his office.”
She was impressed at last. She opened her mouth and closed it again. She swallowed. She bit her lip. Finally she spoke. “The manuscript wasn’t planted.”
“Really, Miss Porter.” Wolfe shook his head. “If you have any wits at all you must know that won’t do. Do you wish to examine those stories further?”
“No.”
“Then take them, Archie.”
I went and got them, put them in the safe, and closed the door. As I returned to my desk Wolfe was resuming. “So much for the threats. Now for the offer. One: I will not advise Ellen Sturdevant to bring an action against you. It’s possible she will do so of her own accord, but I won’t instigate it. Two: I will prevail upon Miss Wynn and Mr. Imhof to bring no action against you, either civil or criminal. I’m sure I can. Those are the two items of my part of the bargain. Your part also has two items. One: you will renounce your claim against Amy Wynn and the Victory Press, in writing. Not a confession of wrong-doing; merely a renunciation of the claim because it was made in error. It will be drawn by a lawyer. Two: you will tell me X’s name. That’s all I ask; you need not—”
“I don’t know any X.”
“Pfui. You need not furnish any evidence or particulars; I’ll get them myself. Nothing in writing; merely tell me his name and where to find him. I am not supposing that you know anything of his conspiracies with Simon Jacobs and Jane Ogilvy and Kenneth Rennert, or of his killing them; I am willing to assume your total ignorance of those events. Just tell me the name of the man or woman who wrote ‘There Is Only Love.’ ”
“I wrote it.”
“Nonsense. That won’t do, Miss Porter.”
“It will have to do.” Her hands were in her lap, tightly clasped, and there was sweat on her forehead. “The other part, about the Victory Press and Amy Wynn, all right, I’ll do that. If they’ll sign a paper not to sue me or have me prosecuted or anything, I’ll sign one giving up my claim because I made it in error. I still don’t think you could prove what you said you could. Maybe you’re not bluffing, but you can’t prove anything just by showing there’s something similar about the way those stories were written. If you want to think there’s an X somewhere, I can’t help that, but I can’t tell you his name if I don’t know anything about him.”
I was focused on her. I wouldn’t have supposed she was such a good liar. I was thinking that no matter how good you think you are at sizing people up, you can never be sure how well a certain specimen can do a certain thing until you see him try. Or her. I was also thinking that the screw we had thought would squeeze it out of her apparently wasn’t going to work without more pressure, and how would Wolfe give it another turn? Evidently, since he wasn’t speaking, he was asking the same question, and I moved my eyes to him.
And got a surprise. He not only wasn’t speaking; he wasn’t looking. He was leaning back with his eyes closed and his lips moving. He was pushing out his lips, puckered, and drawing them in—out and in, out and in. He only does that, and always does it, when he has found the crack he has been looking for, or thinks he has found it, and is trying to see through; and as I say, I was surprised. It shouldn’t have been such a strain on his brain to figure out how to bear down on Alice Porter; he simply had to show her what she was in for if he made good on his threats. I looked back at her. She had got a handkerchief from her bag and was wiping her brow.
Wolfe opened his eyes, straightened up, and cocked his head. “Very well, Miss Porter,” he said. “You can’t tell me what you don’t know, assuming that you really don’t, I’ll have to re-examine my conjectures and my conclusions. You’ll hear from me again when I have conf erred with Miss Wynn and Mr. Imhof. They will surely agree to the proposed arrangement. Mr. Goodwin will drive you home. Archie?”
So the strain on his brain had been something else, I had no idea what. Whenever that happens, when he goes off somewhere out of sight, I am not supposed to yodel at him, especially with company present, so I got to my feet and asked if there were any errands on the way, and he said no. Alice Porter was going to say something and decided not to. When I held her jacket she missed the armhole twice, and I admit it could have been partly my fault. My mind was occupied. It was starting back over the conversation, her part of it, trying to spot what had opened up a crack for Wolfe.
It was still trying three hours and twenty minutes later, at half past two in the morning, when I mounted the stoop of the old brownstone and let myself in. At one point on the way back, as I was rolling along on the parkway, I had thought I had it. Alice Porter was X. When she had written the first one, ‘There Is Only Love,” she had used another style, as different as she could make it from her own style in her book. But there were three things wrong with that. First, if she had been slick enough to make up a style for the first one, why hadn’t she made up other styles for the other two instead of copying that one? Second, why had she used her own style for “Opportunity Knocks,” the one she had used on Amy Wynn? Third, what had she said that gave Wolfe so strong a suspicion that she was X that he called a halt and started on his lip routine? I had to try again, and was still at it when I got home.
There was a note on my desk for me:
AG:
Saul, Fred, Orrie, Miss Bonner, and Miss Corbett will come at eight in the morning and come to my room. I have taken $1000 from the safe to give them for expenses. You will not be needed. You will of course sleep late.
NW
Wolfe has his rules and I have mine. I absolutely refuse to permit any wear and tear on my brain after my head hits the pillow. Usually it works automatically, but that night a little discipline was needed. It took me a full three minutes to fade out.
17
In bed at three and out of it at ten Wednesday morning, I was an hour short of my regular requirement of eight hours’ sleep, but with Wolfe working his lips and giving up on Alice Porter and arranging a before-breakfast session with the hired hands, all five of them, it looked as if we were getting set for a showdown, and in that case I should be willing to make a major personal sacrifice, so I rolled out at ten. Also I made it snappy showering and dressing and eating breakfast, and got to the office at 11:15, only a quarter of an hour after Wolfe got down from the plant rooms. He was at his desk with the morning mail. I went and sat and watched him slit envelopes. His hands are quick and accurate, and he would be good at manual labor provided he could do it sitting down. I asked if he wanted help and he said no. I asked if there were any instructions.
“Perhaps.” He quit slitting and looked up. “After we discuss a matter.”
“Good. I guess I’m awake enough to discuss if it’s not too complicated. First I’ll report my conversation with Alice Porter during our drive to Carmel. At one point she said, ‘I never drive at night on account of my eyes. It gives me a headache.’ That’s the crop. Not another word. I made no advances because after the way you suddenly quit on her I had no idea where to poke. Next, it wouldn’t hurt if I had some notion of what Saul and Fred and Orrie and Dol Bonner and Sally Corbett are up to. So that when they call in I’ll know what they’re talking about.”
“They’ll report to me.”
“I see. Like that again. What I don’t know won’t hurt you.”
“What you don’t know will make no demands on your powers of dissimulation.” He put the letter-opener down. It was a knife with a horn handle that had been thrown at him in 1954, in the cellar of an old border fort in Alabama, by a man named Bua. The Marley .38 with which I had short Bua was in a drawer of my desk. He continued, “Besides, you won’t be here. I have made an assumption which was prompted by the question, why is Alice Porter alive? Why did X remove the
other three so expeditiously and make no attempt to remove her? And why is she so cocksure that she is in no danger? Alone in that secluded house, with no companion but a dog that dotes on strangers, she shows no trepidation whatever, though X could be lurking at her door or behind a bush by day or by night. Why?”
I flipped a hand. “Any one of a dozen reasons. The best is the simplest. Also it’s been done so often that she wouldn’t have to invent it. She wrote a detailed account of how she and X put the bite on Ellen Sturdevant, probably saying it was X’s idea, and put it in an envelope. She also put in the envelope things that would corroborate it, for instance something in X’s handwriting, maybe a couple of letters he had written her; that would make it better. She sealed the envelope thoroughly with wax and tape, and wrote on it, ‘To be opened on my death and not before,’ and signed it. Then she deposited it with somebody she was sure she could trust to follow the instructions, and she told X about it, probably sending him or giving him a copy of what she had written. So X was up a stump. It was done first about three thousand B.C., and maybe a million times since, but it still works. It has saved the lives of thousands of blackmailers, and also of a lot of fine citizens like Alice Porter.” I flipped a hand again. “I like that best, but of course there are others.”
He grunted. “That one will do. That’s the assumption I have made. I think it highly probable. So where is the envelope?”
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