We sat in a mutually painful silence for several moments. It was Judith Michaelson who ultimately broke it.
“So you see, Mr. Barlow, why I hate Parker Foxcroft. If it were not for him, my husband would still be alive. Parker Foxcroft drove Alex to suicide. He said as much in the note he left behind—that his book meant everything to him, and that now he had nothing left to live for.”
“But surely, Mrs. Michaelson, you don’t mean—”
“Oh, but I do mean it. I hold Parker Foxcroft solely and completely responsible for my husband’s death, as surely as if he had pulled the trigger himself. That letter—his letter—killed Alex.”
It was clear to me that there was no way in which I could convince her that suicide is never (well, perhaps almost never) the result of a single event or an immediate cause, so I did not even make the attempt. And what if she was right, that her husband ceased to care about living after receiving Parker’s letter? What if his entire self-esteem, that rickety structure most of us build out of or around our doubts, our misgivings, and our fears, depended on the praise—the recognition, at least—of a Parker Foxcroft?
At this point, sensing that her tears were “winking at the brim,” quite like Keats’s “beaded bubbles,” I stammered out a few halfhearted (and also probably half-witted) apologies and rose to leave.
At the door, Judith Michaelson extended her hand, and I took it. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Barlow. I wish I could have been better company.”
“Don’t give it another thought, Mrs. Michaelson. Thanks for the tea.”
I left Judith Michaelson’s apartment with mixed feelings. Doubtless, Parker was a cruel man, but it is a cruel world we live and work in, and publishing has not escaped its own homegrown cruelties. To the vast legions of wannabe authors who flood the mails with unpublishable manuscripts, which we unfailingly reject, we must seem like hanging judges, blockheads at best—disciples of the Marquis de Sade. I sighed in sympathy with Judith Simon Michaelson, and in the same gesture shrugged off any guilt I might conceivably feel for the death of her husband. And as for Parker? He’s well past caring.
The doorman Victor was now on duty as I stepped out of the apartment building. He nodded and favored me with a slight smile. Well might he smile, with all those twenty-dollar bills in his pocket!
And there was this possibility to consider: could Judith Michaelson have hated Parker Foxcroft enough to kill him?
Quite possibly. In fact, quite probably.
Chapter> 17
The following day I lunched with Joe Scanlon at The Players. I decided we’d better take a corner table in the main dining room, where we could speak in privacy, rather than going down to the Grill Room. Supplied with a vodka martini for me and a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks with a splash for Scanlon, we got down to business. Police business first.
When I told him about my interview with Judith Michaelson, Scanlon nodded in what I hoped was approval.
“Her husband killed himself with a gun,” he said, holding his drink poised in midair. “I wonder what kind of gun he used.”
“You think it might be the same one that killed Parker? If so, perhaps it could be traced.”
“No chance. According to information I got from Sergeant Falco, the murder weapon was unlicensed.”
“Tough break.”
“Yeah, it certainly is. No recognizable prints, either, Falco told me. Not even a latent.”
“What else did you find out, Joe?”
He took a long sip from his glass and leaned forward. In a low voice, he said: “A piece of information about one of your people, Nick. A Lester Crispin?”
“My art director. He couldn’t get along with Parker.”
“Lieutenant Hatcher and Falco know that. What you may not have known, Nick, is that Crispin has a record.”
“What?” I knew the instant I spoke that my voice was much too loud; it wouldn’t do for anyone else in the room to overhear our conversation. “Excuse me, Joe, I didn’t mean to shout. It… comes as a shock, that’s all.”
“I’m sure.”
“What was it?”
“Criminal assault. He was indicted but never tried, and never served any time. Apparently there were extenuating circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“The party he beat the bejeesus out of had attempted to rape one of the women who worked in Crispin’s office.”
“Jesus, what do you know? I guess I’m not surprised, Joe. The man does have a violent temper.”
“Anyway, he moves up a notch or two on the list of suspects.”
“And what about me? Where do I stand?”
“You’re still up there, Nick.”
“I can’t say I like that much. By the way, does Hatcher or Falco know of our connection?”
“Not yet, and I’m hoping we can keep it that way, at least for a while. Otherwise, he’s not going to like feeding me information.”
I downed my martini and signaled the waiter. “Let’s move on to lunch, Joe.”
After we’d ordered, I said: “To change the subject—”
“If you don’t, I’ll be glad to.”
“Have you heard from Kay McIntire? About taking you on as a client?”
“Nothing definite yet. She’s reading my stuff—said she’d let me know.”
“I hope it works out.”
“Nick,” he said, “I’m curious about what happens after my book is out. That is—what will the launch be like?”
“Launch?” I paused. It was a long, grave pause. “Well,” I said at last, “ninety percent of our books are sent out into the marketplace with a rather wistful hope that something, anything, will happen to start them selling.
“You may be thinking of a launch,” I continued, “as a space shuttle roaring off into the heavens, or a new movie opening on six hundred screens. What we publishers do is—well, we kind of push a book out onto a huge pond, like a little toy boat. Ready to catch the wind in its sails if there is any wind, fortunate if it doesn’t sink without a trace.”
“Oh,” said Scanlon.
“Let’s hope, Joe,” I said, not wishing to ruin his digestion altogether, “that your book is one of the other ten percent.” He brightened at this.
“One other thing, Joe. How would you like to consider joining The Players?”
He whistled softly. “They’ve got a category for cops?”
“As an author, my friend. But we have had at least one cop as a member.”
“How does it work? Joining, I mean.”
“I nominate you for membership. Another member writes a seconding letter, and we get letters from three other members approving your nomination.”
“I don’t know, Nick. I’m kind of in the Groucho Marx school when it comes to private clubs.”
“But you like the place, don’t you?”
“Sure, it’s beautiful. And it’s fun being your guest here. That doesn’t mean I could afford it myself.”
“Then we’ll just have to make you a best-selling author.”
He grinned. “Barkis is willin’,” he said.
I liked that. Pretty soon he’ll be outquoting Nick Barlow himself.
My calendar for the day called for a meeting at three o’clock with Kay McIntire and Herbert Poole, my Great White Hope. They were right on time.
“Do you have the contract drawn up, Nick?” Kay asked.
I brought out a reasonably fat sheaf of pages, headed by the Barlow & Company logo—a capital “B” with a book superimposed on it—and starting out with the words “AGREEMENT dated June 9, 1993, and between BARLOW & COMPANY, INC., 18 E. 18th Street, New York, N.Y. 10003, and HERBERT E. POOLE (the “Author”) c/o Kay McIntire, 175 E. 77th Street, New York, N.Y. 10020…” and followed by page after page of legalese.
“Voici, “ I said.
“Not boilerplate, I trust,” said Kay.
“I only wish,” I riposted. “Boilerplate” is the standard contract we publishers offer to authors who don
’t know any better—a contract written entirely in our favor, and making sure the author will be fortunate even to get the book published, still less be enriched by it. “The contract has been written according to the terms we agreed on, Kay.”
Instead of taking a gentleman’s word for it, she insisted on reading every page and every “if,” “in the event,” and “notwithstanding.” That took a good half hour, while Herbert Poole and I sat sizing each other up. At least I sized him up in the interim.
Poole was a good-looking man—tall, lean, blond—who just escaped being an Adonis by a jaw that was too square, and strong white teeth just a shade too large. He might have made a good second lead, Horatio to Hamlet, but never the leading man or the star. He was, however, photogenic, as I’d observed at the ABA Convention when he was busy signing copies of Pan at Twilight.
It is not essential that an author be physically attractive, but it always helps, in publishing as elsewhere in life. The aphorism that one cannot be too rich, too thin, or too beautiful will always be true, wherever the course of history may take us. Or so I like to think.
At last Kay finished her examination of the contract. She looked up and smiled at me.
“Perfect, Nick,” she said. “We’ve got a deal, darling.” She handed the contract to Poole, open to the last page, where was written: “IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the parties hereto have duly executed this agreement on the latest day and year written below.”
“Sign, please, Herbert,” she said, and he did. “Now you, Nick,” and I obliged her.
After I had put down my pen, I buzzed Hannah. “Bring it in,” I said, and she promptly appeared with a bucket of ice, three flute glasses, and a bottle of Moët et Chandon.
“Semper paratus,” I said. “Just for the occasion.”
“Is this customary?” asked Poole.
Popping the cork, I said: “Only when I think we have something to celebrate.”
Glasses filled with the bubbly, we clinked them, and I proposed a toast: “To the Mystery Writers of America, whose motto is ‘Crime does not pay—enough.’
“I’ll drink to that,” said Kay and Poole in chorus. On our way to the elevator, and out of earshot of Poole, Kay leaned over and said to me: “I’ve decided to take on your author Joe Scanlon as a client.” I appreciated her discretion. No author cares to hear his agent discuss another author, at least not before the ink is dry on the contract.
“Good,” I said sotto voce. “Joe will be pleased.”
“Incidentally,” said Kay, “I’ve heard something about Parker Foxcroft that might interest you.”
“Tell me, by all means.”
“I’ll call you, Nick. I don’t want to hold you now.”
“As you wish.”
“Take care of yourself, darling,” she said, and blew me a kiss just before the elevator doors closed on the two of them.
The next morning Kay McIntire phoned me.
“Nick—about that information I told you I had yesterday—”
“I remember—on your way to the elevator.”
“Right. You know about the Caxton Awards?”
“Sure. What about them?” The Caxton Awards were the most prestigious literary prizes of the year, even more coveted than the National Book Awards, and almost as desirable as a Pulitzer Prize. They were awarded annually to the best biography, best novel, best book of poetry—in the opinion of the judges. Each prize was worth $25,000 and a lot of publicity.
“Two years ago Parker Foxcroft was one of the judges. Remember?”
“Yeah, sort of. I knew he had served on one literary jury or another.”
“Well,” said Kay in a tone I could only describe as conspiratorial, if “gossipy” wasn’t the better word, “the prize for fiction was awarded to a book that was definitely a dark horse. The inside story, and it was definitely kept quiet except for a few insiders—”
“Yourself among them, I suppose, Kay.”
“That’s between your mouth and God’s ear. Would you like to hear the dirt?”
“Of course, darling. Speak.”
“It would appear that Parker accepted a substantial bribe from the publisher of the winning book, and then cast the deciding vote in the competition.”
“Shocking if true.”
“True, I think, but not especially shocking, Nick,” said Kay. “Publishing, after all, is no longer the simon-pure business it used to be, if it ever was. Some of the Hollywood glitz and shallowness have rubbed off on our industry, as well as some of Wall Street’s corruption. And don’t forget Washington’s shady politics. We’re not immune from contagion.”
“I suppose so, although I’d rather give even Parker the benefit of the doubt.”
“One other thing, Nick. I’d like you to do me a favor.”
“Anything I can, Kay.”
“Reconsider the suggestion Herbert made about spending some time in your office.”
“I don’t know, Kay…”
“Please.”
“All right, if it’ll make you happy. But I don’t want the man underfoot.”
“I promise he’ll be discreet, keep a low profile. When shall I tell him to come see you?”
“Tomorrow, I suppose, will be as good a day as any.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
“Wait just a minute—”
“Bye, Nick. Talk to you soon.”
And I was left listening to a dial tone.
Chapter 18
Herbert Poole presented himself bright and early at my office next morning. Though I still had misgivings about this little exercise, I had cleared my calendar in anticipation of his arrival, at least of any morning appointments. I could hardly expect Poole, nor want him, to spend the entire day with me. And Sidney had asked me to hold three o’clock open for our new female private-eye writer, Sarah Goodall, who was going to pay us her first visit.
“Good morning, Mr. Barlow,” said Poole.
“’Nick,’ if you please. Let’s drop the formalities, shall we?”
“Fine, Nick. And it’s Herbert, not Herb or Herbie.”
“After all, we’re going to be spending a fair amount of time together.”
“I do hope so,” said Poole. “I know I’ll want your editorial advice and the chance to see how an amateur detective operates.”
“An amateur detective?” I wasn’t sure I was happy about that designation.
“Haven’t you been involved in at least one real murder?” Poole said.
“I can’t take much credit for the solution of Jordan Walker’s murder.” I felt that modesty became me at the moment. After all, at times I feel that “amateur publisher” would be more appropriate to sum up my calling. “You’re referring to the murder that took place here in my offices,” I said.
“Yes. Your editor, Parker Foxcroft.”
“Well, I’m sure the police have that one under control. At least I hope they do.”
“Anyway,” said Poole, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Now that the formalities were over, I wondered where to turn next. Where did we start?
“Have you done any preliminary work on your mystery?” I said. “An outline, perhaps?”
“Is one necessary? Why not just plunge in headfirst?”
“Feetfirst, more likely,” I replied. “The outline, Herbert, is a life preserver, if you will. The detective novel is essentially a puzzle, but one which must be constructed backward. First, know who your victim is, who the murderer is, and why the victim was murdered—motive, in short.”
I went to one of my bookshelves and pulled out Kenneth Silverman’s biography of Edgar Allan Poe. Turning to a well-thumbed page, I read aloud: “ ‘No other kind of fiction illustrates so clearly the writer’s need to choose from the beginning some one outcome or effect, and to adapt every element of the narrative to it.’
“Right!” I said. “I think what Silverman wrote is so important that I commend it to you, too.”
“Does every writer prepare
such an outline?” Poole asked.
“Not every mystery writer I know does. Ed McBain, for one, doesn’t, and his mysteries are as good as any being written today. So it takes all kinds.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Incidentally—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of the company of writers?”
“Yes, once a year.”
“When is that?”
“The ABA Convention. You were there signing books. One of my favorite activities at the ABA is the Oblivion Press lunch.”
“Oblivion Press? What’s that?”
“Just a group of us publishing folks who get together at the ABA every year to let our hair down. Oblivion Press, of course, does not exist—that is, it’s not really a press, but an imaginary publishing house, created in the spirit of buffoonery and self-mockery. When you’re tired of booksellers, bookselling, publishing, and authors, you’re ready for Oblivion.”
“Oh,” said Poole. “Well.”
Actually what we do at Oblivion Press board meetings is to drink copiously, tell jokes, make up absurd titles and authors, and laugh uproariously at our own inside humor. A magazine writer who attended one of our sessions called us “a group of middle-aged cards.” Obviously it was a mistake inviting him to our meeting, but it also clearly wasn’t one of our best outings.
“So you do get tired of authors,” said Poole. “Sick and tired, perhaps?”
“Let me tell you a story about that, Herbert. It seems that a young author whose first novel had just been accepted by Simon and Schuster was taken by Peter Schwed, then e-in-c, to meet one of the original partners of the firm, M. Lincoln Schuster. Schuster was rather advanced in years then, but still kept an office at Ess and Ess, which he came to regularly, though he had nothing much to do there. Said Schwed (excuse me; an unintentional rhyme): ‘Mr. Schuster, I’d like you to meet Mr. So-and-So, whose first novel we’ll be publishing.’ The old man looked up and said: ‘Author, eh? Authors… they’re still writing books.’ A pause, then: ‘They’ll never learn.’”
Poole laughed, but I sensed that he didn’t really find the story funny. “Well, if you put it that way—” he said.
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