by Helen McCloy
“This roving life came to an end with Pearl Harbor, when Mr. Cottle enlisted in the Seabees, with whom he served throughout the war in the Pacific. On being released from the Navy, he used his severance pay to retire to a small cabin in the Adirondacks where he wrote his first best-selling novel, a war story entitled Never Call Retreat, published in the spring of 1953. This spare, taut, intensely realistic study of twelve marines marooned on a tropical island, surrounded by hostile Japanese, was an instant success. The action took place in twenty-four hours and ended with the death of the last marine, just as a rescue party arrived to take over the beachhead. The grimness of the actual story was relieved by flashbacks showing the previous civilian life of each man.
“The book was criticized by some few for its candid use of military profanity and its outspoken treatment of physiological detail, but it was generally admired as a fearless picture of modern warfare. Hollywood turned it into a memorable film starring Spencer Tracy as a Catholic chaplain and Rita Hayworth as a Japanese geisha, characters who did not appear in the original story.
“The success of this first book was followed by three others in the next three years, the latest being Passionate Pilgrim, a Book-of-the-Week Club choice for next July. Maurice Lepton, reviewing it last Sunday in the New York Times, remarked…”
“I won’t bother to read that,” said Leppy, modestly. “But I have something else here I would like to read to you.”
Out of his pocket came a sheaf of Philippa’s best guest room writing paper, covered with a fine, spidery longhand. “Lew phoned me last night after you’d all gone to bed and asked me to rush him a personal appreciation of Amos, the man, for the next issue of the Thursday Review. I want to make sure I got all my facts straight.”
Leppy cleared his throat and began reading again.
“AMOS COTTLE AS I KNEW HIM
An Appreciation
By
Maurice Lepton
“Mos Cottle, as he was known to his intimates, was a simple, unassuming little man, quite without vanity or ‘side.’ Nothing about his personal appearance suggested the keen, incisive mind or the powerful creative urge that informed his least work. Mos was slender and frail with the gentle eyes of a dreamer and a sensitive mouth and chin, half hidden by the straggling beard he affected. There was a certain resemblance to Van Gogh’s self-portrait—the same hollow cheeks, the same lonely, patient, enduring look of a man dedicated to an artistic ideal.
“I shall not say too much about Mos’s tragic addiction to alcohol. It was well-known to all his friends that for six long years he had fought a hard battle against temptation. How successful he was may be realized from the fact that he produced no less than four books in the last four of those years, books that will be remembered when most contemporary writing is forgotten.
“If I were asked to describe Mos Cottle in one word, I should say the word for him was ‘modest.’ The one time I met him he seemed to shy away from any discussion of his own work and he was equally reticent about his early life. When I asked him how many of these youthful experiences had gone into his books, he smiled a little sadly and quoted: ‘I am a part of all that I have met. He was almost pathetically eager for you to think of him as a fellow man, with all the weaknesses of an ordinary human being, rather than as a writer whose great gifts set him apart from the rest of his generation.
“Like many men of talent, he was quite innocent and childlike in his pleasures. He hated formal parties. He preferred small gatherings of intimate friends. He delighted in simple parlor games and entered into the spirit of such games with a zest rare in a mature man His responses were always direct and uninhibited, sometimes tinged with the eccentricity of genius. Once when he found a drink was not entirely to his taste, he quietly emptied his glass out on his host’s floor and helped himself to something more palatable. In a lesser man this would have seemed intolerably churlish, but not in Amos Cottle. It was just a part of his disarming simplicity.
“It was a rare thing for him to attend any parties. He lived quietly in the country surrounded by his books, his only exercise an occasional round of golf with his publisher, who was also his neighbor. His wife was the beautiful Vera Vane, famous Hollywood actress. Though the exigencies of two careers often separated them and there was some estrangement, they were fundamentally devoted to one another and all his friends find consolation in the thought that Vera Cottle was with Mos when he died, and they were completely and happily reconciled. He had no children and I suspect that this was one of the real regrets of his life. He would have made a tender and devoted father.
“His older friends tell me that they never saw Mos Cottle angry or irritable. An inner serenity sustained him through all the vicissitudes of a harsh life. ‘He was the least self-centered author I ever knew, said Tony Kane of Sutton, Kane and Company, his publishers. Mos hardly bothered to read reviews of his own books. He just sat down and wrote another book, no matter what the critics said. Of course, favorable reviews did please him, much as a child is pleased with candy. But unfavorable reviews only left him hurt and baffled rather than angry. ‘I guess that guy just didn’t understand what I was trying to say,’ he would remark mildly. ‘I must try harder next time. I want to communicate with everyone.’
“To Mos, communication was the writer’s most important function. ‘I want to make the little guy see the world from the big guy’s point of view,’ he would say. ‘And I want the big guy to understand the little guy. If I can help them to find each other, my work has not been in vain.’
“He had a scorn for all panaceas and isms. ‘The answer to man’s tragic predicament in an unknowable universe lies in man himself,’ he would say. ‘Not in creeds and codes.’
“He was invariably helpful to young writers. No script was so bad that Amos Cottle would not read it, if it were sent to him, and return it with a long, detailed criticism. His generous financial assistance to struggling young writers was well-known to everyone in the literary world.
“Is it too early to assess the place of his oeuvre in American letters? A warm heart, a strong mind that could reflect as well as observe, a quick eye, a keen ear—Mos Cottle had all these, plus an unique gift for the matchless music of our language. He wrote prose that sings in every line. A stern sense of the self-discipline essential to good writing pared his style to the bone. He had an almost clairvoyant understanding of the dark and secret places of the human heart. He was close to true greatness and certainly we shall not look upon his like again in this generation.”
Leppy ceased reading. The silence lengthened. Meg, genuinely moved, felt salt sting her eyelids. Philippa, more composed, poured another cup of coffee and lit a cigarette.
Leppy looked at Tony and Gus. “Well? Anything wrong with it?”
“Seems all right to me.” Tony exchanged glances with Gus. “Perfectly accurate and a very touching tribute to Amos.”
Gus hesitated, his eyes serious as they considered, first, Tony, and then, Lepton. “It’s Maurice Lepton at his most characteristic,” said Gus, finally. “I have only one question: do you have to say anything about Amos’s drinking?”
“Oh, yes.” Leppy was firm. “It’s bound to come out with the full story of last night. I’ve done my best to prepare the ground—make it sound human and pathetic. But if I left that part out altogether, my article would be dishonest. I can’t have that.”
“I think Leppy is right,” said Tony. “Once a man’s dead, he’s allowed a few vices. If he’s a famous author, they’re rather expected.”
Gus looked unconvinced, but he shut his lips and said no more.
“Well!” No one had heard Vera’s step. Startled, they all looked up to see her in the doorway. As she had brought her own luggage from the airport, the ice-blue satin gown with the silver mink collar must have been her own. She had brushed her hair and taken pains with her make-up. There was no trace of fatigue or shock in her face. The cold eyes were sharp and the mean little mouth was set in a tight line.<
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“Coffee, Vera?” Tony was on his feet.
“No, thanks. Your maid brought me breakfast upstairs.” She took out a cigarette and Gus lighted it for her. “I came down because I thought it was time we had a little talk about Amos’s affairs.”
Tony frowned. “Then we’d better go into my study. I’m sure Mr. Lepton isn’t interested…”
“I’d rather talk here, where there are witnesses,” said Vera.
Slowly Tony’s blond skin turned a light red.
“I have a lot to say, but, first, I want to know about Amos’s will.”
Tony fought for self-control and achieved it with an effort that deepened the redness in his cheeks. “I can tell you one thing. Amos appointed Gus and myself as his literary executors.”
Before Tony could go on, a maid appeared in the doorway. Her light blue uniform and white apron brought out the look of freshness and inexperience in her face. She spoke with an Irish cadence. “Mr. Willing to see you, sir.”
“I’ll see him in the study,” said Tony precipitately.
“Oh!” The little maid gasped. “And to think that I told him to come right in here and have a cup of coffee with yez!”
Tony looked at Philippa as if it were her fault the maid had not been trained more carefully. It was too late to do anything. Basil Willing was standing in the doorway.
As his eyes took in the six people around the table, his interest quickened visibly. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Not at all!” Vera answered promptly. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m trying to find out what I can expect from Amos’s will.”
“Bring us some fresh coffee, Nora,” said Philippa to the maid. “Do sit down, Dr. Willing. Vera, can’t you postpone your discussion of Amos’s affairs until later?”
“No. I want to know right now what’s going to happen to me. The TV program will stop, so that’s out. Amos can’t write any more books, so there won’t be any more income from that. Is there anything left?”
Gus intervened. “As a matter of fact, there will be considerable income from books for some time to come. There are three reprints of old books on the stands now and the latest book has only just been published in hard covers. I can’t see how Amos’s death could harm its sales. It may even increase interest.”
Tony nodded. “I’ve been thinking this morning that now Amos is dead I might issue a library edition of his complete works. Gold-tooled leather binding and a foreword by Maurice Lepton and…”
“Okay,” interrupted Vera. “But, as there can’t be any more new books, this won’t last long.”
“As a matter of fact, there may be one or two new books.” Tony turned to Gus. “Didn’t you tell me that Amos left a mass of unpublished material?”
Gus agreed. “He had already completed the script of the next book that was to follow Passionate Pilgrim. There’s a rough draft of another book, a group of short stories he never tried to publish, and two or three book-length scripts he wrote before he was in the Seabees. I advised him not to publish them when he was alive, but they might be publishable now—with a little editing, of course. Then there’s a mass of notes I haven’t gone through.”
“And you’re sure his being dead won’t make any difference to sales?”
“It shouldn’t,” said Tony.
“Death is fatal on the screen,” said Vera with entire seriousness. “Audiences just don’t like to see the shadow of a dead actor moving and talking.”
“It’s quite different with books,” put in Lepton. “Tony, could you possibly let me see some of this unpublished material? I’d be glad to help you get it organized for publication in any way I can.”
“Thanks, Leppy,” said Tony. “Gus and I will probably take you up on that. We have great faith in your critical judgment.”
“It wouldn’t do to publish anything that wasn’t quite up to the standard of Amos’s mature work,” began Lepton. “If …”
But Vera cut him short. “I say, publish anything that will pay off. Do I have any say in the matter?”
“No, you simply get Amos’s royalty checks on everything published,” returned Tony.
“Oh, is that all?” Suddenly Vera unleashed her anger. “Think again, Mr. Kane! You’ll have to have a little talk with my New York agent, Sam Karp. I’m not a dedicated dreamer like Amos. I don’t want a contract that gives you a big cut of my subsidiary rights. And—” she whirled on Gus—”I don’t want any agency clause in my contract at all. You’re fired as of now.”
“I’m afraid you can’t fire Gus,” said Tony wearily. “The agency clause in each of Amos’s contracts with me is still operative. It states in plain English that all monies payable under this contract are to be paid to the author through the agency of Augustus Vesey, Incorporated.”
Vera pounced like a playful tigress. “That would only apply to books already contracted for. It can’t apply to the new, posthumous books. Sam Karp is going to act for me in future,” she informed Gus. “Whether you’re a literary executor or not, you’re not going to be my agent.”
“Please, that’s enough for now, Vera,” said Gus. “We all know Dr. Willing isn’t interested in…”
“Don’t mind me,” said Basil quietly, accepting the fresh coffee Philippa had just poured him.
Another idea had come to Vera. “Tony, Amos told me he was getting this Bookbinders’ Award. That’s ten thousand dollars, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but now…”
“Why should his being dead make any difference? Aren’t there such things as posthumous awards as well as posthumous books?”
“That’s an idea,” admitted Tony. “I’ll call Sloan Severing, President of the Bookbinders’ Association, some time this morning and see if he’ll let Amos’s publisher accept the award for Amos. We have ads set up and…”
“Amos’s publisher?” Vera forced an unnatural laugh. “Why not Amos’s widow? I could use a little publicity in New York myself.”
“Then you’d lose the Award money,” said Tony. “Sloan would never agree to that. You’re supposed to be in mourning.”
Meg looked at Vera indignantly. “Didn’t you care for anything about Amos except his money?”
Before Vera could respond, Tony answered Meg. “An unnecessary question, my dear. We all know that Amos, like many men of talent, made an unfortunate marriage. If he had lived, he would have divorced Vera.”
“He would not!” cried Vera. “How dare you…”
Lepton looked at Tony curiously. “I understood from this morning’s paper that Amos and Vera were completely and happily reconciled.”
“Translation,” said Tony. “Catamount had dropped Vera’s option, so she insisted on returning to Amos. He was too generous—or perhaps I should say too weak—to say no.”
This seemed to satisfy Lepton. “Great artists are notoriously weak and indiscriminate where women are concerned,” he murmured.
But it didn’t satisfy Vera.
“Tony Kane, I can go back to Catamount whenever I feel like it!”
Tony turned to Basil. “I hardly know how to apologize for inflicting all this on you.”
“It’s I who should apologize,” returned Basil. “I was so fascinated I didn’t interrupt to tell you that I am investigating the death of Amos Cottle. Not telling you makes me a sort of eavesdropper, but the temptation was just too much for me. An investigator rarely has a chance to hear witnesses talk so frankly among themselves.”
“Investigating…?” Tony, like everyone else, was taken completely off balance.
Basil explained. “You all know that for many years I have been attached to the district attorney’s office in New York as a psychiatric assistant. I still am. I’ve kept my office and apartment in New York and technically I’m still a resident there. This murder occurred in Connecticut, but most of the people involved live in New York or have offices there. There will have to be close cooperation between Connecticut State Police and New York city police. Many answers to quest
ions raised by the murder will be found only in New York. Captain Drew has asked me to act as a sort of liaison officer between the two police forces. I am here this morning to ask you some questions. They are questions of a quite different sort from those the State Police asked you last night.”
Meg looked at him aghast. “You said—murder. The morning paper was still talking about the probability of accidental poisoning.”
“We had very few facts at the time the morning papers went to press,” said Basil. “We know more now. Sometimes I think it’s helpful to everyone concerned to let those involved in a case know some of the things the police have discovered. Captain Drew has given me permission to tell you a good deal about his findings. Amos Cottle was poisoned with cyanide. The alcohol he had taken masked the usual symptoms—heavy breathing and spasmodic movements.”
The stillness in the room was heavy, almost tangible. Basil went on. “I need hardly point out that cyanide is not likely to find its way into a glass of Scotch by accident. It’s too quick and far too unpleasant for the taste of most suicides. Such a poison automatically suggests murder and more—premeditation.”
Lepton’s monkey-grin was more malicious than usual. “I think we’ll all agree that no one but a murderer would attend a supper party equipped with cyanide.”
“Was I belaboring the obvious?” said Basil. “Fortunately there was a critic present to correct me.”
“How could any ordinary person get hold of a thing like cyanide?” demanded Gus.
Meg looked at Basil incredulously. “Do you mean that there was cyanide in the iced tea? That was the only thing prepared for Amos and not for the rest of us.”
“But Cottle didn’t drink his iced tea last night,” Basil reminded her. “He poured it out on the floor and helped himself to whiskey. I’m in a unique position for an investigator of crime. I was present at the scene of the crime when it took place and I’m my own witness for all the physical details of what actually happened. I suspect that the murderer had planned originally to poison the pitcher of iced tea, but as soon as he saw Cottle was drunk he knew that Cottle was in no mood for tea. The murderer had to change his plan at the last minute and put poison in Cottle’s glass after Cottle had filled it with whiskey.”