by Helen McCloy
“But the author pays his commission!” protested Vera.
“Sure.” Sam shrugged. “But he’d be no good to the author if he hadn’t an in with publishers, would he? And he’s only human, so he’s bound to make package deals, holding out for good terms with a best seller and letting his new authors go cheap. Or sometimes refusing to sell a best seller unless the same publisher will take on some new guy who isn’t worth beans.”
“Why didn’t Gus demand better terms when Amos became so successful?”
“Don’t ask me. Ask Gus.”
“He wouldn’t tell me anything. He hates me and so does his wife.”
Sam brooded over this a moment. “I wouldn’t advise suing. I can’t see how you could prove anything. But I’ll admit it seems to me like a queer setup. As my old man used to say, ‘There is more in this than meets the eye.’”
“What, Sam? What could it be?”
“I don’t know. But this whole deal, as you tell it, strikes me as peculiar. These two guys running Amos’s career for him as if he were a sort of robot. But I suppose that’s explained by his having lost his memory. He really wasn’t all there and somebody had to run things for him. What a hell of a note! To be in your thirties or forties or whatever Amos was, and have a memory that went back only six years as far as personal things were concerned. The way you tell it, this wasn’t complete amnesia. He remembered all the things he’d learned as a child—to walk and talk and eat and read and write—only he didn’t know who he was. Funny they were never able to trace him.”
“Maybe they didn’t try very hard. Maybe Gus -and Tony liked it that way.”
“Could be.”
“Maybe the police will do it now Amos has been murdered.”
“That might not be so good for you, baby. Suppose Amos already had a wife?”
Vera winced as all the possibilities inherent in that situation unfolded before her once again. “Sam, you’d better get all the money you can for me out of Gus and Tony right now, before anything like that happens.”
“I’ll try.” Sam wasn’t very hopeful. “But it may take some time to settle the estate and collect insurance on that house that burned down. The lawyers may want to find Amos’s true identity first and make sure there are no other heirs. I suppose it’s the police who are keeping that amnesia stuff out of the papers now, but they can’t do so forever. If they don’t find Amos’s murderer pretty soon, the lawyers will make them publish the whole story in the hope of identifying Amos…. Funny thing is, I can’t figure out who killed him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, obviously, it wasn’t you.”
“Sam! How dare you…”
“You don’t gain a thing,” went on Sam imperturbably. “It’s the same way with the Kanes and Veseys and those two critics and the Puseys. Nobody gained anything and most of you lost something.”
“There are other motives for murder besides gain.”
“Such as…?”
“Hate, fear, blackmail…” Vera paused. “Sam, do you suppose Gus or Tony did dig up something about Amos’s past and it was so bad they were in a position to blackmail him? Instead of asking for cash, they might try to make everything look legal and aboveboard by writing contracts with him that gave both of them a big hunk of his dough, much bigger than most agents and publishers get.”
“Sounds reasonable enough, but—why kill him in the end?”
“Maybe he got tired of being blackmailed. Maybe he told them to go to hell, no matter what the consequences.”
Sam considered the idea thoughtfully. “You may have something there. As literary executors, they’re still in the saddle for the next two books. But if Amos had lived and quit them, they would have had no control over those books. On the other hand, since Amos’s production of future books stops with his death, they…”
“But if he was going to quit them, his production was going to stop anyway as far as they were concerned. They had no interest in keeping him alive.”
“Was he going to quit them?”
“He didn’t want to, but I started trying to persuade him the moment we met at the airport.”
“Did they know that?”
“I told Meg Vesey at the Kanes’ supper party. She could have told Gus or Tony.”
“But whoever poisoned Amos must have planned to kill him before the supper party.” Sam rose slowly. “Well, baby, it’s a tangle all right. We’ll probably never know what really happened between Amos and Gus and Tony now Amos is dead.” He smiled suddenly. “You know that old gag about the guy who, just for a bet, sent five anonymous telegrams to the five most prominent citizens in his town? ‘Fly at once—all is discovered!’ The gag is that the joker didn’t know a thing about any of them but next morning all five had left town. I wonder what would happen if someone sent telegrams like that to Gus and Tony now?”
Vera brushed this aside. “Are you going to see them this morning?”
“What good would that do, baby? We got to wait till the will’s probated. Nothing I can do now.” Sam spread his hands apart helplessly.
“Well, what about a part for me in a Broadway play?”
“I’m working on that, baby. Matter of fact, I’ve got a one-shot for you on a TV show. The National Pig Iron Hour. Audition this afternoon at three p.m. Joe Grimalkin is the producer, so you’d better be prompt.”
“Okay, but a one-shot…” Vera sighed. “That’s just peanuts.”
“May lead to other things. TV is a showcase for talent. Give you a bit of spare cash anyway. Be seeing you…”
Sam shuffled out of the room and Vera was alone again.
Being alone affected her as adversely as bad weather. The solitude that is so essential to the artist or thinker’ who lives in the depths of the mind is torture to the active person who lives on the surface of the mind as Vera did. She liked bustle, crowds, company and hated the loneliness that brought her face to face with herself.
The moment Sam had gone, she took a long, warm, scented bath and dressed with care in her most becoming dress of Dior blue with everything to match including the sapphire brooch. If Sam wouldn’t walk into the lion’s den for her, she would go herself.
The offices of Sutton, Kane and Company were still in the old publishing district on Fourth Avenue. They had been expanded in the last few years to take in two whole floors, but the general dinginess of every office in the building was not improved by this. Tony didn’t care. He had nothing but contempt for small publishers who established themselves in Radio City and then went broke.
Vera looked at the grimy elevator with distaste. She was even more contemptuous of the reception room. Plain gray walls, one sofa, one table, one lamp—all looking as if they had come from Macy’s basement. A lot of shelves with books on them. No other decoration but a framed picture that wasn’t a real picture—just a painting that was reproduced on the jacket of one of the books. How differently Hollywood did that scene in a New York publisher’s office! Catamount’s decorator had been paid well for his gorgeous marble and glass interior, all in rose and white with even the carefree young publisher, Ray Milland, wearing a white suit and a pink carnation in his lapel and singing in a tuneful baritone as he performed a subeditor’s duties correcting galley proofs.
There was no doubt about it in her mind—the Hollywood idea of life was much more satisfactory than life itself. For years Vera had been trying to remold reality in the shape of a Hollywood film. In all that she herself said and wore and thought she had come quite close to what she wanted, but the life outside her personal control still proved stubbornly resistant to the imposed ideal and, just as the plush decor so often eluded her, so did the happy ending.
She had felt more at home in some of the magazine offices she had seen in New York than she did here. These book publishers were an inexcusably shabby lot and their offices were dowdy. Look at that little windowed cubicle where a tired, untidy receptionist was trying to type and answer the phone at the same time.
Ray Milland had had three girls in his outer office-one typist, one receptionist and one telephone operator, all three fresh and smiling with beautifully painted lips and almond nails lacquered rose-red.
Vera primmed her mouth and brought out her voice at its silkiest. “Mrs. Cottle to see Mr. Kane.”
“Oh…” The girl’s eyes were round with something between sympathy and curiosity. It suddenly occurred to Vera that perhaps she ought to have worn black, but Dior blue was so much more becoming….
She pretended to study the silly picture on the wall while the girl mumbled inaudibly at the telephone. Vera had very nice manners. Didn’t she always behave as if she couldn’t hear a thing when she was listening to one side of another person’s telephone conversation? Annoyingly enough she really couldn’t hear anything this time.
The girl raised her voice. “Mr. Kane will see you now, Mrs. Cottle. Shall I show you the way?”
“Thank you.” Vera’s voice was a creamy blend of butter and sugar. Her pointed face looked almost innocent.
Tony’s office was a corner room with windows on two sides. No producer in Hollywood would have put up with the scuffed, leather chairs, the threadbare Persian rug, the clutter of books and typescripts on the wide, plain desk. The only personal touches here were a framed photograph of Philippa on the desk and several of Amos on the walls. The one that showed Amos’ with a pipe in one hand and a shaggy dog at his feet was signed with a neat, small autograph: “To Tony, best of friends and wisest of editors, Amos Cottle.”
Tony himself rose from behind the desk. Gus, lounging against a window sill, came to attention and pushed out an armchair for Vera.
She sat daintily, her ankles crossed, not her knees. She threw back her furs and displayed the curves of her wrists on the arms of her chair.
“You’re looking much better, Vera,” said Tony kindly.
“I feel better, thank you,” said the schooled, gentle voice. But how differently Hollywood would have written the dialogue for this scene! Baby, you look like a million dollars! Still Tony had tried to be nice in his stuffy way and he deserved a smile—one of the timid, shy, melancholy variety that suited the occasion.
“Tony, I’ve come to talk to you about money. Just what is my situation?” She was the little woman now, helpless and sweet, just asking the great big man to help her.
Tony was as susceptible to this approach as any male. He shuffled some papers on his desk and cleared his throat. “Well, until Amos’s will is probated, everything is pretty confused. Gus and I have just been looking at his account as of last Saturday. There are a few thousands in accrued royalties from the trade edition of Passionate Pilgrim. There’ll be more in a few weeks when the second printing is but. Then there’s some reprint money from the last run of The Rudderless Ship—about seven thousand. And in another six months we should have the book club money on Pilgrim, which is a tidy sum. Amos was paid on a six months’ royalty schedule so none of these payments are due his estate until May, but in view of the special circumstances I can advance you the cash already paid into his account as of today, which runs to—well, something over nine thousand dollars. And I’ll pass along the book club money as soon as it comes in. But I’ll have to hold the second printing money until we see about bookstore returns.
“You see, Vera, I’m willing to gamble nine thousand cash that no other heirs of the estate will turn up. If they do, and if you’ve spent the money by that time, I’ll have to make up the difference out of my own pocket.”
Gus added, “I was holding about three thousand of the TV money in Amos’s account with me when he died. That income will stop now of course, but of the three thousand I’m holding, one thousand, one hundred and twenty-five is Amos’s and you can have that now in addition to the nine thousand Tony is advancing you.”
These terms were far more generous than Sam had thought possible before probate of the will. If he had been there, he would have been curious to know the reason for such unexpected generosity. But Vera’s greedy little mind fastened on only one detail of all that had been said.
“One thousand, one hundred and twenty-five out of three thousand!” She looked at Gus with venom. “Amos didn’t get much of his TV money, did he? Fifteen hundred to Tony and three hundred and seventy-five to you!”
“That was the agreement,” said Gus firmly.
Tony’s handsome face hardened. He turned bleak blue eyes on Vera. “You may take it or leave it. Ten thousand should be enough to see any woman through the first few months of widowhood, especially one who has other sources of income from her own earnings. I shan’t keep my offer open after today. I’m taking a real chance, for if Amos has other legal heirs, only part of this money is rightfully yours, if that.”
“Then why are you willing to give me any of it?”
Vera’s voice was still soft. There was even a hint of a sob in it.
“Because I suspect you’re broke,” said Tony brutally. “And I’m willing to take a chance on Amos not having any other heirs that the police can discover. If he has and if I have to make up the difference out of my own pocket, I shall deduct that nine thousand from your share of payments on his posthumous books.”
There was no question that Tony meant what he said. Vera felt as if she had bumped into a stone wall. It didn’t occur to her that Tony had shown any generosity. In Hollywood any sum in only four figures was known as “peanuts” or “chickenfeed”—one week’s salary. And this was what Tony and Gus were offering her for several months’ living! She couldn’t stay at her luxury hotel on this income. She couldn’t buy the spring wardrobe at Saks and Hattie Carnegie that she had been counting on to help launch her Broadway career. It was a bitter moment. Her trained face stayed smooth. Her eyelids hid her eyes. Only her lips quivered. In her heart she hated Tony Kane and Gus Vesey as she had never hated anyone else before, even Amos.
She knew enough not to argue. This was no time to fight. This was a time to scheme. She turned to Gus impulsively. “You know I’ve been thinking about the future of Amos’s work. I’ve just remembered that Sam Karp told me once about another best-selling author who died at the height of his career. His name, I think, was Frank Ames and he wrote the Captain Donovan series. Sam said that when Frank died, his widow and his publisher and agent got together and hired a hack writer to produce more Captain Donovan books under the Frank Ames’ name. They went on for years and years and made lots of money for everyone. Why can’t we hire some hack to write more books signed Amos Cottle?”
Tony sighed as he balanced a pencil between his fingers—the old-fashioned kind of pencil you have to sharpen, not the automatic, gold-mounted pencil of a publisher in a movie. “Because Amos himself was never a hack writer like Frank Ames.”
“But Frank Ames was very successful!”
“Oh, yes, but he was still a hack writer. Captain Donovan was a police captain and the stories were mysteries that just happened to catch on, largely because the character, Donovan, had appeared in some B-movies. A mystery is not a book, Vera. Anyone can write a mystery. It’s just a job like carpentering or plumbing. I’ve always maintained that a mystery writer should not be paid in royalties at all, any more than you would pay a carpenter or a plumber royalties. He should be paid a modest lump sum, and any money that comes in from subsidiary rights should go to his publisher who has been put to a great deal of expense to publish his book and who can only just break even on the trade edition with costs what they are today and mystery sales so low in hard covers. When Frank Ames died, any one of twenty other mystery writers could have written his Donovan stories. But Amos was a serious artist, Vera, and his art dies with him. He was unique. No one else could write like Amos, any more than anyone else could write like Tolstoy or Proust. You can’t duplicate style once an author is dead.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” protested Vera in sincere bewilderment. “In Hollywood we look on all writers as if they were plumbers or carpenters. When anything goes wrong with a script on locat
ion, the director calls the studio and says, ‘Send me a writer.’ He doesn’t care which writer it is.”
“Well, it’s a little different in the world of books,” said Gus with a slight smile. “We do care which writer we get. I don’t think Tony has ever called my office and said, ‘I’ve got a vacant spot on the fall list. Send me a writer.’”
“We’re old-fashioned,” said Tony.
“You certainly are!” There was acid in the sweetness of Vera’s voice, like lemon candy. She gave a last scornful look around the threadbare office as she rose.
“Will you please send the check for nine thousand right away to my hotel? I’m staying at the Waldorf.”
“I’ll see it gets in the mail this afternoon.” Tony moved forward to open the door for her.
“Good-bye, Gus.” Vera cast a long, peculiar side glance back at him over her shoulder. “Be sure and give my love to your sweet wife!”
Gus flushed uncomfortably.
Tony’s sense of the fitness of things compelled him to walk to the elevator with Vera. They deplored the weather and wondered whether the H-bomb explosions were at fault. It was an armed truce. When the elevator came and Vera smiled a sweet good-bye, Tony stood for some moments looking at the door that had closed after her. He had an unpleasant premonition that he had not seen the last of Vera by any means.
Vera herself had a curious feeling that she had been cast adrift without rudder or sail. The Rudderless Ship—that was the book of Amos’s that was supposed to be in reprints now. She looked for it on the rack beside the newsstand, but there wasn’t a copy in view and she didn’t care enough to ask for it. She had nothing to do until three o’clock, when she must report for that piddling, little audition that wouldn’t bring in more than fifteen hundred at the most.