Kill Your Darlings m-3

by Max Allan Collins

  “Surely you don’t mean to imply the estate’s involved in the hoax….”

  “No! They’re its victims, like everybody else. But Gorman had hold of an unpublished manuscript by a dead author, for which he owned certain publishing rights outright. Now, if my rudimentary understanding of copyright is correct, Gorman could’ve copyrighted that work himself and left the Hammett estate out in the cold.”

  “What’s the point of Gregg giving the estate a share when he could’ve had it all for himself?”

  “That is the point. The estate getting a share in the proceeds legitimizes the book-and is an incentive for the estate to not question the ‘experts’ whose opinions authenticated the work-which is by any standards a brilliant forgery.”

  “But when you read it, you saw right through it.”

  “Sure.”

  “What element of the plot was it that you recognized?”

  “Huh?”

  “You told Mae and Gorman you recognized elements from that unpublished novel of Kane’s.”

  “Oh, that. That was a lie.”

  She dropped her sandwich and her jaw. “A lie?”

  “Sure. Roscoe never gave me an unpublished book of his. He had a rule: if it’s bad, burn it. He didn’t leave any false starts or unsuccessful manuscripts behind, believe me.”

  “But… that was how you were going to prove the Hammett book was a fake… that was your evidence….”

  “Yeah, well, I was bluffing.”

  She looked at me like a child at the zoo seeing a monkey for the first time.

  “You were bluffing?” she said, incredulous.

  “That’s right. I recognized signs of Roscoe in that book, sure. Plenty of ’em. But subtle ones. I could make a very convincing case for it being ghosted by Roscoe, yes, but there would be no dramatic, obvious revelations. It’d be almost a scholarly piece of work.”

  “But, then… you don’t have anything… nothing you can go to the authorities or the media with….”

  “Sure I do. Mae and Gorman admitted their scam in front of witnesses.”

  “Who?”

  “You and me. Us. Remember?”

  “Oh.” She looked at her cheeseburger blankly. “Right.” She looked at me blankly. “Got any other surprises for me?”

  “Sure. I’m going to accept Gorman’s ten-grand bribe.”

  “What?”

  “Once I have his check in my hands, I will have some solid evidence of a scam.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t really begin to see this coming. You fooled me completely. I really thought there was an unpublished book by Roscoe Kane.”

  I grinned at her. “There’s a lot of that going around. Plenty of people are believing there’s an unpublished Hammett book, too.”

  She shot a smirky grin back at me. “It’s nice of you to clear all this with me, before involving me. As a witness and all.”

  I reached across and touched her hand; wiped the smug smile off my face. “Kathy, it couldn’t be helped. I had no idea Gorman was going to be in Mae’s room. It was all impromptu. I’m an old Second City fan, remember? And this is Chicago. Improv comedy and fiction-writing are the same animal; like they say, you come up with ‘something wonderful, right away.’ ”

  Wry smile #732. “You’re a lunatic.”

  “Yeah. But nice, as lunatics go.”

  “So much for me editing Noir.”

  “When I’m through with Gorman, the only publication he’ll be involved with is the prison newspaper.”

  She managed to eat most of her cheeseburger and pretty soon we were walking back to the Americana-Congress, hand in hand. Another gloomy day, but I felt good. Then my stomach fell: just as we were approaching the front entrance of the hotel, G. Roger Donaldson came out, in his lime-color blazer and reddish blond beard.

  His eyes narrowing in on me, he moved toward me like a small car.

  “I had hoped to run into you, Mr. Mallory,” he said, parking in front of me, folding his thick arms, eyes hard and green and angry.

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” I admitted.

  Kathy moved away from me. Deserting the sinking ship.

  “There’s something you should’ve known about me,” he said, unfolding his arms, smiling, not in a least bit friendly way. “I will abide no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge….”

  “Does that mean you’re going to hit me now?”

  “Fuckin’ A,” he said, and decked me.

  I picked myself up, Kathy looked on wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and he was just about to haul off again when I held out two hands in a conciliatory gesture.

  “Truce,” I said, licking blood out of the corner of my mouth. “Give me a minute!”

  He stopped in midswing and appraised the situation.

  Kathy looked at me, wondering what I was going to do.

  The hotel doorman, observing all this from a few yards away, was wondering whether or not to summon a cop.

  I was wondering how to express what I felt. Donaldson doing a macho number on me made me realize how ridiculous I had been behaving lately: defending myself and Kathy in that alley had been one thing; the rest of my behavior was another-verbally attacking Gorman in the dealers’ room, then punching him in the stomach in the bar, finally humiliating Donaldson on that panel and stalking off.

  “I deserved that,” I said. “I was a jerk this morning. And you deserve an apology. I want to give you one, now, privately-and I plan to give you one publicly. That’s a promise.”

  He eyed me suspiciously; Kathy had a disapproving expression, as if I’d suddenly turned coward.

  Which wasn’t true, but what would’ve been so bad if I had? I’m not Gat Garson; nobody is. I couldn’t go around behaving like a macho jerk and not have it catch up with me. Maybe it was going to catch up with me now, in the form of a severe beating from this apparently very fit-and fit to be tied-would-be Hemingway.

  “You’re just trying to weasel out of it,” Donaldson said.

  “No,” I said. “I’m a little afraid of you, sure, but I really don’t like you, so the jackass in me would relish trading some punches with you. I’m just trying to get the jackass in me in harness, okay?”

  He smiled, just a little. And suddenly seemed sort of embarrassed himself. “Okay,” he said. “I think I get your point. Maybe I ought to keep my own jackass in harness. But I’m going to hold you to that public apology.”

  “You deserve that much. Mind you, I stand behind what I said on that panel. You ought to apologize to the ghosts of Hammett and Chandler, in public, but that’s up to you and your conscience. My conscience says I was rude to one of my fellow writers, and in public, and shame on me.”

  I held out my hand and Donaldson first shook his head and then the hand.

  “Can two men who don’t like each other be friends?” he asked, smiling.

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I’m not into male bonding. But I’m going to do you a favor. At least I will, if you’ll do me one.”

  Donaldson tilted his head, looked at me suspiciously again. “Oh? What favor are you going to do me?”

  “I’m going to save you from some heavy duty embarrassment….”

  And Kathy, Donaldson and I went into the hotel and up to my room for a little talk.

  18

  By one-thirty the Gold Room was full; most everyone at the convention was there. So were various representatives of the press, including TV news teams, minicams and all, here from channels 7 and 9, the rival groups at either side of the stage. The table where I’d sat earlier today, on the panel, was still strewn with microphones and water glasses, but there was also a podium at the center now, behind which a smiling and a little bit nervous Tom Sardini was assembling some note cards and the award plaques and other material. As the current president of the Private Eye Writers of America, Tom was to be master of ceremonies.

  The room was buzzing, but people were keeping their voices down-perhaps out of respect for the lat
e Roscoe Kane. It was no secret Roscoe was this year’s recipient of the Life Achievement Award; though technically under wraps, it had been leaked by Tom to the media, and naturally the word had then traveled around the convention as well. The five hundred or more people in the room all whispering created a cloud of noise that hung over the room, as if threatening a storm.

  I was sitting with Kathy in the front row; Donaldson was seated next to her. Just behind Donaldson was Gregg Gorman, looking as spiffy as he could manage, in a tweedy sports coat with patched elbows, a brown knit tie and a more or less clean tan shirt. Sardini had asked him to “say a few words” about the Hammett book, at the close of the ceremony. Next to him was Mae Kane. She still wore the clingy black dress with black gloves and a pearl necklace; she looked a little like a blonde Morticia Addams.

  Donaldson leaned back and whispered to Gorman; Gorman listened, eyes wide, then glanced at me, eyes slitted, and I nodded at him. Gorman smiled broadly and nodded and reached in his coat pocket and took out a checkbook. He made out a check, handed it to Donaldson and Donaldson, with a sage little nod, handed it over to me.

  The check, on the Mystery House account, was for ten thousand dollars. At lower left a notation: editorial services, Secret Emperor.

  I glanced back at Gorman and he was still smiling broadly, one pal to another; he nodded at me and I nodded back, but couldn’t manage to summon a smile, even a fake one. Mae Kane looked at me warily. I was able to find a little reassuring smile for her, but she didn’t seem to buy it. Smart woman.

  Glancing back around, I noticed, on the other side of the room, Jerome Kane, seated quietly in an aisle seat, gazing back at me with his father’s china-blue eyes. His attire was stylishly somber, black jacket and gray slacks and gray tie; his friend Troy apparently was not with him-the rest of his row was taken up by a preoccupied-looking Tim Culver, sitting next to Cynthia Crystal, who was sitting next to four women of varying ages who were talking with (actually, at) Cynthia, drawing-room mystery fans no doubt. They were in the right place, then: the Gold Room was one big drawing room today….

  By now it was standing room only, but a few people were lining the walls; at my right, one of those people was an orange-haired woman in a green dress with a brown purse on a strap over her shoulder.

  Evelyn Kane.

  She looked nice today. She’d had her hair done, and the green dress had a sheen to it, looked new, and fit her matronly figure nicely. She had a corsage on, as well. She looked like a chaperone at a senior prom.

  My eyes caught hers.

  A nasty little smile settled in one side of her mouth; she nodded. I nodded back, wondering what the smile meant.

  As inconspicuously as possible, I pointed Jerome and Evelyn out to Kathy.

  “Just like Charlie Chan,” I said to her, sotto voce.

  “What?”

  “All the suspects are gathered.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Jerome, Evelyn, Gorman, or Mae. Or a combination thereof. Killed Roscoe Kane, I mean.”

  Kathy looked at me like a mother at her bonehead child. “Gorman couldn’t have done it, Mal. He had an alibi, remember?”

  “Sure. He said he was eating with his angels, at the Berghoff. Only I called the Berghoff, and they close at ten. Even if he and his friends lingered well past closing, his alibi’s shot. Roscoe was drowned some time between eleven and midnight, remember.”

  That would’ve sobered her, if she hadn’t been sober already.

  Tom, up on the stage, motioned at me.

  “Save my place,” I told Kathy, and went up and joined him.

  “This is great, Mal,” he said. “Do you see how many people are here? All this media? The PWA couldn’t pay for this kind of publicity.”

  “That’s true,” I said.

  “Well, I just want you to know I appreciate your making sure Mae Kane was here. Without her, we don’t have much of a show.”

  “That’s also true,” I said. “But don’t thank me yet. You better see how this goes….”

  “I’m sure it’ll be smooth as glass. Are you excited, Mal?”

  “Uh, sure. About what?”

  “Don’t give me that. About being up for best hardcover, you dope! You got an acceptance speech ready?”

  I won’t claim I’d forgotten about being nominated, but it hadn’t been the foremost thing in my mind today.

  I said, “You don’t have an inside track, do you? ’Cause I don’t have anything prepared….”

  Tom shook his head no. “I don’t know who the winners are. The results were given to me in sealed envelopes by the awards chairman; and the plaques are sealed up, too. But I think you’ve got a chance, Mal. I like your book.”

  “It probably shouldn’t even’ve been nominated; the hero isn’t technically a private eye. Aren’t you up for something?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “Best softcover.”

  “Luck to you,” I said.

  “Thanks, Mal. Thanks for everything.”

  At two the awards ceremony started; R. Edward Porter, as one of the most respected short-story writers in the field, presented the short-story award to former Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine critic Jon Breen, who gave a brief self-effacing speech and sat down. Then best softcover was presented by last year’s winner, William Campbell Gault, who upon opening the envelope said, “Ah-the fix is in, I see.”

  Tom had won, for his latest Jacob Miles novel; red-faced, he apologized for winning the award-then admitted he had helped found the organization in hopes that one day this might happen. That got a good, sincere laugh from the crowd, who applauded his honesty; the applause turned into a standing ovation and Tom just stood there, award in hand-a fancy wood plaque on which the cover of his book was embossed-and grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.

  I looked past Kathy down at Donaldson and said, “Good luck.”

  He was up for best hardcover, too; for Poisonous Wine.

  He said, “And to you.”

  We both lost; Bill DeAngelo won, for his latest Mark Kaub book. Bill said that since he hadn’t won an Edgar lately, he was very pleased to receive this. His delivery was funny, and he seemed genuinely grateful, and returned to his seat before the applause had died down.

  Then Tom took the podium again and said, “We’ve saved the most important award for last-the Life Achievement Award. I suppose it’s no surprise to anyone here that this year’s award goes to Roscoe Kane. The loss of this important author, on the eve of receiving this recognition, is a tragic one. I’ve asked a good friend-and student-of Roscoe Kane’s, to say a few words, and introduce Mrs. Kane… who will receive the award for her husband. Mal?”

  And I got up from the audience and climbed onto the stage and stood behind the podium. The minicams were trained on me. So was the crowd’s full attention.

  “Roscoe Kane wasn’t a perfect man,” I said into the microphone; my voice was loud enough to do without a mike, so using one made it boom through the room, giving my words a certain added weight-and ominousness. “Roscoe Kane wasn’t even a perfect writer. His gift was a narrow one. Yet he was a genius of sorts. Like Edgar Rice Burroughs was a genius of sorts; or Ian Fleming; or Mickey Spillane. He created a vivid character in Gat Garson-like Tarzan and James Bond and Mike Hammer-a larger-than-life hero who, I think, will live on for as long as people like to read a good yarn. Which I trust will be forever.

  “But Roscoe Kane wasn’t larger than life. I think his work may prove to be larger than death, but never mind. Roscoe was a flawed, eccentric man, and I loved him like a father.”

  Halfway back in the audience, stage right, Jerome Kane leaned forward in his seat.

  My voice continued to rumble through the big room: “I have to reveal something, now, that-unfortunately-may cast a shadow on Roscoe Kane’s reputation.”

  Gregg Gorman leaned forward in his seat; Mae Kane covered her eyes with a gloved hand.

  “You are all aware, I’m sure, of the forthcoming ‘r
ecently discovered’ Dashiell Hammett novel, The Secret Emperor… only, the novel wasn’t ‘discovered.’ It was concocted out of a five thousand word fragment by Hammett, whose authenticity is not in any doubt. The novel, which is based on that genuine fragment, was written by Roscoe Kane.”

  A collective gasp went up.

  The reporters and TV people, at stage left and right, seemed to wake up; eyes popped open.

  And Gregg Gorman, sitting forward in his seat, looked at me with red-faced anger.

  “Roscoe Kane was a bitter man,” I said. “He had been blacklisted, or so he felt, by the publishing community; no new Gat Garson novels had been published in this country in fifteen years. He had also been largely ignored by mystery fiction’s fan community, their critics and reviewers. In his heart, Roscoe knew he was a mystery writer of the first rank; and when he was given the opportunity to finish a novel by his hero, Dashiell Hammett, he jumped at the chance. To prove his worth. And to put one over on those who’d blacklisted and rejected him. The publishers. The fans.”

  The room got very quiet. Gorman had sat back in his chair, but his face was still very red. Jerome Kane had a small smile; Evelyn Kane did, too. In the front row, Kathy looked a little frightened. And Mae Kane was crying quietly into a handkerchief.

  “The first person to cast doubt on the authenticity of The Secret Emperor was G. Roger Donaldson,” I said. “Mr. Donaldson-who on this very stage received some rude treatment from me this morning, for which I apologize-came to me with his suspicions. He’d read the manuscript, having been asked by its ‘discoverer’ to help verify its authorship; at first he’d been convinced. But then he had second thoughts. It occurred to him that Roscoe Kane might have been capable of having written this and, after Kane’s suspicious drowning, Donaldson approached me with a copy of the manuscript. He wanted my opinion as a Roscoe Kane authority. Did I think Kane might have ghosted this book?”

  Donaldson, next to Kathy, smiling faintly, nodded at me.

  I went on: “I read The Secret Emperor last night. Through internal evidence, I can prove Kane wrote this book. His literary fingerprints are all over it. But I would like to add that it is a first-rate Hammett pastiche. I would trust it will one day see print, and enhance Roscoe Kane’s reputation-at least his literary reputation.