A Slepyng Hound to Wake

by Vincent McCaffrey

  “Henry collects girlfriends,” Della said cheerfully.

  He was not sure he could bear up to Della’s wit just now.

  “I thought you were talking about the George Duggan thing. If you’re just talking about me, I might as well go to bed. It’s a boring subject. I’m beat. And I already know more about me than I want to.”

  “If only that were true,” Mrs. Murray said.

  She smiled a little too much like his mother, Henry decided. That must account for the patience.

  Della asked, “What happened? Tell us what happened.”

  He sat down on the couch across from her. It was a small couch, and when Mrs. Murray sat down beside him, he could smell honeysuckle. He was going to be more careful of couches in the future.

  He decided to get it over with quickly. “Well, I talked to him. We actually talked a lot. We ended up in the lounge because Nora Lynch did not show.”

  “And? What about?” Della pushed.

  He shrugged. “Plagiarism.”

  Their eyes widened. Della’s mouth opened and shut without speaking.

  “And?” Mrs. Murray sat out at the edge of the couch to face him.

  “Well, he asked me pretty quickly if I knew a bookseller by the name of Barbara Kraus. I told him I did, and he asked me what I knew about her… .”

  Both women stared at him, mouths slightly open. Henry had to stop at the sight. He had never had the attention of two women quite so thoroughly in his life. Della was the first to speak.

  “And? What did you say?”

  Henry took a breath to begin again. “I told him. Just about everything. Even about going through the Tremont trash. I told him that when he asked how I had tracked him down at the hotel.”

  Della interrupted, “He must have liked that.”

  “Actually, he laughed and said Nora is still too young to realize the importance of trash. I told him he ought to talk to Albert about that.”

  Mrs. Murray frowned. “He must have assumed you were using Eddy’s manuscript as a way to meet him.”

  Henry shrugged again. “Well, yes. I was. He does. I told him that much. I explained the whole thing to him. He’s that kind of guy. He seems pretty straight to me. We talked about pretty much everything.”

  Mrs. Murray spread her hands at the air between them. “But you don’t have the manuscript with you. You left it with him anyway?”

  “Yes. He said he would read it.”

  Mrs. Murray face was blank. “Extraordinary!”

  Henry said, “He was obviously concerned that Sharon and Barbara were trying to rip him off. We talked about that. When I left him—Well, just an hour ago he said he’d call them himself and see what he could work out. I think he understands their position. And he doesn’t know how he came by the idea for the novel. Once he picks up on something that interests him, he just keeps following the string until it runs out. He thought it could have occurred to him one day after batting ideas around with Nora. He thinks she might have unconsciously remembered something she had read—probably from Frankowski’s manuscript. He doesn’t think what he did is plagiarism, but he does think he must owe something to James Frankowski. He admitted that he has always worried about plagiarism. He reads a great deal, but never when he’s writing, just because of that. … He said John Boyle is going to be unhappy with him, but he would rather it all be settled peaceably.”

  There was a silence filled only by the sound of the fan in the window. Then Mrs. Murray sat back.

  “I told you so. Mr. Duggan is a professional. He’ll work it out. You did very well, Henry. But I would like to know about this John Boyle.”

  “He’s a lawyer.”

  “I gather that. But is he the same John Boyle who went to Boston Latin?”

  “I don’t know. I could ask him. Or I could ask Albert.”

  She blew a bit of air out as if to whistle.

  “No. You probably don’t want to mention John Boyle to Albert Hamilton.”

  She explained that the two of them had engaged once in a brawl which had brought the police to the school and put them both in detention for more than a week. Albert was not the type to hold grudges, Henry told her. Mrs. Murray’s thought, that they might still bear ill will after more than twenty years, did not seem likely.

  “Can I go now?” He seemed to remember using such words in grade school.

  “Where?” Della said.

  “To bed.”

  “But you haven’t told us all the details.”

  “Tomorrow. … Good night.”

  He left them sitting across from each other in silence. He was too tired to guess what was in their minds.

  It all seemed like more than he was ready to deal with as he sat in his chair to take off his shoes.

  What would it matter that he had not told them the truth? Not all of it. Could he have helped reacting to Della’s comment? She had meant it as a joke. But she had meant it as well. He had never collected girlfriends. But that was the way it might appear. His irritation at her for seeing Bob was really the joke. Bob was not the problem. The problem was himself.

  He had always had difficulty dealing with girls. Since high school. They clouded his thinking. How would he have explained Morgan Johnson to the two of them—with them staring at him? Not after that remark. They would not have understood.

  It had been Duggan who had brought Morgan up, almost immediately after he sat down. Duggan had frowned as Henry began to say something about Eddy Perry.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I can’t help thinking we’ve met before. Could that be?”

  It had caught Henry off guard.

  “Yes. Almost. Once. In passing … About a year ago.”

  Duggan pointed a finger at him. “At the church. At Morgan Johnson’s funeral service.”

  “Yes.” Henry had not expected to be remembered.

  “You are the fellow she—Well, you know, I feel pretty stupid about forgetting. We all loved Morgan. She was the woman of our dreams. I might have asked her to marry me a dozen times. Even when Heber was alive. I have no class when it comes to things like that. But you were the one.”

  Henry was astonished now. What were the words for this? What was he to say? The words he found were not the right ones.

  “How do you know this?”

  Duggan grimaced and shook his head. “She told me. We were great friends, after all. After Heber died, I asked her to marry me again. I drove down to her house on the Cape and presented myself. God forbid Nora should ever find this out. We were already seeing each other then … But, I had been in love with Morgan for twenty years. I know she knew it. I only hope Heber never did. If he did, he hid it well. He was always the best agent a writer could have, even when he was sick.

  “But after he died, I went out there and asked her again. … Nora is a lovely girl—but Morgan. You knew Morgan. She was very kind. She told me about you then. She called you her book-hound. I have to admit it caused me quite a bit of pain. I’m used to getting things I want now. It’s just part of being rich and famous.” Duggan raised his eyebrows at himself. “And she knew that as well. She was always too honest for her own good. Heber had been a good husband. But she felt guilty about her relationship with you. She was depressed. And there I was, defending the situation all of a sudden. Heber had been sick for so many years. I told her she was foolish to blame herself. I think I also told her that she was foolish to have fallen for a kid like you instead of the great me.… But that was it. You will never know how miserable you made me … and probably many others.”

  Henry was not sure if he had spoken even then. Yes, he had. He had mumbled something foolish. “I don’t think that I was really worthy of it. She seemed to see more in me than I saw myself.”

  Duggan had lit another cigarette and let a moment pass over that appraisal.

  “She was a good judge of human beings. She certainly saw through me. I’d say you can’t be too bad a fellow or Morgan would not have had anything to do with you.”
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  He had never felt worthy of it. Morgan was uncommon and very foolish, right to the end. Her trust in others was her flaw. He could not say that to George Duggan. Henry had found Morgan at the wrong time—too late, or too soon. He said nothing more about it then. But this was a bond with George Duggan he could not ignore.

  Later, when the phone rang, he was disoriented. He was sure he had only just fallen asleep. Sunlight glazed the window.

  He said, “Hello,” with his eyes closed.

  There was a silence on the line before a voice spoke.

  “Mr. Sullivan?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is John Boyle. I’m an attorney. I work for George Duggan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I was wondering if you could come down to my office for a chat.”

  Henry had been dreaming. He had been dreaming about a summer visit to Cape Cod when he was perhaps ten or eleven. His sister had been teasing him. She called him Pokey because she could outrun him so easily, and he had called her Gumby. One of the great summers of his life—mostly because his mother had been there as well. He could still hear his sister’s voice as his head cleared.

  Henry had always considered his father a simple fellow. He made simple rules. He liked beer on tap, the Red Sox, and Ella Fitzgerald—his favorite Irish singer, he called her. His father had told him once, shortly after Henry went into business for himself, “Never go to a lawyer’s office unless he’s working for you. And then only do it to cut time off his clock.” Henry heard the words plainly in his head as well.

  “I’m pretty busy right now. What is it you need?”

  “I wanted to talk over this problem George Duggan is having. Is there a time that would be more convenient?”

  “Sure. I go to the Blue Thorn in Inman Square quite a lot. You want to come by and talk to me there?”

  This was greeted with the same dead silence he had heard before. Henry wondered if he was on some kind of speaker phone and others might be listening.

  Finally, Mr. Boyle’s voice returned. “It would be more convenient if you could come into the office.”

  “Convenient for whom?”

  The silence returned briefly.

  “Will you be at the Blue Thorn tonight?”

  Tonight seemed rushed to Henry.

  “Tomorrow. I’m meeting a friend there tomorrow at three.”

  “Tomorrow then, at three.”

  The line went dead.

  Henry drifted back to sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The phone rang. Albert started speaking before Henry had the receiver to his ear.

  “Wake up, Romeo. I don’t want to meet the beast by myself.”

  Henry focused his eyes on the ceiling. “What time is it?”

  “Two-thirty. I thought you were going to be here early.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Henry dropped his clothes on the floor as he made his way to the shower, ignoring the ringing of the phone the second time. Turning the water to cold, he danced against the chill.

  He chose a freshly washed pair of jeans for the occasion.

  The phone rang again as he dressed. It was Barbara.

  “Do you want me to be there?”

  A mental picture of Barbara telling the lawyer he was a cretinous moron flashed through Henry’s mind. “No. Albert’s going to be there. He’ll protect me. I’m fine.”

  He told her he had to go.

  She hesitated. “Good luck .… Thanks.”

  He tried to remember when the last time was that she had said thanks to him. He could not remember her ever saying it to him before, and now she had said it twice within weeks.

  When he walked in the door of the Blue Thorn, Albert was already at the largest table beneath the overhead fan. Two other men sat with him, both beefy. Their suit jackets were off, showing wide suspenders over ironed and perfectly white shirts, their ties loose. They were all laughing. The loudest laugh, Henry guessed correctly, was coming from John Boyle. It looked like a gathering for a poker match.

  Boyle rose from the table and shook Henry’s hand. He was at least three inches taller than Henry, and perhaps as imposing as Albert—broad-shouldered and muscular. His head was shaved to a well-tanned dome. His hand was warm and dry.

  The other fellow was Ted Schultz, a specialist in copyright law, he was told. Schultz’s hand was wet from his beer glass, and he gripped too hard trying to make an impression. “How did you get stuck with this?” Boyle asked as they sat.

  “Doing a friend a favor. Barbara asked me. She was my boss once.” Something in Boyle’s squint implied that he knew there was more to it than friendship.

  Boyle went for the meat immediately. “What is it you think that Sharon Greene wants?” He was not going to waste any time. The voice was calm. It reminded Henry of his Uncle Jack. It was a professional gambler’s voice. Cold.

  Henry put his finger up for Tim to see, and then answered.

  “Just compensation, I think they call it. … She’s lost Jim. She doesn’t want his work to be lost. She was his researcher. And she is the beneficiary of James Frankowski’s estate. She has a substantial stake in it.”

  There was the slightest change in Boyle’s face, perhaps a loosening in the squint. Henry wondered if he had inadvertently revealed something in his answer.

  “And what do you think Barbara Kraus wants?”

  The very asking of Boyle’s question made Henry think there was more to it than the obvious. He would have to be careful. Boyle tilted his head and made marks with one finger in the condensation on his own glass of beer. A moment extra of thought was gained when Tim showed up with Henry’s usual pint.

  Henry sipped a mouthful off the top and swallowed slowly enough to savor the taste and irritate anyone who might be impatient. “Well, I’d say all Barbara wants is for Sharon to be compensated as well.”

  “Compensated? For what?” Boyle’s voice had not raised, but the question had the quality of a slap. Henry looked over at Ted Schultz. Schultz’s eyes were on the bubbles in his beer. Henry gave Albert a glance. Albert’s face was blank—just like it always was when he was in the middle of a major move as they played chess. Boyle’s eyes were on Henry’s.

  Henry took another long cool sip before speaking.

  “George Duggan has made a great deal of money from sales and rights to Dreams of Bithynia. The story was clearly taken from a work by James Frankowski. Sharon Greene would like financial compensation from George Duggan for that fact.”

  Henry was unhappy with the mechanical quality of his own delivery.

  Boyle moved his beer aside and set his elbow on the table, with his thick forearm filling the white sleeve and his starched cuff like a collar below his upright fist, a gold cuff link gleaming above the softer glow of a gold watch band.

  Boyle’s hand opened, fingers wide in the air. He turned the fingers down one by one. “Fact: Sharon Greene was not married to James Frankowski. “Fact: there is no evidence to show when the manuscript for Hannibal’s Dance was written. Fact: James Frankowski’s mother, his rightful heir, is very upset at this whole thing and is worried that her son’s good name may be damaged.” Henry noted that there was no depth to Boyle’s eyes—only the surface glaze of light, as if there were a second reptilian eyelid that was closed. The threat was completely contained in the single gesture of his forearm. Boyle’s voice was still cool. “But more importantly to me, is the fact that George Duggan’s name is in danger of being damaged. That damage could be worth a great deal of compensation.”

  Henry focused on the watch. It was an antique, rectangular. He had always liked the look of old watches. The hair on the back of Boyle’s hand extended onto each finger. He had not used his thumb in his demonstration.

  Henry set his own elbow on the table and held up his own hand, which he worried might appear slight by comparison, and then raised his thumb alone as if he were hitching a ride.

  “You forgot the fact that a wrong has been
done here, and there should be some fair compensation for that.”

  He lowered his thumb and grabbed his beer, drinking several mouthfuls before putting it down. Albert was smiling. Boyle’s face was blank.

  For reasons Henry was not sure of, they all left the Blue Thorn at the same time after Boyle had dropped a twenty dollar bill on the table, as if they had been in a conference room at a hotel and he were tipping the clean up crew.

  “I like the picture.” Albert said later, looking at the large photograph of Sasha on Henry’s living room wall.

  Henry asked, “So tell me what you were laughing about when I came in to the Blue Thorn?”

  Albert smiled. “A joke. Boyle told a joke. It was a lawyer joke. … Do I know that girl?” Albert looked harder at the picture. He sat forward. The couch frame groaned.

  “Yeah. You met her when I moved in last summer. She was the one who helped.” Henry unconsciously patted the pocket of his shirt for his cigarettes before remembering he had none.

  “Holy moly. That little thing …” Albert squinted. “I guess so. I wouldn’t have recognized her. But I ought to remind you, I know Boyle.”

  Albert looked out the window now as if he had said nothing at all.

  “How well?” Henry asked, just remembering Mrs. Murray words.

  “Like I said before. Just from high school at Boston Latin. But he’s a real shit. Don’t trust him. He was a shit then and he’s a shit now. … We both had Mrs. Murray for English in our junior year.”

  Henry considered this a moment as he leaned forward and picked up his bottle of beer from the floor.

  “What do you think he meant by what he said at the end?”

  Albert’s eyes had returned to the picture on the wall.

  “Are you seeing this girl? I thought you were seeing Della.” Albert used his half-empty bottle to point.

  “I am seeing Della … when she’s not seeing Bob. Do you think it was a threat?”