She glanced over her shoulder at me. “But
that
you believe is real. Gorman’s scam.”
“Sure. And I believe Roscoe probably ghosted that book for him; I’ll know for sure when I read it.”
She studied me.
I went on. “If Roscoe
did
ghost it, Gorman obviously wouldn’t want me, or anybody, poking around where Roscoe Kane is concerned, ’cause the scam might come out in the open—where, as Gat Garson would say, it’d unravel like a cheap sweater.”
“Wouldn’t it eventually come out anyway?”
“Timing here is everything. If the book goes to publication, and a controversy follows, so do major sales for the book. Years ago that happened with something called
The Search for Bridey Murphy
, which you’re too young to remember. But if the controversy precedes publication—if in fact, the hoax is exposed
before
publication—the book’s dead in the water. Pardon the expression. And so’s Gorman.”
“Wouldn’t people still want to read the thing?”
“Some people would; but not many. And it probably wouldn’t even go to press—the publisher would be too embarrassed about the incident. Remember the Clifford Irving/Howard Hughes ‘autobiography’?”
She turned over and faced me. “I see what you mean. And Gregg might’ve gotten concerned about his ghost, Kane, getting talkative... Kane
was
drinking heavily again, after all, and in public—and you did say Kane was talking wild in the bar, last night....”
I nodded. “And Gorman could’ve thought Roscoe’s loose lips might sink the Hammett ship—yeah. That’s a real possibility....”
“You’re not going to stop looking into this, are you, Mal?”
Bobby Darin was singing “Mack the Knife” in the background:
Oh, the shark, babe
...
“No,” I said. “I don’t have it in me to let this lie. I wish I did.”
“I’m glad you don’t.”
“I’m afraid, Kathy.”
“What of? Gorman and his goons?”
“Watch it,” I cautioned her. “Now you’re starting to sound like some dame in a Gat Garson novel.”
I motioned over at the cover painting against the wall; I’d turned it face out when we came in, earlier. In the half-light the girl on the
Murder Me Again, Doll
cover looked frighteningly like Kathy.
“After that scene in the alley,” she said, “I
feel
like a character in a Gat Garson novel.”
I put a hand on an ice-cream scoop. “You do at that.”
She smiled one-sidedly and said, “And I suppose you have Gat Garson’s recuperative powers?”
“Sexually speaking you mean?”
“Sexually speaking is exactly what I mean.”
“When Gat was asked something very similar, in
Death Is a Dame
, he said, ‘Baby, you could raise the dead.’ ”
“Why don’t you show me what happens next in a Kane novel, after such racy double-entendres ensue?”
“I can’t.”
“Oh?”
“No, doll. See, at this point Kane always fades out....”
Pretty soon I was being wakened by a light going on in the bathroom. I opened my eyes—or anyway, one eye—and saw Kathy in there, fully dressed, freshening up at the sink.
“Are you going somewhere?” I asked.
I gave her a start; wide-eyed, she said, “I, uh... need to go to Gorman’s party. Nightcaps after the movie, remember?”
I sat up in bed. “Why are you doing that, for Christ’s sake?”
She stood in the bathroom doorway, a silhouette against the light behind her. “He’s still my publisher, after all.”
I thought about that.
Then said, “What are you up to?”
“I have to make an appearance,” she said.
“Noir
’s important to me....”
She was passing by the bed, and I latched onto her wrist. Not hard. But hard enough to stop her.
“You’re not that crass,” I said. “You’re pissed about what those angels of his did to us, and you’re up to something.
What?
”
She pulled her arm away from my grip.
“Go to sleep,” she said.
“What are you up to?”
“Can I have a key so I can come back and join you, later? Or would you rather I slept in my own room?”
“Don’t leave, Kathy. Just stay put.”
Very firmly she said, “Can I have a key, Mal?”
“There’s one on the dresser. Take it. Want me to go with you?”
“So you can punch Gregg in the stomach again? No thanks. Trust me on this, Mal.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head no.
“Well,” I said. “Have fun.”
Wry smile #892. “See what I can do. Mal?”
“Yeah?”
“Before we got... sidetracked, you said... said you were afraid. What of?”
“Oh. Nothing.”
“Come on. Spill.”
I shrugged. “Finding Roscoe’s killer, if there is such a person. It’s not going to make anything right, you know. That’s when it’s really going to hit me. That Roscoe’s dead and all my fancy footwork didn’t really do him any good.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause it isn’t true. Do you
really
think Gat Garson would want this mystery left unsolved?”
I smiled uneasily. “I guess not. Or Roscoe either.”
“Right. I’ll see you a little later.”
And she was gone.
I tried to go back to sleep, without much luck. I checked the TV, and there was an old Bowery Boys movie on—
Dig That Uranium
—and I watched it and, God bless Huntz Hall and Leo Gorcey, I forgot my problems (except during the interminable commercials, during one spate of which I slipped some trousers on and went out and got a couple of cans of 7-Up from the machine down the hall).
I was still watching when the door opened and Kathy came back in. She had something under her arm.
“What you got there?” I asked, sitting in my shorts, Leo Gorcey beating Huntz Hall over the head with his hat, on the glowing tube behind me.
“You said you thought you’d read too many mystery novels,” she said, tossing something at me. “Think you got it in you to read one more?”
It was a manuscript, in a brown folder. A photocopy of a manuscript, that is; running over two hundred pages.
“Be done with that by morning, will you?” she said, getting ready for bed by climbing out of her clothes and crawling in.
On the title page of the manuscript, it said, “
The Secret Emperor
by Dashiell Hammett.”
She snored.
I read.
SATURDAY
The Bouchercon folks had switched me from one panel (“The State of the Mystery”) at nine o’clock to another panel (“Whither the Private Eye”) at eleven. So, because I’d been up most of the night reading, I slept in till ten. Kathy was up and gone when I awoke; so was the Hammett manuscript. But she’d left a note saying she’d gone back to her room to make herself presentable for the day.
I called her.
“I’d just about given up on you,” she said.
“I was up all night with a good book.”
“So it
is
good?”
“Very. But that’s all I’d care to say about it for the moment.”
“Be that way. I, uh, returned it to Gregg.”
“How did he happen to have a copy of it along, anyway?”
“He didn’t, exactly. It was a copy that G. Roger Donaldson returned to Gregg.”
“Oh, yeah? Why did Donaldson have a copy?”
“He and Gregg are thick, I understand. I never met Donaldson—he was supposed to be at the party last night, but he didn’t show. Anyway, Donaldson is one of the ‘experts’ who verified the work as legitimate Hammett for Gregg. Gregg had some heavy people in the field put their opinions in writing, so he could attach copies when he sent the manuscript around to the various major publishers last month, for auction.”
“What’s Donaldson’s connection to Gorman?”
“Gregg’s publishing a book by Donaldson.”
That didn’t sound right. “What’s a big name like Donaldson doing with a small publisher like Mystery House?”
“It’s a collection of short stories; Donaldson’s regular publisher declined it—you know how that goes, short-story collections being notoriously poor sellers.”
“So you sneaked the manuscript out of Gorman’s room last night, huh? Nice work.”
“Nothing so subversive as that. Gregg gave it to me so I could do an advance write-up for
Noir
. I told him last night I was hyper-anxious to see
The Secret Emperor
and asked him to let me read it overnight.”
“I appreciate this, Kathy.”
“Then buy me breakfast. Meet you outside the coffee shop?”
I beat her down there. Sardini, looking pale and bleary-eyed, approached me; his shirt was tucked in, which was quite an accomplishment for a guy who’d obviously had even less sleep than I had.
“Where’d you disappear to last night?” he asked.
“Us country folk know how to have us a good time in the big city.”
“You couldn’t’ve had a good time last night without us knowing about it. Ed and I must’ve hit every bar in the Loop.”
Ed Charterman, eyes behind his wire-frame glasses looking almost as bleary as Tom’s, wandered up to us; he was a New York editor who’d been at several publishing houses, and was one of the better editors in the business—an opinion I held despite his never having bought anything of mine.
He dug some cigarettes out from the pocket of his plaid shirt, smirked and nodded at us (which meant hello) and had a cigarette for breakfast.
“You gonna join us?” Charterman asked me, motioning toward the Gazebo.
“I would,” I said, “but I only eat with editors who buy my stories.”
He shrugged, gave me a pleasantly cynical smile. “You must pay for most of your own meals.”
Kathy exited the elevators and waved at me and headed our way; under his breath, Sardini said, “You country boys do know how to have a good time in the big city.”
“Easy,” I said. “That’s the woman I love you’re talking about.” Funny thing was, I think I meant it.
Kathy was wearing another
Noir
shirt, a red polo shirt with the deco lettering in white, and white jeans.
I introduced everybody (both Tom and Ed knew Kathy by name and rep but never met her before) and we went in for breakfast, taking one of the covered booths at the far side of the place.
Breakfast conversation was pleasant, but superficial; Tom didn’t mention Roscoe Kane’s death, but he did tell me that my two run-ins with Gorman were the talk of the convention. Kathy shot me a furtive look, wondering if I’d tell about our angelic visitation last night outside of Gino’s. I didn’t.
“Do me a favor,” Tom said, “and check with Mae Kane for me. She isn’t answering her phone, and I don’t want to go knocking on her door at a time like this. But I need to make sure she’s at the PWA awards this afternoon, to accept that Life Achievement Award for her husband.”
“She’ll be there,” I said.
“And I’d like you to present the award. Sorry for the short notice—”
“I’d be upset if I
didn’t
get to present this award. I won’t pretend otherwise.”
Across the coffee shop, a short, broad-shouldered man in a lime-colored blazer and black slacks, a dark green handkerchief in the blazer pocket, sauntered toward us. He had thinning reddish blond hair, and a round face and a full beard; he looked like a cross between Ernest Hemingway and one of the Beach Boys.
I’d never met this man but I recognized him, from his bookjackets and TV appearances.
“G. Roger Donaldson,” I said.
He came up to us and smiled tightly, meaninglessly, at Tom, Ed and me, then focused on Kathy.
“You’d be Ms. Wickman,” he said. He had a clipped voice, like every word was the last squeeze out of a toothpaste tube.
“That’s right,” Kathy said, smiling, impressed. “And you’d be G. Roger Donaldson.”
He nodded; no “Call me Roger.” Not even call me “G.”
But Kathy was awestruck; she tried to stand up in the booth, which wasn’t easy, but she was short enough to sort of accomplish it. Reaching across our breakfasts, they shook hands.
In his measured way, Donaldson delivered the following speech: “I just wanted to say how perceptive I thought your comments were on my current novel. It amazes me how my simple imaginative constructs can so mystify some critics. Your critique, on the other hand, was right on target.”
And with a courtly little bow, he moved off to a side table, and sat and waved a waiter over for coffee.
Kathy was beaming. “What a nice thing to say. Elegant man.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Real elegant of him to agree with your rave of his new book.” Despite many accolades for all of his books, Donaldson was beginning to slip in the estimation of some critics.
“You’re just jealous,” she said.
“Yeah,” Tom said, “you wish you had a sports coat like that.”
“Actually,” Charterman said, “he wishes he could
afford
a sports coat like that.”
I couldn’t disagree.
Kathy wasn’t through. “Why do you dislike Donaldson so much, Mal?”
“I don’t dislike him. I never met him—including just now, if you were paying attention. But I do dislike what he represents—pompous posturing in a field best known for straightforward storytelling.”
“I liked his first books—” Tom shrugged. He was concentrating more on his plate of pancakes than this conversation.
“In fairness,” I said, “I have to admit I never finished a Donaldson novel. The tortured similes and the neo-macho attitudes were too much for me. I have no time for a mystery writer who wants to be Norman Mailer when he grows up. As a matter of fact, I have no time for Norman Mailer, who after all wants to be Ernest Hemingway when he grows up. And I even get impatient with Hemingway, ’cause he obviously wanted to be Joseph Conrad when
he
grew up....”
Charterman, cutting some bacon, said, “Stop him before he gets to Chaucer, or this’ll turn into Darwin’s theory of evolution.”
Kathy folded her arms and gave me a look of mock irritation. “Could we go now? I don’t think I want to be seen with a writer who wants to be Roscoe Kane when he grows up.”
Tom said, “Who wants to grow up?” and kept eating his pancakes.
We went to the Gold Room; the panel was due to start in fifteen minutes. In the front row of the massive high-ceilinged
ornate room, Kathy found a seat just a few feet from the stage, across which stretched a long table decorated with microphones and glasses of water.