by Cameron Judd
“What can I do for you, Mr. Kenton?” The fellow sounded oddly reticent.
“I’d like to meet Mr. Jason Bell,” Kenton replied.
“Jason Bell, the editor?”
“What? You have more than one Jason Bell?”
“No … no. Uh, do you have an appointment, Mr. Kenton?”
An appointment? Kenton hadn’t expected that one. People normally threw appointment calendars out the window when offered a chance to meet the famous Kenton.
“I have no appointment. But if you’ll announce me, I’m sure Mr. Bell will be pleased to see me.”
“Pardon me, sir. I’ll go tell him. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I assure you, I’ll stay put.”
The skinny man rose and turned to go back into the building, but paused long enough to again retrieve the newspaper. He folded it under his arm and scurried off.
Kenton resettled his coat, feeling perplexed by the man’s odd manner.
A few moments later, the man was back, minus the newspaper. He looked darkly at Kenton and said, curtly, “Come on back, sir. Mr. Bell has kindly agreed to adjust his schedule and see you.”
“How kind of him.”
Bell’s office was a floor below Darian’s, in a corner, and very dusty. Its only window looked out onto the brick wall of the building next door. Papers and books and magazines and manuscripts were piled about the office.
Bell was short, rumpled, and shaped like his name. He stood behind his overflowing desk and looked at Kenton the way a man looks at a carnival barker.
Kenton was beginning to feel a little off balance, as if everyone but himself were in on some piece of secret information.
“My name is Bell, Mr. Kenton. Have a seat.”
Kenton slid into the only chair in the room not piled with papers. “Thank you, sir.”
Bell eyed him with obvious suspicion. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to you about a novel that, I believe, you recently began publishing.”
“Which one? I’ve got two in publication currently.”
“I’m speaking of The Grand Deception.”
“Oh, yes. Written by Horatio Brady.”
“A pen name, I assume.”
“Some of our novels are written under pen names. Others are published under actual names.”
“What about The Grand Deception?”
“I’m not free to say, Mr. Kenton. Our contracts provide the strictest privacy for our authors.”
Kenton glanced at the desk, reached over, and picked up a copy of what was obviously a book contract, albeit not for the one that concerned him. “I see that your concern for privacy governs everything you do, Mr. Bell.”
Bell, with obvious irritation, reached over and snatched the contract out of Kenton’s hands. He turned, scooted a stack of books to one side, and began to manipulate the dial on a small shelf safe. Bell’s wide body blocked most of Kenton’s view, but Kenton saw enough of the inside of the safe to realize that he’d just spotted the depository for Bell’s contracts.
Bell slammed the door shut again, twisted the dial, and turned to face Kenton again. “May I ask the grounds for your interest in this novel, sir?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“What do you want to know about it?”
“How it ends. Who wrote it. And the origins of its plot.”
“Out of the question. Our novels are published in segments, and no one but the author and the editor have access to the full manuscript.”
“But I’m sure, sir, that you make some exceptions.”
“None.”
“Come now … we’re both professionals. You do know who I am, I presume?”
“I know you. I was reading about you only this morning, in fact.”
Reading about him? “Well, then … you’ll allow me a bit of discretion, bend the rules, perhaps…”
“Mr. Kenton, I must ask you to leave.”
Kenton was shocked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I must ask you to leave, sir. And please, if you have any notions of throwing me out of the window as well, be aware that we have a security officer in this building who will respond at once to my first call.”
Kenton blinked twice, something coming clear. “Mr. Bell, when you said you were reading about me this morning, what were you referring to?”
Bell reached into the pile on his desk and pulled out the same folded newspaper the receptionist had brought back to him. He tossed it to Kenton.
Kenton opened it and went pale. Beneath the byline of one J. B. Haddockson was a lengthy story with a screaming headline:
FAMED JOURNALIST BRADY KENTON VISITS DENVER, GOES ON RAMPAGE OF ASSAULT AND WINDOW-SMASHING!
Beneath it was a smaller deck head:
DENVER POLICE HAVE QUESTIONS FOR VANDALIZING WORDSMITH.
CHAPTER 17
“OH, dear Lord,” Kenton said.
“Surely you’re aware of this story, sir.”
“I was not.”
“I suggest you leave … if the police are in fact interested in talking to you, I might be interested in helping them meet you.”
“You have a nasty disposition, Mr. Bell,” Kenton said, standing.
“Just leave, sir. That would be best. Just leave, and I’ll not call the police.”
“Well. Aren’t you a saint.”
Kenton went to the door, then paused. Turning, he said, “We’ve quickly gotten off on the wrong foot, Mr. Bell. Perhaps it’s my fault, and perhaps I was presumptuous to ask you to divulge private information. But you must understand that my reasons are compelling. I wouldn’t ask if there was not a highly important reason.”
“I simply can’t help you, Mr. Kenton.”
“It may be that this novel contains clues to a loved one I lost long ago, and who for years I was sure was dead.”
Bell actually took a backward step, and Kenton knew he’d just come across as a man at least mildly insane. “Mr. Kenton, please go.”
Kenton turned.
Bell said, “It’s only a novel, Mr. Kenton. Really. Just a serial novel … not even among the best we’ve done.”
One last try. “You’ll not even tell me the author’s name? Privately, between you and me?”
“I can’t. I’m bound by the terms of our contract.”
“May I at least have your copy of that newspaper?”
“Take it.”
Kenton left the building as fast as he could, and walked down the street looking like a hunted man.
When he entered the rented room, Alex Gunnison was there with a copy of the same newspaper.
“Kenton, we’ve got a problem.”
Kenton tossed his own copy onto the floor.
“Yes. We certainly do.”
* * *
Night, clouds overhead, thunder rumbling off in the distance.
Alex Gunnison was on the streets, looking for Brady Kenton, barroom to barroom. No luck so far, and Gunnison was worried.
He was beginning to consider checking the police station.
Kenton had been in a state ever since he’d come back from the offices of the American Popular Library. Gunnison didn’t blame him. Kenton was in trouble, and his trouble had the potential to spread beyond a simple local police problem. The story of Kenton’s assault would spread, eventually to the Illustrated American. Kenton’s job might be pulled away from him.
Kenton had vanished about sunset, without explanation. When he hadn’t returned a couple of hours later, Gunnison had been left to theorize about what was going on. Maybe Kenton had gotten arrested. Maybe the insane Englishwoman Rachel Frye had found him and murdered him, as she’d murdered those folks in Texas. Maybe Kenton had headed back to the bottle again. Maybe he’d decided to break into the Popular Library office and try to steal what he’d been denied earlier …
… Might he really have done that?
Gunnison stopped in the middle of the street, suddenly more worried than ever.
He headed for the American Popular Library offices as fast as he could go.
* * *
The building was dark, locked up. No sign of a night watchman. Gunnison circled it, looking at the windows on each level, trying to make out any sign of interior light. He also quietly checked the side doors and lower-level windows to see if any had been left open, or perhaps pried open.
He rounded the rear of the building. It was extremely dark back here. Only one door.
Gunnison rattled the door … it swung open.
He stood there, not sure what to do. Maybe it had been accidentally left open at the end of the day. Maybe it was simply an entrance into a storeroom, not really an access into the building.
On the other hand, maybe Brady Kenton had pried it open.
Gunnison whispered a quick prayer for the protection of fools, and entered.
He seemed to be in a hallway. It was so black, however, that he had to feel his way. He reached another wall, found another door, opened it.
He was in another hallway now. It was short, though, and ended with him facing another door. There Gunnison paused, trying to decide what to do. He could be in great trouble for having entered this building. What if there was a night watchman after all? How would he explain his trespassing?
The door before him was unlocked. He swung it open, wincing at the loud creak it made. He stepped onto the staircase and began to climb. Though he tried to walk softly, every footfall seemed to hammer and echo.
His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, however, and it was easier to move about. He was also feeling fairly sure that there was no night security here, meaning that if he didn’t betray his presence by the careless showing of a light or the making of excess noise, he should be able to explore undetected.
The stairs came to an end and he faced another door. To his surprise, this one as well was unlocked. And there seemed to be something odd about the workings of the lock.
After looking around to make sure there were no windows immediately at hand, he pulled out matches and struck one. By its light he studied the lock and latchwork. It had been forced, the marks still visible.
He shook out the match, fast. But as he did so, he glanced down the hall, and let out a little yell of fright as he made out what he was nearly sure was the shape of a man standing there …
Gunnison advanced backward, eyes on the dark and unmoving figure.
“Kenton?” Gunnison whispered.
The answering voice came from directly behind him, and made him yell out loud and leap a good four feet straight ahead.
“Talking to hat strands, Alex?”
After his leap, Gunnison wheeled so fast that he stumbled and fell on his rump.
“Kenton! Are you trying to make my heart fail me?”
“I’m ashamed of you, Alex, breaking into a building after dark. Don’t you know this is illegal?”
Gunnison rose. “Oh, that’s a rich comment, coming from you. I’ve been looking for you ever since it got dark, Kenton. I was afraid you were dead, or arrested, or drunk … or doing this.”
“I’m sure you disapprove.”
“What’s the point of my saying so? You’re here. You’ve made your choice.”
“So have you.”
“Yes. But we both can leave.”
“Or we could stay. Alex, I didn’t make the decision to enter the building lightly. I stood outside that back door for two hours before I decided to do it.
“You told me not to take you seriously when you talked of breaking and entering.”
“Well … I suppose that when I told you that, you shouldn’t have taken me seriously.”
“Kenton, if we get caught…”
“You can leave. You should leave. I can do this alone.”
“You can’t. If you’re caught, your job and your reputation will be demolished.”
“I’m far along that road already,” Kenton replied. “I’m already known across Denver, and soon across the nation, as a drunk who heaves other folks through barroom windows.”
“So don’t make it worse by becoming a second-story man.”
“There’s always the alternative of not getting caught. I’m going through with this, Alex. You needn’t.”
Gunnison hesitated, then said, “I know. But what the devil. I’m here.”
“You’re willing to help me?”
“God help me, I think I am.”
Kenton slapped him on the shoulder. “Good man, Alex. You always play the right hand when a lot is at stake. Let’s get this done and get out of here.”
CHAPTER 18
KENTON and Gunnison crept through the building, using what dim light was available to them. Though he was reasonably sure the building was empty except for himself and Kenton, Gunnison all but tiptoed along, and kept holding his breath despite himself.
“How are we going to get into the office?” Gunnison asked in a whisper. “He’ll have locked his door, won’t he?”
“Not necessarily,” Kenton replied. “How many times does your father lock his office door at the Illustrated American?”
“Never.”
“Right. People feel secure in their own office buildings. Right at the corner here … yes. That door. That’s Bell’s office. I’ll bet you ten dollars the door is unlocked, and give you the privilege of trying the knob.”
Gunnison did. “Locked.”
“What? Really?”
“Afraid so. Ten dollars, Kenton. Right now. Then let’s get out of here.”
“We never shook hands on that bet, Alex.”
“So the bet is off?”
“No handshake, no bet.”
“Glad to hear it. Because I lied about the door being locked.”
Gunnison turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“Alex, you’re a scoundrel after my own heart.”
Gunnison stepped inside. “Lord, Kenton, this place is a mess. How do you hope to find anything?”
“I’m counting on my ever-present good luck.”
“With the kind of luck you’ve had, we’ll both wind up in the Denver jail. Wait! Why are you striking a light? That will be seen from the outside!”
“Not if you’ll adjust that curtain a bit, and we keep the light cranked low and at floor level.”
Gunnison got the curtain fully closed just as Kenton struck a match. He lighted a small candle on Bell’s desk, and lowered it below window level.
“Exactly what are we looking for, Kenton? The manuscript?”
“If we can find it. If not, maybe some fragments, notes, an outline, the contract, whatever. I want mostly to see the ending of the story. If not that, the name of the author.”
“I’ll start digging.”
“Look for the manuscript. I know where I can probably find the contract.”
Kenton went to the shelf that held the small safe into which Bell had placed the contract. Moving books and general clutter aside, he revealed the safe’s front. Kneeling, wriggling his fingers, he held the candle near the dial and began to manipulate it.
“You know the combination?” Gunnison asked.
“I tried to catch as much of it as I could. Bell kept his fat self partly in the way, so I’m not certain…”
Gunnison realized he was holding his breath again.
“Blast!” Kenton exclaimed.
“It didn’t work?”
“I’ll try again.”
Gunnison watched as Kenton twisted the dial once more. A tug on the handle, though, showed the safe was still locked.
“So much for that,” Kenton said, standing. “I’m disappointed. I’d hoped I could find out the real name of the author. And maybe an address.”
“That may all be on the manuscript,” Gunnison said. “Let’s take a look … but we need to be careful not to disturb anything.”
Kenton nodded and moved back into place the materials he’d removed from the front of the safe.
Gunnison began looking through the stacks of papers on the
desk. He found notes, scribblings, doodles, letters, and several manuscripts, but all of the latter were apparently rejected ones ready to be mailed back to their writers, and none of the letters pertained to The Grand Deception.
Kenton, meanwhile, was digging about, as well, his frustration obviously growing.
“That idiot Bell obviously keeps his manuscripts under publication with him, or locked up somewhere we can’t find them,” Kenton said.
“Then maybe he’s not an idiot,” Gunnison replied.
Kenton swore and slammed a stack of papers off the edge of the desk.
“Kenton! Good lord, man, do you want someone to hear us?”
“I’ve seen no evidence of a night watchman.”
“We don’t know that there isn’t one. And look what you’ve done there. We’ll never get those papers back in the order they were! Bell will know somebody’s been here!”
Kenton swore again, being unable to deny Gunnison’s point. He squatted and began picking up the papers he’d scattered, looking through them, trying to figure out if there had been any order to them.
Gunnison froze. “Kenton, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“I think there’s somebody else in this building.”
Kenton looked worried, and cocked his head slightly, turning his ear toward the open door. “I don’t hear anything.”
“I did. On the floor above. I think maybe there’s a watchman after all.”
“Blast!” Kenton began piling the papers back on the desk in a mad rush. He’d heard it, too, this time.
“Get behind that desk, Alex,” Kenton ordered. He threw the last of the papers back onto the desk and snuffed out the candle.
“Behind the desk? How about out the door!”
“Hush! Hide … we might be able to get away with this yet.”
* * *
One floor up, a red-eyed William Darian groaned and looked around his dark office.
What was he doing here? Why was it dark? Where had everybody gone?
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at his desktop. On it sat a half-empty whiskey bottle, an overturned glass.
Oh, no, he thought. I’ve done it again.
He knew he drank too much, knew he was a fool to keep a bottle hidden in his desk, and a greater fool yet to sometimes take a nip or two at the end of the day. He’d lock his door, of course, keep it all hidden and secret … but one day he’d get caught.
