by Jim Thompson
Nothing could be changed. Everything must remain as it was.
It was strange how much she had meant to me, and still meant to me. So much, much more than Ellen had, although I had known Deborah for a total of hardly two days. I don’t mean that I hadn’t loved Ellen or that I wasn’t sorry about her. But I had loved Deborah in a different way, and I was sorry about her in a different way.
I suppose…Well, it may have been because of Deborah’s admitted and undebatable need for me. She needed me, and no one but me could fill that need. I did not feel that Ellen had needed me. She insisted that she did, childishly and stubbornly, but I was confident that she didn’t. I had always felt that I bored Ellen a little, that she resented my modest mental attributes. I was certain that, if she chose to, she could have been much happier with someone else.
Deborah…
How could I have done it, merely to—to—win a game?
…I ran into Tom Judge a couple of times.
The first instance was about a week after his release from jail. He advised me that he was “chief rewrite man” on the Pacific City Neighborhood News. He was doing all right, by God. He was pulling down a hell of a lot more than he’d ever got on that lousy Courier, and I could tell that to Lovelace the first time I saw him.
I congratulated him and promised to deliver the message. I walked on, considerably depressed. The Neighborhood News was printed in a job shop. It was circulated free once-a-week, providing the publisher sold enough advertising to make its issuance worthwhile.
The second time I saw him was something more than two weeks later, the same day I heard from Constance Wakefield (of whom much more and soon).
The News publisher, it appeared, had tried to get smart with Tom, and Tom had told him where to get off. Tom didn’t take any guff from anyone, a fact which—as he pointed out—I knew as well as he did. He didn’t have to take any guff; maybe some guys did, but he sure as hell didn’t. He was now working as an ACCOUNT EXECUTIVE (capitals, please) for a radio station…and could I let him have a ten-spot? Just until the ol’ commissions started rolling?
I gave him twenty.
I returned to the office and went to work on the copy for Around the Town With Clinton Brown. Thinking about Tom. Feeling that I should do something to help him.
I can’t honestly say that I wanted to help him. I had never liked him—and I still didn’t—and I had missed few opportunities to give him the needle. Tom and the needle were made for each other. One could not, at least I could not, see the first without seeking the second. Apart, their situation seemed abnormal and there was an irresistible urge to set it aright. They were natural inseparables, like lead and zinc or Kay and mayonnaise.
Still, despite my dislike for him, I wished there was some way of getting him back on the Courier. I was at least indirectly responsible for his discharge, and, strange as it may seem, I rather missed him.
But there was no way I could think of. And if I did manage to get him reinstated he probably wouldn’t last long. It was too bad, but it was that way, so that’s the way it was.
My phone rang. A straight call from the outside, since there was no accompanying “Hey, Brownie,” from the city desk.
I picked up a pencil, lifted the headset from the receiver hook, and said, “Brown, Courier.”
“How do you do, Mr. Brown,” said a reedy but somehow resonant voice. “This is Constance Wakefield.”
“Miss?…Yes, Miss Wakefield.”
“You may have heard of my—our books, Mr. Brown. I am the owner-editor of Wakefield House, the Los Angeles publishers. I have—”
“I’ll tell you, Miss Wakefield,” I said. “I believe the Brown you want is in our advertising department. If you’ll just hold on a—”
“I wanted Mr. Clinton Brown. That’s you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid—”
“It’s concerning a manuscript of yours. A collection of poems.”
The pencil slid from my fingers. I picked it up again, slowly turning it end over end.
“Miss Wakefield,” I said. “Did you say—?”
“Your wife left it with me, Mr. Brown. That is to say, your late wife.”
19
Constance Wakefield.…
Age about forty. Height about five feet eight. Weight about one hundred and five.
She was all long, bony legs and long, thin, bony wrists and hands. One of those straight-up-and-down women, reminiscent of a stovepipe in almost every detail but warmth. Erect. Aloof. Sallow. Nearsighted and asthmatic.
Constance Wakefield.
I don’t have her catalogued yet, and I doubt that I ever will. I can’t say, positively, whether she was merely greedy and naïve or an outright blackmailer. Probably…but, no, I don’t think I shall make even a qualified declaration on this point. Our talk was hedged about so much that any conclusion would be largely surmise.
I can say that whatever her intentions were, they boded very serious danger for me. Also that the subsidy publishing business—wherein hopeful amateurs are induced to pay for the publication of their work—is riddled with racketeers.
There was a convention in Pacific City that week—some fraternal order, I believe—and the lobby of her hotel was packed. I pushed my way through it to the stairs, mounted them to the fourth floor, and was admitted to her room.
I didn’t think I’d attracted any attention, nor would it matter greatly if I had. I look in on all conventions in the interests of the Courier. I could have been doing that.
So that was one risk taken care of. As for her telephone call to the Courier, well, that, I was very glad to hear, had not been made from her room. She’d been looking forward so much to meeting me—she said. (And she said it almost as soon as I stepped through the door.) So she’d called me from the lobby, from a booth, immediately after registering; she simply couldn’t wait until she got upstairs. And—a pale smirk—wasn’t that terrible of her?
We sat down, and she fumbled a cigarette into a long imitation-ivory holder. I leaned forward with a match and she jerked away, startled. Then she accepted the light quickly and drew away again.
She wore two pair of glasses, one over the other. She peered at me through them, her eyes bulging behind the lenses like watery oysters. “I—I’ve had your manuscript for some time, Mr. Brown.” She coughed and wiped her lips with a yellowish handkerchief. “It’s not something that one could publish without a great deal of thought.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t imagine it would be.”
“My first decision was to return it to your wife. In fact, I called her and asked that she come in and pick it up. But she never came, and when I called again she’d moved from that address, so”—another smirk, rather nervous—“I held onto it.”
“That was very considerate of you,” I said. “You’d have been justified in throwing it away.”
The oysters squirmed slightly. I gave them a pleasant smile.
“Well—uh—of course, I couldn’t have done that, Mr. Brown. Manuscripts are precious things. Always entitled to respect and conscientious treatment, regardless of one’s approval or disapproval.”
“I see,” I said. “Am I correct in assuming, Miss Wakefield, that you wish to publish those poems?”
“Well, uh, naturally they would have to have a great deal of editing.”
“Yes,” I said. “I should think they would.”
“Much more than Mrs. Brown gave them—that is, I assume that it was she. The meter is rather—uh—unsteady and there are a number of misspellings and—uh—so on.”
“I see.” I nodded; and that was one mystery cleared up.
I’d wondered about that, how she could have brought herself to show those “nasty, filthy poems” to anyone. Now I knew.
Poor Ellen. She’d probably slaved all of a couple of hours over the things, her child’s face puckered in concentration, lips moving with the scratching of her pencil. She’d show Mister Brownie she wasn’t so dumb. Yes, and he w
ouldn’t get a single penny of her imminent riches.
Miss Wakefield wheezed suddenly and coughed with a strangled, rasping sound. Her handkerchief moved quickly to her lips.
“Excuse me, Mr. Brown. This low coastal area—ahummm—I—hmmm—aah—find breathing very difficult. Now, returning to your manuscript—”
“I was about to ask,” I said, “whether you’d shown it around any.”
“Shown—shown it around?”
“To your editorial staff, say. Or do you do all your own reading?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “Yes, I do all my own reading, Mr. Brown. To be perfectly frank, I have no staff, editorial or otherwise. My business is such that I can handle everything nicely by myself.”
I was quite sure that it was, but I was glad to hear her say so. The “vanity” publisher is generally not so much publisher as printing salesman. All he needs to start in business is an office and a printing-house connection.
“No,” Miss Wakefield went on, “no one has read the poems but me, Mr. Brown. No one whatsoever. I…I—uh—it might be, of course, that I shall want to seek an outside opinion as to their merit, but—”
“Yes?”
“But only in the event I contemplated publishing them on a straight royalty basis as opposed to our co-operative plan. You see my position, Mr. Brown? I naturally couldn’t assume the entire financial cost of the enterprise without making reasonably sure of the book’s salability.”
“You shouldn’t do it, anyway, Miss Wakefield,” I said. “In all fairness to you, I couldn’t let you take such a gamble on an unknown author. Just what would my share of the co-operation come to under your co-operative plan?”
“Well”—she had the grace to blush a little—“that would be governed by, uh, various factors.”
“Just for the printing, say. And, of course, your own time and expenses.”
“Well…two thous—eighteen hundred? Fifteen hundred, Mr. Brown?”
The fifteen hundred was it, apparently. She wasn’t going any lower. And while I didn’t propose to give her anything, I felt a show of reluctance was in order.
“Isn’t that rather high, Miss Wakefield?”
“I don’t think so.” Her voice had firmed. “I think it is quite reasonable. Under the circumstances.
“The circumstances?”
“The circumstances. I have had the manuscript under study for several months. I have laid tentative plans for its publication and promotion. I have made this trip to Pacific City to see you. In short, Mr. Brown, I have already made a substantial investment in the book.”
She nodded righteously, emphasizing the gesture with a phlegmish wheeze. The handkerchief went up and down again, and she went on: “Yes, Mr. Brown, I believe fifteen hundred dollars is extremely reasonable. For that modest sum you retain the undivided rights to the book and all profits accruing therefrom.”
“Providing,” I said, “there are any.”
“Naturally. No publisher can guarantee that a book will be successful. I do believe, however, that this one stands a very good chance, Mr. Brown. I am so strongly of that opinion that I am almost of a mind to publish it on a straight royalty basis, without the customary subsidy. After all, there has been a great deal of publicity about these—hummm—so-called Sneering Slayer murders, and a manuscript by the husband of one of the victims—”
“Just a minute,” I said. “Let’s make a supposition, Miss Wakefield. Let’s suppose that I demand the immediate return of that manuscript.”
“Do you?”
“Not at all. A mere hypothesis.”
“We-ell…I look on it this way, Mr. Brown. Your name is not on the manuscript, but Mrs. Brown said it was yours and in the absence of any contrary proof—any, uh, dispute—I would feel justified in assuming that you were the author. On the other hand—”
“Yes,” I said. “On the other hand, Miss Wakefield?”
“I have an investment in the manuscript, made in good faith. If I should find myself threatened with the loss of that investment—if, that is, you should demand the return of the poems—I think I should insist upon proof that they were yours.”
Very neat, no? Despite my personal involvement in the situation, I felt a sneaky admiration for the old girl.
“Do you have the manuscript with you, Miss Wakefield?”
“It is in the hotel safe, Mr. Brown. Manuscripts are such precious things. I live in dread that one may be burned up or lost or—uh—”
“I’d like to go through it with you,” I said. “Why don’t I pick you up in my car this evening, and we can drive out some place for dinner? I—”
“Please!” The oysters did vigorous sit-ups. “Thank you so much, Mr. Brown, but I’m afraid it would be impossible. I’m not at all a well woman. I require a great deal of rest even after the light sedentary duties of a quiet day. And in the damp—ahhh-hummm—night air.…Unthinkable, Mr. Brown. Now, I could have the manuscript brought up here, or we might examine it in the lobby.”
“It’s not important,” I said, “and I imagine you’d rather not, wouldn’t you? As long as any doubt remains about our future relations?”
“Well, yes, Mr. Brown. I think I would like to have a definite commitment before”—wheeze, cough, and handkerchief—“before turning the manuscript over to you for—uh—study and revision.”
“I understand. Now I don’t know—it’s just possible that I might not be able to do the revisions to my own satisfaction. I might prefer to leave the book unpublished rather than have it be a discredit to me.”
“Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t be! I’m confident you can do a wonderful job, Mr. Brown.”
“But the other possibility exists, Miss Wakefield. What would be your attitude if it materialized?”
“We-well—” She hesitated quite a bit over that one. “Of course, I already have an investment in the project. My time and—uh—expenses. And, of course, the typesetting and the time on the printing presses must be contracted for in advance…”
Very good again, no? If it was blackmail—and I was by no means sure that it was—it would be very hard to prove.
“I—uh—believe I would have to declare your money forfeit, Mr. Brown. I would be compelled to.”
“Naturally. Certainly,” I said. “Well…fifteen hundred dollars, eh?”
“I’m sure you can obtain it, Mr. Brown. I—uh—due to the nature of this business, I am forced to inquire into a prospective author’s financial situation, and your wife was quite helpful. I understand that you draw a comfortable salary—one which might be borrowed against substantially—and you have a pension and a car and a quantity of furniture. And, doubtless, there are friends who would—”
“Yes,” I said, “I think I can probably—How long were you going to be in town, Miss Wakefield? I suppose you want to conclude the transactions before you leave?”
She said that was exactly what she wanted to do. Travel was expensive and a serious drain on her energies, and there was really nothing to be gained—was there?—by delay. “Today is Monday. I would have to leave here no later than Friday night. I—uh—I wouldn’t care to go to greater expense, and I have an appointment with my doctor in Los Angeles on Saturday morning.”
“I’m sure I can get it by Friday,” I said. “It may be rather late in the day, since I have to work. But—”
“Oh?” She frowned. “I hope it wouldn’t be very late. If I don’t check out of my room by five, I have to pay for another day.”
“I’ll keep in touch with you,” I said. “If it should happen that I couldn’t meet you until after five, you could check out and wait for me in the lobby. Or you could have your dinner here while you’re waiting.”
“Ye-es, I could do that. But is there a train—?”
“There’s one at six-thirty, nine, and eleven-thirty. Of course, you’d be on your way long before eleven-thirty.”
I wasn’t just woofing, as Stukey would say. Constance Wakefield didn’t know it, but she w
as on her way already.
“Well”—she peered at me carefully, nodded—“that should be all right. Of course, if I could get away sooner—”
“Possibly you can,” I said. “I’ll do my very best, Miss Wakefield, and possibly I can get you away before Friday.”
I promised to keep in touch and went back to the office. At the first opportunity, I dipped into a volume supplied us by the U.S. Weather Bureau. The weather and meteorological conditions in general are must news items in places like Pacific City. I used the volume regularly, and, to the best of my recollection, there would be no moon—
I was wrong. I stared down at the page, weighing the importance, if any, of my error.
Thursday—not Friday—was the moonless night. On Friday there would be a crescent moon. Perhaps, then—? I shook my head, and closed the book.
The light wasn’t sufficient to be a factor. It would be dark enough on Friday. Absolute darkness would have been preferable, of course, but Constance might not cooperate on Thursday. She wouldn’t be anxious enough. She’d still have a day to spare, and she might decide to use it.
So Friday it would be. I’d send Constance along to her Maker then, and she’d need some repairs when she arrived. It would be a pleasure. There was no alternative—as I saw it.
Perhaps she didn’t see the connection between the manuscript poems and the poems found in the possession of Ellen and Deborah. But it was there to be seen, and sooner or later—probably sooner—it would be. Certainly Stukey would spot it. He’d know how to follow it up, expand it into evidence.
Two poems were useless to him. He might back-trail me for years without ever identifying them with a typewriter that I had had access to. Or if he did manage to do so, what of it? Other people had used the same typewriters. They could have written the poems as well as I.
