The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

by Joël Dicker

  “In a relationship? No.”

  “So what was behind the strange dynamic between you? You’re a powerful man. You don’t seem the type to let people walk all over you. And yet—”

  “Because I was in his debt. I … I … Just let me finish, and you’ll soon understand. So Luther was obsessed with Harry and Nola. And, little by little things began to degenerate. One day he came back, and he was badly beaten up. He told me that a cop in Somerset had attacked him because he’d been hanging around, and that a waitress at Clark’s had even filed a complaint against him. The whole thing was a mess. I told him I didn’t want him to go to Somerset anymore. I said I wanted him to take some time off; go away for a while; visit his family in Maine, maybe; go anywhere, really. I said I would pay for it all.”

  “But he refused,” I said.

  “Not only did he refuse, he even asked me to lend him a car. He said his blue Mustang was now too easily recognizable. I turned him down, of course. I told him enough was enough. And then he started screaming: ‘You don’t understand, Eli! They’re going to leave! In ten days they’ll be gone and they’ll never come back! Never! They made the decision on the beach! They decided to leave on the thirtieth! On the thirtieth they’ll leave forever. I just want to be able to say goodbye to Nola. These are my last days with her. You can’t deprive me of her when I already know I’m going to lose her.’ I didn’t give in. I kept an eye on him. And then it was August 29. That day I looked everywhere for him. He was nowhere to be found, although his Mustang was parked in its usual place. Finally one of my employees spilled the beans and told me that Luther had left in one of my cars, a black Monte Carlo. Luther had said that I’d given my approval, and because everyone knew I let him do what he wanted, no-one questioned him. That made me mad. I immediately went to search his room. I found that portrait of Nola, which made me want to throw up, and then, in a box under his bed, I found all those letters, letters he had stolen … letters from Nola to Harry that he must have taken from Harry’s mailbox. So I waited for him, and when he came back, late that evening, we had a terrible argument.”

  Stern went silent and stared into space.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I … I wanted him to stop going there, you see. I wanted his obsession with Nola to end. But he wouldn’t listen to me! He said it was stronger than ever between him and Nola, that no-one could prevent their being together. I lost my temper. We grappled with each other, and I hit him. I grabbed him by the collar, I yelled, and I hit him. I called him a fucking redneck. He was lying on the ground. He put his hand to his nose, which was bleeding. I was frozen to the spot. And he said … he said to me …”

  Stern could no longer speak. His face crumpled.

  “Mr Stern,” I said, not wishing him to lose the thread of his story, “what did he say?”

  “He said to me: ‘It was you!’ He yelled: ‘It was you! It was you!’ I was in shock. I couldn’t move. He went to get a few things from his room, and he fled in the Monte Carlo before I could react. He had … he had recognized my voice.”

  Stern was crying now. His fists were clenched.

  “He’d recognized your voice?” I repeated.

  “There … there had been a time in my life when I used to meet up with some old Harvard friends. A sort of stupid fraternity. We would go to Maine for the weekend and stay in expensive hotels, drinking, eating lobster. We liked fighting. We liked beating up poor people. We said that people from Maine were rednecks and it was our mission on earth to beat them up. We were in our twenties, we were rich kids. We were arrogant and somewhat racist, we were miserable and violent. We had invented a game, the Field Goal, which consisted of kicking our victims in the head as if we were kicking a football. One day in 1964 we were up near Portland, very drunk. We drove past a young guy walking along the road. I was driving … I stopped and suggested we have a little fun …”

  “You were Caleb’s attacker?”

  “Yes! Yes!” he exploded. “I have never forgiven myself! We woke up the next morning in our luxury hotel suite with massive hangovers. The attack was in all the papers: The boy was in a coma. The police were looking for us; we had been nicknamed the Field Goals Gang. We decided we would never talk about it again, that we would expunge that night from our memories. But I was haunted by it. In the days and months that followed, it was all I could think of. It was making me ill. I started going to Portland to find out what had happened to that kid we had battered. Two years had passed when, one day, unable to take it anymore, I decided to give him a job, a chance to get over it. I put a nail in my tire, I asked him to help me fix it, and I hired him as my chauffeur. I gave him everything he wanted. I made an artist’s studio for him on the house’s veranda; I gave him money; I gave him a car; but none of it was enough to release me from my guilt. I always wanted to do more for him. I had ruined his career as an artist, so I funded every exhibition I could, and I often let him spend whole days painting. And then he started saying he felt lonely, that nobody wanted him. He said the only thing he could do with a woman was paint her. He wanted to paint blondes; he said they reminded him of the girl he had been intending to marry before the attack. So I hired carloads of blond prostitutes to pose for him. But then one day in Somerset he met Nola. And he fell in love with her. He said it was the first time he had loved anyone since his fiancée. And then Harry turned up, a brilliant writer and a handsome man. The man Luther wanted to be. And Nola fell in love with Harry. So Luther decided that he also wanted to be Harry. What was I supposed to do? I had stolen his life, I had taken everything from him. Who was I to stop his loving someone?”

  “So all of that was to relieve your sense of guilt?”

  “Call it what you want.”

  “So August 29 … what happened next?”

  “When Luther realized that I was the one who … He packed his suitcase and drove away in the black Monte Carlo. I immediately set off in pursuit. I wanted to explain to him. I wanted him to forgive me. But I couldn’t find him anywhere. I searched all day for him and part of the night too, but nothing. I was so angry with myself. I hoped he would soon be his old self again. But the next night the radio announced the disappearance of Nola Kellergan. The suspect was driving a black Monte Carlo. You can imagine what I thought. I decided never to speak about it to anyone at all, so that Luther would never be suspected. Or perhaps because, when it came down to it, I was just as guilty as Luther was. That was why I was so upset with you for dredging up the past. But it’s thanks to you that I’ve finally learned that Luther didn’t kill Nola. I feel as if I, too, were suddenly found not guilty of her murder. You’ve eased my conscience, Mr Goldman.”

  “And the Mustang?”

  “It’s in my garage, under a tarp. I’ve been hiding it in my garage for thirty-three years.”

  “What about the letters?”

  “I kept those too.”

  “I would like to see them, if I could.”

  Stern removed a picture from the wall, revealing a safe that he then opened. He took out a shoebox filled with letters. I recognized the first one right away: It was the letter with which The Origin of Evil began, the one from July 5, 1975, so full of sadness, the one that Nola had written to Harry when he had rejected her and she had learned that he was with Jenny on the night of July 4. That day she had left him an envelope containing the letter and two photographs taken in Rockland. One showed a flock of seagulls; the other was of the two of them during their picnic.

  “How the hell did Luther get all of these?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Stern said. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if he had gone into Harry’s house.”

  I thought about it: He could easily have stolen these letters when Harry was away from Somerset. But why had Harry never told me that those letters had disappeared? I asked to borrow the box, and Stern let me. I was suddenly overcome by doubt.

  *

  As he looked out at the skyline and listened to my story, Harry wept sil
ently.

  “When I saw those letters, something shifted in my mind,” I told him. “I thought again about your book, the one you left in the gym locker: The Seagulls of Somerset. And I realized something I had somehow completely missed up to that point: There are no seagulls in The Origin of Evil. How did I not see that before? Not a single seagull! And you had sworn to her that you would put seagulls in your book! That was when I understood that you didn’t write The Origin of Evil. The book you wrote in the summer of 1975 was The Seagulls of Somerset. That was the book you wrote and that Nola typed up for you. This was confirmed for me when I asked Gahalowood to make a comparison between the handwriting in the letters that Nola received and the message on the manuscript found with Nola’s body. When he told me it was the same handwriting, I realized how you had used me when you asked me to burn your handwritten manuscript. Because it wasn’t your writing. You didn’t write the book that made you famous! You stole it from Luther!”

  “That’s enough, Marcus!”

  “Am I wrong? You stole a book! What greater crime could a writer commit? The Origin of Evil—that’s why you gave the book that title. And I couldn’t understand why such a beautiful book should have such a dark title. But the title has nothing to do with the book; it has to do with you. You always told me that a book is not a relationship between words; it’s a relationship between people. That book is the origin of evil that has gnawed at you ever since: the evil of remorse and imposture.”

  “Stop, Marcus! Shut up now!”

  He continued to cry.

  “One day,” I went on, “Nola left an envelope in the front door of your house. It was July 5, 1975. An envelope containing photographs of seagulls and a letter written on her favorite paper, in which she mentions Rockland and says she will never forget you. It was during that time when you were forcing yourself not to see her anymore. But that letter never reached you because Luther, who was spying on you, took it as soon as Nola went away. That was how, from that day on, he began writing to Nola. He replied to that letter, pretending to be you. She replied, thinking she was writing to you, but he intercepted all her letters in your mailbox before you ever saw them. And he replied again and again, always pretending to be you. That was why he hung around outside your house. Nola thought she was corresponding with you, and that correspondence became The Origin of Evil. But, Harry, how could you? How could you do such a thing?”

  “I panicked, Marcus. That summer I was struggling so badly to write. I didn’t think I would ever manage it. I wrote The Seagulls of Somerset, but I thought it was terrible. Nola told me she loved it, but nothing could convince me. I went into fits of rage. She typed up my handwritten pages; I reread them, and I tore up everything. She begged me to stop. She said, ‘Don’t do that. You’re such a brilliant writer. Please, finish the book. Darling Harry, I won’t be able to bear it if you don’t finish it!’ But I didn’t believe in it. I thought I would never become a writer. And then one day Luther Caleb rang my doorbell. He said he didn’t know whom to ask, so he had come to me: He had written a book, and he wondered if it was worth sending to a publisher. You see, Marcus, he thought I was a famous New York writer and that I could help him.”

  August 20, 1975

  Harry did not conceal his surprise when he opened the door.

  “Luther?”

  “Hel … Hello vere, Harry.”

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  “What can I do for you, Luther?”

  “I’ve come to fee you for a perfonal reavon. I need fome advife.”

  “Advice? Alright. Do you want to come in?”

  “Fank you.”

  The two men sat in the living room. Luther was nervous. He had brought a package with him, and he held it close to his body.

  “So, Luther, what’s the matter?”

  “I … I’ve written a book. It’f a love ftory.”

  “Really?”

  “Yef. I don’t know if it’f any good, vough. I mean, how do you know if a book iv good enough to be published?”

  “I don’t know. But if you think you’ve done your best … do you have it with you?”

  “Yef, but it’f a handwritten manufcript,” Luther said apologetically. “I juft realived. I have a typewritten version, but I picked up ve wrong package when I left ve houfe. Should I go and get it and come by later?”

  “No, show it to me anyway.”

  “It’f juft vat …”

  “Come on, don’t be shy. I’m sure it’s readable.”

  Luther handed him the package. Harry took out the pages and read a few of them, staggered by the quality of the writing.

  “Is this your writing?”

  “Yef.”

  “It’s unbelievable. It’s like you … I mean … It’s beautifully written. How do you do it?”

  “I don’t know. Vat’f juft how my writing iv.”

  “Would you let me keep this, so I can read it? I’ll give you my honest opinion.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course.”

  Luther readily agreed, and he left. But he did not leave Goose Cove. Instead he hid in the bushes and waited for Nola, as he always did. She arrived soon afterward, happy in the knowledge that she and Harry would soon be going away together. She did not notice the crouching figure in the bushes. She entered the house through the front door, without ringing the doorbell, as she always did now.

  “Harry, darling!” she called out.

  There was no reply. The house seemed empty. She called out again. Silence. She checked the dining room and the living room but couldn’t find him. He wasn’t in his office, or on the deck. She went down the stairs to the beach and called his name. Maybe he’d gone swimming? He did that sometimes when he’d been working too hard. But there was no-one on the beach. She began to panic: Where could he be? She went back to the house, called his name again. Nothing. She checked all the rooms on the first floor again, then went upstairs. Opening the door to his bedroom, she found him sitting on his bed, reading a stack of papers.

  “Harry? Were you here all along? I’ve spent the last ten minutes looking all over for you.”

  Her voice had startled him.

  “Sorry, Nola, I was reading. I didn’t hear you.”

  He got up, reordered the papers in his hands, and put them in his bureau.

  She smiled. “So what was so fascinating that you didn’t hear me yelling your name all over the house?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “Is it the next part of your novel? Show me!”

  “No, it’s nothing important. I’ll show you some other time.”

  She looked at him curiously. “Are you sure everything’s O.K., Harry?”

  He laughed. “Everything’s fine, Nola.”

  They went out to the beach. She wanted to see the seagulls. She opened her arms wide as if they were wings, and ran in wide circles on the sand.

  “I’d love to be able to fly, Harry! Only ten days! In ten days we’ll fly away together! We’ll leave this miserable town forever!”

  Neither Harry nor Nola had any idea that Luther Caleb was watching them from the trees above the rocks. He waited until they had gone back into the house before emerging from his hiding place. Then he ran along the path from Goose Cove until he reached his Mustang. He drove to Somerset and left his car in front of Clark’s. He rushed inside; he needed to speak to Jenny. Someone had to know. He had a bad feeling about this. But Jenny didn’t want to see him.

  “Luther? You shouldn’t be here,” she said when he appeared at the counter.

  “Jenny … I’m forry for ve over morning. I wav wrong to grab your arm ve way I did.”

  “I have a bruise …”

  “I’m forry.”

  “You have to leave now.”

  “No, wait …”

  “I’ve filed a complaint against you, Luther. Travis says that if you come back to town, I should call him—and you’ll have to deal with the police. You really ought to leave before he s
ees you here.”

  He looked upset. “You filed a complaint againft me?”

  “Yes. You really scared me the other day …”

  “But I have to fpeak to you about fomefing important.”

  “Nothing is important, Luther. Please go away …”

  “It’f about Harry Quebert.”

  “Harry?”

  “Yef. Tell me what you fink about Harry Quebert.”

  “Why are you asking me about him?”

  “Do you truft him?”

  “Trust him? Yes, of course. Why are you asking me that?”

  “I have to tell you fomefing …”

  “Tell me something? What?”

  Just as Luther was about to reply, a police car appeared outside Clark’s.

  “It’s Travis!” Jenny said. “Run, Luther, run! I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  *

  “It’s very simple,” Harry told me. “It was the most beautiful book I had ever read. And I didn’t even know it had been written for Nola! Her name didn’t appear in it. It was an extraordinary love story. I never saw Caleb again. I never got the chance to give him back his manuscript. Because so many things happened, as you know. A month later I found out that he had been killed in a car accident. And I still had the original manuscript of what I knew was a masterpiece. I made the decision to claim it as my own. So my whole career is based on a lie. But how could I imagine how successful that book would be? That success gnawed at me my whole life. My whole life! And then, thirty-three years later, the police find Nola and the typewritten version of that manuscript in my yard. In my yard! And at that moment, I was so afraid of losing everything I had, that I told them I had written that book for her.”

  “Because you were afraid of losing everything? You chose to be accused of murder rather than reveal the truth about the manuscript?”

  “Yes! Yes! Because my whole life is a lie, Marcus!”