Kill Your Darlings (A Mallory Mystery)

by Max Allan Collins

  “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.

  PART THREE

  SATURDAY

  15

  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 mo
ved 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.

  Peter Christian was the moderator of the panel, and I spotted him in the wings, stage left. Knowing Pete, he’d probably been up later than both Sardini and Charterman, but he looked less bleary-eyed than either. Pete always looked like he’d just crawled out from under a collapsed building, without seeming any the worse for wear. He smiled as I approached him.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this panel,” he said, holding a hand out for me to shake, even though I’d seen him the day before. “I feel quite delighted to’ve been asked to moderate, since I’m not from Chicago. One of their own, by all rights, should do the honors.”

  “They just know a class act when they see one,” I said, meaning it.

  Pete laughed a little, as though my remark had been sarcastic. He said, “My only worry is Donaldson.”

  “Oh?”

  Pete ran a hand over his head; he always managed to look tired and alert at the same time, seem simultaneously harried and calm, laid-back and energetic.

  He said, “I’m told the guy thought he’d have the panel to himself... a one-man show.”

  “Well,” I said, shrugging, “he is the guest of honor, after all. He probably should’ve had it to himself.”

  “No,” Pete said, shaking his head. “Too many writers here who deserve to be on panels. The fans like to see a lot of faces.”

  “Even this face?”

  “Sure, why not? I think you, Sardini and Donaldson make an interesting grouping.”

  “I thought Bill Pronzini was going to be on our panel.”

  “Didn’t you hear? That’s who you’re filling in for. Bill dislikes Donaldson’s work so much that when he heard the man was going to be guest of honor, he stayed home in San Francisco, by way of protest.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  Pretty soon Pete and Tom and I were sitting behind the table on the platform; the room was packed. Everybody at the Bouchercon was here—except the guest of honor.

  After five minutes, the crowd getting restless and noisy, Pete began: “I guess we’ll have to go ahead and get started. G. Roger Donaldson is supposed to be with us, as you all know, but—”

  Then down the center aisle Donaldson rolled, like a little Patton. He nodded smilingly at either side of him as he moved along, acknowledging his troops.

  He joined us at the table.

  “Well”—Pete smiled—“speak of the devil....”

  The crowd laughed, and Donaldson stood, and nodded at the crowd, who began to applaud him. Sardini and I exchanged looks; now we knew what it was like to be Moe and Larry—Donaldson was clearly the most popular stooge present.

  Pete asked various questions, which each of us got to answer, all on the basic subject “Whither the Private Eye,” which was to say, what was the current state, and probably future, of the modern private eye novel.

  Sardini talked about being a fan of private eye fiction, and dreaming of being a published writer of private eye fiction himself one day, and working hard at, and finally achieving, that goal.

  I talked about having been an aspiring mystery writer who became involved in several real-life crimes, and how my method in my first two books had been to bring some of the techniques of the private eye/mystery novel to a fact-based work.

  Donaldson talked about using the private eye novel as a vehicle for his art (“If I may be so bold as to exalt my work as such”) so that he might explore love relationships, male bonding, ethical and moral issues, etc.

  It went on like that: Tom and I would talk about plot, Donaldson would talk about epiphany; Tom and I would talk about character, Donaldson would talk about objective correlatives. Did I mention Donaldson teaches literature? At Berkeley?

  Finally it was opened up to the audience.

  “Mr. Donaldson,” an earnest young woman in a deerstalker cap said, “what is your opinion of Hammett and Chandler?”

  A hush fell across the room; the great was about to pronounce judgment on the great.

  Donaldson leaned forward; pursing his lips, he gave his measured assessment as follows: “Hammett wrote one very good book, one competent book, and three very bad books. Oh, and I happen to have had an advance look at the newly discovered novel, and it’s one of his better works. Of course, Chandler was by far the superior author, although a limited one. He wrote the same book seven times, after all. I think the modern artist using the private eye story as a vehicle for his art has to thank both these men—but must attempt to go far beyond them.”

  Some of the faces out there wore looks of annoyance, a few people seemed amused, but most heads were nodding.

  I spoke up. I wasn’t asked, but when did that ever stop me?

  I said, “It’s magnanimous of G. Roger, here, to thank Hammett and Chandler. It’s quite a startling declaration. If Hammett and Chandler were here today, they might say, ‘Gee, Roger—you’re welcome.’ ”

  Donaldson turned and looked at me, past an amused-but-trying-to-hide-it Pete Christian; it was the first time Donaldson had looked my way, and the first time he’d recognized that I was his enemy. He had money-green eyes that were on me like death rays.

  He said, coldly, “I meant no disrespect to Hammett and Chandler... only that in the literary overview, their work needs to be placed in perspective.”

  I said, coolly, “Where, in the literary overview, would you place yourself?”

  With a one-sided smile and a wag of his round head, he feigned self-deprecation. “That’s not for me to say. I would hope posterity would notice me—but I’m not counting on it.”

  Tom said, “Posterity pays lousy royalties.”

  That got a laugh from the crowd, and Donaldson pretended to be amused, too.

  Another question from the crowd, this from Brett Murtz: “What is your opinion of Roscoe Kane’s Gat Garson stories?”

  Another hush fell over the room.

  Donaldson smiled that
meaningless smile again and shook his round head. “It is perhaps in bad taste for me to respond. But... the Gat Garson books are beneath contempt, really. Badly done—the main character, cardboard; not rounded. Nobody cares about Gat Garson. I rank Kane just above Spillane—which is faint praise indeed.”

  Murtz, still standing, said, “Well, how would you characterize your own character, Keats, then?”

  Donaldson smiled broadly and with no self-deprecation at all said, “Rounded, fully dimensional, caring, committed, beguiling—and good-looking.”

  Most everyone out there was smiling at this horse-flop.

  Donaldson went on: “The private eye story, remember, is useful to me only as a way to explore certain aspects of human life. I am attempting in my work to go where no private eye writer has gone before....”

  “You do realize you’re quoting Star Trek,” I said, interrupting, “don’t you?”

  A hush really fell over the room, though there were some smiles and stifled laughter.

  Donaldson wasn’t smiling, however, or laughing. Just staring—unlike his fictional private eye, he did not have a fast comeback for me. So I said my piece.

  “Mr. Donaldson,” I said, “I sat by and listened to you dismiss three of Dashiell Hammett’s books as ‘very bad.’ I listened as you tossed off Chandler as somebody who wrote the same book seven times. And I sat quietly as you verbally looked down your literary nose at Mickey Spillane, at the same time having the indecency to condemn Roscoe Kane before his body’s had a chance to cool. But I don’t care to listen to G. Roger Donaldson on the subject of G. Roger Donaldson, thank you.”

  Donaldson, his face white where it wasn’t bearded, looked at me with those green death-ray eyes full of contempt.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the crowd.

  And I walked off the stage.

  Kathy, running, caught up with me at the mouth of the down escalator.

  “You were right about that jerk,” she said.

  “I’ve sure been keeping my cool at this ’con,” I said, feeling ashamed and silly. I got on the escalator. She got on behind me.

  “Tom Sardini’s right,” she admitted, putting her head on my shoulder, talking into my ear. “You are the talk of the convention.”