(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  Craig’s appeal, so fervent, had depleted his reservoir of energy, and he fell back against the chair, exhausted, and waited.

  Garrett stared down at the tablecloth, all dumb except for his hands in his lap, opening and closing.

  ‘There you are, Dr. Garrett!’ It was a young woman’s voice that called out, and they were both startled and turned to find Sue Wiley, wearing, her Robin Hood hat and a military coat, coming towards them. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’

  Garrett, wraithlike, clambered to his feet, but Craig remained in his place.

  Sue Wiley shook Garrett’s hand and widened her eyes. ‘Boy, what a beaut. Where did you get the shiner?’

  Garrett felt Craig’s presence, and felt perspiration under his collar. ‘I—I was in the bathroom and turned around and the shower door was open—lucky I didn’t lose an eye.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ said Sue Wiley cheerfully. ‘If that’s your story—okay by me.’ She came around on one spiked heel. ‘Why, hallo, Mr. Craig. I didn’t see you.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Craig.

  ‘I heard that you had a divine night with my friend Mr. Gottling. Did you? He said he was too drunk to remember a thing, the beast.’

  Craig offered his silent thanks to Gunnar Gottling and hoped that it was true. ‘You can write that the alcoholic literary laureate was drunk too, and that he robbed the Royal Palace and raped a princess or two and that his mind is a blank.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Sue Wiley with determined cheer, but her eyes blinked and blinked. She faced Garrett once more. ‘You wanted to see me about something? I have an important date, but if it’s anything at all, I can ring and put off—’

  Garrett swallowed. ‘It—it’s nothing—nothing at all—I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I would have some news for you, but—’

  ‘About what?’ demanded Sue Wiley.

  ‘I—well, it was about the nature of my next—next work—experiments. But it involves others—an endowment—and there’s been a delay, so I have no announcement to make yet.’

  Sue Wiley sniffed. ‘Anything is grist for the mill. Maybe you can tell me something?’

  ‘I apologize for taking you out of your way, Miss Wiley, but what I wanted to tell you—it hasn’t developed—and I’m not at liberty—’

  ‘I understand,’ she said abruptly. ‘But if it happens, remember what I told you on the plane—I’m in your corner, and I want the beat.’

  ‘I promise you that.’

  ‘All right. See you before the Ceremony, I hope.’ She hitched her bag under her arm and turned to Craig. ‘You keep me in mind, too, Mr. Craig.’

  ‘You’re never out of my mind for a second,’ said Craig.

  ‘I know, I know. Well—happy skåling and goddag and adjö.’

  ‘The same to you,’ muttered Craig.

  He watched her leave, stopping here and there to shake hands at various tables, until she had disappeared into the lobby.

  Garrett sat down slowly, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. After he had stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, he took the sheet of paper from the table. He tore it into shreds, and crumpled the shreds, and shoved them into his pocket, too.

  ‘Can I have a sip of whatever you’re drinking?’ he said, at last.

  ‘Ice-cold brännvin,’ said Craig. ‘Have it all.’

  Garrett took the short glass in his unsteady hand and drank the brännvin down in one gulp. He grimaced, and then met Craig’s eyes.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. And then he said, ‘I don’t mean for the drink.’

  Craig nodded. ‘I know. You won’t be sorry.’

  Garrett licked his lips. ‘I think you should know—this is only armistice—it isn’t peace.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  After that, Garrett ordered another brännvin and smoked reindeer sandwiches, and by the time his order came, Denise Marceau was making her way back to their table.

  ‘Have I held you up? Please do not stand.’ She slid into her chair, and beamed at Craig. ‘That was the party of the third part on the telephone. Everything is arranged.’

  ‘The plot thickens?’ said Craig.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Denise, opening her napkin. ‘Even though it isn’t your play, wish me luck.’

  ‘Luck,’ said Craig.

  And with that, they all bent to their food.

  For his interview with Miss Sue Wiley, of America, Nicholas Daranyi had selected a distinguished restaurant several centuries old, the Bacchi Wapen, in Järntorgsgatan, not far from his residence in the Old Town.

  In seeing established contacts, Daranyi made it a policy not to pamper them with lunch at all, at least not expensive lunches. For them, the money was enough. Gottling, although he had been sullen and unco-operative yesterday, in fact almost rude, had frequently been free with gossip for the price of a night of drinks. Mathews, the English correspondent, whose suits were threadbare, and Miss Björkman, Hammarlund’s secretary, who was underpaid, were always valuable and dependable, as they had been last night, and never made demands beyond the kronor offered. But Miss Wiley was a new one, of great promise, or so Krantz had suggested, and she was a highly paid American, and that meant that she might require being handled with considerable delicacy.

  Bacchi Wapen was far too expensive for Daranyi’s budget, but since he knew that he could not woo a rich American with his small funds, that he must entice her with other bait, a fine restaurant seemed an appropriate beginning. Daranyi had much faith in the seductiveness of expensive surroundings. For one thing, they gave him an air of solidity and prosperity. For another, they put his informants in his debt, in a subtle way, and wine of the best vintage and a fine cuisine more often than not made his guests drop their guards.

  There was something to be said, too, for the enchantment of the surroundings. In Bacchi Wapen, a restaurant carved out of a rock, with its unique dining levels like so many descending cliffs, with its rare smorgåsbord table, and the lovely young girl nearby at the piano, this somehow ennobled what otherwise might be regarded as a tawdry business. In surroundings such as this, the acquisition of odious calumnies took on the high purpose of a search for Truth.

  At his table, enjoying the fragrance of his own body cologne, Daranyi nursed his dry martini and listened to the tinkling piano and wondered if Miss Wiley would prove a fruitful source. If she did, and Mathews delivered as he had promised, the few sources that remained would be inconsequential, the mere gilding of the lily. If Miss Wiley co-operated, he would surprise Krantz by presenting him with a thorough dossier on each laureate many hours before tomorrow evening’s deadline. And for this, he would have a bonus besides his payment. Perhaps more, perhaps more. Daranyi would think about it when he was alone, and making his jottings, tonight.

  He saw that the proprietor was directing a young lady—a surprisingly young lady, with a face like a gun dog, a pointer, wearing a costly soldier coat—towards his table. Daranyi shoved back his chair, to free his belly, and came to his feet.

  ‘I’m Sue Wiley of Consolidated,’ she said, and offered her hand.

  Daranyi clicked his heels and inclined his head. ‘Nicholas Daranyi,’ he announced, and quickly bent and kissed her hand.

  After they had been seated, Daranyi inquired, ‘You will join me for a drink?’

  ‘I don’t drink,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘But I’m as hungry as ten wolves. What’s the specialty?’

  ‘I have studied the menu. Everything in Bacchi Wapen is delicious.’

  ‘What does Bacchi Wapen mean?’

  ‘Bacchus Arms,’ said Daranyi.

  ‘The names get sillier every day. All right, what were you suggesting?’

  ‘In Sweden, for lunch, you can never go wrong with köttbullar.’

  ‘What in the devil is that?’

  Her aggressive manner was disconcerting to Daranyi, but he retained his aplomb. ‘A superb form of meatballs with carrots in a thick sauce—’

  ‘That’s for
me,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘I’m busy as all get out, so if you don’t mind, let’s be served and call the meeting to order.’

  ‘Certainly, whatever your pleasure,’ said Daranyi.

  He snapped his fingers, and when the waitress came, he placed the orders, and added regretfully that they were in a hurry.

  ‘What kind of accent have you got?’ demanded Sue Wiley. ‘Romanian? Bulgarian? Hungarian?’

  Daranyi was momentarily taken aback, for he did not know that he had an accent. ‘Hungarian,’ he said feebly.

  ‘Oh, one of those.’ She fiddled with her handbag, took out her compact, examined her face, then snapped it shut. ‘When you have a Hungarian for a friend, you don’t need an enemy.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Wiley?’

  ‘No offence. An American joke. There are hundreds about Hungarians. How does it feel to be a Hungarian?’

  ‘I would not know. I have always considered myself a man of the whole world.’

  ‘Yes? Well, what are you doing then, hiding in Sweden? A duller place I’ve never seen.’

  ‘Oh, you must not be too critical, Miss Wiley. One becomes accustomed to the quiet, and after a while, one appreciates and enjoys it.’

  ‘There’s enough quiet after you’re dead.’

  ‘True, but for a historian, it is valuable in life, too.’ He had decided upon his role early this morning, when he had thought about Andrew Craig. ‘One requires solitude.’

  ‘You can have it.’ Her hand accidentally tipped over the saltcellar, and she hastily retrieved a pinch of salt and cast it over her left shoulder. ‘Now, Mr. Daranyi, I’m not sure why I’m here, except you said on the phone you’d heard I was writing a Nobel series—’

  ‘Yes, a correspondent from London so advised me.’

  ‘—and you might have some useful material for me, in return for a slight favour. What favour?’

  ‘Before we go into that,’ said Daranyi suavely, ‘we must have at least a brief knowledge of one another, how I may be of assistance to you, and you to me. I am, as I have advised you, a historian. I have a contract with a British publisher to develop a thorough book on the Nobel Prize awards, and the personalities concerned, since 1901. However, much to my distress, the publisher has insisted that the history not be too—er, dry—that even, as regards the personalities, it be racy, and that emphasis be placed on the more recent laureates. Unfortunately, I am a scholar and not a journalist. I find it difficult to acquire such information on the current winners.’

  Sue Wiley’s eyes blinked steadily. ‘So that’s where I come in?’

  ‘I had heard you were well acquainted with the current winners.’

  ‘You bet your life I am. I’m loaded. Are you? What’s in it for me?’

  ‘I have devoted two years to my researches, Miss Wiley. I have a mountain of important information on the past.’

  ‘My kind of information, Mr. Daranyi?’

  ‘It depends. What exactly is your kind of information?’

  ‘One paragraph’ll do it for you. You want to know the lead to my opening article next week? Now, sit tight.’ She squeezed her eyes shut and recited: ‘ “Part I. Exploding the Nobel Myth. By Sue Wiley, CN’s Special Correspondent in Stockholm. Paragraph, lead. That late gadfly, George Bernard Shaw, once stated, ‘I can forgive Alfred Nobel for having invented dynamite, but only a fiend in human form could have invented the Nobel Prize!’ Ditto, say I from the capital of Sweden, source of the world’s greatest and most dangerous give-away circus. Paragraph. I have been where few men or women have ever ventured, behind the scenes of last week’s Nobel awards, and for months I have done firsthand spade-work into past awards, and I am here to prove that the dignified, solemn prize-giving is, and always has been, an explosive, as deadly, as harmful, to giver and taker alike, and to the world, as the donor’s invention of dynamite. Exclamation point.” ’ She opened her eyes. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Provocative, to say the least.’

  ‘You can say that again. It’ll be a sensation. Now then, I’ve laid it on the line. I’m not interested in any high falutin’ scholarship. I’m interested in dirt, as one writer to another. Can you help me?’

  Even Daranyi, who had been forced into many disagreeable relationships in the course of his work, was repelled by this young person. But he saw at once that she would have what he required for Krantz. Business is business, he reminded himself. ‘I believe I do have much that would be valuable to you, Miss Wiley.’

  ‘Okay, you come across and I’ll come across. Your credentials first. For all I know, you may be a stringer for Associated Press.’

  ‘Credentials?’

  ‘How do I know you’re pounding out a book?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I do not blame you.’ From inside his jacket, Daranyi withdrew a folded, blue-bound publishing contract which he had carefully prepared for this occasion. He handed it to Sue Wiley. ‘I anticipated that you might ask. There is my contract. I trust that you will not divulge the—er, financial—financial details to outsiders.’

  ‘What do you think I am?’ She studied the first page of the contract, then riffled quickly through the other pages, then examined the last page. She handed it back. ‘Kosher,’ she said. ‘You want to see my press pass?’

  ‘That will not be necessary, Miss Wiley. I have been informed of your high standing.’

  ‘Okay, Mr. Daranyi, what do we do next?’

  ‘We exchange information. You give me a fact. I give you a fact in return.’

  Sue Wiley blinked. ‘Not so fast, my friend. Let’s have a preview first.’

  ‘What does that mean—preview?’

  ‘Sorry—some samples. You throw me a couple of titbits, so I know you’ve got the dope. I’ll do likewise. If we’re both satisfied, we can go on from there. You’ve got everything with you?’

  Daranyi nodded. ‘In my head, yes. All can be verified.’

  ‘Bravo for you. I keep my notes under lock and key in my hotel. If I’m satisfied, we’ll get this lunch over with fast, and you’ll come back with me. We can make our exchange and take down the information in my room. Suit you?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Let’s go, then. You first.’

  Daranyi found himself inhibited. ‘I do not know exactly what you want. There is so much.’

  ‘Anything off the cuff,’ said Sue Wiley, ‘but make it juicy and keep it factual.’

  He had prepared himself carefully, reviewing carbon copies of old assignments and writing down snatches of gossip overheard since his arrival in Sweden, and his knowledge had seemed formidable, but now, suddenly, he was less confident of pleasing her.

  ‘Frans Eemil Sillanpää—’ he began.

  ‘Frans Eemil who?’

  ‘Sillanpää,’ he repeated weakly, ‘the Finnish author. When he learned that he had won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1939, he immediately proposed marriage to his secretary and then went off on a fourteen-day drunk.’

  Sue Wiley scowled. ‘Is that all?’

  Momentarily, Daranyi lost his composure. ‘I—I think it is amusing.’

  ‘If that had happened to Red Lewis or Pearl Buck, sure. But who in the hell gives a hoot about Frans Eemil Whatever-his-name-is?’

  Grieved, Daranyi tried to save Sillanpää. ‘There is more to it, Miss Wiley. The Swedish Academy was prejudiced for Sillanpää, because he had tried to make Swedish the official language of Finland. Also, when the voting started in 1939, Russia was invading Finland, and by honouring a Finn, the judges were making a gesture against Communism.’

  Sue Wiley gave Daranyi no encouragement.

  With quiet desperation, he slogged on. ‘Also—also—Sillanpää was a friend of Sibelius—no, I suppose that is not important. At any rate, he was poor and a widower with seven children, and when he heard that he had won the prize, he sent his seven children running through Helsinki shouting, “Father’s rich!” ’

  ‘Strike one,’ said Sue Wiley grimly.

  ‘I
do not understand?’

  ‘It means you have one strike on you, and you’d better start swinging. Mr. Daranyi, I’ve got news for you—nobody, but nobody, in Kansas City or Denver or Seattle gives a damn what happened to Sillanpää. You’ll have to do better than that. What else have you got in the hopper?’

  ‘Sir Venkata Raman won the physics award in 1930—’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘The Raman ray, Miss Wiley. He discovered it. He came from the University of Calcutta, wearing a turban, and he created the most embarrassing moment in the history of the Nobel Prize. When he made his speech, after the Ceremony, he accepted a toast to his award by glaring at the British Minister and saying, “I accept not on my own behalf, but on behalf of my country and on behalf of those of my great colleagues who are now in jail.” ’

  Sue Wiley looked off with irritation. ‘Where are those meatballs? Are they growing them?’

  ‘This Raman—’ said Daranyi.

  ‘You can keep him. That’s two strikes. One more to go.’

  Daranyi, in disorderly retreat, scrambled through his memory, brushing past the great names he had waiting in line, until he found one and brought him forward. Andrew Craig. Andrew Craig and Lilly Hedqvist. He, alone, by lucky chance, knew of their love affair. What if he revealed it now? Ah, how Miss Wiley’s mouth would water for every detail. This would win the day. But then, he saw, this act of revelation would make him as detestable as was Miss Wiley in his eyes. It would also make him a traitor to friendship, his only fatherland on earth. He had liked Craig enormously, and he regarded Lilly protectively, as a child of his own. Not Wiley, not Krantz, were worth losing her. Ashamed for having even considered the betrayal, aware of his guest’s impatience, he hastily located another author of the same nationality and led him to the assassin. It was all or nothing now. ‘Americans—’ he said, and hesitated.

  Sue Wiley was attentive. ‘Americans? What about them?’

  ‘They were not always favoured in the Swedish Academy. There was strong resistance to Sinclair Lewis, the first American author to—’