The Agency

by Ally O'Brien

  “Enjoying the play?” I asked.

  Guy shrugged, and his jowls quivered. “You know me. I was probably the only person on the planet who laughed at the end of Les Miz. The only damn musical I ever liked was The Producers. That ‘Springtime for Hitler’ number? What a hoot.”

  “Yes, I loved that.”

  Guy threw his cigarette on the ground. I thought about picking it up to get a puff or two, but I restrained myself.

  “I understand you were in New York,” Guy told me.

  “Dorothy called you?”

  He nodded. “That was why I left a message on your voice mail. I thought we should talk. She told me all about this con artist and the scam he’s trying to run on her.”

  I needed to tell Dorothy to be more discreet. The more people who knew, the more likely this would wind up in the papers. Guy was a sieve when it came to gossip.

  “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” I told him.

  “No? It sounded bad.”

  “I’m sure the manuscript is a fake. We just need to prove it.”

  Guy stroked his beard. “No doubt, but it is a tad inconvenient. The timing and all, I mean. Not just for Dorothy but for you, too. Perhaps we should talk about making it go away.”

  “You mean pay him off?” I asked. “No way.”

  First my father, now Guy. Everyone thought I was backing a losing horse.

  “Well, you know best, but Dorothy is a wreck. The sooner we get past this, the sooner she can forget this nonsense and get back to her books. Sending a few dollars toward this Milton character wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

  “A few dollars? If he had a legitimate claim, Milton would want millions.”

  “Not exactly a dent in Dorothy’s net worth,” Guy said.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe, but this is bad for both of you, darling. You can’t exactly waltz away from Cosima if Dorothy’s next deal is tied up in court. And, speaking for myself, I don’t want to delay our next bestseller any longer than necessary.”

  “Dorothy would never agree to a settlement,” I told him. “You know that. It would be like admitting she’s a thief. And if it ever got out, the whole industry would think she stole the idea for the panda books.”

  “Are you one hundred percent sure she didn’t?” Guy asked.

  “That’s nice, Guy. Very nice. Shall I tell Dorothy you said that?”

  “Oh, come now—do you mean to tell me you don’t have any doubts? We live in the real world, Filippa. Have you seen the manuscript?”

  “Parts of it.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s convincing,” I acknowledged. “But that doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “If it’s convincing to you, what would a jury say? You know as well as I do that proof is a slippery thing in this kind of case. Which is why it might be better for all of us to make this unfortunate allegation disappear as quickly as it came.”

  Something in Guy’s manner made me suspicious. Fat men sweat, but he was sweating more than usual. I thought about seeing him and Saleema together at the restaurant in Mayfair, shortly before David Milton made his move on Dorothy.

  Could Guy be a part of the conspiracy?

  Who better to coach a writer on imitating Dorothy’s style than the man who had been her editor for ten years?

  “Have you seen the manuscript?” I asked.

  “Me? No.”

  “So why would you be talking about a settlement without even seeing it?”

  “I’m just thinking about the proper strategy,” Guy said. “This has to be a legal and business decision, nothing more. Sometimes emotions cloud our judgment in these matters.”

  In front of the theater, people started to flow back into the lobby. The second act of the musical would be starting soon. Passion and betrayal in the midst of religious strife. My lover is dead—I think I’ll sing about it.

  “The manuscript is fake,” I told Guy.

  “And two years from now, maybe a jury will agree with you. Or maybe not. Either way, it’s likely to ruin Dorothy, and you’ll still be sitting in your little cubicle at Bardwright.”

  I thought about telling Guy what I suspected—that there was a connection between David Milton and Saleema Azah. If Guy was part of the plot, however, I didn’t want to tip them off and give Saleema a way to cover her tracks. Except Guy was right. So was my father. I couldn’t let this linger in the hands of dueling lawyers for years. Dorothy wouldn’t write a word with this hanging over her head. If someone wanted to target her Achilles’ heel, they had found the perfect spot.

  Which was something Guy would know better than anyone.

  “This is in your hands, Filippa,” Guy continued. “You need to do what’s right for Dorothy, which is to make this go away as swiftly as possible. If you can prove the manuscript is a fake, so be it. If you can’t, then you need to help Dorothy understand the realities of the situation.”

  There was a smugness in how he said it. As if he knew I would never prove it was a fake. It made me more convinced than ever that Guy’s hand was in this. He had his eyes on a retirement home in the Lake District, and this was a way to get the assets he wanted. Maybe it was ego, too. To prove that he could mastermind a literary fraud, like an artist who does a painting that could pass for a van Gogh.

  Great, now all I can think about is one-eared pandas.

  “Tell me something, Guy. How do you think I should go about exposing this bastard?” I asked. “What should I do?”

  Guy picked at his beard. “If the manuscript is as good as you say, then I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “Maybe I should send it to you and let you take a look.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “I have Dorothy’s old notes. From her first agent. This all goes back more than ten years. I figure maybe there will be something in there.”

  Guy offered me a sad smile. “Except if I understand the time line, the original idea goes back well before Dorothy’s first scribblings, right? This man, this Tom Milton, would have written his book years before Dorothy did. So it doesn’t really prove anything to look at her early drafts, does it?”

  “Probably not,” I agreed.

  “There you go. Take my advice, Filippa. Make him an offer, and make this go away. If it’s a fake, as you say, then he won’t be anxious to take it all the way to court and risk exposure. A modest sum will probably send him back into the closet where he belongs.”

  “How modest?” I asked.

  “Oh, I have no idea. That’s for the solicitors to work out.”

  “I’m surprised you’re pushing so hard about this, Guy.”

  “Like I said, my only interest is in selling more books. The sooner this is all behind us, the sooner we can wrap up that new contract for Dorothy that you want so badly. The first contract for your new agency.”

  It was tempting, I admit. Tempting to cross David Milton off my list. If I talked to Dorothy, if I explained everything to her, I could make her see the wisdom of settling early. Guy knew it. Hell, I could even argue that it might save her money in the long run, given the legal expenses of a drawn-out investigation and trial. Regardless of whether the book was a fake, there was also no guarantee that we would win in the end.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “You do that. Believe me, I want to see you and Dorothy both out from under Cosima’s thumb.”

  “I’m trying to be patient,” I said.

  “You?”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “Well, timing is everything, Filippa. I gather the street is way ahead of you in talking about your plans.”

  “Oh?”

  Guy nodded. “Haven’t you heard the gossip tonight? I assumed you were the source of it.”

  “What gossip? About my leaving the agency?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Guy said. “Word is that something huge is going be announced at Bardwright next week. An earthqu
ake of some sort. I figured you must know what that is.”

  You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I don’t.

  31

  AFTER THE MUSICAL was OVER, I tried to catch up with Sally in the crowd of glammed-up socialites heading for the exits. If anyone had the dirt about big changes coming at Bardwright, it was she. Sally knows everything. When I finally spotted her from afar, however, she had already been cornered in the Garrick lobby by Cosima, who flashed a barracuda smile and clutched Sally’s shoulder with a death grip of red nails. The noble thing would have been to rescue my friend, but I didn’t want a rerun with Cosima. That could wait until Monday.

  I wasn’t feeling particularly sleepy. My body clock was off. Two transatlantic flights in two days, followed by a late-night visit with a suicidal friend, will do that to you. As far as my brain was concerned, it may as well have been noon in the midst of a solar eclipse.

  I strolled into Leicester Square, which on Saturday nights is like an outdoor showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Hair the color of Easter eggs. Pierced noses, lips, eyebrows, belly buttons, and nipples. Leather and mascara. Black boots with six-inch heels. Gangs of young people swarmed around the Odeon, which is where most of the London movie premieres take place. I had traipsed the red carpet myself a few times, which was when the popzees usually changed the batteries in their cameras. But that was before my Julien Macdonald.

  I smelled Chinese food and Lebanese kebabs. I was in the mood for something sweet, so I bought a scoop of Häagen-Dazs ice cream in a cup and ate it slowly as I wandered past the gift shops on the west end of the square. Boys eyed me in my silver dress, and I knew what they were thinking. Hot older chick, mates, bet she could teach us a thing or two. Snotty bastards. Just yesterday I was seventeen, hanging out with bad boys like them on the weekend, inhaling the occasional joint in nightclub doorways. Then the magician waves his magic wand, and I’m thirty-six.

  I wandered past the entrance to Chinatown and into the craziness of Piccadilly Circus. Traffic hurtled by in every direction. Laughing young people went up and down the stairs to the Tube. Neon reflected on my glittery dress. I leaned on the railing and stared at the status of Eros across the street and thought about life and love whipping by me as fast as the taxis. Guy probably felt the same way. More often than not, we are spectators at our own lives. I didn’t want to end up like him or Cosima or even Sally. I had other plans in mind.

  Life in the fast lane was fine. Bring it on. Plane rides and sleepless nights. Good days and bad. Geniuses, fools, and shallow egos. A high-wire act without a net. That was okay. Win or lose, it was okay.

  I knew Guy was right. So was my father. Better to settle with David Milton. Better to get it off the table and move on. Better for Dorothy, better for me. The lawyer would tell me the same thing. Except there was no way I was going to give David Milton the satisfaction. Or Saleema. No way I was going to allow myself to be beaten. No way I would roll over and let Dorothy hand her money to blackmailers. My dad calls it pitching a Winnie: when you get the steel in your back like Churchill and choose to fight a battle that everyone tells you you’re going to lose.

  I wasn’t going to lose.

  I took out my phone there in the Circus and dialed the United States, I held my other hand over my ear to block out the noise. When I reached David Milton’s voice mail, I left him a message. Short and to the point.

  “This is Tess Drake. We both know your manuscript is a fake and a fraud. See you in court.”

  I hung up and felt better. Maybe I’d have to eat my words, but it was time to put the fear of God into him for a change. When you have a lousy hand, go ahead and put on your game face and double the bet.

  Someone was leaning against the railing next to me. You’re always surrounded by people here, so I didn’t pay any attention to him until he said, “Is that what the life of an agent is like? Leaving crank calls at midnight in Piccadilly Circus?”

  I turned and found Nicholas Hadley standing there in his Burberry and gawking at the neon. He was eating chips from a greasy white bag.

  “Are you following me, Inspector?” I asked.

  Hadley shrugged and offered me a chip, which I accepted. There is nothing better than soggy, yellow-brown, straight-from-the-lard British chips.

  “In fact, I am. Your assistant told me you were at the premiere tonight. I saw you come out, and I tracked you here. Sorry for eavesdropping on your call, but that’s the kind of thing I do.”

  “It’s late,” I said. “Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?”

  “It could, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “What?”

  “The DNA isn’t a match,” Hadley said.

  Hooray. Finally, some good news.

  “I don’t want to say I told you so, but I told you so,” I said. “Never have my lips connected with any of Lowell’s private parts.”

  Hadley cocked his head and nodded. His jaw worked on his chips.

  “Does this mean I’m officially cleared?” I asked.

  “Well, let’s say I’m not as convinced of your guilt as I was a couple of days ago.”

  “That sounds like you still have a sliver of doubt.”

  “Yes, but only a sliver.”

  “Was it the DNA that changed your mind?” I asked.

  “Oh, that was a big part of it, but there’s more. Actually, my superintendent informed me in a loud voice that I had better make damn sure of the evidence against you before I made an even bigger fool of myself. So with that cheerful advice, I took another look at Mr. Bardwright’s apartment.”

  Hadley didn’t look happy as he said this.

  “Do I know your superintendent?” I asked, wondering why one of the muckety-mucks among the police would want to do me a favor.

  “No, but apparently your father does.”

  I tried not to laugh. I really owe that lovely, exasperating father of mine a kiss. Every time we try to prove that we can make it on our own, our fathers go and do something to make us realize they are irreplaceable.

  “I didn’t ask him to interfere,” I said.

  But I’m glad he did.

  “It was just as well,” Hadley admitted. “When I took a second look, I realized that things didn’t add up quite as neatly as I thought they did.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, it was one of those crime scenes where everything makes sense until you realize that nothing makes sense,” he explained. “Take the wineglasses. I checked Mr. Bardwright’s kitchen cabinets and found that the rest of his crystal set didn’t match the two glasses I found on his coffee table. The glasses with your and his prints on them were unique. That seemed very unusual to me.”

  “Very.”

  “I also checked with your dry cleaner about that dress.”

  “Former dry cleaner,” I said.

  “Indeed. There was still a tag on the dress in Mr. Bardwright’s closet. The nice Asian woman who runs the store in Putney had no trouble remembering you or the dress you accused them of losing. Apparently, you used a long list of expletives when you went to pick up the dress and it wasn’t there. Including questioning the marital status of her mother and making a few slurs against the Chinese people as a whole.”

  “That does sound like me,” I acknowledged.

  “Yes. She seemed hopeful that I was planning to arrest you for something.”

  “I guess it’s not her day.”

  “Well, I’m a little disappointed, too,” Hadley admitted. “Anyway, I also spent a long hour on the phone with an excitable publisher in Italy, who shared the sentiments of your dry cleaner with regard to your imminent incarceration. He swore up and down that you were a liar, a thief, a cheat, and a whore.”

  “Three out of four ain’t bad,” I said.

  Hadley managed a smile at that one.

  “However, the more I talked to him, the more I realized that he had no evidence of any wrongdoing on your part, other than disbelief that his competitor in Milan had outbid him on
several successive deals. Also, as you indicated, it appeared to be at least six weeks since he had had any communication with anyone at the Bardwright Agency about your dealings with him and Leonardo Santelli. So I had to wonder why Mr. Bardwright would have an old e-mail open on his computer, since these allegations didn’t appear to carry much weight against you anymore.”

  “I’m feeling vindicated, Inspector.”

  “And I’m feeling more than a little stupid. Which is not a feeling I enjoy. I’m not in the habit of apologizing to murder suspects, but in this case, I appear to have misjudged your involvement.”

  “Thanks, but you said you still have a sliver of doubt.”

  “I always have doubt. I’m a professional cynic.”

  “Funny, so am I,” I said.

  “So a little part of me still thinks you could have masterminded all this phony evidence in order to deliberately point suspicion at yourself and then ensure that it all falls apart.”

  “That seems like an awful lot of trouble,” I said.

  “It does. Also, you may be smart, but, no offense, you don’t strike me as being quite that smart.”

  “Your apologies need a little work, Inspector.”

  “That’s because I don’t get much practice,” he said. “I still need to ask you some questions, though. It appears that someone went to a lot of trouble to point a finger in your direction. It makes me wonder who would be so intent on watching you rot in jail.”

  “It’s a long list,” I admitted.

  “So I gather. Anyone near the top?”

  Cosima. C-o-s-i-m-a. Backward? Amisoc. Anagram? Mosaic. Just tell him. TELL HIM.

  “I probably shouldn’t be saying this,” I said. “After being on the business end of a false accusation, I don’t particularly want to paint a target on anyone else’s back.”

  “Who?” Hadley asked.

  “My boss. Cosima Tate.”

  Hadley slapped his forehead with greasy fingers. “Yes, of course! The woman who takes over the agency after Lowell’s death and makes millions! Why on earth didn’t I think of that before?”

  I got the feeling he was being sarcastic.

  “Okay, so you’ve already looked at her,” I concluded.