by Rex Stout
Plot It Yourself
Rex Stout
Plot It Yourself Rex Stout Series: Nero Wolfe [32] Published: 1985 Tags: Cozy Mystery, Vintage Mystery, Early 20th Century
Cozy Mysteryttt Vintage Mysteryttt Early 20th Centuryttt
Product Description
Nero Wolfe and his sidekick, Archie Goodwin, are called in by a consortium of publishers and writers to investigate several cases of false plagiarism, but the probe soon becomes complicated by murder. Reissue.
From the Inside Flap
Nero Wolfe hat es wieder einmal mit einem komplizierten Fall zu tun. Vier beruehmte Schriftsteller werden beschuldigt, bei unbekannten Nachwuchsautoren abgeschrieben zu haben. Empoert weisen die vier den Vorwurf zurueck - offenbar will ihnen hier jemand vermittels hoher Schadenersatzklagen viel Geld aus der Tasche ziehen. An Verdaechtigen mangelt es zunaechst nicht, doch als einer nach dem anderen stirbt, wird die Sache immer raetselhafter. Und Nero Wolfe muss erkennen, dass er es bei dem Taeter mit einem echten Genie zu tun hat.
Nero Wolfe has another a complicated case. Four famous writers are accused of plagiarism. They are outraged. Things become increasingly suspicious and Nero realizes the intelligence of the criminals he is working against.
Rex Stout
Plot It Yourself
Chapter 1
I divide the books Nero Wolfe reads into four grades: A, B, C, and D. If, when he comes down to the office from the plant rooms at six o’clock, he picks up his current book and opens to his place before he rings for beer, and if his place was marked with a thin strip of gold, five inches long and an inch wide, which was presented to him some years ago by a grateful client, the book is an A. If he picks up the book before he rings, but his place was marked with a piece of paper, it is a B. If he rings and then picks up the book, and he had dog-eared a page to mark his place, it is a C. If he waits until Fritz has brought the beer and he has poured to pick up the book, and his place was dogeared, it’s a D. I haven’t kept score, but I would say that of the two hundred or so books he reads in a year not more than five or six get an A.
At six o’clock that Monday afternoon in May I was at my desk, checking the itemisation of expenses that was to accompany the bill going to the Spooner Corporation for a job we had just finished, when the sound came of his elevator jolting to a stop and his footsteps in the hall. He entered, crossed to the oversized made-to-order chair behind his desk, sat, picked up Why the Gods Laugh , by Philip Harvey, opened to the page marked with the strip of gold, read a paragraph, and reached to the button at the edge of his desk without taking his eyes from the page. As he did so, the phone rang.
I got it. “Nero Wolfe’s residence, Archie Goodwin speaking.” Up to six o’clock I say “Nero Wolfe’s office.” After six I say “residence.”
A tired baritone said, “I’d like to speak to Mr Wolfe. This is Philip Harvey.”
“He’ll want to know what about. If you please?”
“I’ll tell him. I’m a writer. I’m acting on behalf of the National Association of Authors and Dramatists.”
“Did you write a book called Why the Gods Laugh ?”
“I did.”
“Hold the wire.” I covered the transmitter and turned. “If that book has any weak spots here’s your chance. The guy who wrote it wants to speak to you.”
He looked up. “Philip Harvey?”
“Right.”
“What does he want?”
“He says he’ll tell you. Probably to ask you what page you’re on.”
He closed the book on a finger to keep his place and took his phone. “Yes, Mr Harvey?”
“Is this Nero Wolfe?”
“Yes.”
“You may possibly have heard my name.”
“Yes.”
“I want to make an appointment to consult you. I am chairman of the Joint Committee on Plagiarism of the National Association of Authors and Dramatists and the Book Publishers of America. How about tomorrow morning?”
“I know nothing about plagiarism, Mr Harvey.”
“We’ll tell you about it. We have a problem we want you to handle. There’ll be six or seven of us, members of the committee. How about tomorrow morning?”
“I’m not a lawyer. I’m a detective.”
“I know you are. How about ten o’clock?”
Of course that wouldn’t do, since it would take more than an author, even of a book that rated an A, to break into Wolfe’s two morning hours with the orchids, from nine to eleven. Harvey finally settled for a quarter past eleven. When we hung up I asked Wolfe if I should check, and he nodded and went back to his book. I rang Lon Cohen at the Gazette and learned that the National Association of Authors and Dramatists was it. All the dramatists anyone had ever heard of were members, and most of the authors, the chief exceptions being some scattered specimens who hadn’t decided if they cared to associate with the human race-or had decided that they didn’t. The Book Publishers of America was also it, a national organization of all the major firms and many of the minor ones. I passed the information along to Wolfe, but I wasn’t sure he listened. He was reading.
That evening around midnight, when I got home after taking a friend to a show, A Barrel of Love , by Mortimer Oshin, Wolfe had just finished his book and was making room for it on one of the shelves over by the big globe. As I tried the door of the safe I spoke.
“Why not leave it on your desk?”
He grunted. “Mr Harvey’s self-esteem needs no sop. If he were not so skillful a writer he would be insufferable. Why curry him?”
Before I went up two flights to my room I looked up “curry” in the dictionary. Check. I won’t live long enough to see the day when Wolfe curries anybody including me.
Chapter 2
At eleven-twenty the next morning, Tuesday, Wolfe, seated at his desk, sent his eyes from left to right and back again, rested them on Philip Harvey, and inquired, “You’re the spokesman, Mr Harvey?”
Since Harvey had made the appointment and was chairman of the committee, I had put him in the red leather chair near the end of Wolfe’s desk. He was a middle-aged shorty with a round face, round shoulders, and a round belly. The other five were in an arc on yellow chairs that I had had ready for them. Their names, supplied by Harvey, were in my notebook. The one nearest me, the big blond guy in a brown suit with tan stripes, was Gerald Knapp, president of Knapp and Bowen. The one next to him, the wiry-looking bantam with big ears and slick black hair, was Reuben Imhof of the Victory Press. The female about my age who might have been easy to look at if her nose would stop twitching was Amy Wynn. I had seen a couple of reviews of her novel. Knock at My Door , but it wasn’t on Wolfe’s shelves. The tall gray-haired one with a long bony face was Thomas Dexter of Title House. The one at the far end of the arc, with thick lips and deep-set dark eyes, slouching in his chair with his left ankle on his right knee, was Mortimer Oshin. He had written the play, A Barrel of Love , which I had seen last evening. He had lit three cigarettes in eight minutes, and with two of the matches he had missed the ashtray on a stand at his elbow and they had landed on the rug.
Philip Harvey cleared his throat. “You’ll need all the details,” he said, “but first I’ll outline it. You said you know nothing about plagiarism, but I assume you know what it is. Of course a charge of plagiarism against a book or a play is dealt with by the author and publisher, or the playwright and producer, but a situation has developed that needs something more than defending individual cases. That’s why the NAAD and the BPA have set up this joint committee. I may say that we, the NAAD, appreciate the co-operation of the BPA. In a plagiarism suit it’s the author that gets stuck, not the publisher. In all book contracts the author agrees to indemnify the publisher for any liabilities, losses, damages,
expenses-”
Reuben Imhof cut in. “Now wait a minute. What is agreed and what actually happens are two different things. Actually, in a majority of cases, the publisher suffers-”
“The suffering publisher!” Amy Wynn cried, her nose twitching. Mortimer Oshin had a comment too, and four of them were speaking at once. I didn’t try to sort it out for my notebook.
Wolfe raised his voice. “If you pleasel You started it, Mr Harvey. If the interests of author and publisher are in conflict, why a joint committee?”
“Oh, they’re not always in conflict.” Harvey was smiling, not apologetically. “The interests of slave and master often jibe; they do in this situation. I merely mentioned en passant that the author gets stuck. We deeply appreciate the co-operation of the BPA. It’s damned generous of them.”
“You were going to outline the situation.”
“Yes. In the past four years there have been five major charges of plagiarism.” Harvey took papers from his pocket, unfolded them, and glanced at the top sheet. “In February 1955, McMurray and Company published The Colour of Passion , a novel by Ellen Sturdevant. By the middle of April it was at the top of the fiction best-seller list. In June the publishers received a letter from a woman named Alice Porter, claiming that the novel’s plot and characters, and all important details of the plot development, with only the setting and names changed, had been stolen from a story written by her, never published, entitled ‘There Is Only Love.’ She said she had sent the story, twenty-four typewritten pages, to Ellen Sturdevant in November 1952, with a note asking for suggestions for its improvement. It had never been acknowledged or returned. Ellen Sturdevant denied that she had ever seen any such story. One day in August, when she was at her summer home in Vermont, a local woman in her employ came to her with something she said she had found in a bureau drawer. It was twenty-four typewritten sheets, and the top one was headed, ‘There Is Only Love, by Alice Porter.’ Its plot and characters and many details were the same as those of Ellen Sturdevant’s novel, though in much shorter form. The woman, named Billings, admitted that she had been persuaded by Alice Porter to search the house for the typescript-persuaded by the offer of a hundred dollars if she found it. But, having found it, she had a pang of conscience and brought it to her employer. Mrs Sturdevant has told me that her first impulse was to bum it, but on second thought she realized that that wouldn’t do, since Mrs Billings couldn’t be expected to perjure herself on a witness stand, and she phoned her attorney in New York.”
Harvey upturned a palm. “That’s the meat of it. I may say that I am convinced, and so is everyone who knows her, that Ellen Sturdevant had never seen that typescript before. It was a plant. The case never went to trial. It was settled out of court. Mrs Sturdevant paid Alice Porter eighty-five thousand dollars.”
Wolfe grunted. “There’s nothing I could do about it now.”
“We know you can’t. We don’t expect you to. But that’s only the beginning.” Harvey looked at the second sheet of paper. “In January 1956, Title House published Hold Fast to All I Give You , a novel by Richard Echols. Will you tell him about it, Mr Dexter? Briefly?”
Thomas Dexter passed a hand over his gray hair. “I’ll make it as brief as I can,” he said. “It’s a long story. The publication date was January 19th. Within a month we were shipping five thousand a week. By the end of April nine thousand a week. On May 6th we got a letter from a man named Simon Jacobs. It stated that in February 1954 he had sent the manuscript of a novelette he had written, entitled “What’s Mine Is Yours,’ to the literary agency of Norris and Baum. Norris and Baum had been Echols’s agent for years. Jacob enclosed a photostat of a letter he had received from Norris and Baum, dated March 26th, 1954, returning the manuscript and saying that they couldn’t take on any new clients. The letter mentioned the title of the manuscript, ‘What’s Mine Is Yours.’ It was bona fide ; there was a copy of it in Norris and Baum’s files; but no one there could remember anything about it. More than two years had passed, and they get a great many unsolicited manuscripts.”
Dexter took a breath. “Jacobs claimed that the plot of his novelette was original and unique, also the characters, and that the plot and characters of Hold Fast to All I Give You , Echols’s novel, were obviously a steal. He said he would be glad to let us inspect his manuscript-that’s how he put it-and would give us a copy if we wanted one. His presumption was that someone at Norris and Baum had either told Echols about it or had let him read it. Everyone at Norris and Baum denied it, and so did Echols, and we at Title House believe them. Utterly. But a plagiarism suit is a tricky thing. There is something about the idea of a successful author stealing his material from an unsuccessful author that seems to appeal to ordinary people, and juries are made up of ordinary people. It dragged along for nearly a year. The final decision was left to Echols and his attorney, but we at Title House approved of it. They decided not to risk a trial. Jacobs was paid ninety thousand dollars for a general release. Though we were not obligated by contract. Title House contributed one-fourth of it, twenty-one thousand, five hundred.”
“It should have been half,” Harvey said, not arguing, just stating a fact.
Wolfe asked, “Did you get a copy of Jacobs’s manuscript?”
Dexter nodded. “Certainly. It supported his claim. The plot and characters were practically identical.”
“Indeed. Again, Mr Harvey, it seems to be too late.”
“We’re getting hotter,” Harvey said. “Wait till you hear the rest of it. Next: In November 1956, Nahm and Son published Sacred or Profane , a novel by Marjorie Lippin. Like all of her previous books, it had a big sale; the first printing was forty thousand.” He consulted his papers. “On March 21st, 1957, Marjorie Lippin died of a heart attack. On April 9th Nahm and Son received a letter from a woman named Jane Ogilvy. Her claim was almost identical with the one Alice Porter had made on The Colour of Passion -that in June 1955 she had sent the manuscript of a twenty-page story, entitled “On Earth but Not in Heaven,” to Marjorie Lippin, with a letter asking for her opinion of it, that it had never been acknowledged or returned, and that the plot and characters of Sacred or Profane had been taken from it. Since Mrs Lippin was dead she couldn’t answer to the charge, and on April 14th, only five days after Nahm and Son got the letter, the executor of Mrs Lippin’s estate, an officer of a bank, found the manuscript of the story, as described by Jane Ogilvy, in a trunk in the attic of Mrs Lippin’s home. He considered it his duty to produce it, and he did so. With Mrs Lippin dead, a successful challenge of the claim seemed hopeless, but her heirs, her son and daughter, were too stubborn to see it, and they wanted to clear her name of the stain. They even had her body exhumed for an autopsy, but it confirmed her death from a natural cause, a heart attack. The case finally went to trial last October, and a jury awarded Jane Ogilvy one hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars. It was-paid by the estate. Nahm and Son didn’t see fit to contribute.”
“Why the hell should they?” Gerald Knapp demanded.
Harvey smiled at him. “The NAAD appreciates your co-operation, Mr Knapp. I’m merely giving the record.”
Dexter told Knapp, “Oh, skip it. It’s common knowledge that Phil Harvey has an ulcer. That’s why the gods laugh.”
Harvey transferred the smile from Knapp and Bowen to Title House. “Many thanks for the plug, Mr Dexter. At all bookstores-maybe.” He returned to Wolfe. “The next one wasn’t a novel; it was a play- A Barrel of Love , by Mortimer Oshin. You tell it, Mr Oshin.”
The dramatist squashed a cigarette in the tray, his fifth or sixth-I had lost count. “Very painful, this is,” he said. He was a tenor. “Nauseous. We opened on Broadway February 25th last year, and when I say we had a smash hit I’m merely giving the record like Mr Harvey. Around the middle of May the producer, Al Friend, got a letter from a man named Kenneth Rennert. The mixture as before. It said he had sent me an outline for a play in August 1956, entitled ‘A Bushel of Love,’ with a letter asking me to collabor
ate with him on writing it. He demanded a million dollars, which was a compliment. Friend turned the letter over to me, and my lawyer answered it, telling Rennert he was a liar, which he already knew. But my lawyer knew about the three cases you have just heard described, and he had me take precautions. He and I made a thorough search of my apartment on Sixty-fifth Street, every inch of it, and also my house in the country at Silvermine, Connecticut, and I made arrangements that would have made it tough for anybody trying to plant something at either place.”
Oshin lit a cigarette and missed the ashtray with the match. “That was wasted effort. As you may know, a playwright must have an agent. I had had one named Jack Sandier that I couldn’t get along with, and a month after A Barrel of Love opened I had quit him and got another one. One weekend in July, Sandier phoned me in the country and said he had found something in his office and would drive over from his place near Danbury to show it to me. He did. It was a typewritten six-page outline of a play in three acts by Kenneth Rennert, entitled ‘A Bushel of Love.’ Sandier said it had been found by his secretary when she was cleaning out an old file.”
He ditched the cigarette. “As I said, nauseous. Sandier said he would burn it in my presence if I said the word, but I wouldn’t trust the bastard. He said he and his secretary would sign affidavits that they had never seen the outline before and it must have been sneaked into the file by somebody, but what the hell, I was somebody. I took it to my lawyer, and he had a talk with Sandier, whom he knew pretty well, and the secretary. He didn’t think that either of them had a hand in the plant, and I agreed with him. But also he didn’t think we could count on Sandier not to get word to Rennert that the outline had been found, and I agreed with that too. And that’s what the bastard did, because in September Rennert brought an action for damages, and he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t known he could get evidence about the outline. A million dollars. My lawyer has entered a countersuit, and I paid a detective agency six thousand dollars in three months trying to get support for it, with no luck. My lawyer thinks we’ll have to settle.”
