by Parnell Hall
“Ah, yes, I see,” she said. “That’s a good point. I’ve told him the effect of it. Whether he took it to heart or not is another matter.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. I remembered what Abe Feinstein had said about Kenneth P. Winnington’s callousness in dumping Doug Mark. I wondered just how secure Elizabeth Abbott’s position was. Or how secure she thought it was. And whether she worried about it.
“Now, then,” I said. “With regard to the present situation.”
“That’s a fine way of putting it,” she said. “I would think I would have to edit that. Present situation? Didn’t you tell me someone threatened his wife?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, that’s not the present situation. That’s awful. That’s horrible. That’s shocking, and something should be done.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“That’s fine, but has he notified the police?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“He’d prefer to keep it quiet if he can.”
“I suppose. But it’s such a scary thing. Celebrities are so exposed.”
“It’s his wife who’s been threatened.”
“Yes, but it’s because of him. Isn’t that right? I mean, who’d want to threaten her?”
“Do you know her?”
“Not really.”
“Were you at the wedding?”
“I had to be. I’m his editor.”
“What do you think of her?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. In a way, I’m piecing together a puzzle. I need as many pieces as I can get.”
She frowned. “Are you a writer too?”
“Actually, I am.”
“Well, then, lay off the puzzle pieces. Doesn’t sound true to life, makes it seem contrived.”
“Thanks for the hint,” I said. “Could you tell me about Mrs. Winnington?”
“Too young, too pretty.”
“What do you mean?”
“That says it all. Sometimes you do best with an economy of words. Too young, too pretty may sound catty, may sound short, but is surprisingly apt.”
“You’ve dealt with her, then? Aside from the wedding?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Mostly on the phone. I’ll call Kenneth and get her.”
“How does she react?”
“What do you mean?”
“At having another woman call her husband on the phone?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m his editor.”
“Would that make a difference?”
She frowned, pushed her wire-rimmed glasses up on her nose. “I think you’re off on the wrong track. The point is, my relationship with Mr. Winnington’s wife is virtually nonexistent and will not help you. Now, is there anything else that might?”
“There’s the phone number. That’s the main thing I’m concerned with. The new number.”
“Yes, I have it. No, I have not been making threatening phone calls. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“When did you get it?”
“The new number?”
“Yes.”
“I got it Thursday afternoon.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I called Thursday morning and the number had been changed. Which was a fine how-do-you-do. He had a new unlisted number, and the phone company won’t give it out, no matter who you are.”
“So how’d you get it?”
“The secretary called. David Pryne. I gave him a piece of my mind.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? He called me Thursday afternoon to give me the number. Well, I needed it Thursday morning. Not Thursday afternoon.”
“I take it you made that clear.”
Her chin came up and she looked at me narrowly, as if to see if I were making fun of her.
I pretended not to notice, said, “So, who did you give it to?”
She blinked. “What?”
“The new number. Who have you given it to?”
“No one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. Who would I give his number to?”
“I don’t know. An assistant. The copy editor. Someone in the art department.”
She waved it away. “None of them deal with him. He only deals with me.”
“What about the publicity department?”
“They deal with his publicist. Never with him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Huh?”
“How do you know one of them didn’t call him direct?”
“How do I know anything? Because it isn’t done. That’s on the one hand. On the other hand, they wouldn’t have the number.”
“No, but they could get it.”
“How?”
“All right, you tell me. What’s his new number?”
“What?”
“What’s Kenneth P. Winnington’s new number?”
“You want his number?”
“I want you to tell me what it is.”
“I don’t know offhand.”
“I wouldn’t think you did. I assume it’s written down?”
She said nothing, glared at me.
“Where is it written down? Where do you keep his number?”
“On the Rolodex.”
“So,” I said, “any time you weren’t in your office, anyone could walk in here, flip through the Rolodex, and get his new number,”
“They’d be seen,” she said irritably.
“Maybe so,” I said. “But if they were someone who had a right to be there—perhaps your assistant—no one would think anything of it.”
“My assistant is not making crank phone calls to Kenneth P. Winnington’s wife.”
“No, but she might have given the number to someone else.”
“What makes you think my assistant is a she?”
“All right, he might have given the number to someone else.”
She frowned. “My assistant is a woman. There’s just no reason to assume so. Anyway, the idea is ridiculous. No one here would be involved in such a thing.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “Would you mind showing me the new number on the Rolodex?”
“Why?”
“I’d just like to see it.”
Grudgingly, Elizabeth Abbott swiveled around and reached for the Rolodex. Her hand grasped the knob, but didn’t turn it. And there was a strange look on her face. It took me a few seconds to realize it was embarrassment.
I stepped up next to her and looked.
The Rolodex was flipped open to the card with Kenneth P. Winnington’s new number.
12.
IT OCCURRED TO ME IF this were a mystery novel, Sherry Pressman was the one who would get killed. Kenneth P. Winningtons publicist had to be one of the most irritating people I’d ever met. A tiny person, she seemed determined to make up for her lack of size in any way whatsoever. Talking to her was an ordeal at best. Several times I came close to strangling her myself.
“You haven’t read his books?” she said for the fourth time, peering over her wing-tipped glasses and jabbing a bony finger in my face. “How can you work for the man and not read his books?”
“I just started yesterday,” I said defensively. And was instantly angry with myself. Why the hell should I be defensive?
“That’s no excuse,” she said. “What did you do when you got home last night? Got into bed, turned on the TV And do you know why? Because you’re lazy. You and ninety-five percent of the population. Do you know how many Americans actually read? And do you know why?”
“Would television be a good guess?”
She actually slapped at my jacket, as if from an elderly woman of her stature there was something charming about physical abuse. “Don’t be a smart aleck,” she said. “No one likes a smart aleck. The fact is, you went home last night and turned on the TV The same d
ay you got hired by one of our greatest living American authors.”
Good god. It seems I’d insulted the next Ernest Hemingway.
“I was working all day,” I said. “Not hanging out in the bookstores.” And kicked myself in the head again. Yet another defensive statement.
“And what about your wife?” she said. “I bet your wife reads.”
Not Kenneth P. Winnington was the immediate response that came to mind. The fact is, Alice does read. So do I, for that matter. But I didn’t want to talk about it.
“We have a serious matter here,” I said.
“Yes, we do,” she said. “And you’re to blame. If you won’t read Kenny’s books, who will?”
It occurred to me what charming publicity this woman must generate. Still, she was damn effective.
“I promise I’ll buy one today,” I said. “As soon as I get off work. But I won’t get off work until you cooperate, so whaddya say?”
“You’ll buy Kenny’s book?”
“That’s what I said.”
“His new book.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“His new book. Woman on the Edge. That’s the one you should buy. The book came out, just made the list. Debuted at number fourteen. We can do better than that. So buy that book. Help us move up the list.”
It occurred to me that would be his new hardcover book. What it might cost, I hated to imagine.
“Fine,” I said, “Now, if you could help me out.”
“Anything,” she said. “Anything for Kenny. Such a sweet man. Don’t you agree? Isn’t he the sweetest man?”
Sweet is not how I would, have described Kenneth P. Winnington. But Sherry Pressman was the type of woman who wouldn’t let anything go.
“He’s quite nice,” I said.
“Nice?” she said. “What a lukewarm word that is. That’s damning with faint praise. Nice. You think that’s the type of word I’d quote from a review? You know what type of word nice is? Nice is the type of word, the New York Times calls the book nice, you use the Publishers Weekly quote instead.”
“That’s very interesting,” I said. “Now, with regard to the phone call—”
“I don’t understand this at all,” she said. “Someone’s playing a practical joke, and you’re all making a big fuss.”
“It’s not a practical joke,”
“Sounds like a practical joke to me. Calling on the phone. The type of thing that schoolboys do.”
“Death threats are not a prank.”
“Real ones, no. But if the caller is only kidding.”
“That’s the point. At the present time, there’s no way to tell.”
“Yes, well, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re handling it all wrong.”
I did mind her saying so.
“I beg your pardon?”
She looked at me as if I were a moron. “Hushing it up. This is the type of thing, you play it right, you make the front page of the Daily News. You can’t buy publicity like that.”
“Mr. Winnington wants to keep it quiet.”
“I know he does, and I can’t talk him out of it. A sweet man, but no business sense.”
I looked at her in surprise. “You discussed this with him?”
“Yes, of course.”
“When did you do that?”
“Just now. Right after you called me. Before you came up.”
Up was Sherry Pressman’s West 57th Street apartment, in the living room of which I was currently being abused. I’d called her from Elizabeth Abbott’s office on Madison Avenue and 62nd Street and come right over, so the fact she’d discussed this with Kenneth P. Winnington was somewhat remarkable. She’d had at best a fifteen-minute window of opportunity.
“You called him and advised him to go public?”
“Of course I did. Why do you think I get the big bucks? I’m the best there is. And don’t you forget it.”
“And Mr. Winnington is having none of it?”
“Very short-sighted of him, but what do you expect? He’s an artist. A creative type. Impractical, the whole lot of ’em.”
“That must be very distressing,” I said. “But the fact is, it’s Winnington’s call. If he wants it kept quiet, that’s what we have to do.”
“Yes,” she said. “But you could reason with him. If he’s concerned with his wife’s safety, you might point out that the right type of publicity might scare this person off.”
“I assume you advanced that theory?”
“He’s not gonna take it coming from me. But you’re a detective, right? If you think that’s the way to go, it would lend more weight.”
“I doubt if I’d have any influence.”
“The other thing is, you could do it yourself. Leak the information. Or simply go to the police. Once the police are involved, everyone will know.”
Not quite. I’d already been to the police, if you wanted to count MacAullif, and so far nobody’d said a word.
But I wasn’t about to tell her that. “Why don’t you leak the information yourself ?” I said.
Her eyes shifted. “Oh, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
Ethical? Somehow I couldn’t imagine this woman stopped by ethics. I thought a moment. Smiled.
“Oh, I see,” I said. “You don’t dare leak the information, because if Winnington found out, he’d fire you. Even if you leaked it anonymously, he’d figure it was you. So your only safe play is to have someone else leak it, that it can be traced back to. If I put out the story, you’re off the hook.”
I swear she ground her teeth together before speaking. “Some detective,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be thinking of your client’s best interests, what’s best for her? I mean, who hired you, him or her? And then you say, well, we have to do what Mr. Winnington wants.”
I cocked my head. “What makes you think there’s any difference of opinion?”
“I didn’t say there was.”
“You implied it.”
She waved it away. “Please. I just asked a question. You tell me. What does your client want?”
“She wants this cleaned up as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“There’s another one, no head for business. How’s about you talking some sense into her?”
“I’ll make your opinion known to her,” I said.
“You’ll tell her it’s a good idea?”
“I’ll advance the opinion. That’s the best I can do.”
Sherry Pressman’s attitude implied it wasn’t good enough, but she begrudgingly let the matter drop.
“Now,” I said. “Getting back to the matter at hand. I’m interested in when you got the new number.”
“Why?”
“Because someone is making those calls. Whether they’re a prank, or whether they’re on the level, the fact is someone is making them. That person has the new number, and I have to find out how they got it.”
“Well, it wasn’t from me.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now let’s pin that down with some facts. When did you get the new number?”
“I believe it was Wednesday afternoon.”
“Wednesday?”
“Wednesday or Thursday, I’m not sure. I mean, it’s not as if it was particularly important.”
“Well, can you fix the event by anything else that happened? Perhaps your business calendar.”
“I fail to see how that would help,” she said. Still, she picked up an appointment book and flipped it open. “Let me see, Wednesday of last week. Actually, it couldn’t have been Wednesday. I was out all afternoon. It was either Tuesday or Thursday. I don’t think it was as early as Tuesday.”
“If it was Thursday, what time would it have been?”
“Sometime in the afternoon. The secretary called me, said Kenny changed his phone.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“He said there’d been crank phone calls. I didn’t think anything of it. Crank phone calls happen all the time. Now, if he’d
told me there’d been death threats. But no, I have to find that out from you.”
“So you got the number Thursday afternoon. And where did you write it down?”
“In the book. Where else?” She flipped the appointment book open to the address section in the back. “I wrote it right in the book.”
“Actually, that’s what I was going to ask you. Did you write it right in the book? I mean, right when he gave it to you? Or did you write it on a piece of paper first, and then copy it into the book?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Are you saying that you did?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m asking you what the difference is.”
“The difference is, if you wrote it on a piece of paper, then there would be a piece of paper with that phone number on it. And I would be interested in knowing where that piece of paper went.”
She cocked her head. “You have got to be kidding,”
“But I’m not. Someone is making those phone calls. That person has access to the new number. They had to get it somewhere. The sources are limited. Fantastic though it might seem to you, it is possible that you were that source.
“For instance, I assume you have other clients. And they visit you here in your office. Suppose another of your authors, who didn’t happen to like Kenneth P. Winnington, or perhaps was jealous of him, came up here and sat in the chair where I’m sitting now, and on the coffee table in front of them was a piece of paper with the notation Kenneth P. Winnington and a phone number. Well, if that author happened to be the person who was making the crank phone calls, he would realize at once that this was Kenneth P. Winnington’s new number. In fact,” I said, “if they already knew the number had been changed, they might have come to your office just for the purpose of trying to find out his new number. You see what I mean?”
Her eyes were wide. “You really suspect another author?”
“I don’t specifically suspect anyone. We have an impossible situation. The phone number is changed, and yet the calls still come. There must be an explanation, so we have to explore all possibilities.”
“I see,” Sherry Pressman said.
“So let me ask you. Were there any authors up here since Thursday afternoon who might have seen that number written on a piece of paper?”
“I didn’t say I wrote the number on a piece of paper.”
“No, you didn’t. But whether you did or not, you wrote it in your book. So, if an author was up here and you went into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, he could have flipped your address book open to Winnington, and copied the new number. Isn’t that right?”
