by Parnell Hall
He looked around. “Do you see what I mean? I’ll give you an example. The classic example is the bomb in the building. You start a bomb ticking in a building, send the hero in. The reader knows the bomb is there, the hero doesn’t. You got him searching the place, opening doors, looking in one room after another, and all the time the readers going, No, no, you fool, get out of there!”
He broke off, smiled and shrugged. “Now that’s suspense, but it only works in the third person. The reader knows the bomb is there because you wrote a scene where the bad guy goes in and rigs the bomb. But the hero doesn’t know that. He wasn’t there, he didn’t see it. Obviously, this doesn’t work with a first-person narrative. You can describe only what the hero sees, what he knows. So you can’t deliver the ticking bomb, so you can’t have suspense.”
The man looked totally unconvinced, and was probably prepared to argue the point, had not Winnington quickly called on someone else.
When that happened, the man got to his feet. Even with his back to me, his body language told me he was miffed.
I nudged Sergeant Thurman, said, “Watch him,” very much as if the sergeant were an attack dog I was putting on guard.
I needn’t have bothered. Thurman was already on the scent. With amazing agility for a man that large, he picked his way swiftly through the seats and within seconds had managed to put himself between his quarry and my client.
If the man noticed, he gave no indication, just pushed his way to the side of the row he was sitting in and disappeared among the shelves of books.
Sergeant Thurman gave chase.
In the back of the audience I shifted around to a position from which I could watch them go.
The man went straight to the escalator at the far end of the store.
Sergeant Thurman followed with all the subtlety of a steamroller, nearly pushing a woman into the remaindered rack, and elbowing his way onto the escalator in front of a young couple, who appeared miffed, but probably weren’t going to do anything about it, considering the sergeant’s size.
For me, Sergeant Thurman’s exit was a bit of a surprise. I’d meant for him to watch the man, not learn his life story. My only concern was that he keep away from my client. Once he went the other direction I didn’t really care.
But, as I suddenly realized, with Sergeant Thurman off on a wild goose chase, I was now solely responsible for Mrs. Winnington’s safety.
Fortunately, it wasn’t that tough a job. The rest of the signing proceeded without incident. Winnington fielded a few more questions, all of a congratulatory nature, accepted a round of applause, then retired to a table that had been set up in the corner of the store. A line formed, and soon about a hundred people were snaking their way toward the table, clutching copies of Winnington’s books.
I moved in close to keep my eye on Maxine, so I had a good chance to observe the best-selling novelist in his interaction with his fans. I must admit, he was rather good, smiling, nodding, looking up at them in a modest, self-deprecating way. I wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but I was sure it consisted largely of him acknowledging compliments. And when he signed a book, I noticed he usually did not just sign his name, but elicited the name of the fan, and then wrote a personal inscription.
I observed all this while keeping an eye on Maxine. She stood behind the table off to the left, watching her husband sign. She was smiling and keeping up a good front, but the tension was evident. Every once in a while she would let her guard slip, and I could see the irritation, the strain, the resentment.
Resentment.
It was about halfway through the signing when I noticed that Maxine Winnington looking less than pleased seemed to correspond with Kenneth P. Winnington signing a book for a particularly attractive young woman. Winnington was going through his usual smiling, nodding, adorable, aw-shucks routine, just as he did with all the women he signed for, but while with some of the older ones it seemed merely charming, with this young one it came off as flirting.
At least my client seemed to perceive it as such.
I wondered if I was imagining it.
If not, I wondered if it was tremendously important, or not important at all.
I mean, as an extreme example, could it be that the woman I was witnessing now just happened to be Kenneth P. Winningtons mistress? Was a domestic triangle being played out right before my very eyes?
Not likely. Just like that, the woman was gone, clutching a signed book and heading for the escalator, and, lo and behold, the same situation seemed to develop with another attractive woman some twelve or thirteen people later.
Which seemed to tell the story. Maxine Winnington had no particular rival, but was well aware of the fact that her husband had roving eyes.
Sergeant Thurman returned about then, came sidling up to me, jabbed me in the ribs, and said, “Anything going on?”
Thurman was so crude and obvious it occurred to me Winnington might as well have put up a sign announcing he was being watched by the police. But no one seemed to notice.
I considered his question. Decided against alluding to any potential jealousy on Maxine’s part.
“Not much,” I said. “It would appear to be a waste of time.”
“Maybe not,” Thurman said. “That guy might be a live one.”
“He got away?”
Thurman looked offended. “Are you kidding? I got him pegged. I’ll check him out later. Right now I want to see if there’s any action here.”
There wasn’t. Things went smoothly, and within a half hour the last book had been signed. All that remained was for me to take the Winningtons home.
We went out on Broadway and hailed a cab. We all got in the back, Maxine in the middle, Winnington and I on either side. The cab headed east, went into the park at 81st Street.
No one said a word. I wondered if that was because of the signing, or the general strain of the murder investigation.
“So,” I said, “that seemed to go pretty well.”
When I got no response, I said, “Who was he?”
That worked. Both of them said, “Huh?”
“The man who asked the question. About writing in the first person.”
“Oh,” Winnington said. “Just a jerk. There’s one in every crowd.”
“Oh?”
“Some guy thinks he’s so smart, and wants to show off in front of everyone. It’s no big deal. Happens all the time.”
“Wait a minute. You’ve seen this man before?”
“No. Not him. But enough guys like him. Always trying to be so clever, and they haven’t got a clue. Take the guy tonight. Do you write in the first person? Trying to sound intellectual, when actually it’s a dumb question.”
“But you’ve never seen the guy before?”
“Why? He’s not important. Just some kook.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But we happen to be looking for a kook.”
“Yeah, I know,” Winnington said, “but him? I mean, can you imagine him strangling someone?”
I couldn’t, nor could I imagine what our cab driver must have thought of the conversation, assuming the gentleman spoke English.
Moments later we pulled up in front of the Winningtons’ apartment building. I waited while Winnington paid off the cab, then saw them inside and put them in the elevator.
Closing the door on my thousand-dollar day.
Hot damn.
I could afford to take a cab home myself. Maybe even slip the doorman a buck, ask him to hail one for me. Really feel like a big shot.
I walked out the front door, wondering how much of a schmuck I’d feel like if I actually did that, and prepared to step out in the street and hail my own cab, when a car suddenly swerved in to the curb and screeched to a stop right where I was standing.
I jumped back instinctively. My nerves were on edge, and I was fully prepared for someone to roll down the window and start blasting away at me.
A drive-by shooting.
To my horror, the mom
ent I had that thought, the passenger-side window started down.
What could I do? Fall to the ground? Jump behind the plump doorman I’d just decided not to give a dollar to for getting me a cab?
Or stand there like a fool and get shot?
Before I could decide, a voice said, “Hey, get in.”
I blinked.
Leaned down, looked in the window.
It was Sergeant Thurman.
What he said blew my mind.
“Come on. Let’s get some coffee.”
24.
YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND.
I believe I mentioned working with Sergeant Thurman before. Hoping I never would again. And the fact he wasn’t very bright.
Well, that’s an incredible understatement.
I don’t know how to put it strongly enough.
Let me try.
I guess the bottom line is, he beat me up. That really says it all. Everything else is an intellectualization. But when the fists come crashing into your body, delivered by someone that strong, rational thought goes out the window. You know the term, a gut reaction? Try getting punched in the gut. Hard. Again and again.
True, he had motivation. I was holding out in a murder case, and he knew it. But that doesn’t justify what he did. Nothing justified what he did.
Still, I had chosen the high road. Instead of showing him up, I had let him in on the solution to the crime, let him help me trap the killer. And that, coupled with the fact that in this case I was cooperating with the cops and had told them everything I knew, somehow made me okay in his book.
Which truly blew my mind. When I got up this morning, Sergeant Thurman buying me a cup of coffee had seemed as likely as me being elected President of the United States. I still wasn’t President, but I was having coffee with Thurman at a deli on Madison Avenue.
“So,” Thurman said, “whaddya think?”
I thought this was a pretty strange ending to a thousand-dollar day. But I had a feeling that wasn’t exactly what he meant. “About the case?”
“About the guy. What do you think about the guy?”
“I think he’s a kook.”
“Besides that.”
“Probably a would-be writer, pissed off because Winnington’s published and he’s not.”
Thurman nodded. “Good. I like that. Fits just fine.”
“It’s a long way from wanting to be published to killing a publicist.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Thurman said. “We got crank phone calls. That’s how it starts, see. The guy makes crank phone calls, he gets sucked in. Next thing you know, bam, he gets backed into a corner and has to kill.”
The problem with Sergeant Thurman was his logic didn’t extend very far.
“Backed into a corner how? What’s his connection with this publicist?”
“The phone number.”
“Huh?”
“She had the phone number. If she was the way he found out the phone number, then the whole thing fits.”
“She wasn’t the way he found out the phone number.”
“Why not? If the guy’s a writer, maybe he knew her.”
I shook my head. “There’s only two writers who were up there who could have seen the number.” My eyes widened. “Are you telling me he’s him?”
“Who?”
“What s-his-name. The guy she said was up there. The one who kept paying her to read his manuscripts.”
“No, not him. This guy is Noah Sprague. I don’t remember who your guy was, but it wasn’t that. This guy lives on West Seventy-eighth Street. Apartment in a brownstone. Appears to live alone.”
“Seventy-eighth?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“It’s walking distance. Could be why the guy showed up at the store. Just happened to be there.”
“I don’t buy that,” Thurman said. “I like him for this. I think he’s the type. What did your client say?”
“Huh?”
“About the guy. What did Winnington say?”
“Winnington is not my client.”
“Yeah, yeah, right. It’s the wife. Big deal. We know who’s payin’ the bills. Anyway, what did he say?”
“Says he’s never seen him before.”
“Oh?”
“Far as he knows. Says he’s a kook. Says there’s one at every signing. It’s no big deal, he doesn’t think much of it.”
“Even with the phone calls?”
“He can’t see this guy strangling anyone.”
Thurman made a face. “Fucking amateurs. Same old story. Don’t they watch TV?”
“Huh?”
“Every killer gets caught, the neighbors all say, oh, he’s such a nice guy, I can’t imagine him hurting anyone.”
“It’s not quite the same thing.”
“You think not? If this guy’s the killer, it’s exactly the same thing. Did Winnington say anything else?”
“About what?”
“About the guy? Winnington say anything about the guy?”
“No. Like I say, he never saw him before. He was just a guy trying to show off how smart he was, when actually he was really dumb.”
“So Winnington was pissed off?”
“Not pissed off, really. But he thought the guy was stupid.”
“About writing?”
“Yes.”
Thurman paused. I could practically see the wheels going in his head, trying to work it out, “What the guy said about writing—what was that again?”
“About writing in the first person.”
“Yeah, right.” Thurman frowned. “Just what does that mean?”
Explaining literature to Sergeant Thurman? If I could do it, I could walk on water. Maybe the presidency wasn’t out of my grasp, after all.
“Well,” I said, “a first-person narrative just means your hero is telling the story. The writer uses the word I. Instead of saying, ‘He went down the street,’ the writer says, ‘I went down the street.’”
Thurman looked baffled. “Who went down the street?”
“Bad example. Okay, say you were the hero in the story. The writer writes, ‘Sergeant Thurman went down the street. He saw the bad guy, drew his gun.’ That’s writing in the third person.”
“Third person? What third person?”
“He. He is the third person.”
“Who?”
I grimaced. “Another bad example. Never mind the third person. Anyway, the point is, one way to tell a story about you is to say, ‘Sergeant Thurman did this. Then he did that. Then he did this, that, and the other thing.’ Okay? That’s the example. ‘Sergeant Thurman went down the street. He saw the bad guy, pulled a gun.’ That’s one way to tell the story.
“The other way is, the writer pretends he’s Sergeant Thurman, and says, I.”
“He says you?”
“No, no. He uses the word I to tell the story. The writer pretends he’s you. He says, ‘I was walking down the street. I saw the bad guy and I pulled my gun.’”
“He pretends he’s me?”
“For the sake of the story. Let me put it another way. It’s not that he pretends he’s you. He pretends that you’re telling the story. See what I mean?”
“I’m telling the story?”
“That’s what the writer pretends. He says, ‘I’m Sergeant Thurman, I’m a homicide cop, I was working on the case and a strange thing happened. I was walking down the street, I saw the bad guy, and I pulled a gun.’”
Thurman frowned again, took a deep breath, and exhaled very noisily, after which he rubbed his head. “Okay,” he said. “I think I’ve got it. First person means I’m tellin' the story?”
“That’s right.”
“And your client says that’s no good?”
I didn’t correct him again about Winnington not being my client. “He said it wouldn’t work for suspense.”
“Then I bet it wouldn’t. That guy’s sharp.”
I sighed. I wasn’t about to argue, but for my money, Kenneth P. Winningt
on was a pompous, self-satisfied windbag, and it occurred to me if I could ever get published, the first thing I would want to do would be write a suspense novel in the first person just for the satisfaction of proving him wrong.
When I didn’t answer, Thurman said, “Did he say anything else?”
“Not really. How come you didn’t ask him yourself?”
Thurman shrugged. “You were ridin' home with them. I figured you’d ask him.”
“What if I didn’t?”
“A detective? Of course you’re gonna ask him.”
“Even so, Thurman. Why get it secondhand?”
Thurman shrugged. “No reason to let the guy know what I’m thinkin’.”
“Yeah? Why not?”
“Are you kiddin' me? It’s the wife bein’ threatened, right? Husband/wife thing, the husband’s always the first suspect.”
“Husband/wife thing? You mean the phone calls?”
“Of course.”
I stared at him. “He’s not making the phone calls. He was there when they came in.”
“Sure, but he could have an accomplice.”
“An accomplice?”
“Yeah. Maybe even an unwitting one. In which case, he’d be the next to go.”
“You suspect Winnington?”
“I don’t suspect Winnington. I mean, I don’t think he did it. On the other hand, I don’t think he didn’t do it. He is a suspect, I just don’t suspect him.”
For Sergeant Thurman, that was rather clear thinking. I was actually impressed. “Are there any other suspects?”
“Oh, sure. Aside from Winnington and his wife—”
“His wife?”
“Yeah, why not? Wouldn’t be the first person faked a crime against themself.”
“What’s her motive?”
“What’s anybody’s motive? I have no idea. You just asked me for suspects. She’s one, so’s the secretary. For my money, neither one of them is as good as Winnington himself, but there they are. Then you got the agent and. the woman at the publishing company.”
