Much as I wanted to take Susan with me to Connecticut on Saturday, I decided it was much too soon to spring her on my mother. Although she claims to be a broad-minded party, Mother is in actual fact rather old-fashioned, and I could not visualize her permitting Susan and me to occupy the same four-poster. Moreover, she is forever accusing me of “getting involved with another woman.” The truth is, she cleaves to Margo, heart and soul, and wishes that we two were together again. I didn’t want Susan to have to compete with an idealized Margo Richmond.
I did, however, tell Tim about Susan, sparing only the graphic details.
“So she was keeping company with Parker as a career move,” said Tim.
“That’s right.”
“And how do you know that’s not her motive in sleeping with you?”
I tensed up a bit. The implication that ambition not lust was what burned in Susan’s breast put me on my guard. Suppose it was true that she only had advancement in mind—and not romance?
“I admit that might be the case,” I said, “but I’m in no position to help her career, and I wouldn’t if I could.”
“No?” Ever the skeptic, my brother.
“No—most emphatically not. There’s enough nepotism in this family as it is.”
Tim grinned. “I can see you’re a little touchy on the matter, so we won’t pursue the subject any further. In any case, Nick, I hope it all ends well.”
Relieved, I punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I can only say that so far, so good.”
We then got on the subject of what Susan had told me about Parker.
“Irving,” murmured Tim. “Irving.” He scratched his head. “Let’s think publishing first. Who are the Irvings? Irving Stone?”
“Irving Wallace,” I chimed in.
“Clifford Irving?”
“How about the Irving Trust?”
Tim brightened. “That may well be it. The Irving Trust Company…”
“Parker mentioned an annuity.”
“The two could be connected,” said Tim, spinning his wheelchair around until he faced the wall, something he frequently did when he was into hard thinking.
“Do you suppose,” he went on, “that Joe Scanlon or one of the cops on the case could find out if Parker had an account at the Irving Trust?”
“More likely a safe-deposit box, don’t you think?”
He nodded. “Yeah—and to get into one of those—”
“You need a court order, which, Parker having shuffled off this mortal coil, shouldn’t be a problem to get.”
“It’s worth a phone call on your part, anyway, Nick.”
We turned next to the problem of the Widow Michaelson.
“I have a suggestion,” said Tim.
“Shoot.”
“I gather you’re pretty upset about that letter of Parker’s…”
Upset? Too mild a word. Goddamned angry about it.
“Parker ticked me off enough when he was alive,” I said, “but now that he’s dead I’m finding even more reasons to hate his guts. Virtually every day brings a new indictment of his character.”
“My suggestion, then, is that you talk to Judith Michaelson and offer, in her husband’s memory, to publish his novel posthumously. Remember A Confederacy of Dunces?”
“The O’Toole novel? Of course. Like Michaelson, he killed himself because no one would publish it. At least that’s the conventional wisdom.”
“But,” I added, “suppose the book isn’t worth publishing?”
“That was only Parker Foxcroft’s opinion, Nick. Why don’t you ask the lady for a copy of the manuscript so you can read it for yourself?”
Which is exactly what I did on Monday morning, when I got back to New York.
Judith Michaelson was hesitant when I asked her if I might drop by for another talk, but I persisted, and she finally relented. I had the feeling that she didn’t have too many visitors—not just because she had lost her husband or was antisocial, but because most writers, as I well know, are often lonely when they’re not writing—and even when they are.
It seemed to me that when she greeted me at the door of her apartment, she was wearing the same housedress she’d had on the first time I called on her. Not that I expected her to get gussied up just for me—but she had made one concession to vanity today: she’d put on makeup.
When we were settled, once again with the tea things out and in service, I explained to her what I had in mind.
“So if you would let me have a copy of your husband’s book, Mrs. Michaelson—”
“Oh, but that’s not possible, Mr. Barlow.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t mean to sound as though I don’t appreciate your kind offer, and if I had a copy of Alex’s manuscript, I’d be glad to let you read it. But, Mr. Barlow, there aren’t any copies.”
“No copies, Mrs. Michaelson?
“None.”
“No computer disks, perhaps?”
“My husband didn’t use a computer. He wouldn’t even use an electric typewriter, only the old Olivetti portable he got as a present from his family when he graduated from college.”
An Olivetti portable, no less.
I sighed, deep inside my being. If only all authors worked on computers, how much easier the preservation of the written word would be! No, no, there are some writers who even write with pens or pencils—or in longhand, for God’s sake. And only too often manuscripts are lost. Remember Hemingway’s suitcase?
Not that we publishers are much better. I have had more than one author ask me if I’d rather deal with his floppies than hard copy—and I have always had to smile sadly, bow my head in shame, and admit that Barlow & Company is only just creeping into the electronic age. All over America, enterprising authors are composing their books on computer terminals, running off type for them on their laser printers, and shipping the pages off to a printer; five weeks later they have bound books, while we supposedly “mainstream” publishers take anywhere from nine to eighteen months to bring a book to market. It is to laugh. So why aren’t we au courant? Why are we dragging our feet? Force of habit, I suppose; that’s the way it has always been done. Ever since Gutenberg.
It must have been evident that I was in a state of reverie, for Judith Michaelson cleared her throat and said: “Mr. Barlow?”
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Perfectly. I was just thinking… your husband did leave a manuscript behind—somewhere?”
“Yes. I did have a copy.”
“What became of it?”
She paused and held out a plate of cookies for my inspection. I declined to take one, toothsome as they looked.
“I gave it to a mutual friend of Alex and mine,” she said. “Another writer.”
“Oh? And what did this friend say?”
“He told me that while it was undeserving of Parker’s destructive criticism, the book was essentially mediocre at best; he recommended that it be destroyed.”
“Destroyed? Surely you didn’t…”
“Not exactly,” Michaelson said. “I thought we ought to have a second opinion. My friend agreed. He suggested Peter Jensen, the critic.”
I nodded. “A sensible idea. I know Jensen—not well, but I respect his judgment.”
“At any rate,” she continued, “my friend said he would send the book to Jensen by messenger. But the messenger never arrived at Jensen’s office; he was hit by a car on the way—and somehow the manuscript disappeared. At least it was never found.”
“What a pity,” I murmured. “You didn’t read it first? Before sending it to your friend?”
“Oh no.” She gave a fleeting grimace. “Alex and I made a practice of never reading each other’s work. He felt it might threaten our marriage.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Either we might be too critical, and wound the other, or we might praise poor writing for fear of hurting the other person’s feelings. And you see, Mr. Barlow, we didn’t write at all alike.”
So that was that: a washout.
When Herbert Poole showed up at my office that afternoon, I told him about my two meetings with Judith Michaelson and how disappointed I was at the outcome.
“Would you really have published the man’s book?” Poole asked. Once again, I was struck by how he drawled out his question.
“Almost certainly. Even though the lady is, in my opinion, a suspect in our murder.”
“Do you really think so?” Poole—who was sitting on the visitor’s chair in my office—rose, walked over to one of my mahogany bookcases, took out a volume, and began idly leafing through it. I saw that the book was Bloody Murder, by Julian Symons.
“My view,” he continued, “now that I’ve given it some thought, is that the lady has probably suffered enough. She did lose a husband, after all, and in the most brutal fashion imaginable. Self-murder is always shocking. Hard for the survivor to bear.”
I considered this for a moment. “You’re probably right about the suffering—”
“As for killing Parker Foxcroft, do you suppose she would turn up at his funeral if she was responsible for his death?”
“Well—no, I guess not.”
“Hardly,” said Poole emphatically.
That seemed to end the matter, at least for now. Changing the subject, I said to Poole: “Have you finished your outline yet?”
“Not quite. However, it’s coming along.” He replaced the Symons in its proper niche on the shelf.
“One thing I’d like you to remember, Herbert,” I said, assuming my professional mien. “When you write a mystery, you are essentially writing a fantasy.”
“How so?”
“A realistic detective story is probably a contradiction in terms. Private eyes in the real world do not get mixed up in murder cases. They collect evidence for lawyers, they do marital surveillance, insurance fraud, or missing-person cases. Amateur sleuths do not solve murders where the police cannot. And even police procedurals rely on strong fictional elements. If they didn’t, they’d make damn dull reading. Mystery depends on the bizarre to be convincing. On the fantastic, in short. End of lecture.”
“I see what you mean,” Poole said. “Go off the wall.”
“Exactly.”
“By the way,” I said, “Parker’s office has now been unsealed by the police. Tomorrow you and I might start going through the Foxcroft legacy—his papers and computer disks. If you’d like to do it, that is. What do you say?”
“Are you sure I can be helpful?”
“Let’s say you can provide a useful second opinion.”
“Then I’ll be happy to lend a hand. What are we looking for?”
“I wish I could say we’re looking for his murderer, but I doubt it. This is the real world, not fiction. I suspect we’re looking to see if we can tell what made Parker tick.”
Poole started toward the door and then turned, his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, Nick—” he said. “There’s something else I meant to tell you. About Foxcroft.”
“What is it?”
“Something my former agent—before Kay—told me. You know Finlay Norton, don’t you?”
“We all do,” I said. “I’m glad you switched agents.” Finlay Norton was notorious along Publishers Row for forcing the prices he put on books unreasonably high.
“He as much as accused Parker of blackmail,” said Poole.
“Isn’t that interesting,” I said. “How so?”
“Apparently Parker caught Finlay out in a shady deal of some kind—he wouldn’t say what it was for sure, but that’s what I suspect it was. Unethical behavior in an auction, I believe. Anyway, Parker was forcing Norton into giving him exceptionally favorable terms with his clients.”
“If you ask me,” I said, “they deserved each other.”
Poole smiled and opened the office door. “Quite so. Which is one reason why I changed agents. See you tomorrow, Nick.”