When I told Joe Scanlon what I planned to do, he was convinced that the shock of Susan’s death and my close call had driven me right off the deep end.
“I believe it’s the only way, Joe,” I said.
“In my opinion, you’ve read at least one too many mysteries, and I’d be happy to tell you which one.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Go straight to Hatcher with what information you have, and let him handle it.”
“I’m not saying he’d bungle it—possibly not. But I think I have a proprietary interest in this case, and I want to see it through.”
I had asked Scanlon to come to my office as soon as I returned from Connecticut. Instead of sitting in his usual chair, he was pacing back and forth in a state of extreme agitation, such as I had never seen him in before—not even when I had broken one of his cherished police rules.
“Indulge me, Joe.”
“Okay, Nick, okay. It’s your funeral. I’ll do what I can.”
My plan was quite simple, as well as time-worn. I had decided to gather all the principals in the case together in the Barlow & Company conference room, and I needed Joe’s help to round up Hatcher and Falco (on the premise that I had “new information” on the murder to give them); nothing was to be said about the rest of the cast of characters. I would also need Joe to make sure that the two women, Claire Bunter and Judith Michaelson, would be there. This he could do by throwing his weight around. It would be an easy matter to flash his shield; they would hardly be aware that he was on leave and had no jurisdiction in the matter.
“The brass’ll have my head if they find out about this,” he grumbled.
“You’re not arresting anyone, Joe, which it would be quite within your duty to do if you saw a crime occurring, leave or no leave.”
“Yes, but—oh well, what the hell—in for a penny—”
And he left to carry out his assignment. I myself could account for Poole, Margo, and the two suspects in my office: Harry Bunter and Lester Crispin. We could do without Frederick Drew, I had decided; he was still somewhere in the judicial machinery of New York City, but I was confident he would be exonerated in short order. As early, perhaps, as this afternoon.
The meeting was scheduled for four o’clock, which I thought would allow plenty of time to round everybody up.
And promptly at four, there they all were, seated around the conference table, with the exception of Hatcher, Falco, and Joe Scanlon, who hovered in the background. Hatcher was beet-red and silent; Falco grim-faced and equally silent. I had the feeling that it would not take much for either or both of them to stop smoldering and erupt.
On one side of the long oak table, to the left of my chair, sat Herbert Poole, Margo, and Claire Bunter, who apparently chose that chair because she thought Margo might be sympathetic—and because it was as far away as possible from her husband. Harry Bunter was in the seat next to mine on the right side of the table, and next to him were Lester Crispin and Judith Michaelson, across from Claire Bunter. Of all the people there, Judith Michaelson appeared the most ill at ease; she gazed around the room with a vague, distracted expression on her face.
Nobody said a word, either on entering the conference room or after sitting down. They all simply stared at me, as though, like Scanlon, they were convinced I had taken leave of my senses. I had the strange sensation that I was either going to enjoy the biggest triumph of my career or lay the biggest egg.
Well, here goes, Nick. I took a deep breath.
“The time-honored line in a situation like this,” I began, “is ‘I suppose you’re all wondering why I brought you here.’”
“Oh no,” said Harry Bunter sotto voce.
“I’m only sorry my brother, Tim, isn’t here,” I said, ignoring Harry, “or I’d let him run the meeting. But he doesn’t travel easily, and I do, so you’ll have to put up with me. I want it known, however, that Tim is responsible for unraveling this mess.
“A word or two of summary to set the scene,” I continued. “As you all know, Parker Foxcroft was killed in his office on this floor on the evening of June first. A number of us here were—make that are—suspects in that murder.”
“Speak for yourself, Nick.” It was Claire Bunter.
“I just did. And if you don’t think you’re still a suspect, Claire, ask Lieutenant Hatcher here.” She did not reply to this, and Hatcher only grunted something unintelligible.
“Nick, why don’t you just cut to the chase?” said Scanlon.
“Patience, and I will. Most of our efforts—and I presume most of the police’s efforts as well—have been directed toward looking for motives, checking alibis, and inquiring into Parker Foxcroft’s past. One of the suspects, Frederick Drew, was arrested and is, I believe, now out on bail—”
“That’s correct, Mr. Barlow.” It was Lieutenant Hatcher, finally heard from. “But—”
I didn’t give him a chance to offer any disclaimers.
“What we have learned about Parker Foxcroft has not been pleasant,” I said. “The likelihood is that he was practicing blackmail on a small, possibly a large, scale. But who was he blackmailing, and why? What did he know that gave him so much power over the person we’ll call ‘X’ for now?
“The identity of X lay concealed somewhere in Parker’s files, we were convinced of that. A search of his office yielded nothing—until we found two computer disks that he had hidden away. My brother was able to track down the file that led us to X’s identity, thanks to a clue Susan Markham had given us.”
“And what might that have been?” demanded Hatcher in a loud voice—too loud for the size of the room. “And why weren’t the police told about this ‘clue’ of yours?”
“We might have told you, I agree,” I said, “but it wouldn’t have meant any more to you than it did to us—at first. It was a literary clue that Parker left, and I’ll explain it later. What is important is that Parker had used it as the name of a file on one of his disks. When Tim read the file and printed it out for me to read, we knew immediately what had taken place—and why.”
At last I detected a stir of interest, if not excitement, in the room, so I plowed on.
“The file was named IRVING, and it contained the letter Parker Foxcroft wrote rejecting Alexander Michaelson’s novel, a letter that Mrs. Michaelson, unfortunately, destroyed.”
“What else would you expect me to do?” Judith Michaelson cried out. “My husband was dead!”
“No one is blaming you, Mrs. Michaelson,” I said. “If you had saved that letter, we’d have known the identity of the murderer sooner, it is true, but anyone else would have acted just as you did.
“The manuscript, by the way,” I continued, “was lost and also probably destroyed. What we learned from that letter—correction, what Tim learned from that letter—is that it described a novel now riding high on the fiction bestseller lists. A novel called Pan at Twilight.”
I had to hand it to Herbert Poole; he barely blinked an eye. A slight smile was the only reaction he gave to the title of his book. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Show me. Cool.
“Tim, fortunately for us, had read Pan at Twilight, and Parker Foxcroft, of course, had read it when the book was in manuscript. The so-called author of the book”—and here I made no effort to conceal my contempt—“was sent the manuscript by Alexander Michaelson’s widow, because he was a knowledgeable friend, and she wanted his opinion on her husband’s work. Knowledgeable, yes; friend, hardly. This ‘friend’ told her that the book was probably unpublishable, and he recommended that she destroy it. He arranged for a messenger to pick it up, presumably to deliver it to the critic Peter Jensen. He then copied it and submitted it to his publisher under his own name, as a ‘daring’ and ‘different’ new turn in his career. The rest you know; the book was an immediate success. What we didn’t know is that Parker Foxcroft recognized the book as one he had rejected, and, possibly smarting over the realization that he had passed up a best-seller himself, and seizing the opportunity to blackmail the author”—here I made quote marks in the air—“he threatened to expose a flagrant case of plagiarism. If not a crime, by the way, plagiarism is certainly more than just a breach of good taste.”
“You!” Judith Michaelson rose and pointed at Herbert Poole. “How could you?”
Poole raised his hands in the air as though to disavow any acquaintance with this peculiar creature across the table from him. His smile now was so disingenuous I felt like picking him up and shaking him like a rat. Who, me? that smile said.
“Let me explain why Parker chose the code name IRVING for his blackmail. There are a number of Irvings in publishing history, but the one Parker chose was John Irving. Why him? Because John Irving, like our murderous author, had published three unsuccessful novels before he achieved what we call his ‘breakout’ or ‘breakthrough’ book, the one that brought him fame and fortune. In Irving’s case it was The World According to Garp; so successful was it that we sometimes speak of a book being ‘Garped,’ meaning that it has broken its author out of obscurity and into the limelight. For Herbert Poole, the ‘Garping’ was Pan at Twilight. That was Parker Foxcroft’s little literary conceit—his joke, if you will.”
I could tell from the expression on their faces, and the way they shifted about, that I had finally reached Hatcher and Falco; they were paying attention; and certainly Joe was with me. The others reacted with a mixture of dismay and, understandably, relief. Not I, but he, is the guilty one.
“Beautiful, Nick,” said Margo. “Well done.”
Poole was no longer smiling, but as cool in demeanor as ever.
“There’s no proof there,” he said. “No evidence. You can’t prove anything. It’s all supposition.”
“The plagiarism will be hard to prove, perhaps, but if you photocopied Michaelson’s original manuscript and just put your name on it,” I said, “that copy will be in the publisher’s office. There will be no problem tracking it back to Michaelson’s manual typewriter.
“Also,” I continued, “you remember that line in All the President’s Men? Deep Throat says to Woodward and Bernstein: ‘Follow the money.’ I think that if we look at your bank account and Parker’s bank account, we will probably find a pattern of withdrawals from your account and deposits in his. ‘Follow the money.’
“I’ve put up with enough of this nonsense,” said Poole. He got up and rested his hands on the table. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney, Barlow. I consider that I’ve been libeled.”
“Slandered, Herbert, not libeled. And I believe you’ll probably be hearing from the police.”
Hatcher, Falco, and Scanlon moved toward Poole.
Then Judith Michaelson rose and said: “Herbert.”
He turned to her; she held a pistol in one hand and the purse she’d taken it from in the other.
“No, no, Judith,” said Poole, but she had fired even as he spoke—two shots before Hatcher was able to wrest the gun out of her hand. Poole slumped back in his chair, head falling forward onto the table.
He looked, I thought, exactly as Parker had looked when I found his body.