It was after eight o’clock before I left the Club and headed for the office. I had changed my mind about dinner, and decided to have a sandwich and a glass of beer to carry me through the evening. While I was still in the Grill an old friend, a literary agent named Bruno Wiley, stopped by the bar, and we schmoozed for a while.
“Interested in a biography?” said Wiley.
“Bruno, you know we’re not supposed to talk business in the Club.” A Players rule, it is true, but I suspect one honored more in the breach than in the observance.
“Ha. A biography of—” He dropped the name of a prominent businessman.
“What makes you think a book like that would sell?” I asked him.
“Remember lacocia?”
“That was a fluke, Bruno.” Who could forget the autobiography that caused the leveling of at least one entire forest? “The timing was perfect for Lee Iacocca,” I continued. “People were looking for a hero, preferably a businessman, an automobile manufacturer if possible. The same book published today would sink without a trace. The autobiography of a prominent businesswoman would have a better chance.”
“Ah,” Bruno said, lowering his voice and moving closer to me, “but there will be subvention.”
“That’s different. Tell me more.”
Subvention is a form—how shall I put it?—of subsidy for a book by outside interests, either individuals or companies with a strong desire to see that book published. Rather like vanity publishing, you say? Not quite. The book will carry the imprint of a reputable house, not that of a vanity publisher, and money will be forthcoming to pay for the book’s production and distribution costs, or somebody will guarantee to buy enough copies to make the project worthwhile.
Has Barlow & Company ever indulged in this practice? Not officially—but virtually every other major house has.
At any rate, there was no harm in listening to Bruno Wiley; after all, we were in something of a financial bind. So I listened. And some time passed, until I finally remembered that Parker Foxcroft was expecting me.
I said good night to Bruno and stepped out into one of those rare June nights—the first—when the skies are clear and the air is fresh and cool, and our thoughts turn to the beach and the deep green woods. In my case, to the woods around Weston, Connecticut. I was not looking forward to my impending discussion with Parker, for, like most males of my upbringing, I dislike altercations of all kinds, and avoid them wherever possible.
When I reached the office, I pulled out my key ring and fumbled around with the keys until I realized that the office door was unlocked. How odd, I thought. Inexcusable lapse of security, really. Though the building has a night watchman, I’ve always urged any of our people who might be working late to lock themselves in. You can’t be too careful; I myself was once surprised after hours by an intruder.
Walking down the hall toward my own office, I saw a light under Parker Foxcroft’s door. I stopped and took hold of the doorknob, then hesitated. It struck me that our confrontation, for that is what I meant it to be, would be more successful if it took place in my office not his, giving me the psychological edge. So I decided to call him in on the intercom.
“Parker?”
A grunted acknowledgment.
“Nick. Would you come into my office, please?”
Another grunt, this one of assent. Then the connection was broken.
While waiting, I picked up several files on my desk that had long been lying there, begging for attention and receiving none. They received none now, either; I simply leafed through them, killing time, not looking for inspiration. After a few minutes passed with no Parker, I punched the intercom again. This time he did not answer.
“Hell,” I muttered. I may have to go to his office, after all…
I stepped out into the hall and made one last attempt to summon him. “Parker!” I bellowed. “Where are you?” Silence. Strange, I thought. The light under his door has gone out. I strode down the hall, wondering if he’d skipped out on me. Damn Parker, anyway!
Just as I opened his door, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. As I started to turn, I felt a sharp, vicious blow on the back of my neck. Startled, I reeled forward and smashed into Parker’s door, stumbled and almost fell.
“Who’s there?” I cried out. “What’s this?”
When I finally turned around, I saw a dark figure move swiftly through the shadows of the foyer. The front door clicked open and then slammed shut, too quickly for me to move or call out, still less to see who had gone out.
Stepping into Parker’s office, still somewhat dazed by the blow I’d been struck, I groped for the light switch. When I pressed it, two lamps went on—a floor lamp next to his couch and a fluorescent lamp which threw a wide swath of light across the desk. In the center of that swath lay the head and shoulders of Parker Foxcroft. His arms hung limply behind him, along the sides of his chair.
There was no doubt in my mind that he was dead; a large dark gout of blood had already soaked into his desk blotter. The thin blond hair on the back of his head was matted with blood. He would edit no more—at least not in this world.
I stood over his body for a moment, wishing I had not stayed so long at The Players. If I’d come sooner, Parker might still be alive… or—my God, what a chilling thought—would we both be lying here dead?
I shuddered as I reached for the phone on Parker’s desk.