'I don't care what his name is, but if you haven't got one like that, say so, and I'll go shopping.'
'Certainly we've got one. With over fifty men on the payroll? Certainly we've got one.'
'Show him to me.'
He finally did, I admit that, but not until after I had hung around for more than five hours and had interviewed a dozen prospects. I also admit I was being finicky, especially since there was a good chance that all he would ever do was collect his twenty a day and expenses, but after getting it set up as I had I didn't want to run a risk of having it bitched up by some little stumble. The one I picked was about my age, named Nathan Harris. His face was all bones and his fingers were all knuckles, and if I knew anything about eyes he would do. I didn't go by ears, like Peggy Potter.
I took him to my room at the Riviera. We ate in the room, and I kept him there, briefing him, until two in the morning. He was to go home and get some luggage and register at the South Seas Hotel under the name of Walter Finch, and get a room that met the specifications I gave him. I let him make notes all he wanted, with the understanding that he was to have it all in his head by the time it might be needed, which could be never. One decision I made was to tell him only what Walter Finch, the literary agent, might be expected to know, not to hold out on him but to keep from cluttering his mind, so when he left he had never heard the names of Joan Wellman or Rachel Abrams, or Corrigan, Phelps, Kustin and feriggs.
Going to bed, I opened the window three inches at the bottom, and in the morning there was a pool that reached to
the edge of the rug. I got my wristwatch from the bedstand and saw 9:20, which meant 12:20 in New York. At the Glen-dale Post Office they had told me that the letter would make a plane which would land at La Guardia at eight in the morning New York time, so it should be delivered at Madison Avenue any time now, possibly right this minute as I stretched and yawned.
One of my worries was Mr. Clarence Potter. Mrs. Potter had assured me that her husband wouldn't try to interfere, whether he approved or not, but it tied a knot in me, especially with an empty stomach, to| think of the damage he could do with a telegram to Corrigan, Phelps, Kustin and Briggs. It was too much for me. Before I even shut the window or went to the bathroom I called the Glendale number. Her voice answered.
'Good morning, Mrs. Potter. This is Archie Goodwin. I was just wondering-did you tell your husband about it?'
'Yes, of course. I told you I was going to.'
'I know you did. How did he take it? Should I see him?'
'No, I don't think so. He doesn't quite understand it. I explained that you have no copy of the manuscript and there doesn't seem to be one anywhere, but he thinks we should try to find one and perhaps it can be sold to a movie studio. I told him we should wait for an answer to my letter, and he agreed. I'm sure he'll understand when he thinks it over.'
'Of course he will. Now about Walter Finch. I've got him, and he's in his room at the South Seas. He's a little taller than average, and you'd probably guess him at thirty-five. He has a bony face, and bony hands with long fingers, and dark brown eyes that you might call black. He looks straight at you when he talks, and his voice is a medium baritone, you'd like it. Do you want to write that down?'
'I don't need to.'
'Sure you've got it?'
'Yes.'
'I believe you. I'll be in my room at the Riviera all day. Call me any time if anything happens.'
'All right, I will.'
There's a loyal little woman with twinkles, I thought, hanging up. She knows damn well she's married to a dumbbell, but by gum she'll never say so. I phoned down for breakfast and newspapers, washed and brushed my teeth, and ate in
my pajamas. Then I called the South Seas Hotel and asked for Walter Finch. He was there in his room, 1216, and said he was getting along fine with his homework. I told him to stay put until further notice.
When I had showered and shaved and dressed, and finished with the newspapers and looked out at the rain some, I phoned down for magazines. I refused to let myself start listening for the phone to ring because it might be all day and night and into another day before there was a peep, and it wouldn't help to wear my nerves out. However, I did look at my watch fairly often, translating it into New York time, as I gave the magazines a play. Eleven-fifty meant two-fifty. Twelve-twenty-five meant three-twenty-five. Four minutes after one meant four minutes after four. One-forty-five meant a quarter to five, nearing the end of the office day. I tossed a magazine aside and went to a window to admire the rain again, then called room service and ordered lunch.
I was chewing a bite of albacore steak when the phone rang. To show how composed I was, I finished chewing and swallowing before I picked it up. It was Mrs. Potter.
'Mr. Goodwin! I just had a phone call! From Mr. Corri-gan!'
I was glad I had finished swallowing. 'Fine! What did he say?'
'He wanted to know all about Mr. Finch. I said just what you told me to.' She was talking too fast, but I didn't interrupt. 'He asked where the manuscript is, and I told him Mr. Finch has it. He asked if I had seen it or read it, and I said no. He told me not to sign any paper or agree to anything until he has seen me. He's taking a plane in New York and he'll get to Los Angeles at eight in the morning and he's coming right here to see me.'
It was a funny thing. I was swallowing albacore, although I would have sworn that it was already down. It tasted good.
'Did he sound as if he suspected anything?'
'He did not! I did it perfectly!'
