Plot It Yourself

“Have the guests all been invited?”

“Yes.”

“Am I invited?”

“I was wondering where you were.”

“Working. I found no envelope. Is Fritz disabled?”

“No. He is grilling a steak.”

“The hell he is. Then the party’s a celebration?”

“No. I am anticipating events by a few hours. I have a job ahead of me that I prefer not to tackle on an empty stomach.”

“Do I get some of the steak?”

“Yes. There are two.”

“Then I’ll go up and comb my hair.”

I went.

Chapter 19

Wolfe, at his desk, put down his coffee cup and sent his eyes to the ex-chairman of the Joint Committee on Plagiarism. “I like my way better, Mr Harvey,” he said curtly. “You may ask questions when I finish if I haven’t already answered them.” His head went right, and left. “I could merely name the culprit and tell you that I have enough evidence to convict her, but while that would complete my job it wouldn’t satisfy your curiosity.”

Mortimer Oshin had the red leather chair ex officio. The committee members and the executive secretary had the six yellow chairs in front of Wolfe’s desk. In the front row were Amy Wynn, nearest me, then Philip Harvey, and then Cora Ballard. In the rear were Reuben Imhof, Thomas Dexter, and Gerald Knapp-the three publishers. Grouped over by the big globe were Dol Bonner, Sally Corbett, Saul Panzer, Fred Durkin, and Orrie Cather. In a spot by herself, at the end of my desk, was Alice Porter, who was sipping root beer from a glass that was prefectly steady in her hand. I had coffee. The others had their choices-gin and tonic, scotch and soda, scotch and water, rye and ginger ale, bourbon on the rocks, and one, Oshin, cognac. Evidently Oshin knew brandy. After he had taken a sip he had asked if he might see the bottle and had studied the label thoroughly, and after another sip he had aslced, “For God’s sake, how much of this have you got?” I had taken the hint and given him a dividend, and he hadn’t lit a cigarette for at least five minutes.

Wolfe’s head went right and left again. “I should explain,” he told them, “the reason for Miss Porter’s outburst. It was justified. She is here because I lied to her. I told her on the phone that I was prepared to hand her a paper signed by Mr Imhof and Miss Wynn in exchange for one signed by her. The word ‘prepared’ was a misrepresentation. When this discussion is ended I am confident that Miss Porter will be in no fear of prosecution by Mr Imhof or Miss Wynn, but I was not actually ‘prepared’ when I phoned her this afternoon. In fairness to her I must say that her indignation, when she arrived and found a crowd, was warranted. She stayed because I told her I was going to demonstrate to you that she was guilty of a criminal act and I advised her to hear me.”

Alice Porter blurted, “You just admitted you’re a liar!”

Wolfe ignored it. “I’ll give you the essentials first,” he told the committee, “and the conclusions I reached, and then fill in the details. A week ago yesterday, eight days ago, Mr Goodwin gave you a full report of the brief talks he had had with those four people-Simon Jacobs, Kenneth Rennert, Jane Ogilvy, and Alice Porter. I don’t know if any of you noticed that his talk with Miss Porter was quite remarkable-that is, her part of it. He told her that a New York newspaper was considering making her a substantial offer for the first serial rights to her story, and what did she say? That she would think it over. Beyond that, not a word. Not a question. All seven of you know writers better than I do, but I know a little of men and women. Miss Porter was not a famous and successful author; her only book had been a failure; her stories were barely sufficient, in quantity and quality, to preserve her standing as a professional. But she didn’t ask Mr Goodwin the name of the newspaper. She asked him nothing. I thought that remarkable. Did none of you?”

“I did,” Cora Ballard said. “But she was on a spot. I thought she was just scared.”

“Of what? If she doubted Mr Goodwin’s bona fides, if she suspected that he might not have such an offer from a newspaper, why didn’t she question him? At the very least, why didn’t she ask him the name of the newspaper? It seemed to me a fair surmise that she didn’t doubt or suspect Mr Goodwin; she knew he was lying. She knew that this committee had hired me, and that he was trying by subterfuge to get a copy of the story on which she had based her claim against Miss Wynn. At the moment-”

“How could she know?” Harvey demanded. “Who told her?”

Wolfe nodded. “Of course that was the point. At the moment the surmise was only of minor interest, but the next day, when it was learned that Simon Jacobs had been murdered, it took on weight; and more weight when Jane Ogilvy too was killed; and still more when Kenneth Rennert made it three-and Alice Porter was still alive. Attention was focused on her, but I continued to doubt that she was the target because I could not believe that she had invented a style of composition for ‘There Is Only Love’ for her claim against Ellen Sturdevant, and imitated it for ‘What’s Mine Is Yours’ for the claim made by Simon Jacobs against Richard Echols, and again imitated it for ‘On Earth but Not in Heaven’ for the claim made by Jane Ogilvy against Marjorie Lippin, and then abandoned it and used her natural style for ‘Opportunity Knocks’ for the claim made by her against Amy Wynn. But last evening-”

Mortimer Oshin cut in, “Wait a minute. What if she knew how that would look?” There was still a little cognac in his glass, and he still hadn’t lit a cigarette.

“Just so, Mr Oshin. Last evening Mr Goodwin brought her here, and after an hour with her I asked that question myself. What if she had been shrewd enough to realize in advance, at the time she enlisted Simon Jacobs in the plot against Richard Echols, that the best shield against suspicion would be a modus operandi so fantastic that she would not even be considered? After an hour with her I thought it possible that such superlative cunning was not beyond her;