could he?”
“I would vote for proceeding on those terms,” Gerald Knapp said, “providing it is understood that we can terminate the arrangement at any time.”
“That sounds like a clause in a book contract,” Harvey said. “Will you accept it, Mr Wolfe?”
“Certainly.”
“Then you’re in favour, Mr Knapp?”
“Yes. It was our attorney who suggested coming to Nero Wolfe.”
“Miss Wynn?”
“Yes, if the others are. That was a good idea, having my apartment searched, and the one on Perry Street.”
“Mr Oshin?”
“Sure.”
“Mr Dexter?”
“With the understanding that we can terminate at will, yes.”
“Mr Imhof?”
Imhof had his head cocked. “I’m willing to go along, but I’d like to mention a couple of points. Mr Wolfe says he can’t give us any idea of how he’ll go about it, and naturally we can’t expect him to pull a rabbit out of a hat here and now, but, as he said himself, the first three cases are history and the fourth one soon will be. But Miss Wyim’s isn’t. It’s hot. The claim has just been made, and it was made by Alice Porter, the woman who started it. So I think he should concentrate on that. My second point is this, if he does concentrate on Alice Porter, and if he gets her, if he makes her withdraw the claim, I think Miss Wynn might feel that it would be fair and proper for her to pay part of Mr Wolfe’s fee. Don’t you think so, Amy?”
“Why-yes.” Her nose twitched. “Of course.”
“It might also,” Harvey put in, “be fair and proper for the Victory Press to pay part. Don’t you think so?”
“We will.” Imhof grinned at him. “Well contribute to the BPA’s share. We might even kick in a little extra.” He went to Wolfe. “How about concentrating on Alice Porter?”
“I may do that, sir. Upon consideration.” Wolfe focused on the chairman. “Who is my client? Not this committee.”
“Well…” Harvey looked at Gerald Knapp. Knapp smiled and spoke. “The arrangement, Mr Wolfe, is that the Book Publishers of America and the National Association of Authors and Dramatists will each pay half of any expenses incurred by this committee. They are your clients. You will report to Mr Harvey, the committee chairman, as their agent. I trust that is satisfactory?”
“Yes. This may be a laborious and costly operation, and I must ask for an advance against expenses. Say five thousand dollars?”
Knapp looked at Harvey. Harvey said, “All right. You’ll get it.”
“Very well.” Wolfe straightened up, took a deep breath, and let it out. It looked as if he were going to have to dig in and do a little work, and it takes a lot of oxygen to face a prospect as dismal as that. “Naturally,” he said, “I must have all records and documents pertaining to all of the cases, or copies of them. Everything. Including, for instance, the reports from the detective agency hired by Mr Oshin. I can form no plan until I am fully informed, but it may help to get answers to a few questions now. Mr Harvey. Has any effort been made to discover a connection among Alice Porter, Simon Jacobs, Jane Ogilvy, and Kenneth Rennert, or between any two of them?”
Harvey nodded. “Sure, that’s been tried. By the lawyer representing Marjorie Lippin’s heirs, her son and daughter, and by the detective agency Oshin hired. They didn’t find any.”
“Where are the four manuscripts on which the claims were based? Not copies, the manuscripts themselves. Are they available?”
“We have two of them, Alice Porter’s ‘There Is Only Love’ and Simon Jacobs’ ‘What’s Mine Is Yours.’ Jane Ogilvy’s ‘On Earth but Not in Heaven’ was an exhibit in evidence at the trial, and after she won the case it was returned to her. We have a copy of it-a copy, not a facsimile. Kenneth Rennert’s play outline, ‘A Bushel of Love,’ is in the possession of Oshin’s attorney, and he won’t give us a copy of it. Of course we-”
Mortimer Oshin postponed striking a match to mutter, “He won’t even let me have a copy.”
Harvey finished, “Of course we know nothing about Alice Porter’s ‘Opportunity Knocks,’ the basis of her claim against Amy Wynn. I have a suspicion that you’ll find it when you search the apartment Miss Wynn lived in on Perry Street. If you do, then what?”
“I have no idea.” Wolfe made a face. “Confound it, you have merely shown me the skeleton, and I am not a wizard. I must know what has been done and what has been overlooked, in each case. What of the paper and typing of the manuscripts? Did they offer no grounds for a challenge? What of the records and backgrounds of the claimants? Did Jane Ogilvy testify at the trial, and was she cross-examined competently? How did Alice Porter’s manuscript get into Ellen Sturdevant’s bureau drawer? How did Jane Ogilvy’s manuscript get into the trunk in Marjorie Lippin’s attic? How did Kenneth Rennert’s play outline get into the file of Mr Oshin’s former agent? Was any sort of answer found, even a conjectural one, to any of those questions?”
He spread his hands. “And there is the question, what about your assumption that all of the claims were fraudulent? I can’t swallow it with my eyes shut. I can accept it as a working hypothesis, but I can’t dismiss the possibility that one or more of the supposed victims is a thief and a liar. ‘Most writers steal a good thing when they can’ is doubtless an-”
“Blah!” Mortimer Oshin exploded.
