involved than I am. You know about such things, will this publicity hurt my books?”
“I don't see how.”
“Well, a killing and a radical professor aren't the best notices for a writer of juveniles.”
“I imagine your name will be lost in the shuffle. After all, you were only a guest.”
“I hope to God you're right. I only write these lousy kid books to get some security and now this has to come along. It upset me frightfully. But you're not here to talk about my troubles. Wilma said you want to get the background of the thing. Fire away.”
For some reason Joel, the awful apartment, even hearing Wilma's name, depressed the hell out of me. I kept wondering how I'd ever got mixed up in all this. “Well, Norman?”
“Sorry, I've been driving all morning—I was out to Riverside—and I'm a little pooped. Well... eh... just tell me anything you want about Matt. How long have you known Matt and Francine?”
“Four or five years. Poor Fran, I still expect to wake up and be happy that it's only a nightmare, that it isn't real.”
“Do you think he murdered her?”
Joel gave me a slightly pop-eyed stare. “Lord, man, he's confessed it! Oh, oh, you mean whether it's murder or manslaughter. Wilma said you asked her that, too. I'll tell you this, Matt had a bitch of a temper and often he was very crude. I've seen him blow his nose—into his hand—then rub all that into the hair on his chest. Or urinate in a sink. What I'm trying to say, that type of man is capable of anything.”
“Do you think he planned to kill Francine?”
“How could I possibly know that?”
“I want your opinion—off the record.”
“I really can't say. There's no doubt he did it—Lord, you should have seen the look on his face when he threatened her. The way he grabbed her arm—why, he could have broken it off. I think it was an accident, I mean, he lost hit temper and hit her. But then, why did he trick me with the time bit? I don't know what to say. You put me in a difficult position, they were both my friends. Matt has done a lot for me, a great deal, indeed.”
“What sort of help?”
“When I was practically a beginner in this racket—and Lord knows I still am—Matt showed me the ropes. Although you're in the publishing end, I doubt if you realize the insecurity writers face. Frankly, I'm constantly amazed I make a modest living at it. It isn't like any other profession—actually we're gamblers. We live by our wits. It's frightening. Of course, I've been writing for a number of years, but up till five years ago it was an avocation with me—I was the manager of a gift shop. A weekend writer, publishing in the 'little magazines,' working on
“I'm afraid not.” Should I have it out with Wilma, see what she wanted to do? Or would I be jumping the gun —she could hardly know she was pregnant, it was too soon.
He laughed, showing well-kept teeth. “Very few people have. I had this naive idea that when the book was published it would make me. It did—it damn near made me a bum. Sold a big fat 1100 copies. All I got out of it was the $500 advance—for three years' work. Oh, it received a nice press. It was a fragile story of a boy's growing up, fighting the silver cord stuff. But as Matt says, good reviews and a token will get you into the subway.” He grinned.
I smiled politely. The tension left me. I was being an ass. If it was too soon for Wilma to know if she was knocked-up, hunch or no hunch, why should I talk about it? Even be so damn sure?
Joel said, “You must be wondering where Matt fits into all this. Wilma said you're after background and I'm trying to show how I fitted into Matt's. Or vice versa. Now there's a good title—vice versa. Excuse my horsing around, Norman, but I'm feeling rather gay this morning. Things are working out, in a personal way, that is. Now, where was I?”
“You had a book out,” I said, deciding he wasn't a queer— for no reason—and beginning to be a little bored with his chatter.
“Yes, yes. On the strength of a book being published, I gave up my job, became a full-time writer. I took the full plunge—Wilma and I were married at the same time. I soon found out what a crazy business writing is—as a business. A merchant knows his stock, his worth. A man on a salary can put a little aside each payday, make plans. With a writer, every time he opens his mailbox it's like going to the pari-mutuel window; you can't plan on a damn thing.”
“What happened, you had to return to the gift shop?” Joel rubbed his slim hands together, as if he was cold. “Indeed not. I was a flash in the pan. One of the big women's slick mags took a chapter of my book, and I landed two shorts with another slick. In the space of two weeks I'd made nearly $2000. You know how you start thinking, a thousand a week, fifty grand a year. Wilma and I moved into a new apartment—we still have a few of the furnishings around here—and I settled down to write more shorts like mad. I think, even now, they were good, yet I've never sold another story for more than a hundred dollars since. Crazy business, no?”
I nodded politely as I lit my pipe. Joel pulled a corn-cob from a desk drawer, borrowed some tobacco.
He puffed and nodded. “Nice nut flavor, I like this.”
“I'll part with my secret formula some day,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“I'd also started a new novel—in fact I started two more new novels. Hell, the two grand seemed to vanish and we were in debt. I got nervous, panicky. I borrowed some money from my mother; Wilma and I decided we needed a change. We went to the Florida Keys—a la Hemingway. Everything was wrong—Wilma is the bossy type without meaning to be. Our marriage was going one-sided. I was losing confidence in myself as a man, as a writer. Doc Matt Anthony straightened all that out.”
“How?”
“We met Fran and Matt in Key West. Naturally, I'd heard of him and on seeing him, well, he seemed the very personification of a writer: hearty, confident, easy-going, living well... a real pro. He did so much for me. For one thing he got me off the 'great' writer kick, showed me you have to be a hack to eat regularly. This bit about waiting
