I got a pipe working, opened my shoe laces, leaned back in my leather chair... and started reading the Matt Anthony file.
The son of a rural mailman and farmer, Matt had been born in a small upstate town near the Canadian border 51 years ago. He studied at Cornell on a state agriculture scholarship but dropped out after two years to go to sea. He entered NYU fifteen months later, working as a longshoreman to pay his tuition. He married a waitress for six months. When he was 27 he became an English instructor at Brooks University, a small but heavily endowed Midwestern school. It was about this time that Matt started publishing in several literary quarterlies and soon gave up teaching to become a full-time writer. Anthony was very prolific, selling over a million words to the pulps within two years, along with a sale to
He worked on WPA for a few months (with that income?) and went to sea again during the tail end of the depression. His first mystery novel had for its background the teenage-hobos criss-crossing America in search of jobs. The book received only two reviews—mysteries were rarely reviewed then—both of them excellent. In 1937 he started making 'headlines.' He married a minor starlet in Mexico and was deported several days later for sending three policemen to the hospital during a drunken brawl. Matt himself spent several weeks in an El Paso hospital suffering from a concussion. That same year he placed in the Albany-New York outboard race, sold two books to Hollywood, and authored a radio serial called 'Private Gun.'
By an odd coincidence, he next made headlines the same week one of his books was published by punching a British police official in Africa, who was supposed to have been flogging a native. There was a one-day fuss until the State Department secured Matt's release. Some months later, he made the papers again when a bank was looted in a small California town. Matt Anthony the detective story writer was passing through and was 'asked' to give the local police a hand. There wasn't any mention in the file as to whether the bank robbers were ever captured.
Francine had been married to a little known and alcoholic novelist. Mart's name was in the columns now and then, squiring some pretty actress around, so it was a mild shock (to whomever was interested) when he married the not-so-glamorous Francine three weeks before Pearl Harbor. Months later they were both in England, Matt an accredited war correspondent for a small feature syndicate. He went to Africa, to Italy—where he was hospitalized after too much drinking hardened his liver. He made headlines again when he was attached to the famed 442nd Combat Team in Northern Italy. He had been-in a machine gun nest when a direct mortar hit had killed the soldiers and slightly wounded Matt. According to one news dispatch, Matt had gone 'fighting mad' and like a movie hero had picked up a tommy gun and charged. There was some doubt as to whether he had killed two Nazi soldiers, but he had wounded and captured a German officer and had to be restrained from killing him with his bare hands.
Since correspondents are not supposed to be shooting, Matt was returned to the States and for a time lectured on the war bond circuit. His books sold well, sales being limited only by the paper shortage. He was supposed to be writing a war book, but never finished (or started) it. After the war, except for sailing the Atlantic alone and a brawl in a Boston bar, Matt kept out of the papers. Two years ago he had packaged the television rights to five of his books for 'an undisclosed sum.'
So that was Matt Anthony. I put the file down. He must have been married to Francine the time I saw him, just before he sailed the ocean.
I glanced at the two afternoon editions of the newspapers Miss Park had left on my desk. The killing was front page with a picture of a grinning Matt being escorted out of a bar by two cops (taken in 1948) and a studio photo of him in his correspondent's uniform which seemed to be strained by the broad shoulders and heavy neck. On the inside pages there was a snap of a gray, bushy-haired little man shielding his face from the cameras: Prof. Brown leaving a subversive investigation. There was another picture of a rowboat with a new outboard and a large arrow bluntly pointing to a slight dent next to an oar lock.
Keeping an eye on the time, I raced through the stories. There wasn't anything I didn't already know, except that Joel Hunter and his wife Wilma, the other house guests, were quoted as saying that Matt had threatened to kill Francine in a 'family fight' over whether Prof. Brown should remain in the house or not.
At 12:30 I took the galley proofs and left for the gym, first telling Miss Park, “Phone Marty Kelly and ask him to get me the home addresses of the Hunters, this Prof. Brown, the maid, the detective who secured Anthony's confession, and the D.A. And I want to know who Anthony's lawyer is, if he has one yet. And ask Mag for the name and phone number of Matt's agent.”
“After lunch be all right Mr. Connor?”
“Of course. I'll be back at about three,” I said, my eyes making their usual run below her neck.
I bought a later edition of a paper as I hailed a cab. The only new item was a picture of Mrs. Joel Hunter in a bathing suit. She not only had a good figure, but there was a certain boldness to her face, the way she posed, that impressed me.
Lighting my pipe, I relaxed in the taxi seat and wondered if I should let Frank win today. Being older and a little flabby but a much better player, Frank could usually loaf in the center of the court and count upon his wicked hop serve, or his accurate ceiling and wall shots to win. But if I made him move around, which meant I had to run around twice as fast myself, I could tire Frank out and win—when I wanted to.
(Up until last night I'd really been Norman Connor, the lad who always came up with a rose in each hand. To get a little exercise I'd started playing handball at a midtown gym twice weekly. My game was energetic if not skillful, and by chance I lucked up on a steady partner—Frank Kuhn. Frank is a former football star and a $25,000- a-year account executive in one of Madison Avenue's—even if his offices are located on Park—more aggressive agencies. We made a good team, usually winning when we played for a few bucks a man. Frank and I were interested in each other outside of handball, too. For some unknown reason he had a passion for reading galley- proofs of forthcoming books. The more pencilled-in changes, the more he enjoyed the book. I was interested in Frank because he kept telling me he could double my salary if I wanted to change jobs. The truth is, he gave me a mild case of ambition.
(Frank and his high-powered blonde Texan wife lived in a penthouse, were members of several swank clubs, and entertained lavishly. They both thought Michele's accent was 'too cute,' and we could have easily become their closest friends. But Michele found them boring and I was careful not to wear out my welcome. I knew Frank was big league and I wasn't ready for that yet Up until now I had been vaguely waiting for a 'break.' Now Matt Anthony was going to be my stepping stone to a lush Madison Avenue salary.)
The locker room attendant told me Frank was waiting on the court. I undressed and dressed quickly, spraying my arm pits with a deodorant. Up in the gym I found Frank already in a sweat hitting the little black ball against the four walls. (The silly black handball had given me a taste of ambition— had it also been the wedge between Michele and me?)
Putting on my gloves I told him, “No need for you to warm up, I'll be a pushover. Michele had a cable from her folks last night. They aren't feeling up to par, high blood pressure. So she put her vacation ahead a few weeks. I was up all night helping her pack, seeing her off at Idlewild at daybreak. I'm bushed, Frank.” Mouthing the lies gave
