“What?”
“Oh, yes. You understand that I am speaking to you with utter frankness and in complete confidence. It’s a dreadful book. I mean artistically. Anstruther needed money. He wrote it with an eye to a movie sale. And it will make an excellent picture. But as a serious work of literature, it is nonsense. If it is not sold to the movies and if all the subsidiary rights are not disposed of before publication, the critical reception will certainly damage the value of the property. It is unfair, in a way, too. The book is a fine adventure story. It is exciting. Really very like a top-notch movie scenario. If it were by someone else the critics would praise it for what it is-entertainment. But since it is by Charles Anstruther, whom they quite rightly regard as a pillar of American literature, they will be obliged to attack it. And yet, ironically, the fact that it is by Anstruther makes it valuable. A very complex situation, as you can see.”
Walter reached over to his control board and pushed a button.
On the far wall a picture slid to one side and revealed a small wall safe.
“I have all three copies of the book in there. I also have your contracts, drawn up and waiting. I realize you will have to consult with your partner, Mr. Conrad, on this. Why don’t you phone him and ask him to come over here immediately? I should like to get this settled today.”
Behind us, the door opened noiselessly.
Jimmie said, “Miss Whitney asks if you will join her for breakfast.”
I jumped. I had not heard him come in.
“Thank you, Jimmie,” Walter said. “Tell Miss Whitney I’ll be with her in a moment.”
Jimmie nodded and withdrew as quietly as he had come.
“I didn’t know Janis was staying here,” I said. “She mentioned a hotel.”
“And she was absolutely right,” Walter said. “This place is getting to be a hotel. Everyone but everyone stays here. No, Janis is an old friend of mine.”
“Is she another one of your stockholders?” It was a shot in the dark, but I could tell by Walter’s face that it was an accurate one.
“I will be frank with you. The book is owned by three equal partners, Janis, Max Shriber and myself. We each put up fifty thousand dollars.” He turned toward me and patted me on the arm. “Now, Richard, I don’t want you to be alarmed by my honesty. When I say that The Winding Road to the Hills is a bad book, I simply mean that it is a poor book. Anstruther, as you may or may not know, was well on the way toward becoming an alcoholic. His work, naturally, suffered. It is still as good a book, if not a better one, than most of the books that appear on the best- seller list.
“Understand me, it is only a poor book by the standards that Anstruther himself set when he was writing at the top of his form. That is all the critics will say. But that will be enough to hurt the commercial value. What I am getting at is that you personally will only gain in stature from publishing it. It is far better to publish a poor work by a great writer than an excellent book of Triple-Cross-O-Grams. Richard, as a friend, I strongly urge you to accept my proposal.”
I got up, walked to the bar, and poured myself another drink. “Look,” I said, “don’t strongly urge me. I understand the deal. I’ve published bad books that didn’t earn me a dime. Why shouldn’t I publish a bad book that’s going to make me a lot of dough? That part of it is all right. Just don’t high-pressure me. I want to think.”
Walter watched me with a concerned expression on his face. “Richard-something is bothering you. What is it?”
I wasn’t sure what was bothering me. My head was swimming too fast. I hadn’t had a chance to collect my thoughts in twenty-four hours. But he was right. Something was definitely bothering me. “Tell me one more thing, Walter,” I said.
“If I can.”
“What did Jean Dahl have to do with this?”
Walter sighed. “Nothing,” he said. “So far as I know she had nothing whatsoever to do with this.”
“She wasn’t one of your stockholders?”
Walter laughed shortly. “Of course not!”
“She had no interest in the book? No access to it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You may be interested to know, Walter, that Jean Dahl came in to my office a week ago and offered to sell me the new Anstruther book for fifty thousand dollars.”
“Incredible!” Walter said. “Utterly incredible. She was bluffing, of course. There are three typewritten copies of the manuscript in existence. And all three of them are there in my safe.”
I walked over to the window and looked out at the park. “Walter,” I said, “what kind of paper are your three copies typed on?”
Walter looked puzzled.
“Ordinary typing paper,” he said. “I don’t know what you mean…”
“Ordinary white paper?”
“Naturally.”
Naturally?
There was nothing natural about it. Jean Dahl had showed me a sheet of yellow paper in the office. A sheet of yellow paper that I was sure was authentic. There was something just a little bit wrong. I didn’t know quite what it was. But something was wrong somewhere.
Walter rose abruptly and walked toward me.
“Richard, I have been very patient with you. But I must have a definite answer. I am going in to have breakfast with Janis. Sit here and think. Try to make up your mind.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll make up my mind. But, listen, Walter, I want you to understand something. I know you’re lying to me about a lot of things. I just want you to know that I realize that. I don’t trust you, Walter. I don’t trust you at all. For all I know you killed Jean Dahl. And for all I know you were the man who called me on the phone last night with your trick imitation of Max Shriber’s voice. I just want you to know that I don’t trust you for a second. You’ve got this house all rigged with sliding pictures and God knows what. If I had any sense at all, I’d tell you where to stick your book and get the hell out of here right now.”
Walter giggled happily.
“You have a most suspicious nature,” he said. “It’s positively morbid. And, I must say that I admire you for it. I myself am a terribly suspicious person. And as far as this house is concerned…” He giggled again.
Then he leaned over to his control board and pressed one of the several dozen buttons. He fiddled with the switches for a moment or two. Then I heard the hum of the loudspeaker on the phonograph. Then a whirring sound. Then voices.
Walter’s voice said, “Richard, you are making yourself perfectly ridiculous. Now let go of me and hand me a towel. Please.”
Then another voice said, “I’m sorry, Walter. But I’ve got to talk to you.”
He reached over and pressed another button. The voices stopped.
Walter was grinning like a little boy. “It’s done with wire recorders,” he said proudly. “I wired the whole thing myself. It’s vastly complicated. I knew absolutely nothing about electricity. But I bought every available book on the subject and taught myself. Look.”
He fiddled with some more gadgets.
“This one is really amusing. The pickup is built into the bedstead in my guest room. The way some of my guests do carry on!”
Over the loudspeaker Janis Whitney’s voice said, “Where the hell is Walter? The coffee is getting cold.”
Jimmie’s voice said, “He’s still in there with Dick Sherman.”
“Oh, that one,” Janis said. “I think he’s real cute.”
Walter switched off the microphone.
I had to grin.
“Walter,” I said, “I overestimated you. I thought you were a murderer and a crook and a big operator. Hell, you’re just a nasty, evil-minded old maid.”
Walter did not seem to be upset. He smiled broadly and said, “Janis is absolutely right, Richard. I think you’re real cute too.”
