realistic water colors and pastels.
I heard Elsie moving about the kitchenette while I stepped over to the bookshelves to glance at the contents. The books were a helter-skelter jumble of modern novels, well-worn classics, works on psychology and anthropology, and volumes by some of the more liberal modern thinkers.
I was pleased and touched to see a complete set of my books in their original bindings on the top shelf. Elsie hadn’t been kidding about her interest in my work. Not a reprint among them. I had thought I was the only person in the world who possessed such a set.
I was standing there glancing over the old titles when Elsie came in with a tray which she set on a low glass table in front of the sofa. It held a full bottle of Monnet, two four-ounce wine glasses, two tall crystal goblets with ice cubes, and a squat, cut-glass pitcher of water.
She smiled as she set the tray down, and said, “I’ve always assumed that authors drink exactly what they give their characters in books. If you prefer soda… or even whiskey… I’ve got it.”
I shook my head and assured her, “No. Mike has taught me his drinking habits. That’s perfect.”
She sat on the sofa and started pouring cognac in the two wine glasses. I told her, “This is really an interesting place you’ve got. Are the pictures yours?”
“Oh, no. I did try dabbling with water colors once, but nothing came of it. I can’t take credit for a single bit of this,” she went on a trifle ruefully. “I’m just sub-letting from friends. Everything you see belongs to them.”
“Except about twenty-four volumes I noticed on the top bookshelf.” I sat beside her and reached for a glass.
She blushed slightly and said, “As a matter of strict truth two of those belong to the Johnsons. They had three or four of your books, and two of them were ones I hadn’t been able to get to complete my set.”
“The Johnsons?” I paused with the drink halfway to my mouth. “You wouldn’t mean Ryerson?”
“That’s right.” Her face lighted happily. “I remember now that Johnnie said he’d met you at some MWA meeting. Do you know Lois, too? She illustrated one of his books a few years ago.”
“Yes. She’s a sweet girl.”
Elsie lifted her glass in a sort of salute and we both drank the straight cognac and then washed it down with a sip of ice water.
I leaned back and relaxed and lit cigarettes for both of us, nodded toward the typewriter in the corner and asked, “Do you write?”
“Yes. That is… no. Not really. I’m trying to. In fact,” she said gravely, “prepare yourself to be disillusioned. I seduced you up here under false pretenses.”
“You mean it wasn’t just my masculine charm… my masterful technique?”
“Not altogether.” She leaned close to draw her fingertips across my cheek. “Though I won’t deny there was that, too. But when I persuaded Miss Jane to introduce me, I had only one thought. A very carefully planned campaign. To get you up here and ply you with brandy and whatever sex appeal I possess to induce you to read a half-finished manuscript and tell me what the devil to do with it.”
I leaned back and grinned and said, “Go ahead and ply me.”
“I am,” she said defiantly. “Don’t you feel plied?”
I said cautiously, “The brandy is very good.”
She leaned toward me again, her face turned and pressing against the back of the sofa, her eyes dancing with excitement that was at least partially sexual.
I moved closer to her and her eyes remained wide open and inviting me. Her lips parted slightly and they trembled. She said, “Darling,” in a husky, shaking voice, and I kissed her.
It was a long kiss, and we were both shaky when it ended. She moved a little so her shoulder touched mine companionably, reached for her glass and asked, “Now do you feel plied?”
“Most satisfactorily.” I drained my glass and lit another cigarette. “You promised me the story of your life, too.”
“That will come later. After I’ve had a few more drinks. Aren’t you going to say you’re just dying to read my book?”
“Is it a mystery?”
She hesitated, biting her underlip. “Sort of. I guess I hope it will be what they call a suspense novel these days.”
“Like THE WRITHING WORM?” I asked, trying to keep the venom out of my voice.
“Oh! Do you know Lew’s work?”
“No. I ran into him at the bar tonight and he gave me a lecture on how the modern mystery novel should be written.”
“That sounds like Lew,” she said indulgently.
“Let’s talk about you and your book.”
“I’ve only fifty-some pages done.” She hesitated thoughtfully. “I’m stuck at that point, you see.” Then in a sudden burst of confidence, she hurried on.
“Actually, I’m afraid I’m discovering I’m not really a writer after all. Up to this point I’ve been fictionizing a real situation. One that happened to me. It is a mystery, and a darned good one,” she went on defiantly. “An unsolved case that I thought up an ending for and decided I could make a book out of. But I can’t think of a middle part. The first fifty pages were easy because I was dealing with real facts. But now I don’t know how to go on. I thought maybe, if you read it, you could advise me.”
I poured myself some more cognac. Elsie still had some in her glass. She was leaning back comfortably, her face hopeful. I wanted to kiss her again, but I’ve met enough budding authors to realize she would have to get the book off her mind before we could hope to move on to more interesting matters.
I said, “Let me get this straight. You started out with an incident that actually happened to you. You’ve written that much of it, and now that you’ve reached the end of your real facts, you can’t dream up an ending.”
“I do have an ending. A good one. But I know a book should be at least two hundred pages long and I can’t think how to stretch it out.”
“What sort of situation have you got?”
She hesitated a moment, a faint tinge of pink flushed her cheeks. “I’d much rather have you read it than try to discuss it openly with you. I’d be too horribly embarrassed because… well, it wasn’t a very nice experience. Quite horrible, in fact. I’ve changed all the names in my story, of course, and the physical descriptions of the people involved, so it doesn’t seem so personal when you read it all typed out.”
“Have you shown it to anyone else?”
“Just one friend. He’s a writer, too, and it seems different when one is a professional. So much more impersonal.” She paused and the color came into her cheeks again. “Please don’t think I’m awful while you’re reading it. I did try to put things down as honestly as I could. A writer has to, doesn’t he?”
I poured both of us more cognac. I was beginning to get restless. Here we were alone and time was passing. Discussing a manuscript wasn’t my idea of the best way of killing the night. But she was so wrapped up in her own personal problem that I knew it was going to be difficult to change the subject.
Nevertheless, I tried.
While she was sipping her fresh drink, I said: “I’ll be most interested in reading your story first thing in the morning. I’ll be better able to judge it intelligently if I know a little more about you as a person. You’re not married?”
“No.”
“But not a virgin?” I made my voice light and didn’t look directly at her as I spoke.
“No.” Her answer was slow but direct. “Is that important?”
I shrugged. “Probably not, except as an indication of the sort of person you are. Completely repressed females generally don’t make very good writers. What do you read?”
Her face lit up. “Everything. That is, I did when I was younger. Proust and Joyce. Hemingway and Dreiser and Sinclair Lewis. Lately I’ve been concentrating more on the better mysteries and suspense novels. Yours, of course, and there’s a woman writer named Helen McCloy whom I like. Do you know her books?”
“Very well. Do you have a job?”
“Not now. Until a couple of months ago I worked as a secretary in an importing house. Then I decided I
