“Maybe.” Austen pulled down a large box and sank with it onto the sofa’s splotched concave cushions. It groaned in a cloud of stale dust. “It’s our best bet, after Horace’s office.”
It was their only bet. Julia would turn over every piece of paper in here if she had to. She pulled down the box next to where his had been.
“It could be anywhere,” he said, “but I’m guessing it’s somewhere on this side.” He waved to his right. “The other stuff was here before I came.”
He set the box at his feet, between his knees, and began pulling out bundles of pages, most tied with string. He considered each, sometimes peering under a curled-back corner to read bits on inside pages. He sorted them into two groups: some he set aside on the floor, and others he piled on the sofa beside him. When he had reviewed all ten or twelve bundles, he returned those on the floor to the box and shoved it aside. Picking up one of the remaining manuscripts, he looked at Julia. “It’s not any of those,” he said with a nod toward the half-full box, “so let’s start reading.” He patted the cushion next to him, then looked at his hand with distaste. He took off his jacket and laid it over the stain.
Julia lugged her box over and sat. Her shoulder knocked his as the springs pitched them together. He laughed. “This is the last thing I’d dreamed of for tonight.”
She already had the string off one of the bundles.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m pretty sure the characters’ names were different, so we’re just looking for a similar prose style and the same basic situation, more focused on the boyfriend. I seem to recall it was written mostly from a man’s point of view, probably third person, but I can’t swear to it. Definitely set in New York, a young man having trouble getting settled—that sort of thing.” He settled down to read.
Julia fetched her spectacles and did the same.
The first six manuscripts were easy to dispatch. Julia got faster as her impatience grew, pressing Austen to hurry too. Over and over he rose and sorted through more large boxes, but none yielded anything hopeful. He then tackled the unboxed bundles stacked haphazardly on the shelves, dividing them into two high piles on the floor. After hoisting the not-possibles back onto the shelves, he dragged the remainder over to the couch. They didn’t speak as they dived again into the herculean task.
Julia awoke with a start. She lay across the sofa, her feet in Austen’s lap, wrapped in the untucked hem of his shirt. “No,” she exclaimed. How could she have fallen asleep?
He jiggled her foot again. “Morning, bean.”
A weak light shone in under the door. Papers and bundles were strewed across the floor. Her hat and shoes were off, and her spectacles had been tucked into the toe of one shoe. “Any luck?”
He patted a thick stack of pages on his knee. “Just now. The names are different, but it’s the passage we read last night. Almost word for word.”
He held up a page, and Julia recognized it at once. The sentences were identical. She threw her arms around him. “Brilliant man!”
A hundred thoughts stampeded through her mind. What did this mean? Eva had been more sly than anyone knew. But Julia understood how desperate authors could feel, fearing that their years of hard work might languish unappreciated and even unread on publishers’ desks, awaiting their brief chance to garner attention. She knew of authors who changed their titles to snag another chance. Some even changed their names. Perhaps Eva had spent the past year creating mystery and drama for her “secret” and “new” novel as a way to incite fresh eagerness when she submitted the old manuscript again. It was a bold strategy, and it had worked—too well.
“What do you think?” she asked Austen. “This must mean she tried to publish it earlier and Liveright rejected it. Maybe she tried again this spring with a new title.”
Austen teased her with the grin of a boy prankster. “Better than that.”
He turned over the stack in his lap. The top sheet was blank except for the title and author’s name. He held it close for Julia to read: Till Human Voices Wake Us. By Jerome Sanford Crockett.
Jerome. Jerome!
“A shock, huh?” Austen said. “Opened my eyes too.”
“Jerome? What does this mean?”
“Not sure. All I do know is something’s crawling under my shirt.”
Julia jumped up. She shivered inside her wrinkled dress and rubbed her arms and stockinged legs, whisking away unseen insects. He collected his jacket and the manuscript as she gathered up her hat and shoes.
“My guess is he stole Eva’s work,” Austen said as they hurried back to his office. “Maybe this is an early version of Harlem Angel he tried to pass off as his own. It explains why he’s so jumpy around editors and why he won’t come to Horace’s parties.”
Austen locked the door and whisked off his shirt. He flapped it like laundry, shaking out any fleas and the worst wrinkles. “It’s possible he killed Timson to get the manuscript before Eva could give it to Goldsmith. After all, he probably submitted Voices to Arthur too. He couldn’t risk him recognizing it and exposing his fraud.”
He clapped his hands, palms a pair of jubilant cymbals. “That’s got to be it. It means Jerome killed Timson. And you know where the cops can find him. By lunchtime Eva can breathe easy and come out from hiding. You’re the brilliant one, bean.”
He reached for the telephone. But Julia pried it from his hand and returned it to its cradle. “Hold on a tick. We need to be sure.”
One more minute wouldn’t
