The Wharton Plot, page 10
Quite horrible, as she discovered. Something so strained and futile, she and Teddy had agreed: There were things they did very well together. Things they enjoyed. Best to stay with those. In fact, it had become something of a joke between them, how ill-matched they were. “Like a podgy St. Bernard and a skittish whippet,” Teddy had said. “The mechanics—ludicrous!” She had laughed and loved him very much then.
She became aware of a shuffling sound; someone was at the door. Puzzled, she called out “Yes?” but the shuffling just grew more frantic. She stood up and cracked the door. It was the youth, nearly buckling at the knees with the weight of several more books. She let him in, and he staggered to the desk, where he deposited them with a thud.
“Mr. Jewett’s suggestion,” he explained. “In case you wanted to read Mr. Phillips’s other novels.”
His gaze fell on the massive stack of unread pages. “Have you … formed any opinion?”
She meant to be professional. Bold. Stimulating. Like nothing I’ve read before. But then she spotted the line “Some likes the yeggs biled” and pressed her fingers to her mouth to stop from laughing.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard it’s terrible.”
Then they knew. They knew it was bad. Amazed, she asked, “How can they publish it in this state?” A horrible thought came to her: This was the edited manuscript. How much worse had it been?
He shrugged. “They say it will create a sensation.”
“Oh, but not in the right way,” she said, her voice low and certain.
“Well, perhaps you could tell Mr. Jewett. He’s available now. If you’re so inclined.”
Excited, she took up her reticule. “Yes, I am very much inclined. Thank you—”
Embarrassed, she realized she didn’t know his name; it was always difficult with people who were not actually important enough for introductions. Waving her hand, she mumbled “Mister” and hurried down the hall to Mr. Jewett’s lovely, comfortable office. She knocked once, then, unable to wait, swept through the door.
Holding the note aloft like a torch, she announced, “Mr. Jewett, Algernon Okrent must be arrested at once!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Algernon Okrent?”
The editor gazed at her, uncomprehending. This made Edith feel foolish, which she disliked. Awkwardly, she thrust the note at him. He recoiled at the suddenness of the gesture, then read the words.
“Is this…?”
“Yes.” She laid the note on the desk. “The language is dull, but the message succinct.”
“‘Do not write this.’” He was careful not to touch the paper. “This was sent to you personally?”
“At my hotel. Do you still have the note that was sent to Mr. Phillips?”
Nodding distractedly, Mr. Jewett unlocked one of the desk drawers and placed the note alongside hers. The characteristics of the handwriting—the rich black ink, the swooping copperplate, the placement of the words in the dead center of the page—all the same.
Jewett looked heartsick. “You must take this to the police, Mrs. Wharton. Please. Take mine with it.”
“Of course, but you must come with me.”
“I?”
“To tell them about Mr. Okrent.” She sat down. “It will mean much more coming from you. You argued with him. You know his work.” Waving toward the outer office, she added, “The young man at the front could come as well…”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Wharton. I don’t understand. Why Algernon Okrent?”
“Because he shot Mr. Phillips.”
He laughed. Briefly, but he did laugh. Then, clapping a hand to his chest as if to contain his amusement, he said, “My apologies, Mrs. Wharton. But I cannot imagine how you came to that conclusion.”
She pointed to the notes. “The term vampire and the command not to write this—doesn’t that indicate someone of a literary bent? Someone who wants to keep the story all for himself?”
The editor’s face became indulgent. She felt an Oh, now coming.
Letting the edge of impatience into her voice, she said, “When I was here yesterday, wasn’t Mr. Okrent screaming at you in a way that can only be described as deranged? Didn’t he say that publishing Susan Lenox would ruin him?”
Mr. Jewett collected himself. “We have postponed his book. He is naturally upset.”
“Aren’t the two books similar?”
“Perhaps, broadly speaking, in their subject matter. Which is why we thought it unwise to publish them at the same time. One can only put out so many revelatory novels about fallen women at one time. And Graham’s is the superior volume.”
And he has just been killed in spectacular fashion. Strange, she thought, how many men wished to be seen as the sole teller of truths about women. Apparently, it was a title much coveted by male authors.
Then Jewett said, “But to suggest that a little competition between writers would lead to murder…”
“Oh, but David Graham Phillips was such an exasperating man. As his editor, Mr. Jewett, you might not have seen it, but he was exactly the sort of person to inspire jealousy. He practically insisted on it,” she added, remembering the dead man’s complacent the when speaking of great American writers.
“He was arrogant, entitled, belittling. And successful. That sort of person is enraging to most—but to writers?” She lifted her hands to underscore the point. “There is so little success to be had, someone who hogs the lion’s share and is less than gracious? Particularly galling! And of course the publisher cannot support all books equally…”
“Surely then I would have been the target and not poor Graham.”
“You are the giver, Mr. Phillips the competitor. And he was very competitive.”
“The threats are written on Crane’s stationery,” he noted. “If I may be indiscreet, Mr. Okrent’s advances would not stretch to such costly writing paper.”
“You said yourself you use Crane’s at Appleton. How difficult would it be for an author to take a few sheets?”
He smiled. “We make it a policy not to publish murderers, Mrs. Wharton. The odd thief, a forger here and there, perhaps a bigamist. But we draw the line at killing.”
She smiled at the joke. And wondered how to get around the man’s charm.
Then, in a more serious tone, he said, “Let me show you something, Mrs. Wharton. I think you’ll see what I mean.”
He went to a handsome oak filing cabinet. Peering into the top drawer, he picked through several folders before pulling out a fat sheaf of yellowing foolscap.
“Here we are.” He laid it on the desk. “No Shame but Ours: The Trials of Marigold Loveless.”
Turning the manuscript around so she could read it, Edith felt an immediate stab of disappointment. The handwriting was small and crabbed, the letters poorly formed, all nervy vertical spikes and shriveled ovals as opposed to the graceful arcs and proud ballooning a’s and o’s of the notes. The words crowded one on top of the other as if Okrent were trying to prove he had so much to say, he must use every scrap of space. The ink, more brown than black, was uneven here, so thick it blotted, there anemic and barely visible. Looking from the notes to the manuscript, she tried to persuade herself this was a deliberate disguise. But the man who scratched his pronouncements on foolscap was incapable of the bold elegant line of the notes. They were the product of an altogether different personality. An altogether different …
Education. The elegant handwriting of the notes was not naturally acquired, she realized; it was taught. And practiced. She herself could recall hours of carefully copying out letters, the surge of frustration when her hand wobbled or the ink ran thin, ruining the line.
In fact, the handwriting of the notes was not unlike her own. Were there differences, she wondered, between men’s and women’s handwriting?
Mr. Jewett murmured, “As an editor, one is familiar with the handwriting of one’s authors. Especially when it is as hard on the eyes as Mr. Okrent’s.”
“Yes,” she sighed. “I see what you mean.”
Mr. Jewett steepled his fingers. “For all his volatility, Mr. Okrent is a shouter, not a shooter. Moreover, he is worldly enough to know that the surest way to make Susan Lenox a success is to kill its author. No writer would willingly give another such a boost of publicity.”
There was truth in that. Phillips’s murder would greatly help the sales of Susan Lenox—no doubt one of the reasons Appleton was rushing it into print. The man’s name hadn’t left the newspapers’ front page for days.
“Who do you think murdered David Graham Phillips?”
He sighed. “Graham was a combative personality. He made enemies and relished doing so. And he passionately believed that a writer should be candid when discussing sexual relations between men and women.”
Remembering the raging introduction to Susan Lenox, Edith nodded.
“As such, he incurred the wrath of Anthony Comstock and his ilk. Any book more salacious than a nursery rhyme, they attack with a vengeance.”
Edith was aware of Anthony Comstock, founder of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice. “You’re not saying Comstock killed him.”
“Of course not. But his group attracts madmen, the sort who see Satan everywhere they look. My theory is some lunatic decided to stand in as the wrath of God.”
“But has anyone read Susan Lenox, outside of Appleton?”
“I shouldn’t think so. But Graham’s earlier novels were also very frank.”
“Why kill him now?”
“Fanatics don’t always act on schedule, Mrs. Wharton. They can nurse their grievance for months, years. Then someone steps in front of them in a queue or their employer shouts at them, and they decide, ‘I know, I shall go shoot that writer and feel better.’”
Edith was skeptical. “Do you really believe it can be as impulsive as that?”
Mr. Jewett’s gaze shifted to his bookcases, in particular the shelf that held several of David Graham Phillips’s books; Edith suspected they had been moved to the center as a sort of memorial.
“Yes, perhaps it was more deliberate. Not the work of a madman at all. You see, Graham wasn’t just a novelist, he was also a journalist. A fearless one. I can think of one other book that might have inspired someone to kill him, Treason of the Senate.”
Edith saw that that title had been placed face out in the center of the collection. Brownell had mentioned the book at tea, with that affected little wave of his fist. Here is the man who rakes the muck.
“Is that his most recent book?”
“No, it was published as a series of magazine articles in 1906.”
“Even for a fanatic, that seems a long time. And the title hardly sounds salacious.”
“It caused quite an uproar when it came out. Graham accused the Senate of conniving against the interests of the American public on behalf of a few wealthy families. But you’re right, it was five years ago; most people probably don’t remember it these days.” He grinned. “Except of course the Big Four.”
The term was not familiar to her and she shook her head.
Slapping his hand on the desk to apologize for his thoughtlessness in presuming a lady followed political matters, Jewett explained, “The four senators Graham exposed for their corruption and self-dealing. Spooner, Aldrich, Gorman, and Depew.”
“Senator Depew?”
“New York’s very own,” said Mr. Jewett. “Or, in Graham’s inimitable words, ‘the sleek, self-satisfied American opportunist in politics and Plunder.’”
Before she could make an acid remark about the late Mr. Phillips’s obsession with alliteration, Jewett became, once again, the affable, enamored editor. “But I didn’t mean to bore you with politics. Tell me—what can the world expect next from Edith Wharton?”
She felt the beat of a changed subject. Wondered at the shift. But she acquiesced, saying, “I am wayward in my affections at the moment. Like Mr. Phillips, I find myself drawn to the subject of marriage. But those are seldom happy stories and readers are so vicious toward women who are unhappy in marriage.”
“Don’t we feel pity for Anna Karenina? Madame Bovary?”
“Do we? They choose such poor men as lovers, you doubt their capacity to be happy.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she had the uneasy feeling she had strayed into confession.
She looked again at the notes on the desk—the elegant curve of the letters, the word vampire—and thought of HJ’s novel The Sacred Fount. Lovers as predators, feeding off their loved ones. He wrote of sharp beaks and tearing claws. Those who thrived and those who withered.
You are a vampire. So personal. Almost … erotic.
On impulse, she asked, “Did Mr. Phillips have no one but his sister? No other lady who mourns him? He was not unattractive.”
The editor shook his head. “The relationship between Graham and myself was purely professional. But I’m not sure he had any gift for intimacy. Or inclination. He was a busy, ambitious man. Everything was pared down to the essentials.”
That wording—pared down—struck her. At one time, she had tried to live as David Graham Phillips had: self-contained, existing solely for work, friends, things she could control. Morton Fullerton had put an end to that. But Phillips had talked so expressively of love, its power to launch one into a new existence. How could a man say such things and live a pared-down life? She sensed something had been left out. Jewett was only telling her the things he felt safe, not everything he thought. Or perhaps knew.
Wanting to disarm him, she said, “You must forgive my fancies about Mr. Okrent. When dreadful things happen, I search for the cause so I may place the dreadful thing into a neat little box and say, ‘There, that shall not happen again.’”
He smiled. “Were I in charge of such things, Mrs. Wharton, your command would be enough for me.”
Then he became serious. “But I will certainly understand if you don’t continue with Susan Lenox.”
The implication of cowardice offended her. “I promised Mrs. Frevert I would read it, and read it I shall.” Rising, she added, “Besides, I’m returning to Europe soon. I doubt very much our letter writer will follow me there.”
“I don’t want him following you anywhere, Mrs. Wharton. I feel responsible enough for poor Graham.”
As she reached for her note, Mr. Jewett put his fingers on the edge. “I would be happy to take this to the police along with mine…”
It was a sensible offer. And yet she resisted, as if surrendering the note meant surrendering her interest in the murder. Putting it in her bag, she said, “I’ll keep it. If nothing else, it will be a macabre memento.”
Then, wishing to end the meeting on a more cheerful note, she said, “Perhaps I shall write a tale of an unhappy marriage and everyone will feel terribly sorry for the spouse who wishes to escape because I will make him a man.”
“And will the unhappy spouse find freedom and live happily ever after?”
She thought of Teddy. “That remains to be seen, Mr. Jewett.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was late afternoon and already dark as Edith emerged onto the street. Pulling her furs around her, she considered finding a taxi, but that felt extravagant given the short distance to the hotel. And she did not deserve a taxi. Her theory about Algernon Okrent had collapsed like a badly made soufflé. She felt embarrassed and dissatisfied. A walk would do her good.
Her conversation with Mr. Jewett couldn’t have gone more poorly. She had made a fool of herself accusing Okrent—waving the note in the air like that, what had possessed her? And her ignorance of American politics! Mr. Jewett might take it for granted that a lady paid no attention to such things, but to venture an opinion about a writer’s murder and know so little of that writer’s most famous work. Not to mention Jewett’s light dismissal that there had been a woman in David Graham Phillips’s life. The ladies, she imagined him thinking fondly, always dreaming of romance.
Oh, and worst of all, that Mr. Jewett had worried about her. Gently tried to dissuade her from reading further, even trying to take the note from her as if it were beyond her ken to go to the police (although she had no intention of doing so). The patronizing concern in his eyes when he said, “I don’t want him following you anywhere, Mrs. Wharton.”
In the middle of the street, she stopped. Perhaps it was the power of suggestion.
But she felt someone was following her.
She went still, tried to capture the source of the feeling. As she did, the weight of someone behind her evaporated.
No, she corrected herself, not evaporated, because it was never there. Clearly all this Mary Roberts Rinehart–ing was making her fanciful. She resumed her walk.
And immediately felt it again—the presence. Like someone who wished to approach but hadn’t quite got up the nerve. That happened, she told herself; she was occasionally recognized. Anna Walling at the funeral, for example.
She turned and saw no one who looked concerned with her in the slightest. Edith, she rebuked herself, you have become conceited.
Still, she began to walk just a bit faster.
When she had the sensation again, she told herself she was being absurd. Nervous, she made random connections. The word absurd led to the word funny, funny to the word joke, then the question Are you making a joke? That strange stone-faced young man.
No, she wasn’t imagining it. Someone was there. Behind her. That too-close presence …
At a cigar shop, she paused to survey the offerings in the window. In the reflection, she watched those who passed behind her. A couple, fully captivated by each other. A nursemaid pushing a carriage. A portly man sunk deep in his own thoughts.
Embarrassed, she continued her walk.
And was immediately aware that the person behind her had done the same.
