The Wharton Plot, page 8
Edith looked at the clock. She had now been kept waiting for six minutes. As she pondered the effect of rising without explanation versus a gentle but pointed inquiry as to when she might be seen, her thoughts were interrupted as the barker broke through with, “You can’t mean to publish!”
The murmurer went even lower, but she could detect from the brevity and the rhythm of speech that yes, they did mean to publish.
“But not now! Publish now and it ruins me!” shrilled the other man.
The voices grew suddenly louder—she realized a door had been opened. She could now hear the murmurer clearly as he said, “Oh, now…” She knew that Oh, now. She had heard it in various forms from Brownell and Burlingame. It never meant your complaint was wrong. It meant your complaint was pointless; they weren’t going to do as you asked, and they felt it was high time you realized it. Before, she had disliked the barker on principle. Now, she recognized him as a fellow author and her sympathy changed in his favor.
But it disappeared altogether as he burst into the waiting room. Attuned to proportion, Edith found his face simply … wrong. His head bulged at the top and all but disappeared at the bottom in a dab of a chin. The eyes were so prominent, they suggested a vitamin deficiency; the nose was delicate to the point of insignificance. The ears were large and flapping; a few strands of dishwater-brown hair lay in a desultory way across his scalp. The rest of him was no better: small and thin with a paunchy belly.
He stalked past the desk where the secretary was resolutely focused on his envelopes. Suddenly aware that Edith was his only audience, the little man advanced on her and hissed, “Ruined!” Then he gave the desk a vicious kick and tore out of the Appleton offices.
“Oh, dear,” said Edith.
The secretary did not deign to respond. Instead, he set aside the envelope, rose, and went through the door to the back. After a few moments, she heard, “Really?” A moment later, Rutger Bleecker Jewett sailed through the door, arms outstretched in welcome.
Once again, she was enchanted by his resemblance to a penguin. In some ways, it was an unremarkable face: egg-shaped, smooth except for a tidily trimmed ruff of gray around the back. His belly was expansive, his shape soft, the muscles of youth having given way long ago and with good grace. But he was a tall man and carried the excess of fifty-some-odd years on this earth well. His ears were largish, eyes warm and humorous with lively brows. He seemed to find life a cheerful business, endlessly fascinating. But he approached with the humility of a man peeking around the door at a wedding to which he was not invited but must linger because the bride is so beautiful, and the flowers smell so wonderful.
“Mrs. Wharton!” he exclaimed. “They told me you were here and I did not believe them. Come, come … and tell me why I am so fortunate.”
“I should have made an appointment,” she said.
Gravely, he gave the right answer. “The author of The House of Mirth does not need an appointment. She graces us if she chooses and when she will.” A smile allowed for the possibility that he was not quite so deferential and she not really in need of such deference. They were, actually, two old pros. “Come.”
As they made their way down the hall, she said, “You’ve had an exciting morning.”
Glancing back to the door through which the misshapen gentleman had exited, he sighed, “Disgruntled author, I’m afraid.”
“Are there gruntled ones?”
“An author’s state of gruntledness matters not,” he said, opening the door to his office. “Only her talent.”
She liked Mr. Jewett and she liked his office, large with high ceilings and expansive windows, the space crowded solely by books. An oriental rug in reds, browns, and orange showed some wit. A small Tiffany desk lamp, the glass shaped like a pale gold tulip, a willingness to indulge good taste. The chairs were broad, well cushioned, but not so hard and slippery as some leather armchairs were. When he had resumed his place behind his desk, she announced, “I come on behalf of another writer.”
Steepling his fingers, he said, “Mr. James?”
“No. David Graham Phillips. I saw you at his funeral yesterday.”
He shook his head, amazed. “I had no idea you were acquainted.”
“We met briefly at the Belmont Hotel. I spoke with his sister after the service. The poor woman is convinced there is a conspiracy against her brother and his work.”
The bulk of Mr. Jewett’s upper body rose and fell on a heavy sigh. “Yes. I urged Graham for months to go to the police.”
Startled, she said, “The police? Why?”
He was equally startled she should ask; she watched him debate how much to disclose.
Finally, he said, “Prior to the shooting, David Graham Phillips received several death threats.”
“Death threats?”
“By mail and by telephone.”
Chagrined, Edith sat back in her chair. She had been wrong, a thing she hated to be. But she also found herself strangely exhilarated. David Graham Phillips’s death had not been a random incident or a robbery. His killer knew who he was and meant to take his life. Threats meant notes, notes meant writing, writing meant narrative.
“But then you must have some idea who did it,” she said.
“Alas, the notes were unsigned.”
“All the same, the style of writing should tell you something about the person who wrote them.” Suddenly eager, she said, “You don’t have one I might look at?”
Jewett glanced about his desk, then leaned toward a drawer. “I do. Graham refused to take it seriously. He said he’d always been troubled by cranks and this was no different. He was going to throw it away, but I took it, thinking perhaps…”
“You would go to the police yourself.”
“Then of course I felt foolish and didn’t. Here it is.” He held up a folded piece of paper. “I suppose it’s evidence now. Perhaps we shouldn’t…”
“It has been in your drawer for some time. And I am wearing gloves.” She showed her hands to prove it.
Carefully, he unfolded the paper on his leather blotter, holding it down at the edges.
“It’s good stock,” she observed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The paper it’s written on, it’s good quality. Is it watermarked?”
Turning toward the window, Mr. Jewett held it up to the light. They both squinted, murmuring “Yes” and “I think so.”
“Crane’s,” she said. “That’s unusual, surely.”
“Is it? What sort of paper do assassins generally use?”
She had no idea. Until now, she had imagined Mr. Phillips’s killer to be … well, not the sort of person able to purchase or even be aware of fine-grain paper. The handwriting was excellent as well, the letters beautifully formed in strong black ink.
It read:
You are a vampire and must die.
“Vampire—that’s an odd term.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jewett.
She wasn’t sure and had to think. “Mr. Phillips’s sister believes that he was killed by someone who wished to silence him. But ‘You are a vampire’ is hardly political language. You’d expect something more along the lines of Sic semper tyrannis. Or ‘Stop writing these awful things about Senator Click-and-Cluck.’ How did the messages come to him?”
“Some came to his house, I believe. One or two to his club.”
“And of course you’d never give out an author’s home address.” Mr. Jewett looked inquiring. “I only wonder how the assailant knew where Mr. Phillips lived. Was he listed?”
The editor shook his head, gesturing to the note. “Due to this sort of thing.”
“Precisely. In fact, how did the killer even know who he was? I am certain I don’t know what—”
Casting about for the name of a writer she might wish ill, she remembered the mystery novels piled high in the shop window.
“—what Mary Roberts Rinehart looks like well enough to shoot her.”
Mr. Jewett pointed to the wall where several framed author photos hung. “David Graham Phillips was a singular figure.”
Looking at the scowling face, Edith remembered the white suit. The chrysanthemum. The dark hair and dynamic movement. Maybe it wouldn’t be difficult to identify David Graham Phillips in a crowd. But the question remained: How did the letter writer know where to send his threats?
“You don’t think it possible that his killer knew him personally?”
Mr. Jewett took his time. “As brash as Mr. Phillips was, as little concerned with the sensitivities of some, he was truly loved by those who knew him, Mrs. Wharton.”
There was the gentlest hint of rebuke; she had been cavalier about his colleague’s death, treating it as a parlor game rather than a loss. Straightening in her chair, she said, “Yes. You remind me of the purpose of my visit. You may have heard, I like to be helpful to writers.”
He nodded gravely.
“They do not always welcome my assistance, and I feel certain that were Mr. Phillips still with us, he would tell me to go hang. But he is not here to defend himself—against me or others—and his sister has asked for my help. Mrs. Frevert confided in me her worries about her brother’s final work. I gather the subject matter is provocative.”
“It is.”
“She is concerned there will be pressure to make it less so.”
“I shall resist, you need not fear.”
“I am sure you will. But she thinks it would help if other writers gave their support. If there is anything I can do to bring Susan Lenox to light whole and … unmucked with, I should like to do it.”
She was surprised to find herself sincere. She had come with the purpose of charming Mr. Jewett. But people could be arrogant and destructive about a writer’s words, thinking because they read them, they could cut, twist, and classify them as they liked. Of course a reader had the right to dislike a book; she herself disliked hundreds, some of them written by dear friends. But there were those who wanted to control what they had not created. To say a thing should never have been written. People for whom a book was not merely bad but wicked. Remembering Brownell’s anxious, clammy attempts to steer her to the subject he thought she should be writing about, she felt indignant. Writers should not be told what to write, and they should not have their words altered by those who had no idea what it cost to put them on the page.
To Jewett, she said, “But I cannot speak for a book I have not read.”
Now that they were at the point, he hesitated, his gaze sliding off. “Difficult…”
“Is it?” She smiled. “I have been able to read since I was a very small child.”
“It is a manuscript of great interest, as you can appreciate. I can’t let it out of the office.”
“Oh, that’s no difficulty. I’m staying at the Belmont, which is close. I would be glad to read it here.”
It was a long book. That meant at least three, four days away from Teddy. More than enough time for the malingering Dr. Kinnicutt to come.
“If you can read it on the premises, and you promise not to divulge its contents…” He struggled. “I warn you, Mrs. Wharton. Mrs. Frevert is right when she says people will oppose this book. Powerful people, with considerable influence.”
“Well, let the battle be joined,” she said lightly. “We are unafraid.”
He asked when she would like to read the manuscript. She said whatever time served him. He suggested tomorrow and she answered with, “Then it shall be tomorrow.”
Looking at the vampire note still on his desk, she said, “It’s odd how we respond to shock. When my mother died, I thought how she would have detested the shoes I wore to the service. With Mr. Phillips, I become fixated on writing paper.”
“It is excellent paper,” he said kindly. “I use it myself.”
It occurred to her to say that of course he would never have killed so successful an author. Then it occurred to her that it would be a joke in very poor taste. Still, the quality of the paper, the sort of person who used it, its presence at the publishing house, writers and their jealousies stayed stubbornly on her mind.
Mr. Jewett escorted her to the lobby, informing the youth at the desk that she would return tomorrow and that he should find a space for her. Then, opening the front door for her, he said, “If it is not presumptuous to say…”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I very much look forward to reading your next book, Mrs. Wharton.”
She gave him her hand. “You are kind.”
He waited with her at the elevator bank just outside the office doors. She raised her hand to thank him for his gallantry, saying, “I’ve taken up so much of your time. Don’t wait on my account.” With a last smile, he returned to his desk.
Once he was gone, Edith hurried back inside the Appleton waiting room, where the bored secretary was still at his desk. Advancing swiftly before he could say her name out loud, she whispered, “I wonder if you could tell me the name of the writer who stormed out earlier.”
He peered at her, suspicious. Information was his sole currency, but disdain his sole pleasure, and so he said, “Algernon Okrent,” in a tone that suggested anyone who named their child such a thing should be flogged.
“Does he by any chance write novels with strong social themes?”
“He writes novels that don’t sell,” said the youth, still annoyed over the kick to his desk. Then, realizing this was not the line to take with an author, he said mechanically, “He has an upcoming novel that we’re all tremendously excited about.”
“What is the title? I’ll look for it.”
He met her gaze, holding it just long to express disbelief. “No Shame but Ours. Regrettably, it’s been postponed.”
Pointedly, he looked toward the back office to indicate that had been the cause of the fight. But not the sole cause, Edith remembered. Mr. Okrent had been shouting about another book. By another author. One he felt should not be published because it would “ruin” his.
She had a very strong feeling that the other author was David Graham Phillips. And the other book was Susan Lenox.
CHAPTER TWELVE
She would tell no one.
On her walk back to the Belmont, Edith resolved to keep her suspicion that Algernon Okrent had killed David Graham Phillips to herself. It wasn’t as if she’d witnessed the crime or even knew the murdered man well. It was none of her business. She was a writer, not a detective. Really, she was relying entirely on her instinct.
Although her instincts were excellent. And only a writer could appreciate the lethal desperation of another writer.
No, the matter would sort itself out. Mr. Phillips was well-known, with ardent friends and supporters. They would ensure justice was done.
However … Mrs. Frevert might be unaware of Algernon Okrent’s existence, much less that his book had been postponed so that her brother’s could have the best spot in the bookstore window.
But Mr. Jewett was certainly aware. And he seemed a sensible, intelligent man. If she was right (she was right, but one must add the humble if) then Mr. Jewett would take the appropriate action.
Then she remembered her fundamental belief that publishers had a deep aversion to action. At least where it concerned the interests of their writers.
No, she decided as she entered the Belmont lobby, she must tell someone; Algernon Okrent was unhinged. It was possible he would kill again—poor Mr. Jewett and the smirky youth! Not to mention the peace Okrent’s arrest would bring Carolyn Frevert. Who was, now that she thought about it, probably right that the police would not find her brother’s killer; what did police know about writers? That made it even more imperative that she, Edith, alert the authorities. At least warn Mr. Jewett and press him to act.
But in the elevator, as she imagined warning Mr. Jewett, she discovered her thoughts were not in order. The last thing she wanted was to present a poorly told story to an editor. How to persuade him that Okrent was the author of the vampire note—and therefore, the assassin of David Graham Phillips?
Returning to the suite, she found it empty. Teddy was off somewhere—she prayed White was with him. She asked Choumai: Had Mr. Wharton been gone long? Would he be back soon? She hoped not. Once Teddy came back, she would have to stop thinking about Algernon Okrent and the murder of David Graham Phillips. She would have to listen to Teddy’s complaints, talk of pleasant, empty things, guard her every word lest a tantrum erupt.
She did not wish to.
Then she remembered Henry on the twelfth floor. The English language had no greater master than Henry James. If anyone could parse the meaning of the vampire note, it would be him. And how could Rutger Bleecker Jewett fail to respect the word of such an august author? Gathering up Choumai, she left the suite and instructed the elevator operator to take her back down to the twelfth floor.
As the elevator descended, Edith reflected that she had become somewhat addicted to confiding in HJ. In the madness of the past few years, this man who so avoided life had become the one person before whom she could strew her most chaotic emotions so that he might pick through them calmly, discerning valid concern from destructive hysteria. To him, she poured out her miseries about Teddy. In that, he was not unique; she wrote to many people about Teddy.
But only HJ knew about Morton Fullerton.
In fact, HJ had introduced them. When she and Fullerton went on excursions, he sometimes traveled with them so they could maintain the appearance of innocent friends. And so it was to HJ she had turned for advice on her affair. Back and forth, the letters had flown: This wild show of devotion—could she trust it? What did it mean, this endless silence? Was she being gullible? Had she been cruel? “Live in the day,” he had told her. “Don’t borrow trouble and remember that nothing happens as we forecast it—but always with interesting and, as it were, refreshing differences.”
But even the most avid gobbler of human emotion could tire of your story, no matter how well you told it. Edith knew: Henry was sick to death of her love affair. When she knocked, he took his time in opening the door. When he did, his gaze was wary, a bear roused from slumber. “Is it Teddy?” he asked.
