That was what I was doing when somebody knocked on the office door. I heard it open a moment later, silence for a couple of seconds, and then Kerry’s voice say, “Hey, anybody here?”
I poked my head around the corner, over the top of the packing case. “In here.”
She came through the rail divider, peering around the way a woman does the first time she enters a place, and stopped in the middle of the office. “Busy busy, aren’t we?” she said.
“Never a spare moment.”
I stood up, wiped my hands on a rag. She was wearing a gray business-type suit with a frilly green blouse under it, and she had her hair fluffed out in a way that was a little different. She looked pretty fine standing there, so I went over and kissed her. That was pretty fine too-at least for me.
“Ugh,” she said. “What did you have for breakfast?”
“Why? Bad breath?”
“Well, a little garlicky.”
“I guess it’s the pastrami.”
“Pastrami? For breakfast?” “I don’t like eggs much,” I said.
“My God. It’s a wonder you don’t have bleeding ulcers.”
“Not me. I’ve got a bachelor’s stomach-made out of cast iron.” I resisted an impulse to kiss her again and maybe nibble a little on her ear. How would it look if somebody else came in and found a fifty-three-year-old lone wolf nibbling on a pretty woman’s ear? “So how come you came all the way over here from Bates and Carpenter?”
“It’s all of a dozen blocks,” she said.
“Long blocks,” I said.
“I came over because I’ve got an early appointment for lunch and some free time, and I wanted to see this office of yours before you move out of it. I’ve never been inside a private eye’s office before.”
“What do you think, now that you’re here?”
“I think you made a very wise decision to move somewhere else. Have you really spent twenty years in this place?”
“Yep. It’s not all that bad, you know. I mean, it looks more respectable when it’s cleaned up.”
“I doubt that.”
“You’ll like the new offices a lot better,” I said with some irony. “Very modern and businesslike.”
“Oh, I’ll bet. Plush carpets, soft lighting, and tasteful paintings on the walls. The artistic touch, no doubt.”
I didn’t open my mouth for three or four seconds. Then I said, “What did you say?”
“Weren’t you listening? I said plush carpets, soft lighting-”
“No. The artistic touch. That’s what you said.”
She gave me a funny look but I barely noticed it. Somewhere inside my head a door had opened up, and the thing that had been scratching at it the past two days, the odd thing about the “Hoodwink” manuscript, came popping through. I took a good long look at it. Then I hustled over to the desk, dragged the manuscript out of the portfolio again, and took a good long look at that.
Kerry came over next to me as I was riffling through the pages. “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “Do you have seizures like this very often?”
“Not often enough,” I said. “I think I know who wrote the ‘Hoodwink’ novelette. And it wasn’t Frank Colodny.”
That got her attention. “Then who was it?”
“Ozzie Meeker.”
“But he’s not a writer-”
“Maybe he wanted to be one. It adds up.”
“What adds up?”
“Here, look.” I spread the manuscript out on the desk and pointed to the first paragraph on page one. “This sentence: ‘In that moment of silent motionlessness, man and hansom had the aspect of two-dimensional shadows newly sketched on night’s dark canvas, with ink still wet and glistening.’” I flipped over to the last page, indicated the second sentence in the final paragraph. ” ‘The stationary objects in the room seemed to swirl past her, shading into distorted and colorless images much like those in a surrealist composition.’”
Kerry looked at me sideways. “Artistic references?”
“Right. The manuscript is full of them. Most writers, professional or amateur, wouldn’t use phrases like ‘two-dimensional shadows,’ ‘night’s dark canvas,’ ‘stationary objects,’ ‘shading into distorted and colorless images,’ ‘surrealist composition.’ ” I riffled the pages again, pointing out a few more at random. “Or ‘the elements of perspective.’ Or ‘the good strong odor of linseed oil.’ Or ‘the overall effect was of something painted with a dry brush.’ “
“I see what you mean,” Kerry said thoughtfully. “Whoever wrote this almost has to be an artist. And an amateur writer too. But it doesn’t have to be Ozzie Meeker.”
“No. Except that Meeker is a member of the Pulpeteers. And knows everybody involved. And was here at the convention. And had at least one altercation with Frank Colodny.”
“Do you think he was involved in Colodny’s death?”
“If he wrote ‘Hoodwink’ and those extortion letters, it’s good bet he was.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What motive would he have for wanting Colodny dead?”
“Some sort of revenge angle, maybe.”
“After thirty years?”
“Colodny disappeared for thirty years, remember?”
“Mmm. Which could mean that Meeker wrote ‘Hoodwink’ back in the forties and it really was plagiarized for Evil by Gaslight-by Colodny?”
“Possible. It would explain his sudden disappearance. But Colodny was just an editor, wasn’t he? He didn’t do any writing himself?”
“Not as far as I know. My folks could tell you.”
“They’re still at the hotel?”
“Yes. Dad has a date with some sort of amateur magician’s group today, but Cybil might still be in.”
I went around behind the desk and rang up the Continental. The line to the Wades’ room buzzed half a dozen times and I was just getting ready to break the connection when Cybil’s voice answered a little breathlessly; I must have caught her on the way out. I told her who was calling and then asked about Frank Colodny.
“No,” she said, “he never wrote anything himself. Or if he did, it was a well-kept secret. Some editors are frustrated writers, but not Frank; he was satisfied doing what he did.”
“What about Ozzie Meeker? Do you know if he ever tried his hand at fiction?”
There was a small silence, as if she were searching her memory. “Well, it seems to me he did say once that he had ambitions along those lines. But not pulp; I think he wanted to do something more serious. I can’t remember if he ever said what it was.”
“Did he follow through? Write something for publication?”
“He never spoke of it if he did. Why do you ask?”
“Just an idea I’ve got. Thanks, Mrs. Wade.”
Kerry was watching me as I put down the receiver; she had perched herself on the front edge of the desk. “No on Colodny?” she said.
I nodded. “But yes on Meeker.”
“But then who wrote Evil by Gaslight! Not one of the other Pulpeteers?”
“Could be. If ‘Hoodwink’ was plagiarized in the first place.”
“Then why was it Colodny who was killed?”
“I wish I knew.”
“And why were extortion letters and manuscripts sent to all the Pulpeteers?”
“I wish I knew that too.”
I picked up the phone again and put in another long-distance call to Ben Chadwick’s office in Hollywood. More than ever now I wanted to know the background details on Evil by Gaslight; there was little doubt in my mind that the film, the “Hoodwink” manuscript and extortion letters, and Colodny’s murder were all connected somehow. But all I got was Chadwick’s answering machine and his recorded voice saying he was out of the office. I thought about leaving a message asking him to get in touch as soon as possible because the matter had become urgent, but decided against it and said only that I would call again later today or tomorrow. Chances were I would not be spending much of the day here-and I had already disconnected my own answering machine.