He frowned and looked shocked, as though deploring my bad taste. «Oh, no. I’ve got them. We can’t hand them out now. It wouldn’t be a fit thing to do.»
«You’re right,» I said. «If you hang on to them till Evergone is a clear best seller, you can auction them off. I wouldn’t be surprised, considering these are the last autographs anyone will get, if they don’t bring a couple of hundred apiece.»
«No,» he said, «I don’t even want to think of anything like that.» (But he was thinking of it, I knew, and I bet myself five to two he would do it eventually.)
«Come on,» I said, «take advantage of the headlines. It’s happened at the ABA Convention. It would mean a lot to the booksellers and they’ll push the book. You know, ‘Death at the ABA.’»
For a moment, I recalled Asimov’s cri de coeur of the night before; of his obligation to write a book called Murder at the ABA. I swear to you I was so desperate to make sense out of the whole thing that I had a passing flash of Asimov having arranged the whole thing in order to have his plot—or publicize his book.
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Absolutely sick. I told Darius it would be ridiculous to include that bit, but he wants it in because he says it’s so. If he wants to be made to look like a ninny, on his head be it.
Isaac Asimov
I don’t know why Asimov should think he’s above suspicion. The interested reader might be wondering if he were writing this book from a jail cell.
Darius Just
Well, even if it spoils the suspense, I am not writing this book from a jail cell. I’m right here in my office.
Isaac Asimov
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Tom said reluctantly, «I suppose sales will improve, but I don’t care about that.»
The corners of my mouth quirked a bit at that thoroughly ridiculous statement that no publisher (certainly not Tom) could possibly have said without instantly making himself a liar. I held steady though and said, «For that matter, you can jack up the price for movie rights to Evergone, and you can bring out Giles’s first novel again at a higher price and probably sell as many copies as you sold the first time, if not more. The cloud has a silver lining, literally.»
«Oh, well,» said Tom. «It’s not an appropriate subject for discussion. The loss of those books he might have written can’t be made up for.» And he filled his mouth with chicken.
We both ate quietly and I went for my coffee and cake, being thoughtful enough to bring some for him, too.
Those books that Giles «might have written» wouldn’t have been Prism Press books. It was no loss to Tom. He only gained.
Could he have done it? There was the anger over Giles’s leaving the house and frustration over the financial loss that might represent; and add to that the gains his death would bring. Was it guilt that made him urge me to say nothing of his troubles with Giles, to hide the motive? Was it guilt that made him steadfastly refuse to accept the bait of greed I dangled before him, to hide the motive? Was that why he talked so prattlingly of accidental deaths in the bathtub? Was he anxious to make sure that there was no hint of murder in the air?
But it was all conjecture. He might really think it was accident; he might really be embarrassed at seeming to profit out of tragedy. If Eunice were there, and if she read my thoughts, as seemed to be her habit, she could probably tear my conjectures concerning Tom’s guilt to shreds and ribbons.
Oh, well. I changed the subject. «Have you seen Henrietta, I wonder?»
Tom registered polite inquiry. «Henrietta?»
«The interview secretary of the ABA. Plump girl. Longish face.»
Tom shook his head. «I’m afraid I don’t know her. Teresa might. She arranged the autograph session along with the Hercules Books people. The Devore autograph session,» he explained, and his voice dropped as he said it as though he had just placed a phantom hat over his heart. «I suppose Teresa would have had to have some contact with the interview secretary.»
«Sounds reasonable. Where’s Teresa?»
«She went home. She developed a sick headache after hearing about Giles.»
Well, if Tom was a Macbeth, Teresa was no Lady Macbeth.
That is, provided she really did go home with a sick headache (God, I was beginning to suspect everything).
«I won’t be coming in tomorrow myself,» Tom said. «I’ll let the girls run the booth. This thing with Giles has spoiled the convention for me.»
«Terrible thing,» I agreed, and eventually he got up and left.
Eventually I got up, too, to find Henrietta, if she was there.
18 HENRIETTA CORVASS 7:45 P.M.
The party was crowded, filling two large rooms, with a corridor in between. It was not as though the people were stationary and I could simply go from group to group, studying the faces. They were moving around, brushing past me, shifting and changing.
Nor was it as though I were invisible and could carry on my errand undisturbed. I knew perhaps one out of ten people there and each one, it seemed to me, hailed me.
I was a celebrity, getting more mileage out of the fact that I had found the body than out of all four (and a fifth in press) of my books put together.
There wasn’t, as far as I could see, any diminution of gaiety at the party from what might have been expected if all were well; there was no trace of solemnity over and above that which might have resulted from a momentary difficulty in getting to the bar, or from a conversation that might have come to rest, for a while, on the matter of the loss of a job, of a book, of a buck. Life goes on.
Here was the case of a man who, some nine hours before, had been one of the stars of the convention. And, some six or seven hours before, he had met with death, violent and unexpected. It was a pity, it was a shame, it was a shock, it was terrible, and then life went on. Giles was swallowed up by the inexorable advance of time and it was as though he had never been. Here’s to the next man who dies.
And if it had been someone else who found the body; if I had been in no way involved; if I had not been late with the package of pens; would I have been any different? I didn’t have to make any bets with myself. It was a dead certainty that I would have been no different.
Life goes on.
If every human being on earth were to die in one gory moment, whatever else of life on the planet was left would go on, unconcerned, and nothing else in the entire universe would give a damn. Nor should they? The universe goes on.
I was getting more and more morbid as I went from group to group, being engaged at times and disengaging myself at times, and coming to the decision that the needle I was hunting for wasn’t there, and thinking I would see her tomorrow anyway—
And then, about a quarter to eight, I heard her voice. I didn’t see her at first. I turned in the direction of her voice and, with that as guide, I recognized her at once.
I joined the group quietly and listened, trying to work myself in, temporarily, as a member. I wanted to abstract her from the group and I didn’t want to do it very ostentatiously.
Being unobtrusive is easier for me than for most. I don’t take up much room, and I’m not one of those noticeable characters, either for reasons of sheer bulk as Giles had been or out of a visible glow of self-satisfaction as Asimov is.
When I had been standing there long enough to be taken for granted I managed to lock eyes with Henrietta.
Recognition on her part was instantaneous, but after a second or two, she looked away quite deliberately.
I nudged my way next to her and tapped her very lightly on the elbow. When she turned, I said, «I want to talk to you.»