I sighed. «Please, Terry, tell me about it and then I’ll explain why it wasn’t your fault, and I’ll go away.»
She looked at her watch. «I’m expecting someone—»
«They’ll wait, whoever it is,» I said urgently. «I’ve waited for you often enough. Come on. Begin at the beginning.»
Teresa said. «The beginning was months ago, when I made the arrangement for having Giles autograph his new book at the convention and promised him I’d open the books for him. That pleased him and helped persuade him to agree to do the signing. You know the kind of man he is—was. It made him feel important to have the publisher open books for him.»
«Of course, then the business started about his leaving us and for a while I thought he could go to hell, but Tom wanted to go through with it. You know, smile through the tears, make everything look normal to the last possible minute.»
She made a feeble gung-ho gesture with her right arm and went on. «So I was there fifteen minutes early and so was the other guy who was autographing, raising the roof and hugging the girls and making me all the more nervous about Giles—you know, why couldn’t he be early? And then he was there—»
I interrupted. «It’s my understanding that he was more or less dragged in by some woman. Wasn’t he?»
She stared at me. «Was he? I didn’t see anyone with him.»
«Well, was he angry?»
«I don’t know. I was angry, because I’d had a fight with Tom over the whole business. I was sure Giles wouldn’t change his mind, and I said the hell with it. Tom said maybe if I humored him and it was a good autographing session, I might get a chance to make one more try. And I said, ‘What do you mean, humor him? How far do I go?’ and he—Well, it was rotten. So I didn’t look at him particularly, just enough to know he was there, and then I was ready to open books for him. But I didn’t have any pens.»
«Were you supposed to?»
«It’s routine. Some authors arrive without pens—too ethereal to think of any such mundane things—or they bring their special pen that doesn’t work. Giles is different, however. He always insists on using his own pens—his special monogrammed ones, you know—and won’t use any others. Well, ordinarily, I would bring pens anyway, just to backstop, but this time I thought—well, screw him. I had to show my hostility somehow, so I didn’t bring any pens.»
By then, I had gone through all the flagstones that had laid out the fine path to my failure, and here was one that was later than any that had been laid for me.
I said, «Does that make you responsible for his death?»
«In a way, I suppose it does,» she said, but she wasn’t crying now. «If I had had pens, the whole damned fuss might not have taken place and he wouldn’t have been so upset that he would—would—»
«Storm upstairs for a shower and be so blind with fury that he slipped, fell, and killed himself?»
«It could be that.»
«I suppose so, but the fact is that I was supposed to bring him a supply of pens the night before and I had forgotten to do it. So you see, the primary fault is mine and not yours. Now please tell me what happened. Give me the details of the fuss.»
«I don’t know what I can tell. For nearly half an hour, nothing happened. He signed every book I put before him the same way: best wishes, his name, the date. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t smile, he didn’t look up. I could hear the other fellow—what’s-his-name—the one who writes all the books—»
«Isaac Asimov.»
«Yes, I could hear him babbling constantly, talking to each one, flirting with the girls.»
«I know,» I said. «I know his corn-ball routine.»
«All right. People enjoy it. They leave him and come to Giles, expecting more of the same, and all they got was dead silence.»
«He was upset over my failure to get him his pens,» I said. «Little failures in accustomed routines upset him.»
«If what you did upset him, why take it out on the general public?»
«‘Why’ is a crooked letter, my old man used to say.»
That stopped her for a moment. «What does that mean?» she asked.
«I’m not sure, but it sounds good. Please go on.»
«Eventually his pen gave out and he just sat back. I said, ‘What’s the matter?’ and he said, ‘Out of ink,’ in a high-pitched voice, with his lower lip pushed out. He just sat there. Naturally the line stopped and Asimov stood up and wanted to know what was wrong. I was just sitting there, too thunderstruck to do anything. Asimov offered a pen and so did whoever was waiting for the autograph. He pushed his pen toward Giles and took the pen Giles was holding—for a souvenir, I suppose.»
«Giles had to stir himself up to the point of using the new pen and then for five minutes everything seemed smooth and then the new pen ran out of ink. It was like a nightmare. It was as though God were punishing me for not having brought spare pens.»
She was gasping for breath and her voice faded out as though she were reliving the experience too closely. I said, «What did you do?»
«I just got up and left to get new pens. I forgot Asimov had offered one and pushed past him. I couldn’t think of anything better to do than go down the escalator to the hotel desk. I was just completely derailed, that’s all. By the time I got back, I found that a girl from Hercules Books had given him a pen. Apparently there was a fuss about that, too, but I had missed it, thank God, and I don’t want to know about it. The signing went on to the end without any other hitches. I tell you, it was the longest hour I’ve ever spent outside a maternity ward.
«After it was over, I left. I didn’t speak to Giles or look at him. In fact, I never saw him again, and when I heard he was dead, it just knocked me over. I knew that all that fuss over the pens had just sent him off his rocker. I went home with a migraine.»
I said, «But you’re better now?»
«A little,» she said woefully. «Thank God, Tom is bearing up.»
«Oh yes, he’s bearing up,» I said. «And you say that while the fuss was on, he didn’t say anything about me?»
«Nothing—unless it was while I was gone.»
«How long were you gone?»
«I don’t know. Five minutes, maybe.»
«Funny.»
«What difference does it make whether he said anything about you or not?»
«Well,» I said a little abstractedly, «if he didn’t say anything about me all that time, maybe it was something else that was bothering him. Look, Teresa, was there anything Giles did, anything at all that you can think of, anything that would indicate that something was bothering him besides the matter of the pens?»
Teresa shook her head emphatically. «As far as I know, it was the pens, pens, pens.»
«Did he say anything, or did anyone else say anything, or do anything for that matter, that struck you at the time as odd; or that strikes you as odd now that you look back on it?»
«No,» she said.
I threw up my arms. «I was told he complained about me.»
Teresa said, «Maybe that girl from Hercules Books heard him. She was with him when I wasn’t there.»
«Maybe you’re right. In that case, can I use the phone in the conference room for a while?»
«Go ahead, provided no one else is using it. Close the door, if you want privacy.»
«Thanks,» I said, and left.
9 HENRIETTA CORVASS 3:15 P.M.
I did want privacy. It wasn’t that anything I intended to do at the moment was private, but that I wanted to think. I visited the men’s room, thought there for a moment, then went to the conference room and thought there for a longer time.