It would take money, of course. He’d have to write plenty—but why couldn’t he?
And there was another chance, once he had learned the ropes well enough to take a chance. Those coins he still had. If a nineteen twenty-eight quarter had brought him two hundred dollars, maybe one of the other coins he had would turn out to be a rare one, and bring him big money on whatever black market the secret coin collectors used. But for now, that was too dangerous.
He strolled up Broadway as far as Forty-sixth, and then saw by a clock in a window that it was almost twelve-thirty. He went into a drugstore and phoned Keith Winton at Borden Publications.
Winton’s voice said, «Oh, yes, Mr. Winston. Thought of something else I wanted to talk to you about, something you might do for us but it’s a bit complicated to discuss over the phone. Are you free this afternoon?»
«Yes,» Keith said.
«Wonder if you could drop up to my place. We can discuss it over a drink, maybe.»
«Fine,» Keith said. «Where and when?»
«Four o’clock all right? And I’m in Apartment six at three-one-eight Gresham, down in the Village. You’d probably better take a cab unless you know the district down there.»
Keith grinned, but kept his voice serious. «I think I can find it all right,» he said. He ought to be able to. He’d lived there for four years.
He put back the receiver and went out to Broadway again, this time walking south. He stopped in front of the window of a travel agency.
Vacation Trips, the sign said. All-Expense Tours to Mars and Venus. One Month, 5,000 Cr
Only five hundred bucks, he thought. Dirt cheap, as soon as he could earn five hundred bucks. And maybe it would take his mind off Betty.
He went back to his hotel, walking fast. He jerked paper and carbon into the typewriter and started working on the fourth story. He worked until the last minute, then hurried out and caught a subway train south.
The building was familiar and so was the name Keith Winton on the mailbox of Apartment 6 in the downstairs hallway. He pressed the buzzer and waited, with his hand on the latch, until it clicked.
Keith Winton—the other Keith Winton—was standing in the doorway of the apartment as Keith walked back along the hall.
«Come in, Winston,» he said. He stepped back and opened the door wider. Keith walked in—and stopped suddenly. A big man with iron-gray hair and cold iron-gray eyes was standing there in front of the bookcase. There was a deadly looking forty-five automatic in his hand and it was pointed at the third button of Keith’s vest. Keith stood very still, and raised his hands slowly.
He heard the door close behind him.
The big man said, «Better frisk him, Mr. Winton. From behind. Don’t step in front of him. And be careful.»
Keith felt hands running lightly over him, touching all his pockets.
«May I ask what the idea of this is?» Keith managed to keep his voice steady.
«No gun,» Winton said. He stepped around where Keith could see him again. He stood there looking at Keith with puzzled eyes. He said, «I owe you an explanation, sure. And then you owe me one. Okay, Karl Winston—if that’s really your name—I meet Mr. Gerald Slade of the W.B.I.»
«Glad to know you, Mr. Slade,» Keith said. What, he was wondering, was the W.B.I.? World Bureau of Investigation?
It seemed like a good guess. He looked back at his host. «Is that all the explanation you owe me?»
Winton glanced at Slade and then back at Keith. He said, «I thought it best to have Mr. Slade here. You brought me two stories this morning at the Borden office. Where did you get them?»
«Get them? I wrote them.»
«You mean you rewrote them. They were stories I wrote five or six years ago. You did a nice rewrite job on them—I’ll say that for you. They were better than the originals.»
Keith opened his mouth, and closed it again. The roof of it felt dry and he thought he’d make a croaking noise if he tried to say anything. It was so obvious, now that he thought of it.
Why shouldn’t the Keith Winton of this universe have written the same stories since he had the same job, lived in the same flat—everything the same except physical resemblance? Why hadn’t he thought of the possibility?
He moistened his lips with his tongue. He had to say something. He said, «Lots of stories have similar plots. There have been lots of cases where—»
«These aren’t just cases of similar plots. Too many of the minor details are identical. In one story, the names of the two main characters are the same as in my original of that story. Coincidence won’t wash, Winston. Coincidence could account for similar basic plots, but not for identical bits of business.
«Those stories were plagiarized. I’ve got copies in my files to prove it.»
He stared at Keith, frowning. He went on, «I suspected something before I finished reading the first page of one story. When I’d read all of both stories I was sure of it. But I’ll admit I’m puzzled. Why would a plagiarist have the colossal gall to try to sell stolen stories to the very man who wrote them? However or whenever you stole them, you must have known I’d recognize them. And—is Winston your real name?»
«Certainly.»
«That’s funny, too. A man calling himself Karl Winston offering stories written by a man named Keith Winton. What I can’t understand, if it’s a fake name, why you didn’t pick one that wasn’t so close.»
Keith wondered about that himself.
The man with the automatic asked, «Got any identification with you?»
Keith shook his head slowly. He had to stall, somehow, until he could figure an out—if there was one. He said, «Not with me. I can prove my identity, of course. I’m staying at the Watsonia Hotel. If you phone there—»
«If I phone there,» Slade said, «I’ll be told a man named Karl Winston is registered there. Sure, I phoned there already. That’s the address on the manuscripts.» He cleared his throat. «That doesn’t prove anything except that you’ve been using the name Karl Winston for the two days you’ve been there.»
He clicked the safety catch on the big automatic. His eyes hardened. He said, «I don’t like to shoot a man in cold blood, but—»
Keith involuntarily took a step backwards. «I don’t get it,» he said. «Since when is plagiarism—even if I were guilty of it—something to shoot a man for?»
«We’re not worried about plagiarism,» Slade said grimly. «But we’re under orders to shoot on sight anybody suspected of being an Arc spy. And there’s one loose, last seen in Greeneville upstate. We got a kind of punk description but you could fit it. So—»
«Wait a minute,» Keith said desperately. «There’s a simple explanation of this somewhere. There’s got to be. And, if I were a spy, wouldn’t pulling a dumb stunt like stealing an editor’s stories and trying to sell them back to him be the last thing I’d do?»
Winton said, «He’s got something there, Slade. That’s what puzzled me most about the whole thing. And I don’t like the idea of shooting him down unless we’re sure. Let me ask him one or two more questions.»
He turned to Keith. «Look, Winston, you can see this is no time to stall. It won’t get you anything but bullets. Now, if you’re an Arc, heaven only knows why you’d have brought me those stories. Maybe I was supposed to react differently—do something else besides call a W.B.I. man. But if you’re not an Arc, then there must be some explanation. Can you give it?»