Rex Stout - Plot It Yourself

Oshin lit a cigarette and missed the ashtray with the match. “That was wasted effort. As you may know, a playwright must have an agent. I had had one named Jack Sandier that I couldn’t get along with, and a month after A Barrel of Love opened I had quit him and got another one. One weekend in July, Sandier phoned me in the country and said he had found something in his office and would drive over from his place near Danbury to show it to me. He did. It was a typewritten six-page outline of a play in three acts by Kenneth Rennert, entitled ‘A Bushel of Love.’ Sandier said it had been found by his secretary when she was cleaning out an old file.”

He ditched the cigarette. “As I said, nauseous. Sandier said he would burn it in my presence if I said the word, but I wouldn’t trust the bastard. He said he and his secretary would sign affidavits that they had never seen the outline before and it must have been sneaked into the file by somebody, but what the hell, I was somebody. I took it to my lawyer, and he had a talk with Sandier, whom he knew pretty well, and the secretary. He didn’t think that either of them had a hand in the plant, and I agreed with him. But also he didn’t think we could count on Sandier not to get word to Rennert that the outline had been found, and I agreed with that too. And that’s what the bastard did, because in September Rennert brought an action for damages, and he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t known he could get evidence about the outline. A million dollars. My lawyer has entered a countersuit, and I paid a detective agency six thousand dollars in three months trying to get support for it, with no luck. My lawyer thinks we’ll have to settle.”

“I dislike covering ground that has already been trampled,” Wolfe said. “You omitted a detail. The outline resembled your play?”

“It didn’t resemble it, it was my play, without the dialogue.”

Wolfe’s eyes went to Harvey. “That makes four. You said five?”

Harvey nodded. “The last one is fresher, but one member of the cast is the same as in the first one. Alice Porter. The woman who got eighty-five thousand dollars out of Ellen Sturdevant. She’s coming back for more.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes. Three months ago the Victory Press published Knock at My Door , a novel by Amy Wynn. Amy?”

Amy Wynn’s nose twitched. “I’m not very good...” She stopped and turned to Imhof, at her left. “You tell it, Reuben.”

Imhof gave her shoulder a little pat. “You’re plenty good, Amy,” he assured her. He focused on Wolfe. “This one is fresh all right. We published Miss Wynn’s book on February fourth, and we ordered the sixth printing, twenty thousand, yesterday. That will make the total a hundred and thirty thousand. Ten days ago we received a letter signed Alice Porter, dated May seventh, saving that Knock at My Door was taken from an unpublished story she wrote three years ago, with the title ‘Opportunity Knocks.’ That she sent the story to Amy Wynn in June of nineteen fifty-seven, with a letter asking for comment and criticism, and it has never been acknowledged or returned. According to pattern. Of course we showed the letter to Miss Wynn. She assured us that she had never received any such story or letter, and we accepted her assurance without reservation. Not having a lawyer or an agent, she asked us what she should do. We told her to make sure without delay that no such manuscript was concealed in her home, or any other premises where she could be supposed to have put it, such as the home of a close relative, and to take all possible steps to guard against an attempt to plant the manuscript. Our attorney wrote a brief letter to Alice Porter, rejecting her claim, and upon investigation he learned that she is the Alice Porter who made the claim against Ellen Sturdevant in nineteen fifty-five. I telephoned the executive secretary of the National Association of Authors and Dramatists to suggest that it might be desirable to make Miss Wynn a member of the Joint Committee on Plagiarism, which had been formed only a month previously, and that was done the next day. I was myself already a member. That’s how it stands. No further communication has been received from Alice Porter.”

Wolfe’s eyes moved. “You have taken the steps suggested, Miss Wynn?”

“Of course.” She wasn’t bad-looking when her nose stayed put. “Mr. Imhof had his secretary help me look. We didn’t find it — anything.”

“Where do you live?”

“I have a little apartment in the Village — Arbor Street.”

“Does anyone live with you?”

“No.” She flushed a little, which made her almost pretty. “I have never married.”

“How long have you lived there?”

“A little more than a year. I moved there in March last year — fourteen months.”

“Where had you lived?”

“On Perry Street. I shared an apartment with two other girls.”

“How long had you lived there?”

“About three years.” Her nose twitched. “I don’t quite see how that matters.”

“It might. You were living there in June nineteen fifty-seven, when Alice Porter claims she sent you the story. That would be a suitable place for the story to be found. Did you and Mr. Imhof’s secretary search that apartment?”

“No.” Her eyes had widened. “Of course. Good heavens! Of course! I’ll do it right away.”

“But you can’t guard against the future.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “I offer a suggestion. Arrange immediately to have that apartment and the one you now occupy searched throughout by two reliable persons, preferably a man and a woman, who have no connection with you or the Victory Press. You should not be present. Tell them that they must be so thorough that when they are through they must be prepared to testify under oath that no such manuscript was on the premises — unless, of course, they find it. If you don’t know how to go about getting someone for the job, Mr. Imholf will, or his attorney — or I could. Will you do that?”

She looked at Imhof. He spoke. “It certainly should be done. Obviously. I should have thought of it myself. Will you get the man and woman?”

“If desired, yes. They should also search any other premises with which Miss Wynn has had close association. You have no agent, Miss Wynn?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had one?”

“No.” Again the little flush. “ Knock at My Door is my first novel — my first published one. Before that I had only had a few stories in magazines, and no agent would take me — at least no good one. This has been a big shock, Mr. Wolfe — my first book such a big success, and you can imagine I was up riding the clouds, and then all of a sudden this — this awful business.”

Wolfe nodded. “No doubt. Do you own a motor car?”

“Yes. I bought one last month.”

“It must be searched. What else? Do you have a locker at a tennis court?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Do you frequently spend the night away from your home? Fairly frequently?”

I expected that to bring a bigger and better flush, but apparently her mind was purer than mine. She shook her head. “Almost never. I’m not a very social creature, Mr. Wolfe. I guess I really have no intimate friends. My only close relatives, my father and mother, live in Montana, and I haven’t been there for ten years. You said they should search any premises with which I have had close association, but there aren’t any.”

Wolfe’s head turned. “As I told you on the phone, Mr. Harvey, I know nothing about plagiarism, but I would have supposed that it concerned an infringement of copyright. All five of these claims were based on material that had not been published and so were not protected by copyright. Why were the claims not merely ignored?”