Rex Stout - Plot It Yourself

“But you came.”

She nodded. “I’m here. I wanted to see what kind of a game this is. He talked about an offer, but I don’t believe you’ve got an offer. What have you got?”

“You’re wrong, Miss Porter.” Wolfe leaned back, comfortable. “I do have an offer. I’m prepared to offer you easement from the threat of prosecution for an offense you have committeed. Naturally I want something in return.”

“Nobody’s going to prosecute me. I haven’t committed any offense.”

“But you have.” Wolfe stayed affable, not accusing, just stating a fact. “A serious one. A felony. Before I describe the offense I’m referring to, the one for which you will pay no penalty if you accept my offer, I must fill in some background. Four years ago, in nineteen fifty-five, you entered into a conspiracy with some person, to me unknown, to extort money from Ellen Sturdevant by making a false claim of plagiarism. It—”

“That’s a lie.”

“If so it’s defamatory and you have me. The next year, nineteen fifty-six, that same person, call him X, entered into a similar conspiracy with a man named Simon Jacobs to defraud Richard Echols; and in ninety fifty-seven he repeated the performance with a woman named Jane Ogilvy, to defraud Marjorie Lippin. All three of the conspiracies were successful; large sums were paid. Last year, nineteen fifty-eight, X tried it again, with a man named Kenneth Rennert; that time the target was a playwright, Mortimer Oshin. No settlement had been made at the time Rennert died, five days ago.”

“It’s probably all lies. The one about me is.”

Wolfe ignored it. “I’m making this as brief as possible, including only what is essential for you to understand my offer. I learned of the existence of X by a textual study of the three stories that were the basis of the claims made by you, Simon Jacobs, and Jane Ogilvy. They were all written by the same person. That is demonstrable and beyond question. I communicated my discovery to seven people, perforce, and they passed it on. A plan was made to entice Simon Jacobs into revealing the identity of X, and it became known to some fifty persons. X learned of it, and he killed Simon Jacobs before we got to him; and, fearing that we would try some similar plan with Jane Ogilvy or Kenneth Rennert, he killed them also. I don’t know why he hasn’t killed you too. He or she.”

“Why should he? I don’t know any X. I wrote that story myself. ‘There Is Only Love.’ ”

“If so you are X, and I have reason to believe that you are not.” Wolfe shook his head. “No. Did you write that book that was published under your name? The Moth That Ate Peanuts ?”

“Certainly I wrote it!”

“Then you didn’t write that story. That too is demonstrable. And that is the background.” Wolfe straightened up and flattened a palm on the desk. “Now. Here is the point. I have also studied the text of ‘Opportunity Knocks,” the story on which you have based your claim against Amy Wynn. Did you write that?”

“Certainly I did!”

“I believe you. It was written by the person who wrote The Moth That Ate Peanuts. But in that case you did not write ‘There Is Only Love.’ I will undertake to establish that fact beyond a reasonable doubt to the satisfaction of both a learned judge and a motley jury; and if it can be demonstrated that your claim against Ellen Sturdevant was a fraud, that it was based on a story you did not write, how much credence will be given to your good faith in your claim against Amy Wynn? I am prepared to advise Miss Wynn to reject your claim out of hand.”

“Go ahead.” Evidently she had meant it when she said she didn’t scare easy.

“You are not impressed?” Wolfe was still affable.

“I certainly am not. You’re lying and you’re bluffing — if I get what you’re driving at. You think you can prove I didn’t write that story, ‘There Is Only Love,’ by showing that its style is different from my book, The Moth That Ate Peanuts. Is that it?”

“Yes. If you include all the elements of style — vocabularly, syntax, paragraphing. Yes.”

“I’d like to see you try.” She was scornful. “Any writer that’s any good can imitate a style. They do it all the time. Look at all the parodies.”

Wolfe nodded. “Of course. There have been many masters of parody in the world’s literature. But you’re overlooking a vital point. As I said, the three stories that were the basis of the first three claims were all written by the same person. Or, if you prefer, put it that a comparison of their texts would convince any qualified student of writing, an experienced editor or writer, that they were written by the same person. You will either have to concede that or you will have to contend that when you wrote ‘There Is Only Love’ you either invented a style quite different from your normal style as in your book, or you parodied the style of someone else, call him Y; that when Simon Jacobs wrote ‘What’s Mine Is Yours’ he parodied either Y or your story; and that when Jane Ogilvy wrote ‘On Earth but Not in Heaven’ she parodied either Y, or your story, which had not been published, or Simon Jacobs’ story, also unpublished. That is patently preposterous. If you offered that fantasy in a courtroom the jury wouldn’t even leave the box. Do you still maintain that you wrote There Is Only Love?”

“Yes.” But her tone was different and so were her eyes. “I have never seen those stories by Simon Jacobs and Jane Ogilvy. I still say you’re bluffing.”

“I have them here. Archie. Get them. Including Miss Porter’s.”

I went and got them from the safe and handed them to her, and stood there.

“Take your time,” Wolfe told her. “We have all night.”

Hers was on top. She only glanced at it, the first page, and put it on the stand beside the chair. The next one was “What’s Mine Is Yours,” by Simon Jacobs. She read the first page and part of the second, and put it on top of hers on the stand. With “On Earth but Not in Heaven,” by Jane Ogilvy, she finished the first page but didn’t even glance at the second. As she put it down I circled around her chair to get them, but Wolfe told me to leave them, saying that she might want to inspect them further.

He regarded her. “So you know I’m not bluffing.”

“I haven’t said so.”

“You have indicated it by your cursory examination of those manuscripts. Either study them as they deserve or yield the point.”

“I’m not yielding anything. You said you have an offer. What is it?”

His tone sharpened. “First the threat. A double threat. There is good ground, I think, for Ellen Sturdevant to bring an action against you for libel and for recovery of the money she paid you. Legal points on the rules of evidence would be involved, and I am not a lawyer. But I am certain that Amy Wynn can successfully sue you for libel and can also have you charged with attempted extortion, a criminal offense.”

“Let her try. She wouldn’t dare.”

“I think she would. Also I have read your letter to the Victory Press, in which you demanded payment from them as well as Amy Wynn. When I explain the situation to Mr. Imhof as I have explained it to you, I shall suggest that he take steps to have you charged with attempted extortion, either jointly with Miss Wynn or independently. I’m sure he won’t hesitate. He resents the planting of the manuscript in his office.”

She was impressed at last. She opened her mouth and closed it again. She swallowed. She bit her lip. Finally she spoke. “The manuscript wasn’t planted.”

“Really, Miss Porter.” Wolfe shook his head. “If you have any wits at all you must know that won’t do. Do you wish to examine those stories further?”