A. Fair: All Grass Isn't Green

“Because Cole is expecting his publisher.”

“I see,” I said.

“You haven’t answered my question,” she observed.

“Should I?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Hide when he comes back?” I said.

“Because I don’t think he’s coming back — perhaps I could help you?”

“Perhaps you could.”

“Will you kindly tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

I raised my eyebrows. “Is something going on?”

“You know it is. People came here in the middle of the night. They opened and closed drawers, put things in cardboard cartons, carried them downstairs.”

“What time?”

“Around one o’clock in the morning.”

“Did you see them?” I asked.

“I couldn’t stand it any longer,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep with those people tramping back and forth, and I finally got up, put on a robe and opened the door, but they’d gone by that time.”

“What time?”

“About one-thirty.”

“How many people were there?”

“Two, I think.”

“Colburn Hale and a friend?”

“I didn’t have the chance to hear what was said. I didn’t recognize Cole’s voice. It might have been two other people for all I know. Now then, I’ll ask you again, are you Cole’s publisher?”

“No, I’m not,” I said, “but I’m interested in talking to him before he talks to his publisher.”

“Then you’re a literary agent?” she asked.

“Well, not exactly, but — well, I can’t tell you any more than that I’d like to talk to Hale before he talks to his publisher.”

“Maybe you’re making him an offer for a motion picture contract,” she said.

I moved my shoulders in a deprecatory gesture and said, “That’s your version.”

She looked me over and said, “Would you like to come in for a minute?”

I looked dubiously at Hale’s door. “I guess he’s not home,” I said. “You don’t have any idea when he’ll return?”

“I think he moved out. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Behind in the rent?”

“I understand he pays his rent in advance from the twentieth to the twentieth. You don’t get behind with your rent in this place. You either come up with the money or out you go.”

“Hard-boiled like that, eh?” I asked.

“Very hard-boiled.”

I followed her into her apartment. I was a little more pretentious than the apartment next door. Doors indicated a wall bed. There were a table, a battered typewriter desk, a portable typewriter and pages of a manuscript.

“You’re a writer?” I asked.

She indicated a straight-backed chair. “Please sit down,” she said. “Yes, I’m a writer, and if you’re a publisher... well, I’d like to talk with you.”

“Frankly,” I told her, “I’m not a publisher. I don’t even know whether I could help you or not. What kind of material do you write?”

“I’m writing a novel,” she said, “and I think it’s a good one.”

“How far along are you with it?”

“I’m a little over halfway.”

“Good characters?” I asked.

“They stand out.”

“Character conflict?”

“Lots of it. I have suspense. I have people confronted with dilemmas which are going to require decisions, and the reader is going to be vitally interested in what those decisions are going to be.”

“That’s very interesting,” I said. “How well do you know Colburn Hale?”

“Fairly well. He’s been here only five or six weeks.”

“What made you think I was his publisher?”

“I knew he was expecting a visit from his publisher and he had been working terribly hard on his novel, pounding away on the typewriter. He was a very good hunt-and-peck typist.”

“Any idea what his novel was about?”

“No, we just decided we wouldn’t tell each other our plots. And I have a basic rule. I never tell the details of a plot to anyone. I think it’s bad luck.”

I nodded sympathetically. “You and Hale were quite friendly?” I asked.

“Just neighbors,” she said. “He had a girl friend.”

“So?” I asked.

“Nanncie Beaver,” she said. “I’m going to run over and see her sometime this afternoon and see what she knows. You see, we don’t have telephones.”

“A neighbor?” I asked.

“Up on eight-thirty,” she said. “That’s just a few doors up the street. She has Apartment Sixty-two B. I hope — I hope she knows.”

“Is there any reason why she wouldn’t?”

“You know how men are,” she said suddenly.

“How are they?” I asked.

She flared up with sudden bitterness. “They like to play around and then if there are any — any responsibilities they duck out. They take a powder. They’re gone. You can’t find them.”

“You think Colburn Hale was like that?”

“I think all men are like that.”

“Including publishers?”

Her eyes softened somewhat and surveyed me from head to foot. “If you’re a publisher,” she said, “you’re different. And somehow I think you are a publisher regardless of what you say.”

“I’d like to be a publisher,” I said.

“A subsidy publisher?”

I shook my head. “No, not that.”

“You haven’t told me your name.”

“You haven’t told me yours.”

“I’m Marge Fulton,” she said.

“I’m Donald Lam,” I told her. “I’ll be back again to see if Colburn Hale has come in. If he does come in, and you happen to hear him, will you tell him that Donald Lam is anxious to see him?”

“And what shall I tell him Donald Lam wants to see him about?”

I hesitated for several seconds, as though debating whether to tell her, then I said, “I think I’d better tell him firsthand. I don’t want to be rude, but I think it would be better that way.”

I got up and walked to the door. “Thanks a lot, Miss Fulton. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Probably,” I said.

“I think I’m writing a honey of a novel,” she said.

“I’ll bet you are,” I told her.

She stood in the doorway watching me down the stairs.

I had a secondhand portable typewriter in my car. It fitted snugly into its case, and I got this portable out, climbed the stairs at 830 Billinger Street and found Apartment 62B was on the second floor. I tapped on the door and got no answer. I tentatively tried the knob. The door was locked. I stepped back a few paces and knocked on the door of Apartment 61B.

The woman who opened the door was a faded blonde with traces of pouches under her eyes, but she was slim waisted and attractive. She was wearing a blouse and slacks, and I had evidently disappointed her because her facial expression showed that she had been expecting someone whom she wanted to see and I was a letdown.

I said, “You’ll pardon me, ma’am, but I’ve got to raise some money in a hurry. I’ve got a typewriter here, a first-class portable that I’d like to sell.”

She looked at me, then at the typewriter, and her eyes showed quick interest. “How much do you want for it?”

I said, “My name is Donald Lam. I’m a writer. I want money. I’d like to have you try out this typewriter and make me an offer. I’m desperately in need of cash. You can have this machine at a bargain.”

She said, “I already have a typewriter.”

“Not like this one,” I told her. “This is in first-class shape, perfect alignment, and the work it turns out is — impressive.”

I saw that interested her.

“Write a manuscript on this typewriter,” I went on, “and it will stand out from the run-of-the-mill typing. Any editor will give it his respectful attention.”

“How did you know I wrote?” she asked.