Mary Clark - Nighttime Is My Time

Camera over his shoulder, notebook and pen in one pocket, recorder in the other in case he happened to run into someone worth interviewing, Jake was on his way.

Can't wait to do the house where Laura Wilcox grew up. I'll shoot from both the front and the back. After all, it was the house where that medical student, Karen Sommers, was murdered, and the police were sure then that the killer went in the back door. That will add another human interest touch to the story, he decided.

Carter Stewart spent the better part of Wednesday morning in his suite at the Hudson Valley Hotel. He had arranged to meet that afternoon with Pierce Ellison, the director of his new play, and would be going to Ellison's home. They were scheduled to discuss fixes the director wanted, but first Stewart wanted to make some script changes on his own.

Thank you, Laura, he thought, smiling maliciously as he made subtle alterations to the character of the scatterbrained blonde who is murdered in the second act. Desperation, he thought-that's what I was missing. On the surface she's twinkling, but we've got to feel how frantic and frightened she really is, that she'll do anything to save herself.

Carter despised interruptions when he was writing, a fact his agent, Tim Davis, knew very well. But at eleven o'clock the jarring ring of the phone shattered his concentration. It was Tim.

He began with a profuse apology: "Carter, I know you're working, and I promised I wouldn't bother you unless it was absolutely necessary, but-"

"It had better be absolutely necessary, Tim," Carter snapped.

"The thing is, I just got a call from Angus Schell. He's Robby

Brent's agent, and he's going nuts. Robby promised to send in his edits on the scripts for his new TV show by yesterday at the very latest, and they still haven't arrived. Angus has left a dozen messages for Robby but hasn't heard from him. The sponsor is already furious about the publicity stunt the media say Robby is pulling with Laura Wilcox. They're threatening to bail out on the series."

"Which is of no importance to me whatsoever," Carter Stewart said, his tone frigid.

"Carter, you told me the other day that Robby was going to show you the edits he made. Did you see them?"

"No, I did not. As a matter of fact, when I took the trouble to go over to his hotel for the purpose of reviewing those edits, he was not there, nor have I heard from him since. Now, if you'll excuse me, I was working very well until you interrupted me."

"Carter, please. Let me get this straight. You think that Robby did make the edits he promised the sponsor?"

"Tim, try to get this straight. Yes, I assume Robby made the edits. He told me he had. He asked me to look at them. I told him I would look at them. Then he wasn't there when I went to his hotel. In other words, to repeat in order to make myself perfectly clear, he made the edits and he wasted my time."

"Carter, I'm sorry. Look, I'm really sorry," Tim Davis said, anxious to placate his client. "Joe Dean and Barbara Monroe have already been cast for running parts and it means the world to them to get that series on the air. From what we read in the papers, both Wilcox and Robby left just about everything in their rooms at that hotel. Could you, would you, I beg you, could you see if by any chance he left the scripts there? The last time I spoke to Robby, he bragged that his rewrites were going to make the scripts hilarious. He hardly ever used that word, and when he did, he meant it. If we can get our hands on them by overnight mail, we might be able to salvage the show. The sponsor wants a surefire comedy, and we all know Robby is capable of delivering it."

Carter Stewart said nothing.

"Carter, I don't like to overplay my hand, but twelve years ago when you were still knocking on doors, I took you on and got your first play produced. Don't misunderstand me. It's been great for me ever since, but right now I'm calling in that chip, not for myself but for Joe and Barbara. I gave you your break. Today I want you to give them the chance to have theirs."

"Tim, you are so eloquent, you almost bring tears to my eyes," Carter Stewart said, his tone now reflecting amusement. "Surely there's something in all of this for you besides friendship for your old buddy Angus and paternal feelings for young talent. Someday you must tell me what it is. However, since you have totally ruined my creative concentration, I will go over to Robby's hotel now and see if I can bludgeon my way into his room. You might prepare the way by phoning ahead, claiming you're his agent, and explaining that Robby has instructed you to send me to pick up the scripts."

"Carter, I don't know how-"

"To thank me? I'm sure you don't. Good-bye, Tim."

Carter Stewart was wearing jeans and a sweater. His jacket and cap were on the chair where he had thrown them earlier. With an irritated sigh he got up, put on the jacket, and reached for the cap. Before he could leave the room, the phone rang. It was President Downes, inviting him to cocktails and dinner at his residence at Stonecroft.

The last thing on God's earth I need, Carter thought. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "but I do have dinner plans"-with myself, he added silently.

"Then perhaps just for cocktails," President Downes suggested nervously. "I would consider it a great favor, Carter. You see, I will have a photographer here to take pictures of you and the other honorees who are still in town."

The other honorees who are still in town-that's a good way to put it, Carter thought sarcastically. "I'm afraid-" he began.

"Please, Carter. I won't keep you long, but in light of the events of the past few days, I do need to have photos of the four truly distinguished recipients of our plaques of honor. I need them to replace the group pictures we took at the dinner. You can understand how very important that will be as we launch our building drive."

There was no hint of mirth in Carter Stewart's barklike laugh. "It seems to be my day to atone for the many sins of my life," he said. "What time do you want me to be there?"

"Seven o'clock would be ideal." President Downes' voice was bubbling with gratitude.

"Very well."

An hour later Carter Stewart was in Robby Brent's room at the Glen-Ridge House. Both Justin Lewis, the manager, and Jerome Warren, the assistant manager, were in the room with him, and both were visibly distressed at what they considered to be the potential liability to the hotel for allowing Stewart to take anything from the room.

Stewart went over to the desk. A thick pile of scripts was stacked on top of it. Stewart flipped through some of the pages. "There," he said. "As I explained to you, and as you can see, these are the scripts Mr. Brent edited, the ones that the production company needs immediately. I won't take possession of them for even an instant." He pointed to Justin Lewis. "You pick them up." He pointed to Jerome Warren. "You hold the express envelope to drop them in. Then you can decide between you who addresses it. Now, are you satisfied?"

"Of course, sir," Lewis said nervously. "I hope you understand our position and why we have to be so careful."

Carter Stewart did not answer. He was staring at the notation Robby Brent had propped on the desk phone: "Made appointment to show scripts to Howie Tuesday, 3:00 p.m."

The manager had seen it, too. "Mr. Stewart," he said, "I understood that you were the one who had the appointment to go over these scripts with Mr. Brent."

"That's right."

"Then may I ask who is Howie?"

"Mr. Brent was referring to me. It's a joke."

"Oh, I see."

"Yes, I'm sure you do. Mr. Lewis, have you ever heard the saying that he who laughs last laughs best?"