Robert Wilson - Julian Comstock - A Story of 22-nd Century America

“Be my guest.”

I told him the story of the work I had done for Dornwood in Montreal , and what Dornwood in turn had done with my work.

Mr. Hungerford said nothing but asked his secretary to send for Dornwood, who apparently had an office in the building. In a moment or two that villain arrived.

Dornwood in Manhattan was not quite the hemp-scented drunkard I had last espied near Montreal. The success of Captain Commongold had improved his clothing, his tonsure, and his skin tone. Unfortunately it also seemed to have damaged his memory. He looked at me blankly, or pretended to, until Mr. Hungerford made an introduction.

“Oh, yes!—Mr. Hazzard— Private Hazzard, wasn’t it? I’m pleased to see you survived your tour of duty. I’m sorry I didn’t know you out of uniform.”

“Well, I know you,” I said, “uniform or not.”

“This young man has a grievance against you,” Hungerford said, and he proceeded to repeat in fair detail what I had told him. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Theodore Dornwood shrugged and looked vaguely hurt. “Well, what can I say? I suppose there’s some truth in it. I do recall Private Hazzard coming to me for lessons in writing. And I did agree to peruse a few pages for him.”

“You admit it!” I cried.

“Admit to consulting you, yes. I think you misunderstand the nature of journalism, Private Hazzard. But I don’t blame you, for a boreal lease-boy could hardly know any better. A journalist draws on many sources. You and I talked about Julian Commongold, yes—you may even have shown me some written notes—but I discussed the subject with a great number of infantrymen and officers, of which you were only one. In so far as I did employ your notes as a partial source (and I admit I may have), it was in exchange for my advice on writing… such advice as I could supply to a poorly-schooled Westerner. No formal bargain existed, of course; but if ever there was an informal one, surely it was fulfilled.”

I stared at him. “I made no bargain at all!”

Mr. Hungerford looked up sharply from his desk. “If you made no bargain, Mr. Hazzard, then there was no bargain to be broken, was there? I’m afraid Mr. Dornwood has the better of you on all counts.”

“Except that every word printed in Captain Commongold is mine, exactly as I wrote it!—apart from the misplacement of the commas.”

Dornwood, who was proving to be a smooth and efficient liar, threw his hands up and gave his employer a beseeching look. “He accuses me of plagiarism. Must I stoop to deny it?”

“Look, Mr. Hazzard,” Hungerford said, “you’re not the first individual to blow in here claiming some pamphlet was based on an idea of his, somehow ‘stolen.’ It happens with every successful piece we publish. I don’t mean to call you a liar—and Dornwood generously admits that he used you as one source among hundreds—but you present no evidence that what you say is true, and every indication that it’s simply a painful misunderstanding on your part.”

“I’m glad you don’t mean to call me a liar, for I’m not one—though you might find one close to hand!”

“See here,” said Dornwood.

“The discussion is closed,” Hungerford said, abruptly standing. “And I want to go to lunch. I’m sorry we can’t do anything to accommodate you, Mr. Hazzard.”

“I don’t want to be accommodated, I want to be paid! I’ll have you before a court, if necessary!”

“So you say. For your sake I hope you won’t pursue the matter. If you insist, you can come back this afternoon and speak to me in the presence of my lawyer. He stops by the office about three o’clock. Perhaps he can convince you the case is hopeless, if I can’t. Goodbye, Mr. Hazzard—you know where the door is.”

Dornwood smiled at me, maddeningly.

I went home disconsolate. Calyxa, as it turned out, had gone off with Mrs. Comstock to buy clothing for the Independence Day celebration at the Executive Palace. Julian—who had stayed out late after the movie, meeting friends among the showpeople and aesthetes of Broadway—had just rolled out of bed. I passed him on the way to the kitchen; he asked me if I had had my breakfast yet.

“Breakfast hours ago, and it’s already late for lunch,” I said irritably.

“Fine—I’d rather eat lunch than breakfast. Why don’t we go out and have a decent meal? No offense to the kitchen staff.”

“I’m not sure but that I wouldn’t rather spend the afternoon reading.”

“Not on a day as fine as this!”

“How would you know what sort of day it is? I’m sure you haven’t even looked out a window yet.”

“The fineness of it seeps under the doors. I smell sunshine. Don’t be a fossil, Adam. Join me for lunch.”

I could hardly resist his invitation without citing the morning’s events, which I preferred to keep to myself. We dined at a restaurant not far distant, which served ox-tongue cobblers and lozenged pork of a refined quality, and I tried to smile and make small talk. But I hardly tasted the food; and I was such glum company that Julian repeatedly asked about my state of mind.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Maybe indigestion.”

“Maybe nothing of the kind. Have you had an argument with Calyxa?”

“No—”

“Are you worried about Independence Day?”

“No—”

“What, then? Come on, Adam, confess.”

He refused to be put off the scent; so I relented, and described my visit to the Spark.

Julian listened to my account without interrupting. Coffee and cakes were produced by an attentive waiter. I ignored them. I could hardly meet Julian’s eyes. But when I finally fell silent and Julian spoke, it was only to say, “The cakes really are excellent, Adam. Try one.”

“I’m not concerned with cakes,” I exclaimed. “Aren’t you going to chide me for my naÏveté, or some such thing?”

“Not at all. I admire what you did. Standing up for yourself, I mean. The justice is all on your side—no doubt about that. The problem lies in your methodology.”

“I don’t know that I have any.”

“Clearly you don’t. I’ll tell you what: Why don’t we go back to Hungerford’s offices this very afternoon, as he suggested?”

I was astonished at the suggestion. “What for? So that he can have his lawyer hang me up and beat the dust out of me?” My threat to take Hungerford to court had been empty. I couldn’t produce any evidence to support my side, and the New York courts had no reputation for impartiality. “I would sooner not, I thank you.”

“This time the outcome might be different.”

“I don’t see how. Hungerford is determined not to admit liability, and Dornwood is a professional liar.”

“Trust me,” Julian said.

This was all very embarrassing, but I could not see my way out of it; and so I made the journey back to Hungerford’s office with Julian at my side.

If Mr. Hungerford was surprised to see me back again, he didn’t let on. He had told the truth about his lawyer. The three of them were sitting together in Hungerford’s office—Hungerford, Theodore Dornwood, and a fat man with greased hair, soon introduced as Buck Lingley, Attorney at Law—when I entered.

Julian, dismayingly, chose to wait in the outer office. He had instructed me to summon him if the publisher didn’t relent.

That seemed an inescapable outcome.

Mr. Hungerford invited me to sit down. Before I could say anything Hungerford’s lawyer asked whether I had proceeded with legal action—filed a complaint, or anything of that sort.

I said I had not.

“Better for you, then,” Lingley said. “You’re swimming in rough waters, Mr. Hazzard. Do you know anything about the legal system?”