Plot It Yourself

“Well.” He put his other leg up. “Tell him I might be interested. I’m willing to meet him and discuss it with him.”

I shook my head. “I’m here to discuss it. The reason he got Mr Wolfe to handle it, there are a couple of little details to arrange. For one, he would like to have some evidence in his possession that that’s not the only dramatic plot you ever hatched. That should be easy. I suppose you have copies of some of your television scripts.”

“Sure. All of them.”

“Fine. That would settle that. The other one, if it gets to court, it would help a lot to have some backing for your testimony that you wrote the outline with your name on it that was found in Jack Sandler’s office files, and the best backing would be to produce the typewriter that you wrote it on. Our client would want it. Of course he would pay you for it.”

“That would be sweet of him.”

“He’s not sweet. Between you and me, I don’t like him.”

“Neither do I. He stole my play.” His legs swung around and he was on his feet. “All right, Hawkshaw. Beat it.”

I stayed put. “Now listen, Mr Rennert. I can understand how you-”

“I said beat it.” He took a step. “Do you want help?”

I arose and took two steps, and was facing him at arm’s length. “Would you like to try?”

I was hoping he would. Wolfe’s mutiny had put me in a humour that would have made it a pleasure to take a swing at somebody, and this character was the right size and build to make it not only a pleasure but good exercise. He didn’t oblige me. His eyes stayed with mine, but he backed up a foot.

“I don’t want to get blood on the rug,” he said.

I turned and went. As I was opening the door he called to my back, “Tell Mortimer Oshin this is like one of his lousy plots!” The elevator was still there, and I stepped in and pushed the button.

On the sidewalk I looked at my wrist: four-five. Carmel was only a ninety-minute drive, and it would be good for my nerves, but I would phone first. What was Alice Porter’s number? I stood at the kerb and closed my eyes and concentrated, and dug it out of the cell that had filed it. Around the corner on Lexington Avenue I found a booth, dialed, counted fourteen rings, and hung up. No answer. I settled for a shorter drive. I hoofed it crosstown to Tenth Avenue and a block south to the garage, got the Heron sedan, which was Wolfe’s by purchase but mine by mandate, and headed for the West Side Highway.