Final Edit (6 page)

“Hello, Fred,” I said, “how’s the Muse?”

He looked up at me and smiled. It was the wryest and saddest of smiles. He had a deeply lined face, huge dark eyes sunk back
in their sockets, under bushy black brows; his steel-gray hair looked as though he’d combed it with his fingers.

“Erato?” he replied. “The lady is still alive—in the crossword puzzles, at least.”

Barlow & Company does not publish much poetry—perhaps one or two volumes a year—not merely because it doesn’t sell, except
to other poets, but because I want only first-rate poets on my list, and there aren’t many of those. Frederick Drew was one
of them—but as far as I knew, he
hadn’t brought out a new collection in years. Rumor had it that he was an alcoholic; I wouldn’t be surprised; I’d certainly
seen him at this bar often enough.

“You know the saying, of course,” he went on. “There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money, either.”

“I have your
Selected Poems
on my bedside table,” I said. “I must bring it round one of these days for you to sign.”

“That’s kind of you.” He didn’t sound all that appreciative, however. I knew that he lived on the income from a teaching job
he had at the Alexander Hamilton Institute, a school of continuing education in Westchester.

He raised the glass to his lips and drained it in one swallow.

“A refill?” I said. “On me, of course.” I signaled to the barman. “And while you’re at it, Juan,” I said to him, “would you
mix me an Absolut martini? A walker, please.” A walker at the Club is a drink and a half, served in a miniature carafe.

“What’s the matter?” said Drew. “You think I can’t afford to buy my own liquor?”

I started to move away. If there’s one thing I dislike, it’s a belligerent drunk, and The Players has had its share of them.

“Don’t leave on my account, Nick. Please.” I moved back again. “I’m sorry,” said Drew. “I’m not myself this evening.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Fred.” In general, I do not encourage alcoholic confessions, but Drew was a highly respected poet,
after all, and a Player, and—well, I was feeling rather mellow. I often do feel that way at the Club.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“I’ve lost my job.”

I murmured something unintelligible, just sounds meant to be consoling.

“You know I am an adjunct lecturer at Hamilton,” he said. I nodded. “Was, I ought to say. I’ve just been replaced. Found out
about it this afternoon, y’know? And y’know why they dumped me? Found out about that, too. I’ll tell you why, Nick. Yes.”
The last word came out “yesh.”

Just then the concierge came down the stairs and called to me. “Telephone, Mr. Barlow—a Mr. Foxcroft. Extension four.”

“Thanks, Eric.” A timely interruption, I thought; Drew was threatening to become maudlin. I went to the phone booth near the
men’s room, shutting the glass door behind me as I switched on the light and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Nick.”

“Parker,” I said. “Where have you been? I looked for you today. You weren’t at the office and you weren’t at home, either.”

A brief silence. Then: “Important appointments, Nick.”

“I’d like to talk with you, Parker.”

“Go ahead.”

“Not on the phone, in person.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“I think not.”

“Okay, fine by me. I’m in the office.”

I thought for a moment and then decided that dinner could wait.

“I’ll be over shortly,” I said, and hung up the phone.

When I returned to the bar to reclaim my martini, I found that I was now alone. Frederick Drew hadn’t waited to tell me why
he had been fired.

It was after eight o’clock before I left the Club and headed for the office. I had changed my mind about dinner, and decided
to have a sandwich and a glass of beer to carry me through the evening. While I was still in the Grill an old friend, a literary
agent named Bruno Wiley, stopped by the bar, and we schmoozed for a while.

“Interested in a biography?” said Wiley.

“Bruno, you know we’re not supposed to talk business in the Club.” A Players rule, it is true, but I suspect one honored more
in the breach than in the observance.

“
Ha.
A biography of—” He dropped the name of a prominent businessman.

“What makes you think a book like that would sell?” I asked him.

“Remember
lacocia?”

“That was a fluke, Bruno.” Who could forget the autobiography that caused the leveling of at least one entire forest? “The
timing was perfect for Lee Iacocca,” I continued. “People were looking for a hero, preferably a businessman, an automobile
manufacturer if possible. The same book published
today would sink without a trace. The autobiography of a prominent businesswoman would have a better chance.”

“Ah,” Bruno said, lowering his voice and moving closer to me, “but there will be
subvention.”

“That’s different. Tell me more.”

Subvention is a form—how shall I put it?—of subsidy for a book by outside interests, either individuals or companies with
a strong desire to see that book published. Rather like vanity publishing, you say? Not quite. The book will carry the imprint
of a reputable house, not that of a vanity publisher, and money will be forthcoming to pay for the book’s production and distribution
costs, or somebody will guarantee to buy enough copies to make the project worthwhile.

Has Barlow & Company ever indulged in this practice? Not officially—but virtually every other major house has.

At any rate, there was no harm in
listening
to Bruno Wiley; after all, we were in something of a financial bind. So I listened. And some time passed, until I finally
remembered that Parker Foxcroft was expecting me.

I said good night to Bruno and stepped out into one of those rare June nights—the first—when the skies are clear and the air
is fresh and cool, and our thoughts turn to the beach and the deep green woods. In my case, to the woods around Weston, Connecticut.
I was not looking forward to my impending discussion with Parker, for, like most males of my upbringing, I dislike altercations
of all kinds, and avoid them wherever possible.

When I reached the office, I pulled out my key ring and fumbled around with the keys until I realized that the office door
was unlocked.
How odd,
I thought.
Inexcusable lapse of security, really.
Though the building has a night watchman, I’ve always urged any of our people who might be working
late to lock themselves in. You can’t be too careful; I myself was once surprised after hours by an intruder.

Walking down the hall toward my own office, I saw a light under Parker Foxcroft’s door. I stopped and took hold of the doorknob,
then hesitated. It struck me that our confrontation, for that is what I meant it to be, would be more successful if it took
place in my office not his, giving me the psychological edge. So I decided to call him in on the intercom.

“Parker?”

A grunted acknowledgment.

“Nick. Would you come into my office, please?”

Another grunt, this one of assent. Then the connection was broken.

While waiting, I picked up several files on my desk that had long been lying there, begging for attention and receiving none.
They received none now, either; I simply leafed through them, killing time, not looking for inspiration. After a few minutes
passed with no Parker, I punched the intercom again. This time he did not answer.

“Hell,” I muttered.
I may have to go to his office, after all…

I stepped out into the hall and made one last attempt to summon him. “Parker!” I bellowed. “Where are you?” Silence.
Strange,
I thought.
The light under his door has gone out.
I strode down the hall, wondering if he’d skipped out on me.
Damn Parker, anyway!

Just as I opened his door, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. As I started to turn, I felt a sharp, vicious blow on
the back of my neck. Startled, I reeled forward and smashed into Parker’s door, stumbled and almost fell.

“Who’s there?” I cried out. “What’s this?”

When I finally turned around, I saw a dark figure move swiftly through the shadows of the foyer. The front door
clicked open and then slammed shut, too quickly for me to move or call out, still less to see who had gone out.

Stepping into Parker’s office, still somewhat dazed by the blow I’d been struck, I groped for the light switch. When I pressed
it, two lamps went on—a floor lamp next to his couch and a fluorescent lamp which threw a wide swath of light across the desk.
In the center of that swath lay the head and shoulders of Parker Foxcroft. His arms hung limply behind him, along the sides
of his chair.

There was no doubt in my mind that he was dead; a large dark gout of blood had already soaked into his desk blotter. The thin
blond hair on the back of his head was matted with blood. He would edit no more—at least not in this world.

I stood over his body for a moment, wishing I had not stayed so long at The Players. If I’d come sooner, Parker might still
be alive… or—my God, what a chilling thought—would we
both
be lying here dead?

I shuddered as I reached for the phone on Parker’s desk.

An hour later, I was still in the office. Only now it was a crime scene. With me were two detectives from the Thirteenth Precinct.
The lieutenant, a short, stocky man with a brush cut—about thirty-five, I guessed—introduced himself as Robert Hatcher. With
his splayed ears and the pleat in his nose, he resembled a light-heavyweight, or a man who could once have played tackle for
the New York Giants. His partner, Sergeant Lawrence Falco, on the other hand, was rather spindly, and wore a sweatshirt, jeans,
and a royal-blue poplin jacket with a Mets insignia on the right breast pocket. A baseball cap completed his outfit. Falco’s
taut, swarthy face was riddled with acne scars. He held a much-chewed yellow pencil in one hand and a small Handi-Notes pad
in the other. It was Hatcher who led the questioning.

“You say you got here about eight o’clock?”

“As near eight as I could tell,” I said. “I didn’t look at my watch.”

“And you think Foxcroft was alive when you arrived?”

“I thought so at the time, but now—”

“Now what?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t actually hear him say anything.” I had told Hatcher and Falco about the way I’d been hit, and about
the figure I saw slipping out the office door. Was it a man or a woman? I couldn’t tell in the dark.

“How many people have keys to this office?” asked Hatcher.

All my key people,
I was about to say, when it occurred to me that this might sound flip; and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you
do not crack wise with the police. So I began to list them. “Sidney Leopold, my editor in chief. Lester Crispin, my art director.
Harry Bunter, rights director. Mary Sunday, our sales manager…”

Hatcher took this in stride. Publishing isn’t the only equal opportunity employer, after all; so is the police force. “Who
else?” he said.

Falco was busy writing in his notebook while Hatcher walked over to the window and stood looking out, hands behind his back,
which was turned toward me.

“Mortimer Mandelbaum, of course. My controller. And my secretary, Hannah Stein.”

“And Foxcroft?”

“Naturally.”

“Nobody else?”

“That’s the lot.” I sighed. “But the door was left unlocked. Anyone could have come in.”

“I’ll want to talk to everybody tomorrow morning,” Hatcher said, turning to face me. “Tell me, did the victim have any enemies
you know of?”

“Well…” I hesitated just long enough for Hatcher’s eyes to narrow. He raised his head and stared directly at me. “So he
did
have enemies.”

“I suppose so,” I said. “ ‘Enemies’ may be too strong a
word, though, Lieutenant. Let’s say he didn’t have many friends.”

“Names?”

“Just about everyone in the office.”

“Including you, Mr. Barlow?” Hatcher had gray eyes, gray lightly flecked with blue, and they were fixed on mine. His ears
went up slightly, and two sharp furrows appeared on his forehead. I had the feeling I was looking at a proper bulldog. Ought
I to tell him about my recent quarrel with Parker? Let him find out for himself—he would, soon enough. I merely nodded.

Hatcher turned to Falco. “The weapon, Sergeant?”

Falco put away his notebook and produced a plastic Ziploc bag. Inside it I saw what appeared to be a small-caliber gun.

Hatcher held up the bag. “Recognize this?” he said.

“No, should I?”

“It’s a cheap .25-caliber semiautomatic, otherwise known as a Saturday night special. Anyone could pick up one on the street
for seventy-five or a hundred dollars. It’s the amateur’s weapon of choice. Foxcroft was shot in the right temple at close
range with this little baby. Except for its weight, you might think it was a water gun.”

“Any chance he might have committed suicide?” I asked, knowing the answer ahead of time. Parker was too much under his own
intoxicating spell to quit this mortal coil untimely.

“None,” said Falco, joining the conversation for the first time. Or was it an interrogation? More an interview, I supposed.

“I think that’s all for now,” said Hatcher. “As soon as the crime scene boys are finished, and the M.E.’s men take the body
away, you can go home. Needless to say—”

“I’m not planning to go anywhere. I’ll be available whenever you want me.” I rose from my chair and crossed to the door. When
I opened it, I could see light pouring out of Parker’s office down the hall, punctuated by a camera flashing, and I could
hear the sound of men moving around inside.

“I appreciate your time,” Hatcher said. “I know this must have been a shock to you. Finding the body and all, that is.”

I’ll say it has,
I thought.
The only dead bodies I’m used to around here are all between the covers of books. Or on the pages of manuscripts.