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Authors: Richard S. Prather
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already delivered â"
Goodman leaped to his feet and stared down at me. "Dead? Why, he can't be. He â the manuscript's gone? What do you mean, the manuscript's gone?"
I got the queer impression he was shocked a little too much, but that was probably because of the great sadness he seemed to feel at Jim's death. I said, "It just hasn't been found."
"That's it. He must have hidden it somewhere. It's dynamite, you know. Jim looked all over for a publisher, but nobody would handle it except me. Can't blame them; he said frankly that he'd left himself and his publisher open for libel suits. I'm probably a damn fool to take the chance." He stood straighter, and squared his shoulders. "But somebody had to take the chance." Light glistened on Goodman's thick hair, cast bold shadows on his angular face. He looked like Washington crossing the Delaware, and I figured he could land in the Senate without kissing a single baby. But then he spoiled the fine impression he was making on me by adding, "The publicity would have been worth a million dollars."
After a moment he looked down at me and said slowly, "Is Jim really dead?"
"Yes." I couldn't help adding, "And the manuscript's gone. The only other people beside me who saw parts of it were his fiancée and Captain Amos Wade. Neither of them has any idea where it is."
"Unfortunately, I suppose they know you're here."
"'No; I talked to Jim's fiancée, then decided to check with you." I stopped. Why the hell should Goodman care if anybody knew where I was? Nobody did know, come to think of it.
"How did Jim die?" he asked me.
"It looked like a heart attack â"
"Dead," he blurted. "My God. How terrible!"
"Worse than that. He was murdered."
He looked at me blankly. "Murdered? But you said â"
"It only looked like a heart attack. Captain Wade told me the method was the same used on two murdered Commies." I went on talking but I'd thought of something possibly significant. When I'd reported to Jim Friday night and he'd said, "I've got to make a change . . ." I'd assumed he meant change in the book. But he could have been referring to a change in publishers.
For the first time I became conscious of my heartbeat. It slowly increased in tempo, throbbed a little more heavily. Casually, I said, "Anyway, he's dead. Would you still want to publish the book? If you had the script?"
"Pub â Of course, But that seems . . . if it's found, naturally I'll publish it."
"Reason I asked, Jim and I were pretty close. He told me months ago," I lied, "that as soon as the pages were typed he put his originals, the first-pages, somewhere or other. I don't know where, but Jim said he'd made arrangement for them to be mailed to me â if anything should ever happen to him."
"Splendid! Mr. Scott, get that to me and you can be sure I'll see that it's published."
"I imagine the first draft will reach me in a day or two. I'll bring it to you just as soon as Amos Wade and I and the Homicide men downtown go over it for any leads that might be in it."
Goodman was walking back and forth over the carpet now, right hand in his pocket. "No," he said. "Bring it here. I . . . frankly, you won't like this, but there were several local police officers mentioned in that book. I didn't see the manuscript, but learned that from Jim." His face was flushed. "I don't know who they are â he was secretive about names. Rightly so; too many innocent reputations damaged. But that script might disappear for good, if it hasn't already. You bring it here. I'll publish it, by God. We can do that much for Jim."
He was worked up, really quite excited. I said deliberately, "I can't do that. I'd like to, Mr. Goodman, but it has to be thoroughly checked first. The important thing is to learn who â"
He swung to face me. "The important thing is that book! You'll have to bring it to me, to the company. It's too important!" He was pointing his left hand at me, hand clenched into a fist, pointing at
Goodman leaped to his feet and stared down at me. "Dead? Why, he can't be. He â the manuscript's gone? What do you mean, the manuscript's gone?"
I got the queer impression he was shocked a little too much, but that was probably because of the great sadness he seemed to feel at Jim's death. I said, "It just hasn't been found."
"That's it. He must have hidden it somewhere. It's dynamite, you know. Jim looked all over for a publisher, but nobody would handle it except me. Can't blame them; he said frankly that he'd left himself and his publisher open for libel suits. I'm probably a damn fool to take the chance." He stood straighter, and squared his shoulders. "But somebody had to take the chance." Light glistened on Goodman's thick hair, cast bold shadows on his angular face. He looked like Washington crossing the Delaware, and I figured he could land in the Senate without kissing a single baby. But then he spoiled the fine impression he was making on me by adding, "The publicity would have been worth a million dollars."
After a moment he looked down at me and said slowly, "Is Jim really dead?"
"Yes." I couldn't help adding, "And the manuscript's gone. The only other people beside me who saw parts of it were his fiancée and Captain Amos Wade. Neither of them has any idea where it is."
"Unfortunately, I suppose they know you're here."
"'No; I talked to Jim's fiancée, then decided to check with you." I stopped. Why the hell should Goodman care if anybody knew where I was? Nobody did know, come to think of it.
"How did Jim die?" he asked me.
"It looked like a heart attack â"
"Dead," he blurted. "My God. How terrible!"
"Worse than that. He was murdered."
He looked at me blankly. "Murdered? But you said â"
"It only looked like a heart attack. Captain Wade told me the method was the same used on two murdered Commies." I went on talking but I'd thought of something possibly significant. When I'd reported to Jim Friday night and he'd said, "I've got to make a change . . ." I'd assumed he meant change in the book. But he could have been referring to a change in publishers.
For the first time I became conscious of my heartbeat. It slowly increased in tempo, throbbed a little more heavily. Casually, I said, "Anyway, he's dead. Would you still want to publish the book? If you had the script?"
"Pub â Of course, But that seems . . . if it's found, naturally I'll publish it."
"Reason I asked, Jim and I were pretty close. He told me months ago," I lied, "that as soon as the pages were typed he put his originals, the first-pages, somewhere or other. I don't know where, but Jim said he'd made arrangement for them to be mailed to me â if anything should ever happen to him."
"Splendid! Mr. Scott, get that to me and you can be sure I'll see that it's published."
"I imagine the first draft will reach me in a day or two. I'll bring it to you just as soon as Amos Wade and I and the Homicide men downtown go over it for any leads that might be in it."
Goodman was walking back and forth over the carpet now, right hand in his pocket. "No," he said. "Bring it here. I . . . frankly, you won't like this, but there were several local police officers mentioned in that book. I didn't see the manuscript, but learned that from Jim." His face was flushed. "I don't know who they are â he was secretive about names. Rightly so; too many innocent reputations damaged. But that script might disappear for good, if it hasn't already. You bring it here. I'll publish it, by God. We can do that much for Jim."
He was worked up, really quite excited. I said deliberately, "I can't do that. I'd like to, Mr. Goodman, but it has to be thoroughly checked first. The important thing is to learn who â"
He swung to face me. "The important thing is that book! You'll have to bring it to me, to the company. It's too important!" He was pointing his left hand at me, hand clenched into a fist, pointing at
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