Julian Comstock: A Story of 22nd-Century America (37 page)

Come morning I let Calyxa sleep late, and took myself off to visit the publisher of the
Spark
 and of
The Adventures of Captain Commongold, YouthfulHero of the Saguenay.

I was equipped with nothing more lethal than my smoldering indignation, fueled by the scenes of courage and sacrifice I had witnessed in the movie the night before. I would confront the thieves, I thought, and the self-evident justice of my case would cause them to crumble before me. I don't know why I expected such extravagant results from the application of mere justice. That kind of calculation is seldom borne out by worldly events.

My first trial was in finding the office I wanted. I had no trouble locating the building in which the
Spark
 was published, since its address was printed in every issue: it turned out to be a vast stonepile near the Lexington Canal. Most of its huge space was devoted to printing, binding, warehousing, and distributing the company's papers and pamphlets, however, and I was reduced to asking my way of a grimy press-operator who told me, "Oh, you want Editorial."

"Editorial" was a suite of rooms at the top of a flight of stairs on the fourth floor. All the heat of the building (and it was a warm June day) had collected in that airless warren, and so had the smells of ink and solvent and machine oil.

I did not know precisely to whom I ought to speak, but further inquiries led me to the door of the Editor and Publisher, a man named John Hungerford.

Apparently Mr. Hungerford wasn't accustomed to meeting visitors who hadn't scheduled appointments; but I was firm in my entreaties to his secretary, and eventually I was allowed into his office.

Hungerford sat behind an oaken desk, in one of the few rooms on the floor that possessed an open window, though it looked out on a brick wall. He was a man of fifty years or thereabout, stern and peremptory in his manner.

He asked without preamble what I wanted from him.

I said I was a writer. I had hardly pronounced that word when he interrupted me: "I can't give you a job, if that's what you want. We have all the writers we need—they're thick on the ground at the moment."

"It's not a job I want, it's justice! I'm a sorry to say that a man connected with your firm has robbed me, and he has done it with your collaboration."

That silenced him for a moment. His eyebrows inched up, and he looked me over. "What's your name, son?"

"Adam Hazzard."

"Means nothing to me."

"I don't expect it would. But the thief is Mr. Theodore Dornwood—maybe you know
that
 name."

He evinced less surprise than I expected. "And what do you claim Dornwood stole from you? A watch, a wallet, a woman's affections?"

"Words. Twenty thousand of them, roughly." I had made an estimate of the length in words of
The Adventures of Julian Commongold.
 A word is a small thing; but twenty thousand of anything is a ponderable number. "May I explain?"

"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 plagia-rism. 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?"

"Very little," I confessed.
⁵⁹

"Do you understand what it would cost you to bring a legal action against this business, or against Mr. Dornwood as an individual? And do you understand that it would cost double that once the case was thrown out of court, as I assure you it would be? It's not a trifling thing to impugn the integrity of such men as these."

"They impugn themselves, it seems to me. But I'm sure you're right."

Lawyer Lingley looked briefly puzzled. "You mean to say you'll quit your claim?"

"I expect that phrase has some legalistic significance of which I'm not aware. What happened, happened—neither you nor I can change that, Mr.

Lingley. And if the courts don't judge in this matter, Heaven might not be so lax."

"Heaven isn't within my jurisdiction. If you're willing to be reasonable, I've prepared a paper for you to sign."

"A paper saying what?"

"That you have no fiscal claim on this company or Mr. Dornwood, no matter whether some small amount of material you wrote found its way into Dornwood's published accounts."

"It was not a 'small amount,' Mr. Lingley. We're talking about an act of thievery bold enough to make a vulture blush."

"Make up your mind," Lingley said. "Do you want to settle the matter, or are you going to persist in these libels?"

I looked at the paper. It was, in so far as I could decipher the whereases, a renunciation of all my prior complaints. In exchange, it said, the company would not pursue me for "defamation."

There was a space prepared for my signature.

"If I sign this," I said slowly, "I suppose I'll need a witness?"

"My secretary will witness it."

"No need—I've brought a witness of my own," and I gestured through the door for Julian to enter.

Hungerford and the lawyer blinked at this unexpected development. If they did not recognize Julian Comstock, Theodore Dornwood certainly did. He sat bolt upright, and an unprintable word escaped his lips.

"What's this about?" Hungerford demanded. "Who is this man?"

"Julian Comstock," I said. "Julian, this is Mr. Hungerford, the publisher of the
Spark.
"

Julian offered his hand. Hungerford took it, though every other part of him seemed frozen in shock.

"And this is Mr. Hungerford's lawyer, Mr. Buck Lingley."

"Hello, Mr. Lingley," said Julian in an amiable tone.

Lingley's complexion, which up to that moment had been florid, turned the color of an eggshell, and his tendentious manner went the way of the morning dew. He did not speak. Instead he reached across the desk and picked up the paper I was meant to sign. He folded it in thirds and tore it in two pieces.

Then he pursed his lips in a sickly imitation of a smile. "I'm delighted—no—honored—to meet you, Captain Comstock. Unfortunately an urgent appointment calls me away—I cannot linger." He turned to Hungerford. "I think our business is finished for today, John," he said, and left the room in such a hurry that I was surprised the breeze didn't pull the door shut after him.

Mr. Hungerford had yet to close his slackened jaw.

"And I recognize Theodore Dornwood," Julian said, "our regiment's civilian scribe. I've read some of your work, Mr. Dornwood. Or at least the work that was published under your name."

"Yes!" Dornwood said in a strangled voice, which was not helpful. "No!"

"Shut up, Theo," Mr. Hungerford said. "Captain Comstock, do you have a contribution to make to this discussion?"