Kill Fee (10 page)

The story didn't draw one single word of comment.

Nobody objected to it, nobody said
I like it,
nobody so much as mentioned it. Even Walsh's first wife, who was not at all shy about expressing her opinion, didn't have anything to say about it. Walsh was nonplussed, but not discouraged. He published three more of his own stories; and when two letters arrived from readers faintly praising J. J. Kellerman's "potential," Walsh duly published them in the
Correspondence
column.

But when Jerry Sussman moved in and
Summit
turned big time, Walsh found that the readers of a national magazine were not nearly so flexible or willing to experiment as the readers of literary journals. His stories were not, to put it politely, well received. The last one—it was called "Mithridates, He Died Old"—had been written because Walsh wanted to vacation in Norway that year but was running a little low on funds. So he'd paid himself a generous five thousand dollars and had had a marvelous time in Norway, but "Mithridates" marked the end of Walsh's attempts to build a writing career for himself. The story had drawn, without qualification, the most hostile mail ever received in
Summit's
twelve-year history. Walsh couldn't buck that kind of resistance; he simply gave up.

But now—now it was time to bring the man out of the cellar again. This time, however, there'd be no artsy delusions about creating great literature. This time J. J. Kellerman was writing for money, and Leon Walsh would pay it to him. He'd write the story and simply tell Fran Caffrey to publish it.
Summit's
fiction editor wouldn't like that—but
Summit
was now his to do with as he pleased.

Walsh
went into his study and pulled the cover off the old Remington that had served him for more years than he could remember. All of
Summit's
editorials had been written on that machine, every one of them. The
Summit
offices were equipped with word processors, but Walsh liked the noisy banging and clacking of the old typewriters; his model wasn't even electric. He liked the physical act of punching out words on a bulky black machine. He rolled in a yellow second-sheet and got to it.

Leon Walsh W Leo n Walsh***H*Y*M*A*N*** K*A*P*L*A*N***SUMMIT's at the summit let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings Leon Walsh

He hated that initial period when it was so hard to get going. He always used the old trick for breaking up writer's block, the one that said start typing, just type, the alphabet, the weather report, your name, anything—the physical movement involved in hitting the keys was sometimes enough to get you writing. Type
anything.

Leila Hudson Leila Hudson Walsh

Leila Hudson Leila Hudson Baxter

Leila Hudson Leila Leila Leon

Walsh the voices of my accursed education the voice on the phone said, "You may call me Pluto."

Walsh stopped. A chill ran up his back at the same time little drops of sweat broke out on his forehead. He put his hands back on the keyboard.

It was a Noel Coward voice, an Oscar Wilde voice. It was young Sebastian Flyte in BRIDESHEAD REVISITED. Young? Ageless, rather. Precise, articulate, and immensely pleased with itself.

Walsh
went into the kitchen and took a bottle of scotch out of one of the cabinets. He poured himself a drink, took it back with him to the study.

"It's a
business
arrangement," the voice said with a touch of petulance. "I kill, you pay. What could be simpler?"

He stood up and walked around the room a few times. Did he really want to do this?

Suddenly he knew he
had
to write about Pluto. He had to let the world know what was going on even if it was only in disguised form as fiction
(only
fiction, Jerry Sussman had said). Yes, that was it: he'd turn
Summit
magazine into a . . . a newspaper. No, that was too close. A movie studio, a ballet company, something. A radio station, maybe—a classical music radio station easing over into pop in order to pay the bills.

Those were details that could be worked out. Walsh felt suddenly excited, more excited than he'd felt in years. He had a story to tell and he knew how to tell it. He
had
to tell it; he had to get it out of his system. Writing should be more than just therapy for the writer, he firmly believed; but for some reason it felt
right
to put his shame and guilt down on paper.

Especially if it was a way he could pay himself a big writer's fee, he thought gleefully. He could start paying on what he owed, some to Leila, some to the banks. Already Walsh was wondering what the reader feedback would be
(feedback,
ha, the UltraMedia influence). My god, wouldn't that be something?—if Pluto's murderous intervention in his life turned out to be the spur needed to prod him into becoming the writer he'd always wanted to be?

He
wanted very much to make contact with The Reader, whoever and wherever he might be. He wanted
someone
to understand what he had gone through when that first telephone call from Pluto came. At that time he'd been sitting on top of the world;
Summit
was his and his alone, Jerry Sussman would never bother him again, UltraMedia's takeover bid had been foiled, he himself had been reprieved. Walsh had been uttering nightly prayers of thanksgiving to Fate, Chance, Providence, Fortune, Destiny, and just plain old good luck. Everything had broken right for him, for the first time in his life.

Then Cloud Nine had collapsed right out from under him. His dream of perfection had been interrupted by that blue envelope in the mail, by that mannered voice on the phone demanding payment, that effete bill-collector . . .

. . . and Walsh suddenly had his title. "The Man from Porlock"—yes: it was perfect. He would tell his story, he would tell of his collaboration with a conscienceless killer who thought of himself as some sort of worldly trouble-shooter, a cleaner-up of messes. A self-styled superior man who wouldn't for one minute allow himself to get boxed into the kind of situation that had had Leon Walsh thinking of suicide. That was important, to get that ego into the story, to sketch out that glamorous picture Pluto so obviously had of himself.

Walsh hunched over the typewriter and started working on "The Man from Porlock" in earnest.

CHAPTER

6

She allowed the mayor's gofer to go for her second martini. She smiled pleasantly at the owner of a plumbing and heating supplies firm, a heavy-breathing man who'd grown fat on city contracts. The man was talking too fast, trying too hard to make an impression. She nodded vaguely and let her gaze wander; a man and a woman quickly looked away—talking about her? How nice to be
persona grata
again.

"She's a real beauty," the plumbing and heating man was saying. "A forty-foot ketch. Real mahogany hull—no fiberglass anywhere! Ever sailed on a two-masted vessel? Whole different feel to it . . . you ought to try it. We're taking her out next weekend—want to come along?"

"Perhaps," she said, luxuriating in being able to temporize without having to worry about repercussions later. "I have something I have to see to."

"Well, if you get finished—look, if you'll tell me where you can be reached, I'll check back with you."

"
I'm not sure where I'll be. Why don't you leave your number with my secretary? I'll call you."

He didn't like that, but he had to settle for it. Just then the mayor's gofer returned with her martini. "Here you are, Ms Randolph."

She thanked him with her eyes and took a sip. What game-playing! She must try not to look too smug; these people were trying to be agreeable, trying to make up for the wrong done her. The cocktail party had been somebody's idea of the way to mark a festive finale to what had been a rather nasty piece of business.

It was the first time Carolyn Randolph had been in Gracie Mansion, but she didn't intend it to be her last. Now that she had her foot in the door, she meant to keep it there. She knew a few more city contracts would be coming her way, a backwash from
l'affaire Parminter.
Enough to establish her, perhaps.

Her garrulous companion had switched his line of patter from ketches to private drinking clubs; when Carolyn realized he was one of those people who love to talk about how much alcohol they consume, she murmured an excuse and slipped away. Immediately someone from the mayor's office materialized at her side—the unofficial guest of honor mustn't be left alone. But this someone was more important than the martini-toting gofer, and more attractive as well.

She knew him slightly. "Hello, Jeffrey." Nobody called him Jeff. "Haven't seen you since you were trying to get me to sit down and shut up."

He laughed easily, not offended. "Unfair. I think I was the only one on that committee who did
not
tell you to shut up. Give me credit."

That was true. The whole thing had been a fiasco—an investigating committee that investigated but found
nothing.
''Some committee. We both know I wouldn't be here right now if Parminter hadn't gotten himself murdered,"

"I know." Jeffrey's mouth was grim. "Hell of a way to find out the truth. But it's all over now, Carolyn, and I'm glad you're here."

"I am too."

William Parminter had been a thief. He had stolen Carolyn Randolph's designs for a new park and recreation facility the city was planning for the White Hall area. The city had announced an open competition, and Randolph Landscape Architects (consisting of Carolyn, two draftsmen, and a secretary) filed its intention to compete. Exactly four nights before the deadline, Carolyn's office was broken into and every drawing, every diagram, every doodle—every scrap of paper in the place was stolen. Four days didn't give her enough time to start over; Carolyn was out of the running.

The rules of the competition stipulated that the winning design be made available for public examination. When Carolyn recognized her own designs (carefully copied by Parminter's draftsmen), she raised holy hell. She accused Parminter of theft, in letters addressed to everyone even remotely connected with the project and in a long one to the
New York Times
as well. Parminter sued Carolyn for libel. Carolyn hired a lawyer.

The mayor appointed a committee to look into this most distressing affair, as he put it. Carolyn's two draftsmen swore the winning designs were indeed the property of Randolph Landscape Architects. But Parminter had
eleven
employees who swore the designs were the work of
their
boss. The committee could not agree upon a statement, but some of the members made it clear to the news media that they considered Carolyn Randolph a
troublemaker,
a sore loser, an also-ran trying to cash in on the success of her betters. Carolyn hired another lawyer.

And there matters stood until someone put a .38-caliber bullet into William Parminter's head. Carolyn had been in Montego Bay in Jamaica at the time, consoling herself with her new lawyer. When the police investigated the murder, they found some of Carolyn's original designs in Parminter's safe. Down in the corner of each sheet the words
Randolph Landscape Architects
were clearly legible. Confronted with this evidence, one of Parminter's lesser assistants had broken down and admitted the theft. They'd kept the incriminating designs because Parminter had held back some of Carolyn's detail work from the plans he'd submitted to the city; the idea was to insert it later, with an eye to raising construction costs to the point where new and generously remunerative contracts would have to be negotiated. Parminter had an "understanding" with certain construction and landscaping firms in the city.

The city of New York apologized to Carolyn Randolph.

The White Hall recreational park project contract was re-awarded (to the accompaniment of drumbeats, fanfare, and general hoop-de-doo)—this time to Randolph Landscape Architects. Carolyn was completely exonerated. The thought occurred to quite a few people who mattered that Carolyn Randolph must have a lot going for her if a prestigious firm like Parminter's would steal from her. So Carolyn was getting more and more calls for consultations, at least some of which were bound to lead to contracts. She doubled her staff, and thought about tripling it. The icing on the cake was her new lawyer's explanation that, because of Parminter's fraud
ulent
libel suit against her, her countersuit should give her a claim on the murdered man's estate.

"They still don't know who did it, do they?" Carolyn said to Jeffrey.

"From what I hear, they don't even have a suspect."

"I don't understand that at all. A man like Parminter? He was bound to have enemies."

"Yes, that's just the problem—he had too many enemies. He was not a well-loved man," Jeffrey said dryly. "When almost everybody he dealt with could have had reason for hating him, then no one person stands out as a suspect, you see. There are quite a few people who are better off because Parminter's dead."